Last Chance Cowboy. Cathy Mcdavid

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      His footsteps on the Saltillo tile floor must have alerted Cassie and the woman because they were both facing him when he entered the old house’s spacious living room.

      “Hi.” He removed his hat and, after a brief second of indecision, set it on the coffee table. “I’m Gavin Powell.”

      The woman stepped and greeted him with a pleasant smile. “Sage Navarre.”

      He shook her extended hand, appreciating her firm grip. Ethan had been right. Ms. Navarre was definitely attractive, her Hispanic heritage evident in her brown eyes and darker brown hair, pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Her jeans were loose and faded, and her Western-cut shirt functional. Yet there was no disguising the feminine curves hiding beneath the clothing.

      “What can I do for you?” he asked, noticing that Cassie observed him closely, her new puppy cradled in her arms. One of the ranch dogs had delivered a litter a few months ago, and Gavin had told her she could keep one. The pair had been inseparable ever since.

      “I’m from the BLM,” Ms. Navarre said, as if that alone explained everything.

      A jolt shot through Gavin. “The BLM?”

      “Bureau of Land Management.” She held up the leather jacket she’d been carrying, showing him the badge pinned to the front, then handed him a business card. “Aren’t you the person who contacted us about a feral horse in the area?”

      “Yes.” He glanced only briefly at the card, then spoke carefully. “I assumed from the lack of response, you folks weren’t taking me seriously.”

      “Well, we are. I’m here to round up the horse and transport him to our facility in Show Low.”

      Cassie’s expression brightened. “Cool.”

      “I’ll need your cooperation, of course,” Ms. Navarre added. “And a stall to board my horse, if you have one available.”

      “I’m sorry, Ms. Navarre.” Gavin returned her card to her. He had too much invested in the horse to forfeit ownership just because some woman from the BLM showed up out of the blue. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to help her. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time coming here.”

      “I DON’T UNDERSTAND.” Sage studied Gavin Powell, admittedly confused. “Is there a problem?”

      “I’ve changed my mind.”

      “About?”

      “The horse. I’m going to capture him and keep him.”

      She may have only just met him, but there was no mistaking the fierce set of his jaw and the steel in his voice. Here stood a man with a mission and the determination to carry it out.

      Unfortunately, he was about to come up against a brick wall.

      “You can’t, Mr. Powell,” she stated firmly.

      “Why not?”

      “It’s against the law for anyone other than an employee of the BLM to capture a feral horse.”

      “The McDowell Sonoran Preserve isn’t federal land.”

      “No. But it isn’t private land, either.” She bent and placed her business card on a hand-carved pine coffee table. “And besides, the law isn’t restricted to federal land. If you capture the horse, you’d be in violation of the law and subject to fines and a possible jail sentence.”

      His jaw went from being set to working furiously.

      Stubborn, she concluded. Or was he angry? Another glance at him confirmed the latter.

      Sage’s defenses rose. “I realize you had other plans for the horse, but you knew I was coming.”

      “No, I didn’t.”

      “We called. Last week.”

      “I received no phone call.”

      “It’s noted in the records. I don’t have the name of the individual we spoke to offhand, but I can easily obtain it if you give me a minute.”

      He glanced at the girl—Cassie, wasn’t it?—and his gaze narrowed.

      “Don’t look at me,” she protested, a hint of defiance in the downward turn of her mouth.

      Not that Sage was good at determining ages, but Gavin Powell didn’t appear old enough to be Cassie’s father. Sage guessed him to be around her own thirty-one years. Maybe older. Rugged and tanned complexions like his could be misleading.

      Broad shoulders and well-muscled forearms also spoke of a life dedicated to hard physical labor and being outdoors. She’d always found that kind of man attractive. One who rode a horse or swung a hammer or chopped trees rather than earning his pay from behind a desk.

      Gavin Powell exemplified that type, with the glaring addition of a very testy and confrontational personality. Something she didn’t find attractive.

      Sage stood straighter. She’d come to Powell Ranch on business, after all. Not to check out the available men.

      “Is it possible someone else took the call and didn’t tell you?” she asked.

      “Not likely.”

      “Grandpa forgets to tell you stuff all the time,” Cassie interjected.

      “Go do your homework,” Gavin told her.

      “I hardly have any. I did most of it in class.”

      “Now.”

      “Dad!”

      Her cajoling had no effect on him. At a stern “Cassie,” she exited the room, another flash of defiance in her eyes.

      So, the girl was his daughter. No sooner did Sage wonder how often those exchanges happened than she reminded herself it was none of her concern.

      “Sorry about that,” he mumbled when his daughter had gone.

      For a tiny moment, he appeared human. And vulnerable.

      “I have a daughter, too,” she admitted, “though she’s only six.”

      Why in the world had she told him that? She rarely discussed Isa when on the job. It was easier when dealing with obstinate or difficult individuals—an unfortunate and commonplace occurrence in her job—to keep the discussions impersonal.

      She promptly brought the subject back around. “Look, Mr. Powell. I’m here to capture the horse, which can’t be allowed to wander on state and city land. I’d like your help.”

      His scowl deepened. Heck, maybe it was permanent.

      “To be honest,” she said, making a civil plea, “I really need it. You know this area, I don’t. And from the information you sent the BLM, you’ve clearly been tracking the horse.”

      “No.” СКАЧАТЬ