Texas Standoff. Ruth Smith Alana

mentioned by his rescuer was probably a shack in the woods with a pigpen out back. He envisioned the shanties from the pages of Tobacco Road. At best, it would be a small frame house with an assortment of cows and chickens milling about, simple but clean with a few amenities such as indoor plumbing and, please God, a telephone.

      His assumptions were not so much based on the woman’s appearance or manner, neither of which was shabby, as they were on his concept of the area as a whole-sprawling hills sprinkled with homespun people who were content living apart from the mainstream. They were aliens to him-a strange breed. He lived in a different world and was a product of a fasterpaced, much more cosmopolitan culture. The simple life might hold a certain appeal for some, but not for him. He saw it as boring. Somewhere deep in his psyche he equated laid-back with lazy. It was probably an unfair and incorrect correlation, but.

      Why was he even bothering to analyze his perceptions of a place and people that held no real importance for him? He’d only made the trip as a favor. He wasn’t staying on. Two days max, and he was out of here. In the meantime, he supposed it served no purpose to brood over a lost Mercedes. Sulking over his present predicament wouldn’t change it. So, the lady had nearly made him a hood ornament. She’d apologized, and at least it was dry inside the pickup. Considering his momentary dependence on the woman at the wheel, he supposed he should make a halfhearted attempt at congeniality.

      Little did he know that the notion of not assisting him was an option she would never have contemplated, not even if he was the source of a long-standing feud and the object of intense hatred. Of course, if he was a bitter enemy rather than a complete stranger, she’d have no compunction about leaving him high and dry and on foot the minute they reached safe ground. Though such reasoning would be baffling to the outsider, it made perfect sense to her.

      Once across the bridge, they exchanged only a few casual words. It was obvious the woman wished to concentrate on maneuvering the truck through the ever-rising waters. He was wet, tired and disgusted, and more than a little leery about their final destination.

      “So where’re you from?” she asked.

      “Dallas,” he supplied:

      Elise didn’t follow up with, “What brings you to the Hill Country?” Local custom dictated that it was not proper to delve into a person’s private business. Asking a bunch of personal questions was labeled “being nosy” and considered impolite.

      They rode another mile or so before turning off the main road onto another. Between the darkness and the nonstop rain, Colin could make out little of his surroundings.

      “We’re almost there, Mr. Majors. The main gate is just up ahead.”

      He was sure his notion of a main gate was something entirely different from hers. He thought in terms of elaborate metalwork, electronic codes and surveillance. She was probably talking about some barbed wire stretched from one wooden fence post to another and secured with a padlock.

      “Great,” he said less than enthusiastically.

      With some fancy footwork and a hand brake, she managed to bring the truck to a halt, ordering, “Wait here,” before jumping out.

      He wasn’t sure if she meant him or the dog. Unfamiliar with the ways of ranching folk, he had no basis for knowing it was a long-standing practice for the owner of a spread to always open the gate for a visitor. It was considered the hospitable thing to do. He felt foolish sitting high and dry as she trounced through the waters, daring a snake bite while wrestling with the heavy gates. Moving forward in his seat, he peered at the entrance spotlighted in the high beams.

      Feeling foolish did not even begin to describe his next reaction. Though the main gates were obviously not electronic, they were made of wrought iron-not ornate, just simple vertical metal spears stretched between two twelve-foot-high limestone pillars. Above the massive gates was an arch of lacy grillwork with a symbol or logo of sorts etched between two words. “Cheyenne Moon,” he read aloud.

      The hound raised his head and assessed the stranger. Ever so easily, Colin eased back in the seat and engaged in a little assessing of his own. The headlights shone on his traveling companion, and for the first time he got a good look at her from behind. Her hair was the color of mahogany, long and pulled straight back into a single thick braid that fell halfway to her waist. The ground was higher at the gates, and as she swung them open, he studied the firm outline of her valentineshaped buttocks beneath the wet, clinging jeans. Not bad, he thought, glancing over to be certain the hound couldn’t read his mind. It was a debatable point. The dog was watching his every move.

      When he returned his eyes to the woman, she was wading her way back to the truck. His pulse quickened and an instinctive stirring occurred in his loins as he took advantage of a full frontal view. His eyes fell first on the drenched white cotton covering her breasts. The material was practically transparent in the bright beam of the headlights. But oddly enough, it was when his gaze came level with her face that he experienced a fleeting instant of oxygen deprivation. Even the comical wet-mop hairstyle did not detract from her beauty. Though he couldn’t make out every detail of her face, the overall effect was literally stunning. Suddenly before him appeared a curious cross between his favorite screen sirens, a woman who simultaneously possessed the soft sensuousness of Julia Roberts and the sultry hardness of Sharon Stone, albeit a brunette version, He knew he was letting his imagination run away with him. She was not glamorous in any sense of the word. Yet she was undoubtedly the sexiest-looking woman he’d ever seen. How had he missed noticing this before now?

      The creak of the truck door opening jarred him to his senses. Well, somewhat. He offered her a stupid stare.

      “Is something wrong?” Her words penetrated the fog blocking his normal brain-wave activity.

      “Uh, no,” he lied poorly. Unable to meet her gaze, he focused on the hound. “I was just wondering when Hombre last ate and if he ever craved human flesh.” Better. More like his smooth self.

      She laughed at his remark. It was a husky, pleasurable sound. A deep-throated, silky turn-on that-Jeez, Majors! Get your mind off full lips and tight buns. A phone call is all you need to make tonight.

      Ruffling the fur on Hombre’s head, she set his mind at ease. “He won’t take a chunk out of you unless I tell him to.”

      He forced a smile. “That’s reassuring.”

      She released the hand brake. Again the pickup moved forward through the muddy water and again they lapsed into silence. It seemed an interminable amount of time before she announced, “There’s headquarters. We made it, Mr. Majors.”

      Headquarters? That was a word applied to an army post or a police station. What was she talking about? “Headquarters?” he repeated, wondering if he’d misunderstood.

      She realized his confusion. “Out here, that’s how we refer to the actual home of a rancher. Sometimes we call it the main house or the big house,” she schooled him. “That’s as good a way as any to make a distinction between the chuckhouse or the bunkhouse or the smaller houses located on the four-corner sections of the ranch.”

      “Very innovative,” he said dryly.

      She wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic again or whether he was simply embarrassed at having made a dudelike inquiry.

      A last yank on the hand brake and they had arrived. Colin eased himself out of the truck, then stood transfixed in the pouring rain before the awesome, two-story stone structure. The place was a far cry from the shack he’d envisioned. It was impressive in size and authentic Old West in style. Eight thousand square feet at least. He wondered if the egg on his face was visible.

      Noticing his vegetative state, Elise whistled for Hombre, sauntered up the wide stone steps to the covered porch and proceeded into the foyer through the front double doors. The doors alone were enough to make him gape-a handcrafted patchwork of multicolored glass and pewter, hemmed in richly glossed wood and measuring at least twelve feet in height. “Come in out of the weather, Mr. Majors,” came the invitation from beyond the yawning portal.

      Hombre