Abbie And The Cowboy. Cathie Linz

black Stetson, and there was nothing fancy about Dylan. She had a feeling that the L-shaped rip in the left leg of his jeans wasn’t a fashion statement, but was instead a sign of wear and tear.

      Feeling her eyes on him, Dylan decided that turnabout was fair play. So he stared at her, his gaze appreciative and speculative, as he fantasized that he was touching her with more than just his eyes.

      “Stop that, you two!” Ziggy commanded. “I can feel fire from here. All this emoting is too distracting for an artist like me.”

      Dylan watched the pink blossom in Abigail’s cheeks and shook his head in amazement. “I thought blushing was a lost art,” he murmured.

      “It’s sunburn,” she shot back. “We’re leaving now, Ziggy.”

      “My name’s Dylan, by the way,” Dylan said, nodding at Ziggy by way of introduction. “You been working on this piece long?” he added, indicating the tree trunk Ziggy had been carving.

      “Since early this morning,” Ziggy replied.

      “Did you happen to see Abbie here go riding by while you were working?”

      “My name is Abigail,” she inserted.

      “I call you Abbie,” Ziggy commented.

      “That’s because you’re my friend. Dylan is…”

      “The new ranch foreman,” he said on his own behalf. “Temporarily.”

      “You will be helping Abbie, then,” Ziggy noted with a wide smile. “That is good. She needs help. I can do some but not everything. I am good with horses, I was raised on a farm near the Jura Mountains. We had horses and many cows. Goats, too.”

      “You’re good with horses?” Dylan asked.

      Ziggy nodded but added, “I’m better artist than cowboy.”

      “That’s okay, Dylan here is the cowboy,” Abigail said.

      “Did you happen to visit the barn this morning?” Dylan asked Ziggy.

      “I was here working on my sculpture all morning,” Ziggy stated.

      “Yeah, well, horses don’t like loud noises, especially sudden ones. If you were raised on a farm, you should know that.”

      “Swiss horses are much better behaved than American ones,” Ziggy maintained.

      “Right. And I’m Buffalo Bill Cody,” Dylan scoffed. “Just watch out when you use the saw, make sure that you don’t make that racket when someone is riding nearby.”

      “No one rides nearby here,” Ziggy declared. “They know I am working.”

      “Dylan, I really do have to get back to the ranch house,” Abigail inserted, practically tapping her boot in impatience.

      Once they were back on the road again and the sound of Ziggy’s power saw was a distant annoyance, Abigail began questioning Dylan. “Why were you interrogating Ziggy that way?”

      “Just trying to get a lay for the land. Did you see Ziggy in the barn this morning when you were saddling your horse?”

      “Of course not. He likes horses but he loves sculpting. It’s hard to drag him away from his work. Why the sudden curiosity?”

      “Because someone put those burrs on your horse’s saddle blanket.”

      “It wasn’t Ziggy.”

      “What made you bring an eccentric like him up here?”

      “He used to come into the library a lot. We’d talk about books and artists. Over the years, he became a friend. When I moved up here, I took pity on his neighbors in Great Falls, who were forever calling the authorities on him for using his saw at seven in the morning. I figured there would be enough space here on the ranch for him to be able to work in peace and quiet.”

      “I have a feeling peace and quiet don’t go hand in hand with Ziggy.”

      “How about you? Does peace and quiet go hand in hand with you?”

      “Sometimes.”

      “When you’re sleeping, right?”

      The image of her curled up asleep filled his mind, stealing into his soul. Did she sleep on her side or her back? And what did she wear to bed—a slinky nightgown, a cotton sleep shirt or maybe nothing at all?

      “I usually make it a point to avoid trouble,” Dylan said, as much as a reminder to himself as a reply to her.

      “And how do you manage that?”

      “By moving around a lot.”

      It was the answer she expected but not the one she wanted.

      

      Coming around the corner of the barn and seeing the ranch for the first time never failed to touch Abigail’s heart. Others might notice the weather-beaten smallness of the three-bedroom log house. They might see the work that needed to be done: the sagging gutters, the neglected yard, the slightly off kilter chimney. Even the porch swing hung unevenly and needed a new coat of paint.

      But Abigail saw home. She had always loved the location of her uncle’s ranch, which had an even better view of the surrounding mountains than her parents’ ranch had had. A hillside rose directly behind it, with two tall fir trees standing sentinel atop it. In the evening, she’d climb the path up the hill and sit there, smelling the evergreen mixed with wood smoke from the cabin. Lower down, the aspens’ pale bark glowed in the sunshine. The hill protected the house from the fierce northern winds, while the front porch had a southern exposure.

      She and Dylan had unsaddled their horses without any further comment. Dylan had been as familiar with the layout of the barn as she was. And she’d discovered that his horse, an Appaloosa gelding, was aptly named Traveler.

      Her thoughts of Dylan and his traveling ways were interrupted by the realization that they had company. An oversize man sat on his much besieged horse, glaring at Abigail’s friend, Raj. The young woman was glaring right back.

      “What are you doing here, Mr. Redkins?” Abigail inquired.

      “Like I was telling your servant there—”

      “Raj is my friend, not my servant,” Abigail declared.

      “Whatever. I’m here to see if you’ve decided to accept my offer to take this place off your hands,” Hoss said, shifting in his saddle.

      “And I told you that I’m not interested in selling,” Abigail stated.

      “I thought you might have changed your mind.”

      “Now, why would you think that?” Abigail demanded.

      “Yeah, why would you think that?” Dylan drawled, speaking for the first time.

      Instead of answering, Hoss said, “What are you doing here, boy? I heard you busted your leg in some rodeo down in Oklahoma. Come to loaf the summer off old man Turner, have you? Must have been a surprise to hear he’d kicked the bucket.”

      “Still as charming as ever, I see, Redkins,” Dylan retorted.

      “Is this man bothering you?” Hoss demanded of Abigail, his face florid as he glared at Dylan.

      “No, but you are,” she muttered under her breath.

      “What was that?” Hoss asked.

      “I said that Dylan is not bothering me. He’s…”

      “Come to help her,” Dylan inserted.

      “Hah!” Hoss scoffed. “You’ve come to mooch off a helpless woman, more likely. Dylan here has a reputation where ladies are concerned,” Hoss informed Abigail. “He’s got a string of buckle bunnies from Oklahoma City to Calgary. ‘Course that was before he busted his leg.”

      The