By noon he had a huge pile of trash in front of the porch. He got to work on loading the trash into the back of the pickup. The bright afternoon sun had warmed up the air and he was sweating like a farmhand, so he took off his shirt. He was just hefting a big three-legged overstuffed chair into the back of the truck when he spotted her. Holding it over his head, he froze.
She was sitting in the clearing astride a big American paint. She smiled at him. Pure, innocent honey. Luke couldn’t move. The horse was beautiful, at least fifteen hands. She was wearing khaki shorts, rolled up high on her tanned thighs, a pair of what appeared to be laced hiking boots with white socks rolled over the tops, a white short-sleeved T-shirt and a khaki fishing vest. With that long, pale blond braid down her back and a Stetson on her head, she could be fifteen, tiny and built solid. The thought that she looked like a statutory offense came instantly to mind and he felt every day of his thirty-eight years.
The horse danced and pawed at the ground, snorted and reared his head, but this little girl in the saddle didn’t even notice. She handled him with ease and finesse.
“I just had to see this for myself,” she said. “You’re doing it. You’re at work on this mess. Wow,” she laughed. “Looks like you’re going to be busy.”
He tossed the chair in the back of the truck and took a rag out of his pocket to mop his sweating face. “Maybe you can’t see the potential here,” he said. “I’m going to impress you, in that case.”
“I’m already impressed,” she said. “It looks like a monumental job. Where I grew up, there were a bunch of old cabins just like this, out on the beach. I was a teenager. They were almost never in use and the local kids used to sneak in. To smoke pot and…other stuff. Then one day they were gone. Razed.”
“When you were a teenager,” he said, shoving the rag back into his pocket. “Last week?”
“Hey,” she laughed. “I’m talking ten years ago.”
“In which case, you don’t age.”
“Why don’t you just ask?” she challenged him.
“Okay. How old are you? Exactly?”
“Twenty-five. And you?”
“One hundred and ten.”
She laughed again. When she did, she threw her head back and that braid rippled down her back. “Yeah, I thought you were probably really old. How old?”
“Thirty-eight. Pretty well out of your range.”
“That depends,” she said with a shrug.
“On?”
“On whether I have a range.”
Oh God, he thought weakly. She liked him. Not a little teasing, but private flirting, just between the two of them. Luke was a man with few scruples and even less control. It wasn’t a good idea for her to do this. She was too alluring for her own good. “You’re pretty good with that horse. He’s a beautiful paint.”
“Chico,” she told him. “All little boy. Uncle Walt adopted him as colt—you’d think he’d be better behaved. You know your horses.”
“I’ve flown over a lot of horses running wild in the desert. Incredible creatures.”
“You ride?” she asked.
“Haven’t been on a horse in years.”
“You fish?” she asked.
“When I get a chance. You hunt?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d never shoot anything. But I shoot skeet, and I’m good, too. Lately I garden and babysit. And I read a lot.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping toward her.
“In Virgin River? I came to spend some time with my family for a while before going back to school. Uncle Walt, Vanessa and Paul, my cousin Tom—he’s at basic training, soon to have leave—they’re my family.”
“No,” he said, smiling. “Here. Checking me out.”
“Get over yourself, I’m checking out the cabins,” she said, returning the smile. “I rode here a few times last summer. I really thought these cabins would disappear someday. Wouldn’t it be easier to build new ones?”
“It might be easier, but it wouldn’t be cheaper. And I was looking for something to do.”
“Why? You get fired from your job or something?”
“I retired from the army.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Like my uncle!”
“No, not like your uncle. Like a warrant officer, helicopter pilot. Jack said your uncle is a retired three-star. A whole different thing, kid.”