or more, Tara wanted everything ready for them. Del had cried when they’d left the pony behind. Putting up the stalls and paddock would prove to him that they were coming.
In the living room, Del, settled deep in the beanbag chair, watched a video of Peter Pan. This worried Tara. If she let him, he’d watch videos day and night. Yet she could not send him out to play. This was wild, unknown country, and he could wander off as soon as she wasn’t looking.
She decided to call Lynn to ask for guidance. “I’m sorry,” Lynn said. “I don’t know where Joe Wilder is. He swore to me on a stack of Bibles that he’d be there at eight o’clock. I’m really sorry, Tara.” Then she added, “It’s hard to get help around here.”
Well, Gavin said it wouldn’t be easy, thought Tara, gritting her teeth.
Lynn went on, “It took Daddy and Cynthia forever to find a housekeeper for the Double C. As for Albert Giddings, well, he was in this really bizarre accident yesterday. Oh, I know! I’ll call the Double C and—”
Tara heard the sound of an engine in the driveway, and her heart took an optimistic leap. “Somebody just drove up. Maybe it’s Joe Wilder.”
“He’s a little fat man,” Lynn said. “With bright red hair. He drives a beat-up white truck. He’ll introduce himself as ‘Fat Joe.’ You’ll see.”
Tara peered hopefully out the window. The truck was not white, but sleek, shiny and black. A man got out, slamming the door. He was not little and fat and red-haired. He was tall. He was dark. He was—Tara swallowed—sinfully handsome.
He walked toward the back porch with an easy, narrow-hipped amble. Her heart speeded up. “I don’t think this is Fat Joe.”
She saw the stranger mounting the jerry-built steps. Lono, hearing the sound of his boots, barked insanely. He hurled himself at the kitchen door, his neck hair bristling, his voice rising an octave and a half.
“Good Lord,” Lynn said.
Above the wild barking, a knock sounded loudly at the door.
“Hang on, will you?” Tara asked. “I have no idea who this is.”
“Absolutely. You make me nervous out there all alone.”
Tara set down the receiver on the marble countertop. She seized Lono firmly by his collar with one hand and unlocked the door with the other. Lono barked even more frantically.
She swung open the door. On the other side of the screen, the stranger swept off his Stetson. The sun gleamed off hair as black as a crow’s wing. His white shirt set off his tanned face and dark, dark eyes.
“Hello, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Grady McKinney—”
Lono’s shrieks became a piercing, hysterical yodel. “Excuse me,” Tara said, struggling to subdue the dog. “Lono, down! Quiet!”
Lono quieted himself to a mere rumbling snarl, his teeth bared. His neck hair bristled more fiercely, and he was tensed and ready to spring.
The stranger grinned, an engaging blaze of white. Good Lord, thought Tara. There’s enough wattage in that smile to light the whole state of Texas.
Hat still in hand, he said again, “I’m Grady McKinney. My father’s manager over at the Double C—”
She tore her gaze from his face and looked at the gleaming truck. Now she saw the crest painted in gold on its door: two overlapping C’s within a gilded wreath. Her eyes went back to his, as if by magnetic attraction.
“Y-you work at the Double C?” Grady? This was the one Lynn had said she wouldn’t meet. Or had Tara misunderstood?
His gaze was bold, warm and slightly wicked. “No, ma’am. I just got in from Nevada. You’re Mrs. Hastings, I believe.”
Lono growled more horribly, his body shaking with suppressed rage. “Yes. I—I’m Tara Hastings.”
He put his hat back on and tilted it. “We have mutual friends, I think. My cousins. Second cousins, actually. Cal. And Lynn.”
Her breath felt trapped in her throat, but she managed to say. “Lynn? I’m on the phone to her right now.”
That smile again. Oh, Lord, he has dimples. Just like Cal’s.
He said, “That so? Tell her hello. I’ll be over to see her soon.”
“I will,” Tara said. “Just what can I do for you, Mr. McKinney?”
He hooked his thumbs on either side of his belt buckle. His belt was slung low, the buckle large and silver. It was engraved with a large cactus reaching skyward. How phallic, thought Tara in confusion.
He looked slightly rueful. “Frankly, Mrs. Hastings, I’m sort of marooned at the Double C. Meant only to be passing through, but I lost my truck in an accident. Borrowed this one from the foreman. I heard you just moved in and thought maybe you might need a hand. I’m a dependable worker, and I could use a job.”
He could use a job? Tara stared at him slightly dumbfounded. No, this would not do at all. He was far too good-looking. He was a McKinney, but unemployed? Something must be wrong with him, seriously wrong.
He seemed to see her doubt. “It’s been my experience that when people move, they need help. My father and brother’ll vouch for my honesty. So will Cal and Lynn, I reckon.”
She considered this. “What exactly do you—do, Mr. McKinney?”
“A little bit of everything, ma’am. I’m a sort of jack-of-all-trades.” He nodded at Lono. “I helped train guard dogs once. That fella’s little, but he’s a natural. Hello, boy. Good boy. Good dog.”
Grady McKinney had a low, rich, lazy voice, and amazingly, it seemed to quiet the dog. Lono stopped showing his teeth. He no longer strained at his collar. His growl lowered to a halfhearted grumble deep in his throat.
“What was your last job?” Tara asked.
“I worked with horses. Andalusans. In Nevada.”
“Andalusans?” she said, impressed in spite of herself. “What did you do with them?”
“Handled them, worked them out for Caesar’s Palace. Before that I crewed on a yacht out of Sausalito. Before that I did construction in New Mexico. I got some letters of reference if you’d like to see ’em.”
Grady reached into the back pocket of his jeans and drew out a long yellow envelope.
He’s a rolling stone, remembered Tara. That’s the problem. She looked him up and down, trying not to be distracted by his sheer male appeal. He was confident, friendly, clean-shaven, and his white shirt was ironed to perfection. His boots were worn but polished.
She put on her most professional air. “Let me talk to Lynn.”
“Fine.” His smile was close to cocky. But charming. Too damned charming.
Tara dragged Lono to the phone, though the dog was now wagging his tail tentatively.
Tara
