Temporarily Texan. Victoria Chancellor

curd. “Help yourself to whatever you need.” There was no reason to be inhospitable just because they were worlds apart in values and backgrounds. She seemed nice enough when she wasn’t turning up her nose at cattle ranching.

      “Thank you. And you’re welcome to join me.”

      He tried to hide his own grimace. “Thanks, but I…er, gave up bean curd for Lent, years ago. I think I’ll wait for that call.”

      “Of course.” She turned in a swirl of skirts and scarves and long black hair. That woman sure was swirly. And when she got a little peeved, her cheeks flushed a nice shade of peach.

      Not that he had any reason to catalog her looks. As soon as they got the mix-up fixed, she’d be gone. Or maybe before, if she decided to leave on her own. She had no reason to stay on the Rocking C, especially since she found cattle ranching so objectionable.

      Troy rubbed his face for what seemed like the hundredth time today. He didn’t need this. He needed help—whether arranged by Cal or himself—not criticism from a kind-of-cute vegetarian garden expert.

      He unclenched his hands and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. He wanted to find out something before he e-mailed Cal in Afghanistan. If he was out on patrol or somewhere equally remote, he might not reply for days. Besides, it would only make him more concerned about the ranch if he knew the specialist he was depending on hadn’t shown up.

      Troy promised himself that he’d give Mr. Goodman half an hour, then he’d call back. If the senior person there couldn’t help him, Troy would do some research on his own. Surely he could discover how this mess had happened.

      After all, as his swirly-girly reluctant guest had suggested, there had to be some connection between the two completely different associations.

      Chapter Two

      “I can’t believe neither one of us could get any answers,” Raven said as she followed Troy from the home office into the kitchen an hour later.

      He’d tried to call his association again, but with no luck other than the vague promise that they’d get back to him ASAP. The Internet hadn’t yielded any results for them, either. There was no apparent connection between the two groups.

      Raven leaned against the kitchen counter near the sink. “I can’t believe Mrs. Philpot is the only person who can sort this out for me. This is just too bizarre.”

      He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. “Tell me about it. Every day without the guy I was expecting is another day wasted.” He held up the brown bottle for her to see. “Care to join me?”

      “No. I’m too upset.”

      He took a long drink from the bottle. She watched his throat move as he swallowed the cold beer. Odd, but she’d never thought swallowing beer could be so…sensual. He lowered the bottle and asked, “What kind of arrangement do you have with the gardening folks?”

      “I’m helping a local organization get a historic farm certified by the state. The property and house were donated to the township but had to be renovated. The construction is just about complete, and we’re ready to plant the garden.”

      “But why are you here?”

      “The township felt it was better to have someone experienced to plant the garden rather than getting the locals to do it. So I volunteered to come down here for at least two weeks and work in the garden while, in return, the Society for the Preservation of Heritage Gardens will restore a homestead garden near where I live in New Hampshire. It’s rather like Habitat for Humanity, where people work in each other’s homes and eventually get their own house.”

      “So you and your colleagues trade out time to help each other?”

      “That’s right. We’re not paid. We’re all volunteers.”

      “That must be tough—to take time away from your own jobs for two weeks.”

      “Some people do it on their vacations, but in my case, I have a good friend, Della, who is taking care of my farm. She has an apartment in the city, but we work together on a lot of fiber projects, so she’s often at my place.”

      He finished the beer and tossed the bottle into the trash container in the corner of the kitchen, on top of newspapers, cans, coffee grounds and cardboard boxes. Why was she surprised that he didn’t recycle or compost? She fought the urge to criticize his lifestyle.

      “Surely the society will understand if there’s been a mix-up. You can make new arrangements, can’t you?”

      She shook her head as she followed him across the kitchen. “You have to remember that our growing period up north is so much shorter than yours. We don’t have time to reschedule. If I don’t fulfill my obligation, the society could say that they won’t send anyone to New Hampshire.”

      “Yeah, I can’t wait for my expert to show up, either. My brother will be gone about six more months and I need to turn this place around. By the time he gets back, this ranch could be in big trouble if I’m on my own.”

      “Well, I’d hate to see your brother homeless, but I can’t say that I’m sad a cattle ranch is going out of business.”

      He frowned at her as he opened the refrigerator. “You won’t be so happy when you learn that I’d have to sell off all the stock, including the three little orphaned calves out in the barn.” He removed several oversize plastic bottles fitted with big nipples.

      She decided to ignore the concept of “selling off” the stock. “Oh, are you going to feed them? I love calves.” She’d raised two calves from a neighboring dairy farmer a few years ago.

      He rolled his eyes at her enthusiasm. “These are just orphaned beef cattle, and right now they need their supper.”

      “May I come with you? I have experience with calves.”

      He glanced at the clock over the old-fashioned stove. “It’s already after five here, six o’clock in Florida, so I doubt we’ll be getting any phone calls today.” He started toward the door, then turned, nearly colliding with her. He pointed a finger. “Don’t get any ideas about the calves.”

      She schooled her features and raised her eyebrows. “I have no idea what you mean.”

      “Yeah, you do, and I’m just warning you…”

      “I’ll consider myself warned, Mr. Crawford.”

      The sun was low and bright in the western sky as they stepped outside. Raven shielded her eyes as they strode toward the big whitewashed barn. She used the walk to calm herself down after Troy’s scolding about the calves. He certainly had a way of getting under her skin.

      She should probably leave to find a motel room before the sun set, but she wanted to look around just a little before she left the Crawford ranch for good. There might be interesting differences between New Hampshire and Texas farms. She tried to learn from each place she visited.

      “What’s that?” she asked as she hurried to keep up with Troy’s longer stride. She’d hoped to find a garden, even one in terrible disrepair, behind the house, but there was none. Only a few wildflowers competed with the tufts of grass.

      “The smokehouse,” he told her as he continued across the yard, “but I don’t think it’s used anymore.”

      “Why is that?” Raven asked, even though she had little interest in the answer. She seriously doubted the Crawfords smoked vegetables.

      “Cal lives here alone and I don’t think he entertains a lot. He doesn’t need to smoke that much meat. Back when my grandparents lived here, I think they sold what they smoked.”

      “Oh. Did they have a large family?”

      “Just one.”

      “Your father?”

      “Right.”

      Raven