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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Chapter One

Of all the...he thought she was a man.

He'd faxed her office just forty-five minutes earlier, and his message had been strong and commanding as he outlined the situation. Injured horses. Critically ill uncle. Needed the services of the county vet. Immediately.

Of course, gender had been the last thing on his mind. After all, he didn't know her from Adam--or Eve. So, naturally--right, naturally, she thought sarcastically--he had just assumed that the local vet was male.

Figured.

She reached for another roll of gauze and stroked the horse reassuringly.

But there had been an underlying tone of exhausted fear in his message, too. It was that tone that had made her load up her aging pickup a little faster than usual before she headed out to the sprawling Stockman spread. She'd made good time. Why not? She'd been all alone on the frozen highway. No one, but no one was getting out in this bitter Oklahoma winter if he didn't have to. Unless, she smiled grimly, you were the only veterinarian in this corner of the county.

Dallas Fielding, DVM. That's what the sign said on her office door. Her dad had given it to her as a present when she'd graduated and the sun had bounced off the brass letters when she'd hung it in front of her small office on Bantam's main street late last spring. A couple of careful investments and more dinners of tomato soup than she cared to remember had made it possible for the twenty-five-year-old to buy the established practice from the area's retiring veterinarian.

"Everything from parakeets to Brahma bulls," the aging vet had told her laughing gently as he had pulled down his "shingle" to make a place for hers, dropped it in the last moving box, and sealed it with tape. He'd surveyed the no-nonsense office one last time and turned to Dallas. "Guess that's what I liked about this practice. You just never know what's going to come through that door."

Dallas had smiled and sighed. She didn't care who walked through that door--on two feet or four--as long as it wasn't one humorless ex-fiancé. She shook the vet's extended hand and smiled. Through the dog nose-smudged front window she could see his wife waiting patiently in the RV. A broken heart certainly wasn't this gentleman's problem. And she could certainly pretend, at least, that it wasn't hers.

She'd helped the elderly vet carry the last box out to the RV and he'd climbed in beside his wife, started the motor and turned to Dallas declaring, "Well, Alaska or bust." Then he'd thrown the vehicle into reverse and stuck his head out the window one last time. "Oh, don't forget. Watch out for Mrs. Franjee's poodle. She bites a good one when you clip her nails. The poodle, that is," he said chuckling gently, "not Mrs. Franjee."

Dallas had stood on the wide sidewalk and waved until the RV had turned right at the drugstore. Then she'd stepped back to admire the little office that was now hers. She'd sighed. The office might be hers on paper, but she knew she was going to have to earn the respect of the ranchers. No gentlemen ranchers, these. This was a serious, tough business and they depended on the local veterinarian to keep their animals healthy, productive, and profitable. Dallas brushed a piece of dust from her sign, squared her shoulders, and smiled. Her father had always said that was the sign of a true Fielding. Greeting a challenge with a smile on your face and a friendly joke not too far behind. Michael had said that was the tomboy in her. Dallas had squeezed her eyes together tightly to fight back the tears.

Tomboy. Damn. She should have seen it coming.

Don't start thinking about it.

By God, she'd keep so busy she wouldn't have time to think about the wedding she had to cancel just three days before the invitation had requested the pleasure of 125 family members and friends. The church had sent back the deposit, but her wedding dress was still hanging on a satin hanger in the back of the closet in the small apartment above her office. The palest pink silk she'd ever seen. It had reminded her of an opal and had made the red highlights in her thick hair shimmer.

Stop it. Stop it! Dallas thrust out one dainty but very determined chin.

Men. Never again. The wound was still raw, but it was healing. She had more important things to attend to now, she thought, carefully reviewing the list of appointments the retiring vet had thrust into her hand. And wasn't that the plan?

She had run back into the office just before the answering machine had taken her first call.

"Dr. Dallas Fielding."

That had been seven months earlier and she felt as if the phone hadn't stopped ringing and she hadn't stopped running since then. And if she'd been concerned that some of the ranchers might not welcome a female vet, well, she'd been dead wrong. All they wanted was a competent person to take care of their animals, and after her first night on the job when she delivered twin calves at Jasper Wiley's farm and nursed the near-to-death mother back to life, her reputation and her business had spread.

No, no one had ever said anything about her being female.

At least not until now, she thought, as she shivered in Ned Stockman's barn. Come to think of it, Dallas mused as a puddle of icy water soaked her knees, this guy hadn't commented on her being female. Because, she grimaced, he thought she was one of the guys.

Dallas busied herself with the ugly gash in the three-year-old horse's leg in the chilly barn and tried to piece together the fax she'd had from this gentleman. He had seemed a little like a fish out of water as he had tried to explain the situation through the magic of electronics. The machine had worked flawlessly. But the man. She had smiled thinking what her kid brother would have said.

"Sounded like he just 'beamed' down, right?"

Well, in a way, thought Dallas, he just had.

His plane had been late from New York, the fax had said. When he'd finally landed in the Tulsa airport, his rental car reservation had gone awry and that had made him even later getting to the ranch. It had been nearer dark than he liked and the housekeeper, Hildy Masterson, had only had time to explain his uncle Ned's medication and the private nurse's schedule before she had headed out the door for her niece's in the next county. The niece had just had a baby and he didn't have any idea when Hildy would be returning.

Hildy had told him as she headed out the door that a couple of the horses had slipped and injured themselves. Could the doctor come immediately to look at them?

Her message had been brief. Yes, she faxed. On the way. Dr. D. Fielding. That was it. Not Dr. D. Fielding, woman. Not Dr. D. Fielding, lady left at the altar. Just Dr. D. Fielding.

So how could he have known? Dallas sighed. Perfect state-of-the-art. Less than perfect communication. Typical.

One thing, however, had been perfectly clear. His name.

Matt Stone. Yes. She had remembered his name. As if she could forget it. The whole Main Street Diner had been buzzing with the news--thanks to waitress Angie Teller--that one-time hell-raiser, lady-killer Matt Stone was coming home.

"For his inheritance," Angie had sniffed as she refilled Dallas's coffee cup the day before and Dallas finished her hash browns. "As if he really deserves it," she'd said a little too loudly before sashaying away to deliver a burger basket.

Dallas had often wondered over the past half a year why the small town of Bantam even bothered to have a local newspaper. It seemed as if everyone got their news at the diner. At least that's where they got the "tabloid" edition.

Dallas had gone straight to the barn when she had arrived at the Stockman ranch. Of course, Mr. Stone hadn't been there. She'd smiled at that. Those New York types. Probably didn't want to dirty his wingtips. No problem. Of course, the rancher usually met her in the barn unless he had other business to tend to on the ranch. But this Mr. Stone's business wasn't the ranch. No. Mr. Stone was probably curled up with his lap top making arrangements with his secretary in New York for his return trip. Once he had power-of-attorney, perhaps. At least that's what Angie had indicated.

Dallas had always admired the Stockman ranch. It was without a doubt the prettiest land in the state. The name Stockman was synonymous with quality. It had just about been ten days earlier that she'd stood with Ned outside the barn discussing his plans for the coming year. Ned Stockman was what her dad would have called "a package of muscle." Brimming with vitality. Dallas had never spoken with him when his bright, blue eyes weren't sparkling with ideas. She'd reluctantly bid him goodbye and the next morning a rancher had called to tell her that Ned's housekeeper Hildy had arrived to find him unconscious. A stroke. Now, after a week in the hospital, Ned was slowly recovering at home and his nephew from New York had come to look after him. From what Dallas had heard this Matt Stone had lived with Ned for awhile, but he had worked back east for the last ten years. Lord, thought Dallas humming softly to the injured horse, what would he know about ranching?

Then he had surprised her. More than once.

