Lone Star Daddy. Cathy Gillen Thacker

the job done today.”

      Rose’s pink lips slid into an astonished pout. “You wouldn’t!”

      Pushing aside the notion of what it might be like to taste the tempting softness of those lips, he moved his gaze back to her wide-set sage-green eyes and nodded tersely. “I most certainly would.”

      “But...you’re sitting on a gold mine!”

      He shrugged, letting his gaze linger once again over the delicate, feminine features of her heart-shaped face. “I’m sure you think so.”

      She drew in a breath. “Do you know how much four ounces of blackberries retail for these days?”

      “Haven’t a clue.”

      “Four dollars!”

      He kept his eyes locked with hers in an attempt to intimidate her into going away. “So?” To his mounting frustration, his maneuver did not achieve its goal.

      Rose huffed. “The typical yield of mature plants like yours is five to ten thousand pounds per acre!”

      Which meant—he quickly did the math—the total of a good yield would be anywhere from two to four million dollars, retail, for one crop. However, a farmer would get a lot less wholesale.

      “If you can get them picked,” Clint pointed out, forcing himself to be practical. He did not have the money for harvesting, either.

      Grimacing, he paused to remove his Stetson and wipe the sweat gathering on his brow. “I can’t.”

      Following suit, Rose swept off her straw cowgirl hat and slapped it against her sleek denim-clad thigh. Her unruly ash-blond curls glittered with golden highlights. The thick silky strands were cut to frame her face and rested against her chin. She ran the fingers of her free hand idly through her hair before placing her hat back on her head. “Actually,” she countered, returning his impudent stare, “you could.”

      It was Clint’s turn to heave a sigh of frustration. He straightened once again, aware they were talking about something that just wasn’t going to happen.

      “The point is—” he kept his gaze locked with hers “—I’m not interested in being a berry farmer. I’m a rancher. I want to restore the Double Creek Ranch to the way it was when my dad was alive. Run cattle, and breed and train cutting horses here.” He pointed to the blackberry patch up for debate. “And those thorn-and weed-infested bushes are sitting on the most fertile land on the entire ranch.”

      Rose’s expression turned pleading. “Just let me help you out.”

      “No.” He refused to be swayed by a sweet-talking woman, no matter how persuasive and beguiling. He had gone down that road once before, with a heartbreaking result.

      A silence fell and Rose blinked. “No?” she repeated, as if she were sure she had heard wrong.

      “No,” he reiterated flatly. His days of being seduced or pressured into anything were long over. Then he picked up his wrench. “And now, if you don’t mind, I really need to get back to work...”

      She stared at him a moment longer. Started to say something, then stopped herself, shrugged and walked off.

      A little surprised the inimitable Rose McCabe had given up—just like that!—Clint watched the lovely entrepreneur climb into her extended-cab Rose Hill Farm pickup truck and drive away.

      He tinkered with the tractor motor another half an hour, then gave up. Much as he hated to admit it, Rose was right about one thing. He was never going to be able to fix this engine on his own. So he went into the house, showered and changed into fresh clothes, grabbed his keys and wallet and headed to the farm- and ranch-equipment dealership in Laramie.

      He had no trouble getting someone to wait on him, but he didn’t like what Swifty Mortimer had to say. “Trying to find parts for a tractor that’s forty years old is going to cost more than a new one,” the salesman announced.

      Clint braced himself for the worst. “And how much is that?”

      “Several hundred thousand dollars. Of course, you can lease at a rate of five thousand dollars a month. Or buy used and reconditioned agricultural equipment, which will still likely run you into six figures.”

      Clint sighed. All options were well out of his range. He’d spent what cash he did have on hand adding to his herd of black Angus and buying more cutting horses, which now numbered six.

      “Not going to work for you, hmm?” the salesman guessed.

      Clint shook his head.

      “Well, then, maybe you could work a deal with a friend.”

      “Or better yet,” a familiar female voice said from somewhere behind them, “me!”

      Clint turned to see Rose McCabe standing behind him, with the owner of the dealership, Jeff Johnston, at her side. An affable man in a sports coat and jeans, the forty-year-old bachelor was a well-respected Laramie County businessman with an eye for the ladies.

      Realizing he was no longer needed, Swifty discreetly eased away to help another customer coming in the door.

      Rose beamed at Clint. “I was just talking to Jeff about you.”

      Pushing aside an unexpected twinge of jealousy, Clint shrugged at whatever Rose was trying to finagle now. “Sorry she bent your ear, Jeff.”

      Jeff extended his hand to Clint. “Actually, I’m glad she did.”

      “Seems like you could do each other a favor,” Rose commented when the two men had finished shaking hands.

      Clint noted that Jeff seemed to think so, too. “Really. And how is that?” he asked dryly. His patience was beginning to wear thin.

      Barely containing her excitement, Rose asked Jeff, “Why don’t we just show him?”

      The man smiled and gestured broadly. “After you...”

      Rose settled her hat on her head and led the way back out into the late-spring sunshine.

      On the corner of the lot sat a brand-new machine. As narrow in width as a lawn tractor but three times as tall, it had a glassed-in cab for the operator situated near the top and a produce catcher sticking six feet out to one side. A large vacuum hose fed into a belt-run crop sorting and processing system that ran the length of the entire machine, and there was a ledge for a produce box directly beneath the end of the produce catcher. Behind the tractor was a detachable flat-bed trailer with room for stacked produce boxes.

      Cheerfully Rose explained, “You drive the berry harvester between the rows. The nylon bars enclosed in the top of the machine move through the bushes and gently shake the ripe fruit loose. The captured blackberries are drawn up through the hose at the bottom and move through the machine via conveyor belts, where any loose leaves, sticks and thorns are removed, and gently drop into the box below.” She took a breath, then continued. “When the box is full, a sensor will sound. You stop the tractor, remove the full container and replace it with another.”

      It sounded pretty easy. And a lot less expensive and labor-intensive than picking them by hand. “Except there are no rows to drive through in that mess of blackberries on my property,” Clint pointed out. The canes had grown together into a dense thicket years before.

      Rose shrugged. “So we’ll use a tractor to make some.” She lifted a hand to cut off any objection. “Yes, you’ll be mowing down some perfectly good bushes and blackberries in the process, but you’ll still be left with a ton of plants and plenty of fruit in a much more manageable situation. And with a new set of berries ripening every two days for the next three to five weeks, depending on weather, that is a lot of berries, McCulloch.”

      And a whole lot of money, Clint acknowledged. Still, he hated being pushed into anything. “Let me guess.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re just the person to take the blackberries off my hands?”

      Oblivious to