It Takes a Cowboy. GINA WILKINS

put a hand to the back of her neck, squeezing the muscle that had tightened there—something that had been happening with uncomfortable regularity since her ten-year-old nephew had moved in with her six months ago. A familiar burning sensation in her stomach made her reach into the pocket of her cream-colored cardigan for a roll of antacids. She popped a couple in her mouth and chewed grimly. The chalky taste made her grimace.

      Wanting something to wash away the residue, she looked toward the crowded pavilion where food and drinks were being sold to an eager throng of customers. The tantalizing, smoky smell of barbecue wafted toward her, making her lick her lips. She had only come to observe the activities today, not to participate in them, but she could at least contribute to the cause by purchasing a soft drink and maybe a hot dog. She would love to indulge in a spicy barbecue sandwich, but she was afraid that would only intensify her heartburn.

      Barely thirty, she thought ruefully, and she had to eat like a little old lady. And to think she’d moved to Lightning Creek, Wyoming, to reduce the stress in her life! But that had been before she’d become responsible for Jeffrey.

      Several acquaintances greeted her as she approached the barbecue pavilion, people she had met during the year since she’d moved to the area from Chicago to take over her uncle’s law practice. Lindsay Duncan, the ranch owner and one of Blair’s clients, rushed by with a clipboard in her hand and a slightly harried look on her face. She gave Blair a distracted smile; Blair sent her a bracing thumbs-up in return, knowing Lindsay didn’t have time for conversation just then.

      Blair really hoped this gamble would pay off. The ranch had been in Lindsay’s family for fifty years. Innumerable boys had been housed here, a significant number of them going on to lead successful, productive lives rather than the bleak, dead-end futures they’d faced prior to being assigned to the Lost Springs Ranch. Some had been orphans, some children whose parents had been unable or unwilling to provide for them, others had been deemed incorrigible and had been sent here as a last resort before reform school or jail, but all had been given the finest of care and the best of opportunities. Many had taken advantage of the education and counseling they’d received to turn their lives around. Blair knew that the owners and staff of the ranch grieved over every boy who could not or would not be helped.

      That thought made the back of her neck tighten again. She was determined that her brother’s son would not become one of the sad statistics.

      Deciding to forgo the hot dog, she ordered a diet soda from one of the volunteers running the concession booth, a woman whose fairly amiable divorce had been one of Blair’s first cases in Lightning Creek. “There you go, hon,” fifty-something Arnette Gibbs said as she exchanged a cup of soda for Blair’s dollar bill. “Enjoy.”

      “Thank you, Arnette. Looks like business is booming.”

      The woman’s plump face beamed. “They’re keeping us hopping, that’s for sure. My goodness, would you look at that crowd gathered around Shane Daniels! If he don’t stop signing autographs, he’ll never get to the arena in time for the auction.”

      Following the direction of the older woman’s gaze, Blair frowned. “Who is he? A singer? An actor?”

      Arnette blinked in surprise that Blair hadn’t recognized the name. “Honey, he’s a rodeo champion. One of the best bull riders the circuit has ever seen.”

      “Oh.” Blair’s frown deepened as she studied the outright idolatry on the faces of the boys crowding around the handsome cowboy. A bull rider? Hardly the type of role model she would choose for her nephew.

      “The auction’s about to get started,” Arnette announced, pointing toward the rapidly filling arena. “You better get over there before all the good ones are gone.”

      Blair’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t come to buy a man. I’m only here to support the fund-raiser.”

      “Wouldn’t hurt you to bid on one of those fine young hunks,” Arnette advised cheerfully. “Just because I decided I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life catering to Jesse Gibbs’s every cantankerous whim don’t mean I can’t appreciate a pair of broad shoulders and a nice, tight butt. Sure makes for a pleasant diversion on a lazy weekend.”

      Laughing and shaking her head, Blair moved away from the folding table that had been set up as a sales counter, giving the people in line behind her a chance to be served. She sipped her slightly watery soda as she strolled toward the arena to watch the auction. She couldn’t help but be curious. It was certainly a beautiful day for the event, unusually warm for mid-June, the sky that intensely clear blue she’d come to identify with Wyoming. Rolling, wildflower-dotted pastures spread into the distance, crisscrossed by fencing, and on the horizon loomed the purply Wind River Range.

      A colorful handmade quilt flapping from a branch of an enormous oak tree caught her eye. Blair loved pieced quilts, appreciating the effort and history that went into each one. A raffle box on a folding table had been set up in front of the quilt, along with a banner that read Converse County Hospital—35 Years of Sharing and Caring. A smaller sign proclaimed that proceeds from the quilt raffle would be donated to the Lost Springs Ranch for Boys. So many local organizations had pitched in to help today.

      Impulsively, Blair stopped at the table, reaching into her pocket again as she greeted the striking redhead manning the raffle table. “Hello, Twyla. That’s a beautiful quilt. I’d like to buy some raffle tickets.”

      Her cheeks unusually flushed, her manner a bit flustered, the hairstylist who had been cutting Blair’s dark blond chin-length hair for the past year reached for the roll of raffle tickets. “Hi, Blair. How many tickets do you want? They’re a dollar each.”

      Blair glanced at the bill she’d pulled from her pocket. “I’ll take ten.”

      Twyla took the bill and handed Blair ten numbered tickets. “The emcee will announce the winning number over the PA system after the auction. Good luck.”

      “Thanks.” Blair glanced wistfully at the quilt’s lovely log cabin design. “I’d love to win that.”

      Someone else approached to buy raffle tickets, and Blair drifted toward the practice arena that had been built for the use of the boys on the ranch. The risers surrounding the arena were filling rapidly, mostly with women. Women of all shapes, descriptions and ages, she thought in amusement, glancing from a group of giggling teenagers to a couple of silver-haired women in spangled jogging suits. As she took an empty space near the front, she noticed that most of the people around her clutched glossy brochures filled with pictures of the men to be auctioned.

      “Isn’t that a fine-looking group of studs?” the young woman beside Blair asked with a sigh, eyeing the men beginning to take their places in the folding chairs behind the auctioneer’s podium. “Lordy, what I wouldn’t give for a weekend with any one of them.”

      Blair smiled at the brunette, who appeared to be in her early twenties. “Are you going to bid?”

      The young woman laughed and shook her head. “I’m sure they’ll all go for more than I can afford. Some of these guys are famous, all of them are prominent in their fields, and there are some seriously rich women here to bid on them. Women from other states, even. I just came to make a donation to the fund-raiser and watch the fun. And maybe to fantasize a little about doing something wild and crazy with a good-looking stranger.”

      Wild and crazy. Sounded like a description of Blair’s family. The Townsend reckless streak was notorious for spurring on impulsive and imprudent behavior. It was a part of her own nature that Blair had been suppressing for years, ever since it had become clear that someone in her family had to be responsible. That task had fallen to her at a very early age.

      She looked again at the men assembling behind the podium, talking among themselves, some posturing good-naturedly for the women who hooted and whistled and flirted outrageously from the audience. If ever there was an opportunity for a woman to do something daring, this auction was it. They were an exceptionally intriguing-looking group of males. Not all of them could be called classically handsome, but it was obvious they were all comfortable