First, he had come down to the barn. She had hardly heard him come in. He had been just a couple of feet behind her when she realized he was standing there swinging a Thermos and quietly shaking the ice off his boots. Good-sized brown leather cowboy boots--not new in the least--covered by worn Levis topped by a weathered leather jacket. Maybe he did know something about ranching. At least the outfit seemed reasonable.

"Coffee, doc?" she'd heard him ask. She didn't know what she expected but she certainly hadn't expected a low, sexy voice that reached out and warmed her even though she was up to her whazoo in straw and gauze. She talked to men all the time, for Pete's sake, so why was her heart slamming against her chest? She swallowed to let her heart return to a normal pace and was just about to reply in the affirmative when he surprised her. Again.

"You know I really appreciate you coming out so quickly, Dr. Fielding. I feel better already knowing a good man is tending to this problem."

A good man. Of all the.... Could you believe that? I mean. That's what he had said. A good man. Not an experienced vet. Not a reputable animal doctor. But a good man.

My, my.

Dallas kept her head ducked low over the horse's leg as her surprise turned to a quiet anger and that anger turned quickly into bitter, familiar resignation. She sighed and continued to inspect the gash in the three-year-old's leg. Dallas patted the horse gently and it nickered quietly as if it understood she was here to help. At least she seemed to have good communication with animals--the four-legged variety.

But men. Quite a history, Fielding, she thought to herself. Yep. Quite a history.

It would have been nice to think that the only reason this easterner thought she was male was because of the way she was dressed. Yeah. Maybe that was it. I mean, wasn't it the coldest winter on record in northeast Oklahoma? Was it her fault that she'd yanked on the ugliest pair of insulated coveralls she had when his emergency call had come in to her small office in town? She was a vet, for goodness' sake, a large animal vet primarily and he certainly couldn't expect her to come waltzing--as if she had ever learned how to waltz her mother would have reminded her--into a barn in a white coat with a pair of Italian leather pumps. You wore heavy boots in a barnyard and in this freezing weather she even had to keep her gloves on. And it just made sense to keep her long, chestnut hair out of her face pushed up beneath her brown stocking hat. So, yes, it was reasonable, or at least an understandable mistake, that this Matt Stone should think she was a man. Especially with his reputation. Old Love 'em and Leave 'em Stone. That is, once he had the gender properly identified. Dallas smiled naughtily to her self. Maybe this guy just needed a little remedial class in Boy Meets Girl--or Is That Boy?

Dallas! She ducked her head lower into her supply bag. Give the guy a break. He's obviously exhausted. His uncle is gravely ill. Still. Making that kind of mistake...

Oh, come on, Dallas. Are you really that surprised? Hadn't she learned the hard way what kind of women men really wanted? What had her dad said that one summer when she'd grown to five-foot-eight? That she'd grown like a weed.

A weed. A common old weed. Certainly not the hot house exotics men seemed to be drawn to.

So why should she have been surprised at this Matt Stone's mistake?

Still, it hurt. And she knew exactly why it hurt. Maybe that's why she was taking a little longer than was absolutely necessary to inspect the ugly but certainly routine cut that ran up the horse's leg. What had Michael said to her when he'd pocketed the ring right after breaking off the engagement? (Geez, he'd even asked for the little box back.)

"I guess after standing knee-deep in mud all day treating animals I want to come home to someone feminine and clean, and not so, uh, funny." He'd looked out the window quickly then to the clean, feminine, serious fluff waiting for him in his car. Then he'd looked at her one last time. "Still friends? Right." And he was gone. After four years.

They had met as seniors at undergraduate school when he had asked if he could borrow her notes and they had made it to vet school together. They had fallen in love, at least it seemed they had, never passionately, but slowly, comfortably. They had talked about opening a practice together, marrying, eventually starting a family.

Dallas winced remembering that part. She didn't know what she had expected from Michael in bed. But certainly more than what she got. Although he seemed to think it had all been her fault implying after one particularly uninspiring evening that he wished she was more like a woman in bed. Oh, that had built her confidence. He had almost seemed a little annoyed that she'd been a virgin and his more than clumsy lovemaking hadn't made her anxious for more.

And now this.

She had just began to think she was getting her confidence back. A Little. Okay. Maybe she wasn't a Miss America. She had never claimed to be. Even her brother had said, as sincerely as a sixteen-year-old could as she sat crying on her bed after Michael had left, "Don't pay any attention to that guy, sis. You clean up real good."

That had made her smile. He'd punched her in the arm and left her looking in the mirror. No, she wasn't that bad, she thought surveying her reflection. Okay, her large brown eyes were a little red-rimmed at the moment, but she'd been crying. Her smooth, creamy skin never required any makeup and her thick hair curled in natural waves around her face. She was tall and slender but the curves were there. You just couldn't see them in a dung-colored insulated jumpsuit. No. That particular outfit had never graced the pages of Vogue.

But, damn it, she was a vet and a darn good one. And Dallas told herself every morning that's just about all that mattered now. Just about. Men! She dug into the bag for a fresh roll of gauze. That door was definitely closed. History. Period. Right....

So. Why was this big easterner's voice warming her like an arm around her shoulders? Why didn't he just march back up to the house and do whatever he did and let her get on with her business?

But he wasn't going to and he said again, a little more loudly, in that voice, "Coffee?"

Fifty years from now she wouldn't be able to explain why she did what she did next. Why she didn't just stand up and politely say, "You've made a little mistake. In this outfit I know it's hard to tell, but I'm female."

He would have been a little embarrassed. But he would have apologized with his smoothest business manners, and that would have been that. She would have finished with the horses, had her coffee, shaken his hand, "Hope Ned is doing well," and been gone.

But she didn't. No. She didn't. Her dad would have said it was the Fielding way. After all, she came from a family of practical jokers. But it was her mother's explanation she believed. It was what her mother always referred to as her "naughty streak."

"You'd be good for days," her mother had told her once, "a perfect little angel. And then, out of the blue, you'd put glue in your brother's hair and stick his hands to it." She'd cluck her tongue. "Just a naughty streak. Something you had to get out of your system. And you would and you wouldn't misbehave again for months. But when you did! Well, I was never sure what had come over you. But something did."

That something was coming over her now, Dallas could tell, as this Mr. Stone waited for "a good man's" answer. A little joke fueled by a lot of anger. That's what this something was. Dallas could feel herself teetering for just an instant between naughty and nice. Even when she realized that she was risking a pile of presents from Santa, even then she couldn't stop herself from lowering her voice and answering gruffly, "Appreciate a cup. Mighty cold this year."

Dallas's hands were shaking ever-so-slightly as she waited for his answer. But all he said was, "Black?"

She let out her breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Ned used to keep some sugar and creamer down here," he said as he bent down to inspect the cabinet under the cold coffee pot, "but I don't know if it's still here."

"Black's fine," she said shortly.

She heard him stand and open the Thermos.

"Just as long as it's hot." Suddenly, she was feeling a little braver. Much naughtier.

Chapter Two

Well, I've tried to discuss every horse ailment in the book, thought Matt still nursing his almost-cold-coffee. Covered the smell of the pig farm down the way. Moved on to the weather out of total desperation. So why couldn't he get this new vet to talk? That was the question.

Then he smiled and shook his head and readjusted his long legs as he sat on the stack of hay in the barn. No. The real question was why was he bothering?

This vet guy was efficiently putting Ned's horses right and here he was chattering away like he was trying to flirt--flirt?--at the much-hated cocktail parties he had informed his secretary she no longer needed to remind him about because he would no longer be attending. Business? He loved the challenge. Politics? Well, hadn't he met Linda at one of those you-have-to-attend-for-the-company functions? Enough said.

