One

      Lord, it was hot. Baking hot, choking hot, underwear-sticking hot. Kansas McClellan slapped at the insect buzzing around her neck with a scowl.

      She’d been in southern Arizona all of twenty-four hours. Long enough to hate it. Sweat was drooling behind her knees; her calf muscles were screaming from the long hike; and redheads with delicate skin were simply not built to tolerate a climate with all this confounded, relentless sun.

      Minnesota in May was a splendiferously superb place to live. Daffodils and lilacs in bloom. Lots of cool, clear lakes. Lots of dark, shady woods.

      Kansas slapped another bug, musing that she’d sell her soul—without a qualm—for an ounce of shade right now. She was probably going to end up with heat stroke before this little adventure was over. For sure, she was going to end up with freckles. Naturally this impromptu trip had come up too fast for her to think about details like packing sunscreen. Her throat was parched. Her sandals hurt. Her daffodil yellow shorts and scoop-neck T-shirt were as close to naked as she could get without risking arrest. The outfit still felt hotter than a glued-on suit of armor. Briefly she indulged in a wanton, enticing fantasy about swimming stark naked in a cool mountain lake.

      The fantasy was almost better than sex. Regretfully it didn’t last any longer than most men—but ahead, as she turned a corner, she found something more exciting than either. Just ahead was shade, real shade, serious shade...and the glimpse of a low-roofed building.

      When she’d parked her rental car near the sign for the Mile Hi Ramsey Canyon Preserve, she had no idea it would be such a hike to the actual place—or that the landscape could conceivably change this fast. Suddenly there were trees instead of bleak, bald desert. Suddenly there was green. Suddenly—she saw the closed door to the building—there was a prayer of civilized air-conditioning.

      Ignoring the heat, she aimed for the door at a breakneck sprint. Seconds later, she was inside the preserve office and basking in the immediate cool.

      With a single glance, she could see she fit in here as well as a stripper on Wall Street. The dozen people milling around were all appropriately decked out in L.L. Bean and Patagonia labels. Her overbright shorts outfit had come from Marianne’s—on sale. Half the L-shaped room was an active bookstore, stocked with extensive references and tomes on the wildlife and geology of the area. Personally, Kansas favored romances.

      Being a fish out of water rarely bothered her. At twenty-nine, she’d been a misfit so long that the title fit as comfortably as a pair of well-worn jeans. There were just a few times when she wished she had the gift for fitting in—like now. If she were ever going to find her younger brother in this dadblasted desert country, Kansas needed help.

      Years ago, she’d have swallowed a bullet before admitting needing help for anything. As a kid, she’d been tough. She’d been stubborn. She’d also been proud, to the point of stupidity—a lesson she’d learned the hard way and didn’t intend to repeat.

      Impatiently she waited her turn to speak with the woman behind the front desk. Apparently only small groups were allowed in the Preserve at a time, and a cluster of college-age kids stood ahead of her, pleading their case to the head honcho lady. From listening to their conversation, Kansas gathered that the canyon was the site of an annual hummingbird migration, that said-migration was spectacular, and that this spring was a one-of-a-kind viewing experience for hummingbird enthusiasts.

      She blew a limp, carrot-top curl out of her eyes. She had no quarrel with the hummingbird lovers. She just had another agenda, and the day was wasting—the hour was already past three.

      Finally the kids turned around and jostled past her. Kansas stepped up and cleared her throat, suddenly unsure how to phrase her question. The round-faced young woman took one glance at her looks and attire, and immediately assumed why she was here.

      “You’re lost, right?” The lady’s tone was amused, but not unkind.

      “No. At least, not exactly. I know this is going to sound a little strange, but I’m looking for a man—”

      “Aren’t we all,” the woman murmured.

      Kansas chuckled, and relaxed. “Actually, right now, I’m trying to locate a specific man—a vet. A Dr. Moore. Paxton Moore. I can’t imagine that you’d automatically know every single person who happens to be in the Preserve, but I’ve been calling his office since early this morning, and all I keep getting is an answering machine message that he’s here—”

      “The doc? Sure, he’s here. No problem.”

      The way the woman’s face lit up, Kansas gathered that nothing about the “doc” was ever a potential problem. As quick as a blink, she was given directions and aimed back outside toward the main trail. Another hike. And uphill yet. Swell.

      Another hundred and fifty miles later, she found the man. At least, he appeared to be her quarry, since he was hunched over an extremely fat raccoon with an injured paw. The raccoon was wide-awake. And noticeably not a happy camper. The critter wasn’t winning the wrestling match, but it definitely expressed some violently negative opinions about the white bandage being wrapped around its right paw.

      Kansas faked a delicate cough. “Excuse me. Are you Dr. Moore?”

      No glance in her direction, no startled surprise at being interrupted. Just a “Yup. Be with you in a second.”

      She was happy to wait, partly because it gave her a chance to catch her breath and quit huffing and puffing, and partly because she wanted—needed—a chance to study him.

      Maybe he was a vet, but somehow she couldn’t see Dr. Moore catering to the poodle trade.

      She guessed his age in the early thirties, and there had to be some Native American genes in his bloodline somewhere. His hair was Apache black, worn thick and straight and long enough to rubber-band into a ponytail. His skin was bronzed darker than gold, with high cheekbones carved into a long, strong, angular face.

      Given a little face paint and a pony, and she could easily picture him licking Custer a few years back. Maybe single-handed. He wasn’t carrying an ounce of spare weight, but his shoulders and chest tested the seams