Cattleman's Honor. Pamela Toth

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      “There’s a new boy at school.” She tucked a strand of long, dark hair behind one ear. Six months ago he’d told her she couldn’t have them pierced until she turned sixteen. That had cost him a new parka, he recalled. “I think he’s from California,” she added. “He’s way cool.”

      Adam blinked. “Who?”

      Kim rolled her eyes. “The new boy. The one I was just telling you about.”

      New boy? Adam’s paternal instincts went on red alert. “Have you met him?”

      “Not really, but he’s in a couple of my classes. He acts so much more mature than the other boys.” Kim had friends of both genders, and Adam suspected she got periodic crushes he didn’t know about or care to. Someone different might seem pretty slick to a young girl like her. Adam wanted to warn her to be careful, but he didn’t know what to say without scaring her or making her clam up.

      California! Perhaps the fancy truck Adam had seen in town belonged to the new kid. He was probably Emily’s son. If so, he wouldn’t be around long enough for Adam to be concerned.

      Suddenly, he realized that Betty, his longtime housekeeper, was standing by his elbow waiting to take his plate.

      “Are you finished, Mr. Winchester?” she asked. She’d worked for him since right after Christie had left, managing the household, helping to raise Kim and offering a running commentary on Adam’s social life, but she had steadfastly refused to call him by his first name. That, she felt, would breed too much familiarity.

      On more than one occasion he’d wished she would call him any damn thing she wanted just as long as she kept her nose out of his personal life.

      Now he leaned back in his chair so she could clear away his dishes. “Thank you, Betty. As usual, dinner was delicious.”

      “Thank your daughter,” she replied, glancing across the table with a warm smile. “While she was fixing the casserole, I had time to make peach cobbler for dessert.”

      Adam sat up straighter. Peach was one of his favorites. “The two of you are going to spoil me,” he drawled, patting his flat stomach. He was on the move far too much for his weight to ever be a problem.

      “You don’t have anybody else in your life to pamper you and no prospects on the horizon that I can see, so I guess the job falls to Kim and me,” Betty replied with a sniff as she left the room.

      Adam had learned from long experience that ignoring Betty’s more pointed remarks was his simplest option.

      “You don’t need anyone else,” Kim exclaimed. “Like you’ve always told me, you and I are a team, right?” Although Christie still lived in Denver, she hadn’t played a big part in Kim’s life. Christie worked in a gallery there, and a daughter who needed her wasn’t a priority. She hadn’t remarried, but Adam had long suspected Christie had something going with the gallery owner, who was much older and very successful.

      “In a few years you’ll meet someone special, and then your attitude will change,” Adam told Kim, putting on a woeful expression and shaking his head sadly. “You’ll forget your old man even exists.”

      “Never!” she declared, jumping up to come around the table and throw her arms around his neck. “And I’d never marry anyone who wasn’t willing to run the ranch and take care of you in your old age, either.”

      A sudden image of himself in a rocking chair with gray hair and a blanket over his knees made Adam wince as he returned her hug. “Thanks, sweetie, I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that,” he said dryly. For some reason, he pictured the way Emily Major had looked that afternoon, her cool smile a challenge he found hard to dismiss. Although remarriage wasn’t in the cards, he was still glad that he wasn’t ready for that rocking chair just yet.

      Emily surveyed her new studio with a sigh of satisfaction. There were several long benches, two with recessed shelves underneath them for her cases of brass hand tools and other supplies. In a corner was a cabinet with drawers for type and a small iron nipping press bolted to the top. On one table were several other kinds of presses and cutters, an electric tooling stove and a grinder for her knives. A file cabinet held correspondence and records of books she had already restored. A fire-resistant safe contained two new projects, a very old family Bible and a sixteenth-century medical handbook. Mounted on one wall was a CD player and speakers. On another was a rack to hold rolls of raw Asahi silk from Japan.

      Emily was eager to return to work, but right now she wanted to take a walk along the property line with Monty, the collie she and David had brought home the afternoon before, and see how the fence repair work was going. There was a stiff spring breeze, and the sun was shining. She wasn’t ready to shut herself inside with relics from the past, no matter how fascinating.

      Monty thrust his cold, wet nose into Emily’s hand as if to remind her of his presence. He might not have been the dog they’d set out to acquire, but they’d made an impulsive—and fortunate—detour at the local veterinarian’s office on their way to check out a litter of blue heeler puppies at a house on the other side of Waterloo.

      Monty’s owner had gone into a nursing home, and the vet told Emily he’d nearly given up finding a new family for the middle-aged collie. Lucky for Emily that David had fallen for the dog as quickly as she had. The moment they followed Doc Harmon into the back room of his office and saw Monty curled up on a braided rug by the heater, the dog had stolen her heart. When she was little, she’d always wanted a collie just like Lassie, and now she had one.

      “Yes, you’re a good boy,” she cooed as she stroked his long, thin head. At first he’d been nervous, sniffing everything in the house and startling at the slightest noise. Eventually he’d settled onto his rug by David’s bed and slept there through the night. This morning after David had gone to school, Monty stuck by Emily’s side like a magnet on a refrigerator door. He minded well. So far she’d had no need to use the leash that matched his red leather collar.

      A puppy would have been banned from her studio to avoid any risk of damage to her irreplaceable inventory or expensive supplies, but Monty, well past the chewing and piddling stages, would be great company while she worked.

      Emily was about to shut the studio door behind her when the collie’s tulip-shaped ears pricked to attention and a low growl rolled up from his throat. Seconds later Emily saw a dust cloud and then she recognized the black pickup coming down her road.

      “It’s okay,” she reassured the collie, glad for his presence. Coming from L.A., she wasn’t yet completely at ease with the wide-open spaces surrounding her or the sense of utter remoteness she felt when David wasn’t home.

      The dog gave her a quick glance and then resumed his watchful stance as the pickup rolled to a stop. Adam Winchester emerged, one long leg at a time and, to Emily’s surprise, Monty’s feathery tail began to wag in great sweeping strokes.

      “Some watchdog you are,” she scolded softly as the dog deserted her for her visitor, who immediately stopped and extended his hand.

      From his black cowboy hat to his scuffed leather boots, Winchester was once again dressed like a working cowboy. All he needed was a six-gun strapped to his hip and he could have walked right onto the set of an old Western movie.

      “Hello again,” he called out to Emily as he patted Monty’s head. The dog wiggled like a puppy. “What’s Mae Sweeney’s collie doing here?”

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