Christmas at Blue Moon Ranch. Lynnette Kent

sandy dirt, the house lacked any evidence of architectural imagination. An uncovered stoop anchored the cement-block structure, its plain front door painted a dull gray like the rest of the building. Daniel pulled into the shade of the carport attached to the side of the house and sighed as he switched off the engine. For the first time since beginning this crazy venture, he felt a little daunted.

      Inside, the rooms were clean, bare and equally uninspiring. Willa hadn’t gone to any lengths to make him feel welcome.

      Outside once again, he drove toward the barn associated with his property, visible about a quarter of a mile away from the house. The weathered, metal-sided building, surrounded by dry, dusty corrals, did little to bolster his confidence that he could develop a functional ranching business in this place. He was stuck out here in the desert with scant practical knowledge, few ranching skills and no support.

      Maybe Willa would win, after all.

      Within the barn, years—decades, maybe—of discarded equipment loomed in the corners and cluttered the aisle between stalls, which appeared to have not been cleaned for about the same amount of time. What would he do with all this space once he got it cleared out? His first task, he guessed, would be to hire a foreman. Somebody with in-depth experience, somebody who knew what the hell was supposed to happen next.

      What actually happened next was that somewhere, in a far corner of the cavernous building, someone sneezed.

      “Hello?” Daniel welcomed the prospect of a trespasser to take his mind off the mess he’d gotten himself into. “Who’s there?”

      When no one answered, he walked down the aisle, peering into the stalls as he went. “Come on…I heard you. Do I have to say gesundheit before you make an appearance? Consider it said.”

      He stopped by a narrow wooden ladder leading to the loft above the main floor and waited, without result. Then, a minute later, came another sneeze. And another. And yet a fourth.

      “Bless you.” Daniel leaned his shoulder against a stall door to take the weight off his aching leg. “I’m not leaving, so you can stay hidden and sneeze your brains out or join me in the fresh air.”

      A revealing scuffle came from overhead. He looked up and found a face looking down at him over the edge of the loft.

      “You can’t really sneeze your brains out.” Under a pint-sized Resistol cowboy hat, the boy was about ten, with dark eyes, nut-brown skin and shiny black hair.

      “Are you sure?” Daniel couldn’t mistake the kid’s resemblance to Willa. This must be the youngest boy. Toby, right?

      “Yeah. It just feels that way.” The face disappeared, to be replaced by a pair of boots reaching for the top rung of the ladder. In the next second, the kid landed with a thud on the barn floor. He turned around to confront Daniel, his hands propped on his hips and his eyebrows drawn together. In his hat, his well-worn blue-checked shirt and his weathered jeans, he looked like a miniature cowpoke. “You must be the new guy.”

      “I must be. My name’s Daniel Trent.”

      The boy gave a single nod, like an aristocrat acknowledging a peasant. “I’m Toby Mercado. This is my ranch.”

      Daniel decided not to dispute the issue at that moment. “It’s a nice place, from what I’ve seen so far.” He looked around them and shrugged. “Although this doesn’t look exactly encouraging.”

      Toby nodded. “We haven’t used this barn for a long time, not since our foreman got his own land and decided to live there. You’ll have to bring in your own equipment.”

      “What kind of equipment?”

      The dark eyes went round. “Man, you need tractors and seeders and spreaders and rakes and chains and trailers. You need tools for building and mending fences, just for starters. How many head do you have coming?”

      That would refer to cattle, Daniel assumed. “How many do you think I should have?”

      Toby gave him a look of pure disdain. “Don’t you know anything?”

      “Sure. But I’m new to the ranch business. I’ve got a lot to learn.”

      The boy shook his head in disgust. “You’re telling me.”

      “Speaking of learning…” Daniel glanced at his watch. “It’s noon on a Tuesday afternoon. Shouldn’t you be in school?”

      Scuffing the dirt floor with one toe, Toby avoided his eyes. “Nah.”

      “There’s no school today?”

      Hands in his jeans pockets, Toby shrugged, still staring at the ground.

      “I guess that means you’re playing hooky.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Skipping school. Cutting class.”

      “Oh.” Another shrug, and then another sneeze. “School’s useless.”

      “Why is that?”

      “’Cause when I grow up I’m gonna run this ranch, just like my dad did. I don’t need school for that. I can learn what I have to know staying home, working with my mom and the hands.”

      “Did your dad go to school?”

      Toby looked up at him with a surprised expression. “I don’t know.” And sneezed again.

      Daniel nodded. “You should ask your mom about that. I’ll take you home so you can talk to her.” He turned toward the barn door, but the boy hung back.

      “She’s gonna be mad.”

      “Probably. I imagine she likes to know where you are during the day.”

      Toby hung his head and sniffed. “I’m in big trouble.”

      After letting him anticipate the worst for a minute, Daniel put a hand on his shoulder to move him forward. “You might as well face the inevitable like a man. Get it over with.”

      “What’s in-inevble?”

      “Something you can’t avoid.”

      “Oh.” He sighed. Sneezed. “Yeah.”

      Once they were in the truck and headed back to Willa’s house, Daniel said, “How’d you get out of going to school, anyway? Do your brother and sister know you’re not there?”

      “I said I was sick this morning. Once Robbie and Susannah left and Lili and Rosa were in the garden, I just went out the front door.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

      “Pretty slick.” But Daniel had a feeling Willa would think it was a very big deal, indeed.

      After a minute of silence, Toby said, “So what did you do to your leg?”

      “My truck hit a landmine in Iraq.” After eighteen months, he could say it without gritting his teeth.

      Toby looked out the side window. “That’s what happened to my dad.” His voice was subdued. “He died.”

      “I know. I’m sorry. Three of my friends got killed when I was hurt.”

      After a minute, Toby glanced at the hand controls Daniel used to drive the truck. “Do you mind having a…a limp?”

      An honest question deserved an honest answer. “Well, what would you think, if you couldn’t play ball anymore—very well, anyway—or sit down easily, walk smoothly or stand up for a long time without your leg feeling like it was on fire?”

      “I’d hate it.”

      “Sometimes I do. But at least I came home.”

      “You were lucky.”

      “Yeah, I was.”

      He could hear other questions seething in Toby’s brain, but the boy didn’t give voice to his thoughts. They rode down the