LITMIR.BIZ

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on? There was no way to tell. She’d just have to wait and find out.

      “Meet me out front at 2:00 p.m.,” Iris called to Kam. “Wes will take us into town. I can fill you in on a lot of things at that time.”

      “Of course,” Kam murmured. She smiled at Iris, said goodbye for now and followed Rudd out of the large, airy greenhouse. The glass panels were set into a steel frame. Across the roof, thicker glass handled the snow’s weight during the winter. Some of the panes were louvered to allow fresh air into the area. Everywhere Kam looked small pots of young, green plants sat on every available space. Iris obviously started her garden in here early so she could get a leap ahead for the June planting time. Kam knew from experience living in the Rockies that the growing season was short. Iris was smart and got around that by starting her veggies in the greenhouse.

      As she followed Rudd down the immaculately clean concrete floor toward the ranch house through a screen door, Kam smiled to herself. She liked Iris a lot. Her next adventure would be with this guy called Wes who was Iris’s driver. One by one, she was meeting the people who made this beautiful ranch what it was. In so many ways, Kam felt at home. The only question left to ask was whether this was her real father and grandmother—or not?

      

      “HEY, SHERIDAN,” the ranch manager called at the opening to the main horse barn, “Mrs. Mason wants you at the main house.”

      Wes was unsaddling his big gray gelding when he heard Chappy Andrews’s booming voice echo down the concrete walkway between the airy box stalls. Bolt, his ten-year-old gelding, a mix of quarter horse and Thoroughbred breeding, stood quietly in the cross ties in the center of the barn. Wes had just taken off the saddle, brushed him down and was getting ready to let him out into a nearby pasture filled with spring grass. Lifting his head, brush in hand, Wes called back, “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

      What now? He’d seen that blue Toyota Prius hybrid come crawling down the hill. After working with a bunch of cows and newly born calves in the pasture, Wes was hurrying to grab a bite to eat before Hazel, the cook, refused to let him in the bunkhouse kitchen between meals. He’d galloped past the parked car but liked what he saw as the driver had emerged from it. Wes figured she was the next applicant for the caregiver’s job.

      Unsnapping the ties from Bolt’s halter, Wes turned the tall, rangy gelding around and led him out the end of the barn. A small corral nearby, containing several cow horses, was used by the wranglers during the day. The sun was warm and felt good across his shoulders. Bolt whinnied anxiously to a group of horses who eagerly munched on newly sprouted grass.

      Smiling, Wes opened the latch on the gate and released Bolt’s halter. The gelding galloped into the pasture, silver tail held high as he hurtled toward the small waiting group. Horses were herd-oriented animals, and Bolt would slow down and pretty soon have his nose to the ground munching away. Horse heaven. Wes grinned wider as he watched his favorite cow horse slow and then drop his long, thin neck to grab at the grass. If only his life was this simple. But it never had been for him.

      After closing the gate, Wes took off his elkskin gloves and tucked them in his belt. He walked back to the barn to put his gear in the tack room, unbuckled his chaps and hauled them off from around his hips and legs. Even though Rudd Mason had four-wheel ATV vehicles to herd the cattle, Wes preferred being in a saddle with a good horse under him. And he was thankful that his boss gave him that choice.

      Once he finished his duties in the barn, Wes knew that Iris wanted to go to town. She did every day unless the dude ranch was in session, and right now it wasn’t. He always enjoyed the crotchety old matriarch even though she was hated by Rudd’s entire family. Iris was not tactful nor was she tolerant of fools. Wes liked those attributes in her.

      He took long strides across the graveled ground and resettled the tan cowboy hat on his head. He made sure his dark blue shirt was tucked neatly into the waist of his Levi’s. He kicked off the worst of the mud and crud his boots had picked up, wanting to look somewhat presentable. Iris didn’t like sloppy-looking cowboys working for the Elkhorn. He didn’t, either. Rudd might be the day-to-day boss running this huge operation, and Chappy was the field boss, but Iris was the actual owner and creator of this viable and robust ranch. At eighty-two, the matriarch was the brains of the operation despite what Rudd’s Hollywood wife might like to think.

      As he took the steps up to the office, Wes removed his hat and kicked his boots on a hog-hair brush anchored to the porch. This kept most of the mud and dust and manure out of the house. Feeling happy for no discernible reason, Wes entered.

      “There you are!”

      Iris stood near the entrance to the sitting room opposite the office. She was dressed in her fringed buckskin jacket, a pair of cranberry slacks, a pink sweater and the beat-up straw hat that rarely left her head. It had a chunk missing from the brim where a horse had taken a chomp. Iris said it gave the hat character. He smiled and nodded.

      “Hi, Iris. We going into Jackson today?”

      “Yep, we are.” Iris motioned for him to come into the sitting room. “Come here, I want you to meet my latest babysitter.”

      Wes moved into the large room, admiring the white lacy curtains on all the windows. The room was filled with turn-of-the-last-century oak furniture over a large and century-old oriental rug that covered part of the blond oak floor. And then he saw her.

      This was the woman he’d noticed emerging from her car. Now, as he drowned in her large blue eyes, his heart thudded, underscoring how her beauty affected him. Her slightly wavy hair was short and black like a raven’s wing. Her oval face, high-set cheekbones and olive complexion made him think she might have some Indian blood. Even better, he liked her full lips that made him think of lush tulips in bloom.

      “Wes Sheridan, meet Kamaria Trayhern,” Iris told him with a cackle.

      Wes moved forward, his hand extended toward the tall, lean woman. She was dressed casually but tastefully in a dark brown pantsuit that emphasized her natural carriage, her head held high. “Hi, I’m Wes. Welcome to the Elkhorn Ranch, Ms. Trayhern.”

      The moment his hand slid into hers, Wes felt his world had been rocked. Her hand was warm and firm. He saw her eyes widen momentarily and those soft, petal-like lips part. Yes, she was definitely eye candy.

      “Call me Kamaria or Kam,” she responded a little breathlessly.

      Reluctantly, Wes removed his hand from hers. “Kamaria? That’s an unusual name. What does it mean? Is it Native American?”

      “No, it’s African,” Kam said. “My mother chose a Swahili name for me.”

      Iris nodded, properly impressed. “Our family has plenty of Native American blood in it and we always gave our children meaningful names. So what does Kamaria mean in Swahili?”

      With heat tunneling up into her face and two pairs of interested eyes on her, Kamaria said, “It means beautiful, like the moon.” She didn’t know why divulging this personal piece of information made her feel so vulnerable, but it did. Iris’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. And Wes seemed awed by the information.

      “You are a pretty-looking little thing,” Iris agreed. She glanced over at Wes and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “You see, Wes? Here I thought she was Indian like us. The color of her skin? Her broad face and high cheekbones?”

      Kam moved tensely. Iris was getting too close to her family situation, the fact she’d been adopted. Kam didn’t want to go there with them just yet. “How did you get your name, Iris?” Desperate, Kam shifted focus back to them and away from her. Right now, she felt like the proverbial bug under their collective microscope. And, if she was honest, she found Wes Sheridan devastatingly handsome. He was lean and just a little bit dangerous to her. There was no wedding ring on his left hand, either. Maybe it was his wide-spaced eyes, their gray depths and large black pupils that held her in thrall. Or, maybe it was his square, broad tan face that drew her. As her gaze flitted from his straight nose to his mouth, she felt hot and shaky inside. Few men had that kind of effect on her.

      “Oh,

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