Porcupine Ranch. Sally Carleen

guffawed as he plunged a vaccination needle into a big Simmental’s rump.

      Clayton scowled. “One more comment like that, and you’re all out of here.” In shock and disbelief he listened to the words coming from his own mouth. Had he really said that? What would he do if even one of the men walked? Every able-bodied man in the area was already working on one of the various ranches.

      Dub halted and thumbed his hat back from his face. “I been seeing signs of a porcupine around here,” he drawled. “Looks like he’s been trying to eat these tough old mesquites and live oaks. After he’s been on an awful diet like that, I’d sure hate to run into the prickly critter.”

      Clayton shifted in his saddle, aware of the implied comparison. “Sorry, fellas. I didn’t mean to snap.”

      Hannah was causing problems, and she wasn’t even around.

      Except in his thoughts.

      Mugger rode up. “We got a break in one of the irrigation lines down in the hay field.”

      “Damn! Okay, let’s go take a look.” Clayton turned his horse in that direction, surprisingly relieved at having a crisis to handle. Even though they couldn’t spare the precious water draining away, a broken irrigation line would be a simple, straightforward problem compared to Hannah.

      

      She had to make dinner. Hannah didn’t see any way around it. She found some chicken breasts in the freezer and a recipe for chicken Kiev in her cook-book. It was a short recipe, and a dish she’d always enjoyed eating. Surely Clayton and the other cowboys would like it.

      With the chicken thawing, she looked around in bewilderment. What was she supposed to do now? Without her computer, she felt lost.

      She tried to recall what her housekeeper did. Sweep, mop, dust, vacuum. But the details were sketchy. While Mrs. Henson cleaned, Hannah worked, completely involved in her computer, with the rest of the world tuned out.

      She wandered into the living room and drew a finger across the smooth surface of one of the multitude of small tables. Even in the dim light, she could see the mark. However, she’d always felt that being able to write your name in the dust didn’t count—it was only when the sides of the letters collapsed.

      Nevertheless, she could probably dust. She went upstairs to the linen closet and got a washcloth. That should work.

      As she was starting back, she noticed the dark outline of a computer screen through the half-open door down the hall. She hesitated, then decided that was as good a place as any to start dusting.