No. He wasn't just trying to be polite. He was too tired. What then? Was it because the old veterinarian he remembered visiting the Stockman Ranch when Matt was a touchy teenager always had enough time to answer all the questions from a mixed up kid from the streets of Chicago? Matt had almost considered becoming a vet himself until the oil bug had bit him. The old doctor used to spend hours explaining what he was doing before staying for a dinner of Hildy's fried chicken. Matt smiled to himself. Maybe the good doctor had just been killing time waiting for the chicken. It was good.

But then everything at the Stockman ranch was. Ned had made sure of that. And now Matt wasn't about to let Ned down. It would continue to be the best.

Matt took off his hat and ran a large hand through his thick, dark hair and looked over to where the vet was running his hands over the big bay. The skittish big bay. Matt felt his muscles tighten. Oh, don't let that horse kick. Please. Then he shook his head. What was he thinking? This guy knew about a thousand more things about horses than Matt. He knew exactly what he was doing. Then why was Matt sitting there worrying about him? Why was he suddenly feeling so protective? Let the guy do his job.

Matt stretched. Maybe it was just fatigue. That's why his emotions weren't quite in balance. It had been, to say the least, quite a week.

His secretary, the Bloodhound he appreciatively called her to her grandmotherly face, had found him at a small cafe in Istanbul at two in the morning. His reminiscence with an old friend had come to an abrupt halt when she had relayed the news of Ned Stockman's stroke. He'd been on his private plane two hours later, but that had just been the beginning. The last seven days had been a series of airports, last-minute packing, enough instructions to fill a book, endless conversations with doctors, hospitals, Hildy, Mrs. James--the private nurse. Matt rubbed his tired eyes and pulled at his thick mustache that he had a feeling was in need of a good trimming and ran his muscular brown hand over his face. He couldn't even remember when he had last shaved.

He'd hit the ground running when his plane landed hours before. Funny. When during the last ten years hadn't he hit the ground running from the moment he woke up? Who was he kidding? Some nights he didn't even get to bed. Maybe that's why it felt so good right now to sit in this particular barn and do nothing for awhile. Lord knows he'd done plenty of just that when he was a teenager. He smiled an easy smile that he knew was all too rare these days. Then he covered his mouth politely to stifle a yawn and his eyes wandered back to the vet. He watched him treat the horses. Funny. He just couldn't stop admiring this guy. He'd never seen anyone so gentle with an animal. It warmed him, relaxed him.

Sitting in this barn. Doing nothing. Matt chuckled softly thinking about that. That's what Ned had always let him believe he was doing. He hadn't realized he was growing up. Straightening out. Ned was no fool. He'd never had any kids of his own--been a widower before that happened--but he sure knew how to raise them.

Matt glanced out the smudged window and could see the private nurse's car where she'd parked it minutes before he'd started for the barn. She'd be leaving in a couple of hours. He had wanted to hire her round-the-clock, but she had said she already had other patients. She'd be back. He'd need to take care of Ned until then. She'd show him exactly what to do. Not to worry.

Not to worry. He never worried about closing a million dollar deal. He'd never blinked an eye when he squelched the hostile takeover that would have put half of his employees out on the street. But now. Not worry? About Ned? No way. Was that what was making him so nervous? Damn. Ned, you've always been here. Always. That had to be it. He couldn't imagine not being able to pick up the phone and call him from anywhere in the world and have Ned greet him with him a simple, "Howdy."

When he'd arrived just hours before, he'd mounted the stairs to let Ned know he was there. But he hadn't been prepared for the severity of the stroke. Ned couldn't talk. He didn't even seem too be aware of what was going on around him. Matt had been greeted with an eerie, frightening silence. This man who regularly woke up at 5:30 in the morning and had ridden most of his ranch by the time other people were considering a second cup of coffee could hardly respond to Hildy's questions.

Matt couldn't remember the last time he had been scared. In recent history, that is. Oh, he had been scared all the time as a kid. By the time his father left him and his mother, Matt had been roughed up so many times on the streets his father's disappearance had almost been a relief. At least now he could return to the small apartment without fear of a beating from his father. And his mother. Okay, he tried not to think too much about that. She'd been away so much trying to find work that her death in a car wreck had seemed very distant to thirteen-year-old Matt. He had been in the middle of packing to return to Chicago for school when Ned had sat down on the bed next to him, put a strong arm around him, and said it looked like he'd been staying for awhile, if that was okay with Matt. Matt had said it was fine with him and for the next five years the Stockman ranch had been his home. And Ned had been, well, everything. He'd never been scared after that.

Until now, Matt realized, reaching for the Thermos. Now he felt scared and helpless. The doctors had told him Ned would recover. He would need rehabilitation. Hildy had told him the nurse was a specialist in that area and was already working with him. But he wouldn't be able to run this spread, thought Matt admiring the sturdy old barn. He swore that summer he was seventeen that he knew every nail in this place. Ned was relentless about repairs. At least to a teenager it had seemed that way. Now it just seemed responsible. Well, at least the ranch would be in good hands. Those arrangements had been made some years back. Matt breathed deeply trying to relax. At least he hadn't lost him. That thought scared him to death.

That and, damn it, the way that vet was getting so close to those horses. Matt might have been born in Chicago, but he'd grown up on this ranch and he knew how horses could kick. This Dr. Fielding looked like a strong guy. Well, he wasn't too tall. Maybe five-foot-seven or eight. It was hard to tell crouched over like he was. And he supposed there was muscle underneath all those clothing. But one well-placed kick. Matt shuddered and jumped off the stack of hay.

Maybe every muscle in my body wouldn't be clenched if I could help this guy, he thought.

"Can I help?"

Dallas jumped so high when she heard Matt's voice just inches behind her that she butted her head into the bay's side so he whinnied in protest and gave a small kick. Poorly-aimed, thank goodness.

"Whoa," said Matt reaching out to catch Dallas as she fell back dodging the horse's leg. But as quickly as his large hands grasped at her shoulders he let go and Dallas tumbled onto the soft floor of the barn.

What the...thought Matt as he looked in horror as the vet tried to sit up and Matt stared at his hands. God, he really must be tired. He'd felt an electric current as potent as lightning and warm as rich lava course through his veins as he had grabbed at this guy. This guy.

Okay, get a grip. Matt pushed the soft brown cowboy hat back on his head. You are tired. You are upset about Ned. You're worried this vet is going to get hurt. No! You're not. This guy can take care of himself. You were just startled when he fell back. That jolt of electricity--well, it wasn't anything. I mean you're not feeling anything down south. Are you? Matt stilled for a moment and then felt himself relaxing. A little. Wait a minute. There. He groaned silently. A slight stirring. He shook his head. Everything was out of whack. Everything.

Why else would the smell of honeysuckle be tickling his nose? Maybe it was...he looked quickly at the vet who was struggling to get up. Sure. Dead of winter. Painfully dry skin. Used his wife's hand lotion in a pinch. That's all. That was all.

Nice though. Very nice. Lord, he thought, rolling his eyes.

What the hell was he doing?, thought Dallas as she quickly stood up and brushed layers of hay off her clothes. She watched him shake his head and roll his eyes. Well, at least he wasn't concentrating on her. She glanced quickly out the window and was thankful the sun was almost down. The low light in the barn helped her disguise and a quick smudge of mud from her glove covered the creamy skin on her face that definitely lacked a five o'clock shadow.

Dallas looked up slowly and prepared to give a deep-voiced thanks. But she stopped. There he was standing in the one remaining spot of sunlight and nature's spotlight made it quite clear as to why Matt Stone was described as a lady-killer.

Oh, my.

