and to see you. But I confess I’m not so sure about this dude ranch of yours. That part is a little off-kilter right now.”
“Land sakes, why?”
“Oh, you know…I’m not really in the mood to be bonding with a bunch of tourists—”
“Oh, pouf! Besides, Bruce will keep all of you so dang busy there won’t be much time for idle jawboning.”
“Bruce?”
“You remember, I mentioned him to you on the phone? He trains and breeds horses for all us ranchers in Mystery Valley. During the summer he also runs Mystery Dude, from May to September. With some help, of course.”
Lyndie could have sworn she saw a glint of shrewdness in Hazel’s eyes as she added, “He’s also one of the most eligible hunks in the valley. ‘Bedroom eyes’ as us older gals used to say. He puts me in mind of Gregory Peck in his salad days.”
“Oh, no you don’t!”
Hazel glanced over, the very picture of faux shock. “Oh, no I don’t—what?”
“Aunt Hazel, I know good and well a scheming mind lurks behind that innocent-little-old-lady exterior of yours. I told you I wouldn’t come if I was to be one of your victims. Mom has told me all about your little matchmaking schemes, and I made it clear I’ll take no part in—”
“Schemes?” Hazel protested. “I’ve…facilitated a romance or two, perhaps, but—”
“Four weddings in one year? Mom says you even use notches now to count them.”
“Oh, you know Sarah,” Hazel said dismissively, “that niece of mine always liked to stretch the blanket a mite.”
“Uh-huh, sure. Well, please don’t try to ‘facilitate’ anything for me, okay? A little fun and diversion, well, all right, I’ll give that a whirl. But believe me, right now ‘romance’ is the last thing I need.”
“Now, you needn’t be so testy,” Hazel scolded. “I simply remarked that Bruce is good-looking, and here you go and erupt like Mount Vesuvius.”
“I’m sorry.” Lyndie sighed, wondering if she had been overreacting. She was certainly prone to it these days.
Hazel nattered on enthusiastically about Mystery Dude Ranch while Lyndie dutifully tried to pay attention. Outside, the brittle light of late afternoon was taking on the mellow richness of sunset. White gauze clouds drifted in a deep cerulean sky, with majestic mountains forming a postcard-perfect Western vista. Mystery, Montana, was downright sublime in its natural beauty.
Lyndie abruptly realized Hazel had asked her a question.
“I’m sorry, what’d you say, Aunt Hazel?”
“I said, Mystery Dude is right on the way to my place. Since you’ll be moving in there tomorrow, anyway, why don’t we swing by and leave your cowpoke duds in your room? It’s close to supper, Bruce should be back to the house now. You can meet him.”
Lyndie aimed a suspicious glance at her.
“No Cupid tricks,” Hazel assured her. “Honest. Just to give you the lay of the land, that’s all.”
“Sure,” Lyndie responded, perking up a bit. “You’re right. That way we won’t have to haul my stuff around needlessly.”
A grin divided Hazel’s weather-seamed face. “Now you’re whistlin’! Maybe we can even pick out your horse.”
Lyndie could have sworn the sly glint was back in Hazel’s eyes when she added, “If there’s one thing Bruce Everett is a good judge of, it’s horseflesh.”
As if the place were only remembered in dreams, Lyndie realized she had forgotten how breathtaking Mystery Valley was—a patchwork of verdant pastures and fields like spokes radiating from the hub of the town of Mystery, population four thousand. About ten minutes after they entered the valley through a winding mountain pass, Hazel swung the Fleetwood off onto a dirt lane. The lane led to a ranch much smaller than her own Lazy M that dominated the valley.
“Why, there’s Bruce now,” Hazel remarked, tooting the horn as she pulled up in front of a long stone watering trough.
Perhaps a dozen or so people of both sexes and various ages, most with Lyndie’s unmistakable look of “city slickers,” stood near a big pole corral watching something—or someone. The car rolled a few more feet forward, and then Lyndie spotted a tall, lean, weather-bronzed man who was evidently demonstrating how to cinch a girth, using a barrel-chested sorrel horse as his model.
“This is the second new group of the season,” Hazel explained as both women got out of the car. “Bruce takes a new group every three weeks—that way everybody’s on the same page.”
Bruce Everett smiled and waved a greeting at Hazel, excusing himself from the group and striding over to meet the new arrivals.
Even from where she was, Lyndie could see he was indeed handsome, but she felt an almost physical backlash to her attraction, and she couldn’t help but think of the old truism “Once burned, twice shy.”
“Hazel, you cattle rustler!” he called out cheerfully. “What have you come to swindle me out of now?”
“Me the swindler! You’re the one who sells spavined horses to unsuspecting old ladies.”
During this exchange of fond insults, his gaze quickly appraised Lyndie. For some reason, Hazel’s comment about his prowess in judging horseflesh just wouldn’t leave Lyndie’s mind.
“Bruce Everett,” Hazel announced, handling the introductions, “this is my grand-niece from New Orleans, Melynda Clay. But everybody calls her Lyndie. She doesn’t know beans about horses, but I expect you to remedy that in the next few weeks.”
“As long as she’s sound of limb and wind,” he assured Hazel, “we can turn her into a cowgirl. Glad to meetcha, Lyndie.”
His strong white teeth flashed in a wolfish smile, and an eerie, unpleasant sense of déjà vu washed over her. There was a confidence—a confidence bordering on arrogance—about this man that was reminiscent of Lyndie’s ex-husband Mitch’s manner. But whereas Mitch was all show and no substance, something told Lyndie to be wary of this cowboy’s confidence. It just might turn out to be the real thing.
His scrutiny trapped her.
Suddenly irritated, she flung him a frozen, perfunctory smile, then let her gaze turn to study a group of horses in a paddock beside the sprawling stone ranch house. As she’d hoped, her dismissal of him was obvious.
“Same here,” she intoned in a pleasant, detached manner, her attention glued to the paddock.
“Well, that gets my money,” she thought she heard him say under his breath.
Hazel raised her voice for Lyndie’s benefit and suggested cheerfully, “Bruce, maybe you two could pick out Lyndie’s horse while she’s here.”
They joined her near the paddock.
“That little bay mare with the white socks is one of my favorites,” he told Lyndie. “’Course, they’re all good animals. They’re not what you’d call well-schooled in dressage, but all of them are honest and fit. They do to take along.”
Lyndie chanced a longer look at him this time.
He had removed his hat, and a shock of jet-black hair curved across his strong brow. The eyes watching her were the shade of morning frost.
He didn’t have Mitch’s features, no. But the handsome smile and the confidence—they were reminiscent of the traits she had fallen for hardest in Mitch. And the very thought of him still soured her blood.
“They’ll do to take along where?” she replied, though she knew full well it was just a westernism he had spoken, not a literal remark.
He