AMY STOOD ON THE PORCH Sunday morning watching the sunrise. Today she prayed the warm rays would lend her courage to face the handsome cowboy barreling up the drive.

      She had to give him credit—unlike her husband Matt Cartwright was an early riser. Amy suspected beneath his cowboy-calendar good looks, the man was hardworking and determined. She both admired and resented those qualities.

      Her single experience with rodeo cowboys had been her husband. Ben hadn’t liked to toil too hard at anything. He preferred to spend his time searching for a pot of gold at the end of someone else’s rainbow.

      The rig stopped next to the horse trailer and the cowboy marched her way. Today he wore work jeans—stonewashed and no discernable iron crease along the thigh like yesterday’s pair. His western shirt was a tad faded and wrinkled. When he reached the porch steps, he paused. No smile, but he did tap his fingertips against the brim of his hat.

      “Mornin’.” The husky greeting poured over her like warm, sticky honey.

      “Coffee?” Might as well be neighborly before she sent him and his mares packing.

      “Appreciate that.”

      “Comin’ right up.” She set her mug on the rail and disappeared inside. No sense cozying up at the kitchen table. Matt Cartwright possessed the kind of presence that wouldn’t fade after his body left the premises. The last thing she wanted in her home were reminders of the rodeo cowboy. She filled an extra-large mug with leaded brew and returned outside.

      “Thanks.” When he accepted the cup, his fingers nudged hers, setting off a series of explosive prickles along her nerve endings.

      She collapsed on the top step—he remained at the bottom. Eye-to-eye. And boy, was he an eyeful of wrangler perfection.

      Swaying sideways, he leaned against the handrail, then squinted into the steam rising from his mug. How often had she done that—stare into the brown liquid hoping the answers to life’s questions would float to the top?

      “I heard you board horses,” he said.

      “Not anymore. Thanks to that stud in the barn, folks are afraid to leave their animals on the property.”

      Matt focused on the mares in the corral and Amy took advantage of his preoccupation to study him. She began at his boots and worked her way north, making it as far as the faded-to-white patch of denim at his crotch when he asked, “Is it just you and the girls now that your husband’s gone?”

      She peeled her eyes from his jeans. This was her property—she had a right to peek at a man’s you-know-what if she wanted. “My folks are gone now. Ben’s mother lives in Kansas, but we never kept in touch with her.” Amy had called Wynona to inform her of Ben’s death, but all the old woman had to say was, “Don’t surprise me none.”

      “It’s not my place to pry—”

      “Then don’t.”

      He ignored her warning. “But it’s apparent you’ve had a run of bad luck.”

      Seven years to be exact. Her bad luck had begun the day she’d married Ben. “My problems are none of your concern, Mr. Cartwright.”

      “Matt. Call me Matt, Amy.”

      The intimate sound of her name rolling off his tongue twisted her stomach into a knot.

      “I’d like to strike a deal with you.” He cleared his throat. “Give me one week to work with Son of Sunshine and if—”

      “No.” Stupid man. “I buried one cowboy because of that horse. Don’t intend to bury another one.”

      Eyes flashing, he argued, “I’ve been around horses all my life—good ones and rotten-to-the-core ones. I’ll know after a few days if SOS is loco or not.”

      “The proof’s buried up the hill.” She nodded toward the cemetery.

      “Did anyone witness the horse attack your husband?”

      Amy shook her head. She had no idea how long Ben had lain dying or dead. When he hadn’t answered her calls for supper, she’d walked out to the barn and that’s when she’d found him.

      “There’s a chance it might have been an accident.”

      “His chest was caved in, Mr. Cartwright. Whether it was an accident or not, the horse can’t be trusted.”

      “My sister suffered a horse kick to the head when she was sixteen because the animal spooked while she was hosing it down. Something might have set SOS off and caught Ben unawares.”

      “Did your sister survive?”

      “She did.”

      Matt didn’t elaborate and Amy was afraid to ask if the woman suffered any lingering effects.

      “One week,” he pressed. “If the stud remains untouchable, I’ll load up my mares and retreat to Oklahoma.” He made it sound as if he was declaring war against the stallion.

      She was tempted to give in because she hated the idea of euthanizing any animal unless it had been injured beyond help. But if anything happened to the cowboy, his death would be on her conscience. “No.”

      “SOS can save your farm.”

      The Pebble Creek gossipmongers were at it again. “Who says my farm needs saving?”

      “Jake Taylor mentioned you were in danger of losing the place.”

      Jake Taylor meant well, but he talked too much.

      “If