She'd been hesitant to turn around and face him. But now. She had always thought she was pretty tall. But he had to be over six-five and mostly lean muscle if those legs were any indication. Those tight, worn jeans hid nothing and those powerful arms and shoulders--well, no wonder he had caught her with such ease. And let her go just as quickly, thought Dallas rubbing her bottom where she had landed as she ducked her head with a blush. Yeah, no wonder. No wonder she had felt sparks when he touched her for just an instant. Her shoulders were still tingling from his power. She, at least, was reacting.

But. Well, there was the story of her life. Her love life. He thought she was a guy. Probably wondered why the good doctor had jumped just about a mile. He didn't even know and she couldn't even tell him now. It wasn't the horse's kick. It was that sexy voice just inches from her ear that had sent her flying. And she was having a considerably hard time now finding her voice as she watched his friendly, but confused brown eyes and found herself imagining what it would be like to kiss those very inviting lips. Would that mustache tickle?

Matt wondered why Doc Fielding was looking at him with his head cocked that way.

She'd always heard...why was Matt Stone looking at her that way?

Dallas cleared her throat as deeply as possible, licked her chapped lips, and tried to stand like a guy. How did guys stand? She planted her legs a little farther apart. Did they stand like that? She guessed.

"Look," Matt began trying to regain what was left of his composure while trying not to think about that hint of honeysuckle, "I'm sorry about that. I guess I'm not used to so much inactivity. There I was sitting over there not doing anything and I thought maybe you could use some help. You know how skittish horses can be. So I just thought. Well, but you're the professional after all." Where was he going with this? He was babbling like a sixteen-year-old on his first date. Date?!

Dallas frowned slightly and hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her jumpsuit. But not before giving a well-placed scratch. A guy thing. Right?

She was a little sorry she had ever started this masquerade. A little? No. A lot. Making a fool out of someone was not her style. She was even beginning to wonder if this was the Matt Stone she had heard so much about. The looks fit. God, did they ever. But the city-slicker, knock-the-ladies-dead attitude that had been described to her was sorely lacking. No. Not lacking, she realized. That made him sound like a lesser person.

That certainly wasn't true. His stumbling, almost shy personality was definitely more appealing. He was human. Cute. If, Dallas thought as she let her eyes roam over him in the dark barn, you could call something that size cute.

Okay. Cute. She started to smile and thought better of it. "No harm done," she said deeply and moved to reach for the lip balm in her pocket, and then stopped. Her lips were dry from the brutal weather, but she could hardly pull out the peach-tinted lip moisturizer in the slick gold tube. It was no ordinary chapstick from Wal-Mart. She and her lips would just have to wait.

She saw a little relief on his tired face and realized she was readying herself to enjoy his touch as he reached out to brush more hay from her shoulder. But just as quickly he drew back his strong hand and stuffed it into his pocket. Uncomfortably.

I'm not even taking a chance, he thought. Honeysuckle or no honeysuckle. He can let his wife get the hay off his clothes.

"It's the jet lag," he finally managed to say and smiled politely.

A polite smile. A devastating smile that would be the last thing you would see before he kissed you. Thoroughly.

"Pardon?" said Dallas, stalling for time as she tried to pull her eyes away from his mouth.

"Jet lag," he explained turning to retrieve his cup and find the Thermos. He walked over to the haystack and Dallas took the opportunity to admire another view.

Oh, my.

He turned back and poured her a steaming cup of coffee and handed it to her taking great care to not touch her hand. He was just being careful of the hot coffee, he reassured himself.

"Jet lag," she said hoarsely.

"Yeah," he said settling himself on one of the aging chairs that furnished the barn. "I was halfway round the world when I got word of Ned's stroke. I can't even remember the number of airports I've been through. I had to stop in New York. Tie up some loose strings. And somehow between here and Turkey I forgot to get some sleep. My judgment is a little fuzzy." Or I wouldn't actually be considering taking a step closer to you to smell your wife's damn hand lotion.

"And you're a little worried," she heard herself saying into her coffee cup before she could stop herself.

He looked a little surprised, his brown eyes opening a little wider and then warming with a sad smile. He nodded his head. "Yes and no. Worried? Definitely. A little? No. A lot. A whole lot." He shifted in the small chair that creaked with his weight. "Ned's special. Very special." Well, Stone, what was this? True confessions? This guy came out to check on your livestock. Not hear your life story. "Besides, someone needs to take care of Ned's business."

Was it the failing light or did Mr. Stone all of a sudden not seem so cute? He had seemed so human and now this talk of business. Did that translate to inheritance? I hurried halfway round the world to make sure no one trespassed on my territory--territory I haven't been hanging around any too much in the past ten years. Dallas felt her shoulders sag slightly with disappointment and wondered if she was beginning to understand Angie's tone in the diner. Time to pack up, she thought, as the barn door opened slightly allowing in a ray of cold, incriminating light. An enormous dog lumbered in, moving slowly toward Matt.

"Drop-Off, how ya' doin' fella?" Matt said affectionately as the dog nudged his hand with its nose. Dallas couldn't ever remember being jealous of a dog before. Matt laughed quietly and scratched the appreciative dog's ears. Ned had christened her Drop-Off when he found the abandoned three-month old pup on his doorstep years before. "Guess I shouldn't be calling you 'fella' in your present condition," he said gently patting the Irish Wolfhound's swollen belly. "I mean it doesn't say too much for me, does it ole girl, if I can't tell a guy from a lady."

Dallas grimaced. Just tell him. You've been a little too naughty.

Joke's over. "Look," she started.

"Any idea when she's due?"

"Soon," said Dallas thinking it was easier and safer to keep her answers short. "Very soon."

"Do we, uh, know who the lucky dad is?" asked Matt nuzzling the big dog's neck.

"'Fraid not," she said turning to hide her puzzled smile. How calculating could a guy be who seemed be considering pulling about 120 pounds of wet dog onto his lap?

"How many you got in there, Drop-Off?" he said running his large hand over the dog's stomach so Dallas felt her breasts tingling. Thank goodness for ugly jumpsuits with two inches of insulation. "Feels like about thirty. You just might set a record." He chuckled. "Now where's that sweet spot?" he asked as he scratched on her belly lightly and her rear leg thumped in ecstasy.

Dallas stopped fumbling with her tools and just stared as this enormous man cooed to the dog, burying his hands in its thick fur and reassuring Drop-Off that she was the best dog in the world. The dog's distended stomach prevented her from climbing into Matt's lap so she had to be content pressing her broad head into his chest. That would have satisfied Dallas. For awhile.

"I think this is one of the reasons I've missed this ranch so much," said Matt absently stroking Drop-Off and staring out the window at the fading sun. "The animals. They're so real. No games. Know what I mean?" he asked, not really waiting for an answer. "No politics. No hidden agenda. As clear as black and white. Oh, I've missed that."

Just tell him.

"Got any kids, doc?"

Dallas bent down to her bag and finished packing her supplies. "Nope." Well, at least that was true. Weak, Dallas. Very weak.

"Married?" he asked and wondered why he was hoping Dr. Fielding would say no. What difference did it make? Well, there was that hint of honeysuckle.

"No sir, I'm not," barked Dallas. "And yourself?" she said and could have kicked herself. Well, he'd started this line of questioning, hadn't he?

"Almost," she heard him say so softly that she stopped her work and turned to look at him. He was still staring out the window, gazing at the world. "Almost."

"Engaged then, sir?" she asked, praying that she was hiding the disappointment in her voice.

"Not any longer," he said and she exhaled with quiet relief. "It's been about a year since I broke it off," he said and she recognized the sadness in his voice.

"Takes time," she said to fill up the silence.

"Oh, I'm over it," he said. "Believe me, after what she did it didn't take too long to get over her."

"Pretty?"

