Last Chance Cowboy. Cathy McDavid

      She may have only just met him, but there was no mistaking the fierce set of his jaw and the steel in his voice. Here stood a man with a mission and the determination to carry it out.

      Unfortunately, he was about to come up against a brick wall.

      “You can’t, Mr. Powell,” she stated firmly.

      “Why not?”

      “It’s against the law for anyone other than an employee of the BLM to capture a feral horse.”

      “The McDowell Sonoran Preserve isn’t federal land.”

      “No. But it isn’t private land, either.” She bent and placed her business card on a hand-carved pine coffee table. “And besides, the law isn’t restricted to federal land. If you capture the horse, you’d be in violation of the law and subject to fines and a possible jail sentence.”

      His jaw went from being set to working furiously.

      Stubborn, she concluded. Or was he angry? Another glance at him confirmed the latter.

      Sage’s defenses rose. “I realize you had other plans for the horse, but you knew I was coming.”

      “No, I didn’t.”

      “We called. Last week.”

      “I received no phone call.”

      “It’s noted in the records. I don’t have the name of the individual we spoke to offhand, but I can easily obtain it if you give me a minute.”

      He glanced at the girl—Cassie, wasn’t it?—and his gaze narrowed.

      “Don’t look at me,” she protested, a hint of defiance in the downward turn of her mouth.

      Not that Sage was good at determining ages, but Gavin Powell didn’t appear old enough to be Cassie’s father. Sage guessed him to be around her own thirty-one years. Maybe older. Rugged and tanned complexions like his could be misleading.

      Broad shoulders and well-muscled forearms also spoke of a life dedicated to hard physical labor and being outdoors. She’d always found that kind of man attractive. One who rode a horse or swung a hammer or chopped trees rather than earning his pay from behind a desk.

      Gavin Powell exemplified that type, with the glaring addition of a very testy and confrontational personality. Something she didn’t find attractive.

      Sage stood straighter. She’d come to Powell Ranch on business, after all. Not to check out the available men.

      “Is it possible someone else took the call and didn’t tell you?” she asked.

      “Not likely.”

      “Grandpa forgets to tell you stuff all the time,” Cassie interjected.

      “Go do your homework,” Gavin told her.

      “I hardly have any. I did most of it in class.”

      “Now.”

      “Dad!”

      Her cajoling had no effect on him. At a stern “Cassie,” she exited the room, another flash of defiance in her eyes.

      So, the girl was his daughter. No sooner did Sage wonder how often those exchanges happened than she reminded herself it was none of her concern.

      “Sorry about that,” he mumbled when his daughter had gone.

      For a tiny moment, he appeared human. And vulnerable.

      “I have a daughter, too,” she admitted, “though she’s only six.”

      Why in the world had she told him that? She rarely discussed Isa when on the job. It was easier when dealing with obstinate or difficult individuals—an unfortunate and commonplace occurrence in her job—to keep the discussions impersonal.

      She promptly brought the subject back around. “Look, Mr. Powell. I’m here to capture the horse, which can’t be allowed to wander on state and city land. I’d like your help.”

      His scowl deepened. Heck, maybe it was permanent.

      “To be honest,” she said, making a civil plea, “I really need it. You know this area, I don’t. And from the information you sent the BLM, you’ve clearly been tracking the horse.”

      “No.” He shook his head. A lock of jet-black hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back with an impatient swipe. “I want the mustang, Ms. Navarre. I won’t help you.”

      “If you persist in capturing him yourself, I’ll report you to the authorities.”

      “No kidding?” The challenge in his tone told her she would have to go that far, and perhaps further, to obtain his cooperation.

      Sage released a frustrated sigh. Her tidy plan was unraveling at an alarming rate. A few days, a week at the most, was all the time she had to capture the horse. Then, as she and her boss had agreed, she’d spend her annual two weeks’ vacation in nearby Scottsdale visiting her cousin. It was the main reason she’d asked to be assigned to this case—locating and confronting her errant ex with her attorney cousin-in-law at her side.

      After four years, she’d finally gotten a reliable lead on her ex’s whereabouts, and it had brought her to Mustang Village. The back child support he owed her—owed Isa—amounted to a considerable sum of money. Well worth two weeks of vacation and scrambling to rearrange both her and her daughter’s schedules.

      Much as she hated admitting it, she couldn’t capture the horse without Gavin Powell’s help and his resources. Not in one week. Probably not ever.

      She could try for an order, but that would require time she didn’t have. Besides, the task would go quicker and easier with his voluntary cooperation.

      Sage thought fast. She was a field agent, her job was to safely capture wild horses and burros. Once in federal custody, the adoption of those horses and burros was handled by a different department. She knew a few people in that department and was confident she could pull a few strings.

      “What if, in exchange for your help, I guaranteed you ownership of the horse?”

      Gavin Powell studied her skeptically. “Can you do that?”

      She lowered herself onto the couch, the well-worn leather cushions giving gently beneath her weight. She imagined, like the coffee table, the dated but well-constructed couch had been in the Powell family a long time.

      “Can we sit a minute? I’ve had a long drive.”

      He joined her with obvious reluctance and, rather than recline, sat stiffly with a closed fist resting on his knee.

      She’d almost rather face a pair of flailing front hooves—something she’d done more than once in the course of her job.

      “The fact is, Mr. Powell, we have trouble finding enough homes for the animals we round up. Despite the novelty of owning a feral horse or burro, most people aren’t interested in spending months and months domesticating them. Even then, some animals never truly adapt, and only a handful of the horses make decent and dependable riding stock.”

      “I wouldn’t be using the horse for riding.”

      Though she was curious, she didn’t ask about his intentions for the horse. “I think the BLM would be happy to have a home for the mustang and will likely just give him to you with a minimal amount of paperwork and processing.”

      He nodded contemplatively.

      “You’d still have to pay a fee.”

      “How much?”

      “I don’t know for certain. I can find out if you want. Most of the horses are adopted for a few hundred dollars. My guess is it would be something in that range.”

      Another nod. Gavin Powell was clearly a man of few words.

      “I