* * *
ANGIE MADE AND SOLD horse treats for extra cash. She had a batch ready to come out of the oven and another prepared to go in when she heard a knock. Assuming it was someone dropping off a stray animal, she called, “The screen isn’t locked, come on in.” The hinges squeaked, and Angie glanced up from scooping hot cookies off a large cookie sheet. For a second she was dumbstruck at seeing Dylan Adams poke his ruggedly handsome face into her house. The angle of his cowboy hat hid his eyes, but Angie knew they were a velvety-brown.
“Ma’am,” he mumbled, causing all manner of irrational thoughts to run through Angie’s addled brain as he swept off his black cowboy hat and gave directions to a big dog to stay outside. Then the man himself stepped inside, seeming to shrink her already small kitchen with his broad shoulders and six-foot height.
She had observed him often at church with his aunt, Miss Sarah Hart. And she sometimes spotted him at the feed store or heading in or out of Austin Wright’s Western Wear and Tack Shop where she sold some of her horse cookies. She thought Dylan Adams was a hunk. And just now he caused waves of heat to sizzle up from her toes.
Mercy, what was he doing here, filling up her kitchen? Grandpa Barrington, from whom she’d inherited her ranch, spoke often of the Hart dynasty. Ace Hart was Angie’s vet, and Miss Sarah volunteered to feed and groom her small animals. Colt and his sister, Dinah Hart, and even the cousins, Dylan and Beau Adams, traveled in different circles from Angie. All were hotshot rodeo jocks, and Angie had long since seen through that veneer.
However, of all the clan, Dylan, whom Ace and Austin called Duke, intrigued her. He seemed nice. At church he came across as a gentleman. Truthfully, he was one of the few men near her age in the area that Angie gave a second look. And here she was, up to her elbows in oats and apples, hot, sticky, her hair in a braid—not the impression she’d prefer projecting to a man known to give her heart a hitch and a half.
Recovering enough to close her mouth, Angie quickly slid the remaining cookies off the sheet, shucked her oven mitts and set them aside. “I...ah...assume you’ve brought me some kind of a stray,” she said, fussing with her braid. “If you’ll give me a minute to bag the cool cookies so they don’t get too hard, and deal with a tray due out of the oven in two minutes, I’ll join you outside and see what you’ve got.”
To keep from thinking about how he might judge her messy kitchen and her, Angie set to work bagging and sealing the treats. It crossed her mind that Dylan acted a tad flustered, which surprised her, because he always appeared quiet and collected.
* * *
DUKE FELT AWKWARD INVADING this feminine space. Not that he didn’t cook, he did. And he’d helped out in his aunt’s kitchen, and Dinah’s, too. But this was Angie Barrington’s kitchen. She had frilly curtains at her windows. And her head didn’t reach his shoulder. In a lot of ways she reminded him of Kelly Ripa on TV, except Angie’s hair usually hung below her waist. Today, without makeup and with her hair braided down her back, she looked about half his age when he knew darned well she was twenty-nine. His friend Austin Wright had shared that information. Duke often saw her entering Austin’s shop, so he’d asked if they were dating. His friend denied it so fast, Duke believed him. Austin said their dealings were all business.
“I’m not in any rush, so take your time.” Tired as he was, Duke stretched the truth. Still feeling uncomfortable on the unfamiliar turf, he rolled his hat in his hand and moved closer to her kitchen counter, watching as she placed a gold-and-black logo seal on packages filled with six treats. “Our horses out at Thunder Ranch love these things. I buy them by the case at Austin Wright’s shop. I’ve seen them sell like hotcakes at the feed store, too.”
“That’s good news. It’s a recipe I found in my grandmother’s recipe box after I moved here. The side business helps defray rescue expenses. Cookie sales are picking up. I’m considering expanding and hopefully hiring help, so I’m glad your horses love them.” She flashed him a smile.
“I didn’t bring you an animal,” Duke blurted; his knees melted under her smile, but he owed her an explanation for barging into her home. “There’s been another ranch break-in at Thunder Ranch. It’s their second.”
“Oh, I noticed you were wearing your badge. So, you’re out informing neighbors? It’s lucky I guess that everyone knows I don’t have anything worth taking.”
Duke didn’t know how to tell her that one of her neighbors said she might possess a stolen horse. “Ma’am,” he began, pausing as he fiddled with his hat. “At this ranch invasion thieves made off with an expensive horse.”
Angie glanced up, plainly startled. Just as she was about to speak, the screen door banged open and in ran an out-of-breath, sandy-haired, freckle-faced, gap-toothed boy. Excited, the kid stabbed a finger toward the door. “Wh-whose p-pickup and n-neat dog?” he stuttered. “Is it my dad?”
“Lucas, what on earth...!” Angie flushed.
The boy’s query had Duke stepping more fully into view. He had moved aside to avoid getting plowed into. The kid’s question gave him pause, since all of the gossip Duke had heard indicated the boy’s father wasn’t now or ever had been in the picture.
“Luke, the pickup and dog belong to Deputy Adams, and he’s here on business.”
The boy spun and squinted up at Duke. “Mom, he’s who brought f-fly-yers to my Sunday-school class.” The boy’s excited words exploded in a rush. “You know...’viting kids to be in the wild p-pony race. Did you s-s-sign me up, Mom?”
Pursing her lips, Angie turned at the sound of the oven timer and bent to retrieve two more sheets of cookies. “That’s not why Deputy Adams is here. I haven’t committed to letting you be in that race, Lucas. Besides, it takes three to make up a team.”
“You should sign him up,” Duke said, smiling at the boy he felt sympathy for. Duke knew what stuttering was like. He’d been plagued by the problem himself as a youngster, and it still hurt to think about the humiliation of it.
“The Wild Pony Race is good, all-around fun,” he said, addressing Angie. “For the past three years the sheriff’s office has sponsored the race, which is why I distributed entry packets to various kid groups.”
Angie eyed her son with a heavy heart. He had started stuttering last year in first grade. The truth was he got teased a lot, and he hadn’t made friends as she had hoped. “We don’t have close neighbors,” she said for Duke’s benefit. “During the school year I clerk in the elementary-school office. Between that, the escalating horse-cookie business and my rescues, I don’t have a lot of time for Luke to make playdates. You may recall that my grandfather was ill for some time. His care, the shelter and raising Lucas added up to more than a full-time job.” She fussed at the counter full of cookies. Moving the bowl of those still unmade, she said a bit stiffly to her visitor, “Thank you for the community update.” Her gaze cut again to her son.
Duke could see she didn’t want to worry the boy by mentioning the break-ins. “Uh, I never got around to telling you exactly why I’m here,” he said after clearing his throat. “Today a neighbor reported seeing a black horse in one of your fields. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look around, since the horse fits the description of the stallion missing from Thunder Ranch.”
“You think I...?” She broke off to brace her hands on her hips. “Listen, Deputy Adams, if that stallion is in one of my fields, he got there without my knowledge. The only black horse I have is an old gelding Carl Peterson found wandering along the road outside his fence line. Obviously the horse got too old to serve any purpose to his former owner, except to cost him for feed. So they turned him out to fend for himself. That’s happening more and more in these down economic times.”
Duke frowned. “That’s terrible.” He realized Angie hadn’t said someone left the horse to die, but that’s what she meant. “I can’t believe the insensitivity of some animal owners. Those kinds of fools shouldn’t be allowed to own a horse,” he ended emphatically.
“I’m