"Yeah," she heard him say slowly as if he was trying to remember. "I guess so. At least on the outside."

"Big tits?" Isn't that what guys said? Dallas could feel her face burning.

Matt rolled his eyes glad for the darkness in the barn. Somewhere during those teenage years Ned had made it very clear to him that gentlemen don't kiss and tell--or discuss.

"Linda was an attractive woman," he said and Dallas was glad he'd left it at that. Michael never did. He was only too eager to point out when women's legs were more shapely than hers, their chests more ample, their hair a little softer. And their jokes less frequent. When Dallas thought about what had gone wrong, and there had been very few nights when she didn't think about it, it seemed that nothing about her had been right for him. Except her class notes. He had never seemed more attentive than when he had aced a test--with her help.

Men.

"Yes," she heard Matt saying, "Linda was attractive. Seemed intelligent. Problem was she just couldn't seem to tell the truth."

Oh, lord.

"Well, now some women have trouble with their age, Mr. Stone," Dallas tried to say casually. He looked at her a little puzzled.

True. Dallas never lied about her age. No. No. She preferred bigger things. Like gender.

"It wasn't something as simple as her age," said Matt. "God, she was only 22."

Dallas sat very still and watched Matt as he stared out the window at the last rays of sun. At first, she thought she should leave. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. That would have been a blessing. She could leave quietly and put this charade behind her. She didn't like it. Why did she ever think it would be fun? She wasn't an adolescent poking fun at her pesty brother. Her mother might not have known why she had been naughty when she was thirteen, but Dallas was all too aware of what had caused this little episode. She hadn't been treated too well by men. No. Make that one man. Michael.

She thought as she stared at Matt. Her problem with her love life wasn't this guy's fault. She could stare at him a lot longer. His long, muscular legs were stretched out in front of him and his leather jacket had fallen open doing nothing to disguise the sizable bulge between his legs. His large hands, folded lazily over his stomach, were feathered with dark hair, just a preview to the size of his powerful arms and chest and the crisp, inviting hair that was sure to cover both.

Oh, oh my.

The last ray of light provided Dallas with a good look at his face. Not really handsome, she thought. At least not like some model. But weathered, rugged. Odd for some easterner. A face filled with thoughtful experience and slightly lined with kindness. She'd never been a fan of mustaches. But his seemed to just add to his smile. Would it tickle?

She groaned silently. Like she'd ever know. A common weed. She looked down. Covered with mud and straw and half the barn and, she looked at her shoe, that, too. She'd never clean up enough for this guy. Not even if she went through the new car wash just off the interstate. She had a coupon.

No. Time to get out of this guy's way. And yet something was keeping her there.

It took her only seconds to realize what it was. Maybe it was his reluctance to let go of Drop-Off. Maybe it was the look in those dark brown eyes that he had taken such pains to fill with business and had finally given into sadness.

He was lonely.

As impressive as it was, it wasn't his size that filled the barn. It was his loneliness.

Dallas stood up and reached for her hat. It was the most obvious way to tell him about her misunderstood identity. One yank of that hat would send her thick hair tumbling. He'd be surprised for an instant, but if she smiled and shook his hand, she just bet she could get a laugh from him. Maybe it would cheer him up for the moment. Give him the first light moment in what she was sure had been a long week for him.

Dallas was giving her hat a tug when his voice froze her.

"Women."

The tone that surrounded that one word stopped her dead. Never had she heard one word embody such a damning opinion.

She tucked her hands in her pockets, fiddled with her lip moisturizer, and sat down quickly on a bale of hay hoping to feel smaller, hoping to feel invisible.

"Women," Matt said again and laughed a little bitterly. "There's no figuring them and certainly no trusting them. Right, Doc?" she heard him ask but she knew he wasn't waiting for an answer.

Dallas plucked a piece of clean straw from the bale, stuck it between her lips, and grunted.

"You know how I feel about women?"

I don't know. I don't want to know.

Matt sat up a little straighter trying to get his large frame comfortable in the little chair. It would never work.

"They get all gussied up, as Hildy would say, so you can't resist them. They act like they really want you, and then it all turns out to be a lie." He shook his head. "You asked me if Linda was pretty. Oh, yes. Hair the color of gold and the feel of silk."

Dallas's hand unconsciously patted her hat where her dark hair was undoubtedly matted into an untidy wad.

"Skin as flawless as a cameo," he continued with a faraway look in his eye.

Dallas's hand trailed down to the mud she'd smeared across her face and dragged her heavy work gloves across her cracked lips so she winced from the sting.

"She was slender and small." Matt looked at his hands. Dallas did, too. "My hands fit around her waist. She barely came up to here," he said putting a hand on his broad chest.

I'm slender, she thought. Yeah, as if anyone could tell in this getup, she groaned to herself picking pieces of straw from her stained jumpsuit and rubbing at her wet knees.

"She was lovely," sighed Matt. "Absolutely lovely."

Hot house. Definitely hot house. African violet variety. No wildflower by the side of the road.

"At least on the outside," he said letting his hands drop into his lap. "But underneath, well, that was a whole other story," he said standing and stretching his long frame so Dallas had to look away. Her hands itched to touch him and she shoved them under her thighs.

"You know I think I've spent more time in this barn than I ever have in Ned's house," he said smiling and reaching for his belt buckle.

What was he doing?

Dallas licked her dry lips and watched as Matt unzipped his fly and began to rearrange the tail of his shirt.

Oh, please stop. Please.

His eyes roamed around the barn inspecting its condition as his actions revealed a muscular, brown stomach with thick, dark hair disappearing beneath his briefs.

Briefs. A very accurate description, thought Dallas. They barely covered... but then what could?

She let out a quiet sigh of relief as he finished smoothing his shirt and zipped his fly. She was thankful he didn't seem to be able to hear her heart beating or that the bale of hay hadn't ignited from her body heat. Barns burn so quickly. Evidently she did, too.

"I don't know how long you've been around here, Doc, or what you know or what you've heard," he said, giving his belt buckle a final pat.

"Only what I've heard from the Angie Teller Times. Which is seeming less reliable by the minute."

"Ned Stockman raised me from the time I was thirteen. Boy, did he take on a handful. But then I've never seen Ned back down from a challenge.

"Oh, he's no bully. But you must know that. Ned just quietly digs in his heels and gets the job done. He got it done with me. He had me turned around and flying straight in just a couple of months. I went from hot wiring cars in Chicago to working from sunrise to sunset on this ranch. There wasn't an animal I didn't feed or a stall I didn't clean. I was so tired I didn't have the energy to complain and by the time he let up on me, I was happier than I could ever remember being."

Matt laughed loudly then and the outburst filled the barn. "Let me tell you, you want to keep a teenage boy busy, don't you?" he said looking at Dallas. "You remember how it was, don't you? It's hard to believe that anyone could hold as many raging hormones as one teenage boy. Remember those days, Doc?"

Dallas sucked on her piece of straw a little harder. "How could I forget them?"

As if I ever knew them.

Matt strolled over to the horses who were busy eating and ran a long hand down the big bay. "You woke up thinking about sex, you went to breakfast thinking about sex, you thought about it while you rode the bus to school, you fantasized about every girl in class instead of learning your algebra. I mean, all that energy had to go somewhere, didn't it?"

He reached for a brush and began to carefully groom the bay. The horse made a contented sound and Dallas couldn't blame it.

"I think Ned remembered what it was like to be a teenager 'cause he kept me out in this barn doing chores, working off that energy. A little bit of it, at least."

He moved to the other side of the horse, stepping carefully over a snoozing Drop Off.

"But you know what I used to think about the whole time I was sweating out here?"

"No sir," said Dallas unable to take her eyes off him.

