Cowboy M.D.. Pamela Britton

at the top of his class from Harvard Medical School,” his mother answered.

      “Harvard?” the man asked in obvious surprise. “You went to Harvard?”

      He said the words like, “You went to the moon?”

      “He was offered a Rhodes Scholarship,” Ms. Forester provided.

      “Really?”

      “But he turned it down,” she said, “so he could graduate from Harvard.”

      And from the end of the table, his mother looked at Alison as though she’d offered her ovaries to him on a platter. Nick almost groaned.

      “Nick has an IQ of 162,” his mother said to the crowd at large, but to one individual in particular—as if Alison didn’t already know that. He would bet the woman knew his shoe size.

      “He was in the top one percent when he took his Medical College Admission Test.”

      “Okay, that’s enough,” he said, noticing that the table had gone quiet, most of his mother’s guests looking at him in either surprise or approval, though a young girl and boy at the opposite end of the table exchanged disinterested glances. “The guests don’t care about me, Mom. I want to know how everyone’s day was today?”

      “Oh, I don’t know,” Alison said before anybody had a chance to reply. “As your future wife, I’d like to find out whatever I can about you.”

      “You’re engaged?” an elderly lady asked, her eyes lighting up as if she were the mother of the bride-to-be. “How wonderful.”

      “Actually,” Alison said, “we just met today.”

      “You…what?” the woman asked, befuddled.

      “But Nick here is convinced his mom only invited me to the ranch so she could set us up. Frankly, I’m not so sure.”

      Okay, that did it—

      “She sounded nice on the phone,” his mother said to her guests, smiling around the table.

      “Mother,” Nick rasped.

      “Well…she did.”

      Alison laughed, which started his mother laughing, too. That was the third time today he’d heard his mother laugh, which made it the most she’d laughed in months.

      “Hey,” Alison said, leaning in to him. “If your mom’s set on marrying us off, do you think I could have a peek at your mouth? My family has a long history of perfect teeth and I hate to mess up the gene pool.”

      He shook his head, unwilling to play along.

      “C’mon,” she said. “Open up.” She even picked up a fork as though she meant to poke at his molars with it.

      “You better stop,” he said, “or you’ll really start my mom on a crusade. You’re exactly the type of woman she likes.”

      Alison dropped her fork. Actually he was reasonably certain she only set it down because Besse had come in with the first platter of chicken.

      “And what kind of woman is that?” Alison asked sotto voce.

      Smart. Witty. Good-looking. He picked up his napkin and lay it in his lap. “Young, healthy…of childbearing age.”

      He peered down at her just in time to see her eyes widen as she tipped back her head and laughed. Just as he expected, his mom was looking at them with an expression of delight.

      “Stop laughing,” he murmured. “You’re giving her reason to hope.”

      That made her chuckle more. “Maybe we should pretend an engagement. That way she’d leave you alone.”

      “Are you kidding? She’d have the local preacher over here in the morning. And the Red Cross to do our blood work.”

      “Is she really that bad?”

      But his mom’s smile eliminated whatever pique he might feel. It was good to see her smile.

      “She can be,” he said. “But I wouldn’t trade her for the world.”

      “You’re lucky to have her,” Alison said before turning to the guest next to her.

      Nick felt surprisingly disappointed, especially when the guest turned out to be a single dad whose two kids, the boy and girl, Kimberly and Sam, sat at the end of the table. Their dad, Jim, was flirting with Alison as if there was no tomorrow.

      Well, good. Maybe that would get matchmaking ideas out of his mom’s head.

      He should have known better.

      “Nick,” Martha said right after Besse cleared the dinner dishes. “Alison expressed an interest in helping with the cattle tomorrow morning.”

      “Can we help, too?” the boy, Sam, asked. His blue eyes peered out at Nick from beneath a mop of brown hair.

      “Not tomorrow,” Jim said. “We’re going fishing in the morning.”

      “Ah, Dad—can’t we do that in the afternoon?”

      “Fish don’t bite in the afternoon,” Jim explained, shooting Alison a look that clearly said, “Kids—what are you doing to do with them?”

      “You’re right,” Alison said. “They don’t bite in the afternoon. But they sure do bite in the evening. Maybe you could change your schedule around so Sam and I could watch the cows being vetted.”

      “Steers,” Nick corrected her. “And that’s not a good idea.” Nick did not, absolutely did not, want any kids around while he and his brother doctored up the cattle.

      “Nonsense,” his mother said. “It’s an excellent idea. Sam, you and Ms. Forester can meet up in the morning. Nick will show you the way to the corral.”

      And that was how Nick ended up being forced to spend time with Alison Forester.

      And worse—a young boy.