LITMIR.BIZ

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took off his mirrored sunglasses and tucked them into the front pocket of his navy suit jacket. He looked out of place, walking around his aunt and uncle’s Montana ranch wearing his regular business clothes. He knew that. But he wasn’t in Montana on vacation from his Chicago law firm; he was here on business.

      Another wrangler, a short, stocky young man dressed for ranch work, announced his arrival again.

      “Dally!” The wrangler grabbed a hold of the edge of a top bunk and shook it hard.

      “Christ on a crutch! What!” Dallas popped upright like a jack-in-the-box.

      The wrangler pointed at Nick. “Stiff. Eleven o’clock.”

      Dallas fought to get her wild brown hair out of her eyes; after letting out a grunt of frustration, she kicked off the covers, swung her legs over the edge of the bunk and then jumped down. Barefoot, but still wearing ripped jeans and a faded Johnny Cash T-shirt, she walked over to wear Nick was standing.

      Confused, Nick said, “I’m looking for a Dallas Dalton.”

      Dallas wiped the sleep out of her eyes and then yawned loudly before answering. “You found her.”

      Nick stared at the woman’s black fingernail polish, confused. “You’re Dallas Dalton?”

      Dallas squinted at the sun coming in the bunkhouse through the doorway. “Twenty-four-seven.”

      Nick shook his head; he pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them back on. “I think there’s been a mistake. I apologize for the interruption.”

      Dallas yawned again with a nod. Nick turned to leave, but Dallas stopped him. “Hey—hold on—are you Nick?”

      Nick turned back toward the disheveled woman. “I am.”

      Dallas stretched her arms over her head, which drew Nick’s attention, for a brief moment, to the woman’s perky, braless bustline.

      “You’re in the right place.” Dallas extended her hand. “Hank told me to expect you yesterday.”

      Behind his mirrored sunglasses, Nick stared at Dallas’s face. Her handshake was as strong and as firm as any man’s handshake.

      “I was delayed,” Nick offered. “I was expecting a man.”

      “Yeah. You’re not the first,” Dallas said.

      She pulled a ponytail holder out of the front pocket of her jeans, clenched it between her teeth, gathered up her unruly mass of mahogany curls and secured them into a thick ponytail. Several tendrils escaped the ponytail holder and snapped back into position around her oval face. Nick had to consciously resist the temptation to tuck those wayward tendrils behind Dallas’s ear.

      “Let me grab my stuff and we’ll head out,” she said.

      Nick waited for Dallas just outside the door of the bunkhouse. Dallas reappeared wearing a cream-colored straw cowboy hat and carrying a pair of brown boots that were caked with dried mud.

      “You been in town long?” Dallas yanked on one boot and then the next.

      “First day.”

      Dallas stomped her sockless feet farther into the boots, knocking some of the mud off. Satisfied, she looked up at him. “Ready?”

      Nick followed Dallas to an early-model brown and tan Ford Bronco.

      “It’s unlocked.” Dallas nodded to the passenger door.

      Nick had to pull hard on the stiff door to open it, and the hinges squeaked loudly when he pushed it open far enough for him to get into the passenger side.

      “I haven’t seen one of these in years.” Nick slammed the door shut.

      “Bessy and I’ve been together since I was fifteen.” Dallas grabbed a stack of papers on the bench seat and tossed them into the backseat. “She’s a classic.”

      Dallas’s idea of a classic and his idea of a classic were completely different. While Dallas shifted into Reverse, Nick examined the inside of the Bronco. The interior had been stripped—there wasn’t a radio or air-conditioning system, part of the dashboard had been removed, exposing a tangle of wires that no longer served a purpose. Dallas obviously used the Bronco for more than driving, which was evidenced by the clothing, blanket and pillows strewn across the backseat.

      Dallas used the crank handle to roll down her window. Nick followed suit and rolled down his window, as well. He rested his arm on the edge of the open window, glad for the fresh air.

      “Did Hank fill you in?” he asked.

      Dallas nodded and stepped on the gas. The cowgirl was not a cautious driver—she sped along the driveway, kicking up loose gravel and dust, the oversize wheels disconnecting with the ground as they took a series of bumps. Nick looked around for a seat belt but didn’t find one; instead, he gripped the window frame with his hand and hoped that she had more control of the old Bronco than it seemed. At the end of the driveway, Dallas slowed down but didn’t bother to come to a full stop before she pulled out onto the main road.

      “Do you work for my uncle full-time?” Nick asked, glad that they were on paved road.

      “Not me. I’m just workin’ here until I save up enough money to get back on the barrel racing circuit.” She patted the cracked dashboard. “I hope old Bessy here can make it for one more tour.”

      A barrel racer. That made sense. She was independent, confident and tough enough to live with a bunkhouse full of cowboys.

      “Professional?” he asked.

      “Since I was seventeen.”

      “Can you make a decent living doing that?”

      “Some do. I don’t. Most of my winnings go right back into travel expenses and taking care of my horse. I’m lucky if I break even, but most years I’m in the hole.” Dallas laughed. “How ’bout you?”

      “I passed the Illinois state bar exam last month. Once I’m done with my business here, I’ll start working at my father’s law firm.”

      “Nepotism.” Dallas nodded. “I can dig it.”

      The cowgirl continued, “I haven’t been back to Lightning Rock since my pop died. Not sure how it’s gonna feel goin’ back there now.”

      “Davy Dalton was your father?”

      When Dallas nodded, Nick continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t make the connection earlier.”

      “Don’t worry about it. Not much of a family resemblance there.”

      Nick looked over at his chauffer. The sun had bronzed her skin; her shoulders and arms were muscular, as were her thighs. She wasn’t overweight, but she was stocky. Her fingernails were clipped short and the only jewelry she wore was a small turquoise cross on a silver boxed chain around her neck. She didn’t necessarily look it, but Dallas came from rodeo royalty. Davy Dalton, a legendary bull rider, had been a longtime friend to his uncle Hank.

      Nick was about to offer his condolences when Dallas made a sudden right-hand turn onto a heavily pitted dirt road. They immediately drove through a deep dip in the road and this time, Nick left his seat and had to put his hand on the roof of the Bronco in order to stop his head from smacking up against it.

      “It’s a bit bumpy,” Dallas acknowledged, but didn’t slow down.

      Nick wanted to ask her to ease up on the gas pedal, yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It seemed out of step for the man to ask the woman to take a rocky road more gently. If this cowgirl could take it, so could he. He simply hoped that the road to Lightning Rock was short. He had spent a couple of summers at Bent Tree when he was a kid; Bent Tree held thousands of acres, so there were many areas of the ranch he’d never seen. Lightning Rock, fifty acres of high ground, was new to him.

      A couple of S curves later, Dallas

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