Matt stopped and looked out the window at nothing. "The perfect woman."

Dallas swallowed. Hard.

"Ever do that, Doc? Think what your perfect woman would be like," he asked and started to brush again.

"Well, I..."

Matt chuckled. "I think every man does. And I just bet I know part of your dream," he said in such a friendly tone Dallas thought she would die from guilt. "A little well-endowed on top? Am I right?"

"Possibly," she managed to say as her face burned and she bit her cracked lip. "And you?" What was she doing?

"Oh, when I was seventeen I thought a woman should look a certain way," he said and suddenly Dallas realized his tone was more serious, "but after Linda I realized that mostly I wanted a woman who was honest. Who I could trust. I don't like to play games. I want a relationship with a woman who I can really talk to, be comfortable with."

Dallas realized Matt had quit brushing the horse and walked over to retrieve the empty Thermos. He smiled at her. "Don't get me wrong. I appreciate a pretty face." He laughed. "Hell. Appreciate. I love a pretty woman. Someone warm and soft who smells like spring, like--"

Honeysuckle. God, he'd almost said that.

Dallas's eyes flickered up to the odd expression on his face. He suddenly seemed very embarrassed. Flustered. Awkward. Had he seen through her disguise? Here it comes. She closed her eyes.

Matt recovered as he saw the doctor close his eyes. This guy was dead tired and Matt had been chewing his ear off because Matt was tired and scared and, admit it, damn lonely.

"Thanks for coming out, Dr. Fielding."

Dallas's eyes fluttered open as she heard the tone of New York business creep back into his voice. For an instant.

"Didn't mean to talk your ear off," he said.

"Enjoyed it," said Dallas standing and reaching for her bag.

Had he?, thought Matt. He looked quickly up at the house where the nurse's car was waiting to leave. It was going to be a long night. He planned to read to Ned one of those westerns he loved so much. The nurse had said that kind of stimulation could help. Besides, Matt thought, he'd love to do anything to be close to Ned. But maybe the doc would like a little dinner. He had left some of Hildy's homemade soup simmering slowly on the stove.

"Look," he began as the doctor started to leave, "it's been cold out here. Could I interest you in a bowl of warm soup in the house before you head out? Hildy's vegetable," he added hopefully.

Dallas wasn't sure which was more enticing as she accidentally put her boot in a puddle of icy water. The warm soup or Matt. He pushed open the heavy barn door and she could feel the heat from his large body and inhale the warm smell of leather and horses and him. Okay. No contest. Matt was more enticing. But, under the circumstances...

She sucked in the cold, night air. "Much obliged. Got some more calls."

Matt was sure at some point over the last ten years he'd been more disappointed than this, but he wasn't sure when. Or why.

Even in the dark Dallas could feel his attitude readjusting. He was retreating back to his business tone.

"Another time then, Dr. Fielding," he clipped and Dallas watched him start toward the ranch house porch and wondered if he could hear her heart breaking over the noise their boots made crunching across the brittle ice. She knew there wouldn't be another time.

It took Dallas less than a minute to clear the ice off her windshield, then climbed into the truck to let the engine heat. She wondered if she would ever get the feeling back in her feet after the cold of this winter. At least now that she was in the truck cab she could finally do something about her lips. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the lip gloss and flipped down her lighted mirror to liberally apply some. Oh, that felt good. She closed her eyes and ran the gloss over her lips again.

She had just thrown the gold tube into her bag when she looked up. Damn. He was still standing on the porch. He hadn't gone in.

She suddenly wondered if he'd seen her applying....No. For goodness' sake, Dallas, this man had other things on his mind besides you. Get home. She had a 6:30 surgery in the morning to neuter Mrs. Lawson's dachshund, Buster.

She shifted the truck and made her way down the icy stone drive. She reached up to pull off her hat and then stopped. He was still standing there. She started to wave and then thought better of it. She gave an abrupt salute and escaped.

Matt raised his hand to wave, but the truck disappeared into the dark. There was that funny, clenched feeling in the pit of his stomach again. That protective feeling. Matt smiled. Of course, he felt protective. That's why he'd come, wasn't it? To take care of Ned. To protect him.

Matt took off his hat and banged it against his muscular thigh to loosen the snow. He put his hand on the brass doorknob and then stopped and looked back down the road at the truck's fading headlights. Had he been wrong or had he seen Dr. Fielding carefully applying chapstick with a little lighted mirror? Did it really make a difference how you got it on?

Go figure it, he thought as he discarded his leather jacket, grabbed Ned's favorite book, and climbed the stairs to check with the nurse. He shook his head. And they always said New Yorkers were weird.

Chapter Three

Dry, clean, broken-in jeans. Did anything feel better?

Dallas was sure something did, but at the moment they seemed like heaven. She stretched her long legs and propped them lazily on the ancient roll top desk that graciously monopolized her small office and rubbed her sore thighs. What a night. Thankfully, business always seemed to slow down right about--she glanced at the delicate watch on the narrow silver and turquoise band--now. Ten o'clock. And why did it slow down? Probably, she smiled, because all the ranchers and all their animals that had kept her up all through the night traipsing through most of the barns in this end of the county were snoozing peacefully now. Dallas closed her eyes and did some quick calculations. Yup. That would have been from about nine last night until six this morning. Nine hours of slick roads, frigid weather, and bone-chilling barns. So now they were asleep and, she yawned, she'd love to sleep, but, she looked at the pile of medical and government forms looming in front of her. There was always that paperwork.

Dallas had pulled into town from her masquerade with Matt around seven o'clock determined to put all that nonsense behind her. She loved a good joke. But this hadn't been one.

She couldn't pull off her filthy clothes fast enough once inside her cozy apartment, and while the blissfully warm water from the shower had pounded on her weary body she had promised herself to call this Matt Stone first thing in the morning and set this matter straight. She was tempted to stand herself in the corner for being so naughty, but that would hardly be effective. No. This had to be corrected, she thought, as she had stepped from the shower and reached for her robe.

She started to give the thick terry cloth belt a firm tie. But then she stopped, turned toward the full length mirror on the closet door and took a good, long look at herself. A little shyly. But she had to be sure. Did she look that much like a guy? Dallas felt herself blushing and ducked her head. Her compliments to the manufacturer of her insulated jumpsuit. It certainly did cover everything she thought, because she was definitely female. High, full breasts. A small waist tapering to round hips and long legs. Smooth, soft skin. Maybe Mr. Stone needed glasses. She gave one last look before tying her belt. Thick glasses. Still....

"Well, it's all there, Worthless," Dallas sighed addressing the overfed cat that was curling affectionately around her slender ankle. "Not that anybody seems particularly interested." She squared her shoulders and tied her robe with a determined tug. "Where's Lazy?" she inquired looking around for the feline's equally overweight counterpart. Dallas smiled remembering how she regularly lectured her clients about overfeeding their pets. She was glad her two cats stayed upstairs. Not that it had taken any training. They only moved when they were hungry.

"Come on," she said scooping up the cream-colored cat. "Dinner," she announced and headed for the kitchen.

She was heating her vegetable soup--canned--when she realized she was thinking of how nice it would have been to be sharing Hildy's homemade soup with Matt. When was the last time she'd had homemade soup? No, that wasn't it. When was the last time she'd wanted to spend some time with a man? No. Not just a man. But Matt Stone.

She'd stirred the soup and knew it just wasn't the steam heating her face as she remembered that wonderfully strong stomach with black tufts of hair inviting a touch.

Damn. Why had she done this? Dallas sighed as she ran a hand through her thick, still damp hair thinking of how Matt had gently run his large hands over Drop-Off hunting for her sweet spot. She thought she knew why. It had been over seven months since Michael had called off the engagement, and as much as she wanted to believe she was over it, there was definitely something she wasn't over.

