The Rancher Next Door. Cathy Gillen Thacker

at least three of them, so he probably could, too.”

      “Good point.” Rebecca went back to the freezer and emerged with two more single-serve packets. “I wouldn’t want him to leave hungry.”

      Susie studied her, ready to jump in, if necessary, and save Rebecca from herself. “That gleam in your eye means trouble,” Susie said.

      “Does it?” Rebecca asked innocently, wondering when Susie would finally realize that Rebecca could survive just fine without any sisterly—or parental—help?

      Ever the peacemaker, Amy said kindly, “You could always ask us to stay for dinner, too.”

      Rebecca slid the extra portions on a plate, put them into the microwave and pushed Defrost once again. “If I did that,” Rebecca replied, peeved Amy was now starting to meddle a bit, too, “Trevor McCabe would think I was hiding behind you.”

      “And what’s wrong with that?” Susie demanded.

      Rebecca reached for the herb garden and broke off sprigs of mint, cilantro, oregano, basil, rosemary, parsley and thyme. She got out a cutting board and began dicing up everything but the cilantro. “I am not afraid to spend time alone with him.”

      Amy frowned. “You realize you just mixed all those herbs together.”

      “Indeed, I do.” Rebecca took the plate out of the oven, added the contents to the casserole dish, then picked up her spoon, and prepared to get to work. “And soon Trevor McCabe will, too.”

      THE GUILT STARTED as soon Rebecca opened the door. She hadn’t bothered to do more than wash her face and brush her teeth to get ready for her company. Her hair remained in the two loose braids she’d put it in that morning. She was still dressed in a T-shirt, jeans and boots.

      Trevor had obviously showered before driving over. He was wearing a clean pair of jeans, a freshly ironed white Western shirt and dress boots. He smelled of soap and cologne. His reddish-brown hair was still damp, parted neatly on one side.

      To make her feel even worse, he hadn’t shown up empty-handed. He had a large wicker gift basket jammed with all manner of sauces and condiments, all bearing his mother’s company’s name—Annie’s Homemade—and a plate of homemade ranger cookies.

      Behind her, a less-than-appetizing smell filled the air. Rebecca tried not to think how the doctored casserole was going to taste.

      To his credit, and her increased annoyance, he didn’t react in the slightest to the rather unappetizing aroma scenting the ranch house. “My mom and dad sent you a housewarming gift, welcoming you to the neighborhood.”

      Rebecca studied the array of labels gratefully. She already knew Annie’s barbecue sauce, ketchup, hot sauce, mustards and salad dressings were first-rate. “I didn’t realize your mom had expanded into jams and jellies, too,” she said. There was everything from boysenberry to apricot fruit spreads, as well as jalapeño jelly and chipolte pepper mayonnaise.

      Trevor smiled. “Seems she’s always perfecting some new recipe.” He set the plate of cookies down on the kitchen table. “Better be careful or she’ll have you acting as a taste-tester, too.”

      Rebecca nodded at the dessert plate. “Your mom make those, too?”

      “No.” Trevor took off his hat and hung it on a hook near the back door.

      Rebecca studied the cookies. Golden-brown, perfect in size and texture. Her mouth watered, just looking at them. “Bakery in town?”

      Trevor shook his head.

      “Grocery?”

      “Does it matter?” He was beginning to look a little annoyed. “I can vouch for ’em. They’re good.”

      Rebecca slid one out from under the cover of plastic wrap. They smelled delicious, too. “I’m just curious.” She bit into the confection, and found it rich and buttery and full of crispy rice cereal, oatmeal and coconut.

      “I made ’em.”

      It took all her concentration to swallow. “You?” she sputtered, amazed.

      Trevor shrugged. “My brothers and I all know how to cook. Even Kyle and Kurt.”

      “The younger two,” Rebecca said, remembering.

      “They’re only seventeen and eighteen but they can grill a mean steak, scramble eggs. Throw together a salad. All the basics.”

      Maybe doctoring the food hadn’t been such a good idea. She could have cooked normally and he likely would have been disappointed. Now, well, it was obvious what she had done….

      “Anyway, I hope you like oatmeal and coconut….”

      Like ’em? She was addicted to both. Even more annoying, it looked as though he was a better cook than she was, if the cookies were any indication.

      “Can I help?”

      Rebecca shook her head. Gestured for him to have a seat at the trestle table. She’d put herself at one end, him clear at the other. Four places and a vase of primroses stood between them. Aware the lettuce was beginning to wilt over the heavy application of buttermilk ranch dressing she’d layered it with a good half hour before, she set the wooden salad bowl on the table and went to the oven to get the casserole.

      “I never knew you wanted to ranch,” Trevor remarked.

      Rebecca set two steaming plates on the table and sat down opposite him. “That’s because I never confided my ambition to anyone but Miss Mim. She used to help me find books at the library.”

      “But you didn’t study agriculture in college.”

      Deciding to start with her salad, Rebecca twirled a soggy piece of lettuce on her fork. “That’s because I couldn’t see myself breeding cattle or horses, or heaven forbid, pigs! I can’t say chickens appealed to me much, either.”

      Trevor dug into his first course with an enthusiasm that made her wince. “So instead you took the job with that tour company and headed overseas.”

      That had been due more to a quarrel with her sister Susie and her father, over their outright betrayal of her in a romantic matter, than anything else. But Rebecca wasn’t about to get into that. Especially since her relationship had never really been the same with her sister Susie, or her father, since.

      Rebecca shrugged. “I’d always longed for adventure. The job provided that, and more.” Plus, since she’d always been working and traveling and hadn’t had to pay apartment rent, she’d been able to bank nearly her entire salary.

      “I still don’t see how you got from there to breeding alpacas.” Trevor finished his salad, and took a big bite of Tex-Mex chicken casserole.

      It was all Rebecca could do not to gag herself as Trevor swallowed and followed his first bite of the main course with a gentlemanly sip of water.

      She continued to play with her salad. “One of the European tours went to an alpaca ranch. I fell in love with the animals almost the moment I saw them, and when I found out how valuable their wool is—it’s the finest in the world—I knew I’d found my calling.”

      “Sounds like you’ve given this some thought.” Trevor got up and walked over to the gift basket. He came back with a bottle of Annie’s Homemade Ketchup, with the familiar blue-and white-gingham label. He sat down and poured a liberal dose over the entrée.

      “More than you could ever know,” Rebecca replied.

      He studied her while he ate. He didn’t need sips of water now.

      Rebecca on the other hand had all she could do not to gag on the mixture of incompatible herbs that she had added to the casserole.

      Which served her right, she figured, for having done such an immature and bratty thing to begin with. She knew better than to treat a guest—even a self-invited one—this way.

      “It’s