Oh, she was over Michael. In fact, she had realized very quickly that she was glad he'd called it off. She had stepped back then and had taken a good look at him, and hadn't been too happy at what she had seen. She'd been having brunch with her mom and dad at their country club when Michael had appeared with his parents at a nearby table. Dallas and her parents were seated in a private alcove and she alone had a perfect view of him. A perfect view. She alone could witness how he poked fun at his elderly father's hearing loss. She'd watched in embarrassment, when, like a politician kissing a baby, he had fawned over a wealthy couple's Pekingese. She remembered how his father had generously paid for every penny of his education, and the rich couple would pass the word about the "charming" new vet. They were stepping stones, just like she had been, for his career.

Yes. She was definitely over Michael.

But she was still angry. Angry that he had made her feel less a woman.

She had always assumed that everyone liked a sense of humor. Okay. Her family liked a practical joke more than some. But they were, as he father always said, gentle jokes. An affectionate tease, at the most.

But Michael had always felt the fool. She'd realized that when she'd done the small-gift- in-the-large-box trick for his last birthday. He'd had to dig and dig for the gold watch that she had lovingly spent more on than she should. And when he finally got to it, he had only seemed perturbed.

Yes. She should have seen the end coming.

But a healthy sense of humor had seen her family through hard times. Lost jobs. Accidents.

"Step back and try to find a grain of humor," her father always said. "Helps you get through." He was right.

But somehow Michael didn't see it that way.

"Everything's a joke to you people," he'd said one time. "A real lady doesn't make jokes."

"We just try to find the bright side in bad situations," she'd tried to explain.

But Dallas had to admit that she hadn't seen anything too amusing about being left at the altar. Only hurt and bitterness and anger.

And tonight, hunkered over a pile of straw in a cold barn, that anger had come out and her target had been Matt Stone.

Dallas absently crumbled a cracker into her cooling soup. Why couldn't he have been like Angie described him? What had she said? The ultimate male chauvinist. Always said no wife of his would go to work. "A WDBL," Angie had said to Dallas with a wink of her heavily mascaraed lashes. "Know what I mean? Wine'em and dine'em and bed'em and leave'em." She'd snapped her fingers. "Gone before a lady knew it."

But he hadn't seemed like that at all, thought Dallas, as she remembered the lonely look in his eyes and soft-spoken concern for his uncle. He hadn't really done anything to her except make an honest, if embarrassing mistake.

So this innocent man had become the target for half a year of mounting anger.

Shoot. She put down her spoon and stroked one of her lazy cats. She had thought this Matt Stone would just be in town for a couple of days. Hire a ranch manager. Get power-of-attorney. And be gone. What difference did it make to him if the vet was male or female or a trained kangaroo. He just wanted his uncle's horses taken care of properly.

Still. Whatever he was like. She'd had no right to do what she had done.

And she had not only seemed to have misjudged this man, but prejudged him as well. She'd had the noose tied before he ever set foot in the barn. Before she ever understood how deeply he felt about his uncle. How attached he was to the Stockman ranch. How the fading winter light would accent the vulnerability in his face. Or how incredibly sexy he was.

Wait a minute. Scratch that last thought. She was supposed to be thinking rationally... But just thinking about his hasty touch. The all-too-brief look at that muscular stomach. The sound of his warm voice. Maybe most of all his loneliness. Well, she was having a hard time thinking clearly about him at all.

That was okay. Maybe for those reasons more than any others, she had to tell him that Dallas Field, DVM, was a woman.

"He's got enough on his plate without making a fool out of himself," Dallas had said to her lounging felines who were just beginning their after dinner snooze before tucking it in for the night. "Correct that," she said stroking Lazy's stomach. "Without me making a fool out of him."

She'd made up her mind to call him first thing--definitely--in the morning and had just plunged her spoon back into her cooling soup when the phone started ringing and she was gone for the night.

Dallas was the only one on the country highway as she started home early the next morning, when she suddenly realized she was watching the sunrise. The sun was actually visible which meant the weather might be clearing. It might be a little warmer. It might be dry. That was enough to lift her tired spirits after the exhausting night.

She was sipping the strong coffee the rancher had given her as she left her last call when she realized she was passing the Stockman Ranch. She couldn't help looking and wondering. A second-story light was on. Probably a bedroom. Was Matt awake? In his bedroom? Wonder what he slept in? Dallas!

Now was the time to stop and set this matter straight she decided as she turned down the heater in the truck.

She slowed to turn up the long drive and then glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Buster the dachshund! She had surgery in less in half an hour. She turned the wheel and increased her speed with a sigh heading for her office. Mr. Stone would have to wait.

Now Dallas wiggled her toes and felt the warmth of her clean, dry socks. A close second to dry jeans. Especially after a night wallowing in cold mud. She recrossed her legs and snuggled down a little deeper into the old leather chair drawn up to the roll top desk. A state-of-the-art computer beckoned from the desktop but was no competition for the strong morning sunlight that flickered through the windows in Dallas's office.

Dallas ran a tight ship with a carefully balanced budget. Any extra money went into better equipment for her patients. Except when it came to her office. She quickly learned she was going to be spending a lot of time in here wrestling with paperwork and research and decided to splurge--just a little--and redo what she had a feeling the retired vet had done some forty years earlier. Oh, she loved the warmth of the ancient wooden desk, but the olive green paint had been replaced with light wallpaper sprinkled with random rosebuds and pink accents. The matching upholstered chairs had been recovered in delicate green checks, she'd finished needle pointing two throw pillows for the sofa, and the brown carpet had hit the dumpster. Her favorite photos lined the walls and two enormous ferns thrived in the filtered light. It was her favorite room in her little warren.

It was a little speck of heaven. Buster was resting comfortably after his surgery, she'd showered, and for the first time since she could remember, Dallas felt warm and dry. She closed her eyes and reached out to stroke Worthless and Lazy who had ventured downstairs this morning and lay curled in an enormous ball of cat on her lap. No appointments this morning so no one would see the state of the well-fed felines.

Dallas closed her eyes and sighed. Felt like she was floating on a delicate pink cloud. Pleasantly sleepy after a good night of work. Ah. She felt soooo good. Yeah. Soooo....

Okay. Almooost so good. To tell the complete truth, slightly uneasy. Dallas opened her eyes reluctantly. Okay. Guilty. She felt guilty. Very guilty. Dallas shifted so Lazy meowed indignantly. Damn. She needed to call Mr. Stone. There was the phone. She could reach it easily. She had the Stockman Ranch number memorized. Okay. Do it. Count to ten and do it.

After all, how long had Michael waited to drop the bomb on her. Okay, okay. This wasn't exactly the same thing. Okay. This wasn't the same thing. At all. Michael's announcement had changed her life. This Stone thing was just an innocent joke gone bad. Annoying to be sure, but in a couple of days as he was walking down Fifth Avenue with some buddy this guy wouldn't even remember her name. Dallas Fielding? Uncle Ned's doctor, I think. Oh, let's pop into the Russian Tea Room for a bite. I don't need a reservation. My table is always waiting. And here's a super model sans mud on the whazoo who will have lunch with me. Blah, blah, blah.....

Dallas. Okay. There was something definitely wrong with this scenario. Maybe like after last night this Stone guy didn't seem at all like Angie Teller had broadcasted. This lady-killer had seemed tired, sad, upset, and, most of all, lonely. And you chose this time to play a joke on him. A very not funny, poorly timed joke on a complete stranger.

Class, Dallas. Real class she said sarcastically. Even her cats looked disgusted.

So. Call! Count to ten. One, two...six...nine.

Dallas almost fell backward in her chair when the phone rang and winced as Worthless dug into her arm as she tipped. Saved by the bell was her first thought as she balanced herself with her right arm and shooed the cats off her lap as she grabbed the receiver with her left hand.

"Dr. Fielding," she managed to gasp as the cats gave a swish of their tails and headed upstairs. Too much action for the lethargic pair.

"It's your mother, Dallas. You might want to answer your phone a little more professionally."

Saved by the bell? Is that what she had thought?

Dallas took a deep breath to steady her nerves and reminded herself how much she loved her mother. How much her family meant to her. And how disappointed her mother had been when she and Michael had not married. Dallas had understood immediately that she and Michael would never get back together. But her mother still held out hope and she had very few conversations with her mother that didn't include a plan, initiated by her mother, to win Michael back.

"Hi, Mom, how are you?" She tried to keep her tone light but she could tell her mother had a mission.

"Fine." Dallas sat up straight. Her mom was in her drill sergeant mode. "Did you get the dress?"

"I did, Mom," said Dallas resisting the impulse to salute as she remembered the shimmering blue silk sheath she'd unpacked yesterday. She knew she should have called her mother, but she no more had hung up the dress than the phone call came from the Stockman ranch and she'd been gone. "It's just beautiful."

"Do you like the color?"

Uh oh, she thought.

"Love it."

"I'm so glad. Because you know, Dallas, Michael always loved you in that periwinkle blue color. So I thought--"

Here it comes, sighed Dallas to herself. A decided shift to holiday guilt mode.

"--that you'd like to come to the Christmas open house with me and your father next month. The country club is always decorated so beautifully and who knows who might be there?"

"Like Michael?" said Dallas.

"Well," said her mother as innocently as possible, "he might be. You never know."

Oh, he'd be there, thought Dallas, with candy cane-shaped doggie treats for all the pure breads.

"Mom," began Dallas hating to crush the hope in her mother's voice, but feeling the need to be honest, "even if Michael is there, even if he thinks I look like Miss Universe in that dress, we are not getting back together. No matter what he might say, this is my decision. It's over."

"You could at least try, dear," said her mother as if to imply that the broken engagement had been all Dallas's fault. As much as her mother loved her, Dallas had the feeling that her mother did think Dallas was to blame.

Dallas gripped the phone a little tighter and rubbed her tired eyes. She didn't need this phone call this morning. She had planned to slip out into the sunshine for one of the stickiest sweet rolls available at the diner, some of the hottest coffee she could find, and catch up on a little paperwork. Her office radio was tuned to the local oldies-but-goodies station. Buster was still snoozing. Yes, it had promised to be a peaceful morning.

She forced herself to relax and silently promised herself she wouldn't start bickering with her mother about Michael. For two reasons, really. First, she didn't want to upset her mother. And secondly, hadn't they been through this--like about 100 times--and she didn't want to go through it again. Not this morning. Or tomorrow morning. Or next week. Or ever.

"Perhaps if you moved back to the city and started a small animal practice," her mother began.

Oh. There it was. The earth just shifted again and not like it did in those romance novels. No. It was just her mother. She'd shifted with NASCAR precision to I-only-want-to-help-you gear. Controlling? Absolutely. Playing God? Bingo.

Dallas caught herself silently mouthing her mother's words from the receiver. They'd covered this ground before. Oh yes, they had covered this ground before.

Move back to the city and start a small animal practice. Dallas translated that mentally each time her mother made the seemingly innocent suggestion. The city meant pretty dresses with manicured nails. Dallas glanced down at her free hand. It was strong, but delicate and her nails were neat, but unpolished. Long, polished nails? Well, she hated to think what would happen to her if she accidentally poked a 2000-pound plus bull in a sensitive spot with a long nail. No thanks. She'd keep her nails clean, but short.

A small animal practice. Small animals as in no mud and boots. Most people didn't keep their poodles in a barn. They brought them to a clean office. Dallas loved dogs. Even Mrs. Franjee's poodle who had bit her twice when she clipped its nails. She'd operated on Jerry Miller's hamsters and doctored Olin Krenshaw's finches. In a small town practice, you did it all. Maybe that's why she liked it. The variety. And more times than not, this time of year meant kneeling in a muddy barn in a less than glamorous jumpsuit bandaging a horse--definitely not a small animal.

Dallas groaned to herself. Where had that thought come from? As if she didn't know. She still hadn't called Matt Stone to explain what had happened. Maybe because she still wasn't quite sure what she was going to say or explain why she did what she did. Or maybe because every time she let her thoughts stroll Mr. Stone's way, her heart began to beat about ten times faster and she couldn't blame the morning sun for the heat permeating her body.

For heaven's sake, you're not sixteen.

"What was that, Dallas?" her mother's voice broke though her thoughts. "Dallas, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Mom," said Dallas shaking her head and trying to sit a little straighter, "you were saying--"

"--your father found a lovely little building not too far from that new mall out south--"

Translation. Near Michael's condominium. You could drop by.

"--that would be just perfect for a small animal practice--"

Translation. You could wear pretty clothes to work and be away from those large, dirty animals and that backwoods little town of Bantam where the term eligible man does not exist.

"--temporarily, at least--"

Translation. Until you come to your senses, get Michael to marry you, have children, and settle down.

"Now, I've already talked to my decorator--"

Her decorator! Dallas sat up much straighter.

"Mom, Mom, listen," she said interrupting her mother. "I really appreciate your interest and I love the dress. But you have to understand. I love my practice here. I have no intention of moving. And, Mom, you have to understand. Michael and I are not getting back together. It's over."

"It doesn't have to be. If you'd just--"

"If I'd just what? Be what I'm not?" Like a man, she grimaced remembering last night's charade.

"I'm not going to be someone I'm not. This is the way I was when we met, when I loaned him my test notes, and when he asked me to marry him. I don't know what happened to make him change his mind."

Dallas tried to focus her eyes on the sleek palomino on the cover of a new magazine on the top of her mail so she wouldn't have to remember the very "buffed," very feminine companion that had been waiting for Michael the day he walked away. That had hurt.

"Look, Mom, I've got to go. I've got mounds of paperwork to finish."

"But...."

"Thanks again for the dress," Dallas said inching toward the cradle of the phone. "Say hi to Dad. Love you."

She settled the receiver and sighed.

Her decorator. Her mother had been really serious this time. She hadn't mentioned her decorator since Dallas had invited her parents to Bantam six weeks after she had moved to show them what she had done to her office and new living quarters.

Her mother had asked what she was going to "do" and Dallas had said with some surprise that she'd already done it.

And, damn it, she looked at the menagerie of family photos and her needle pointed pillow proclaiming "Dogs Rule" and liked what she had done. True. It didn't have the coordinated "decorator look" her mother loved. But it was hers.

She'd spent many a late night painting and wallpapering. Her furniture wasn't fancy, but it was the overstuffed variety, perfect for curling up with a bowl of popcorn and a good mystery. It was warm, inviting, and comfortable. Just the way Dallas liked it.

Some day she'd like to get some land so she could raise dogs. She smiled thinking of Drop-Off's lumbering movements. She wouldn't have minded one of her pups.

Drop-Off. The Stockman ranch. There was a connection here. Dallas groaned. She still hadn't called Mr. Stone. But she would. Now. She owed him an explanation. And she wondered if his voice sounded as sexy on the phone. Dallas!

She reached for the phone and punched in the number for the Stockman ranch while she held her breath. Busy.

She leaned back in her chair. She promised herself she would try again later. After the paperwork. She closed her eyes and felt the sun warming her face and arms. Oh, that felt so good after days of gray, overcast, chill-you-to-the-bone weather. She'd just close her eyes for a minute. That's all....

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