Chapter One

      “Yep. He’s got the arms for it,” remarked the old woman, munching a churro and nodding down at the arena filled with kilts, kneesocks and T-shirts. Last week it had been bulls, broncs and cowboys.

      The flash of a hairy leg and a swirling kilt didn’t excite Lavonda Leigh any more than the rest of her life did right now. She checked her phone for messages, a habit from working in corporate communications, where she’d been expected to be available 24-7. She glanced back at the ring, trying to decide which one of the men was the egghead she’d have to babysit for the community college that owned the ranch she’d been calling home. Even though Professor McNerdy would be staying at the ranch, too, they’d barely see each other because she lived in the cozy and private in-law quarters added in the 1970s to the rear of the hacienda-style house. Plus, he’d be out poking around the desert looking for ancient beans—that had to be the most boring research topic. A topic she was glad she didn’t have to spin into PR gold.

      “That’s it. Next time you should watch and not text,” the other woman said with disapproval.

      Lavonda ignored her and started down the metal bleachers to find the Scottish professor, who had insisted that he compete in the local Highland games with the college’s team. The group should’ve been easy to find in the sea of plaid. They’d be the ones in glasses with sunken chests and spindly arms. Judgmental? Yep. But she’d grown up with cowboys, and a bunch of academics just didn’t cut it in the he-man department.

      Lavonda moved along with the small crowd. Were there Highland-game groupies, like rodeo-buckle bunnies? She finally saw the college’s distinctive lime-green canopy, shading a group of kilted men. No spindly arms, though. Maybe they were ringers. Did Highland games have ringers?

      “Excuse me,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the manly rounds of congratulations. “I’m here to pick up Professor Kincaid.”

      A juvenile ooh went through the assembled men. She shook her head. They sounded just like her brother and his friends, somewhere around junior high in emotional and social maturity.

      “Hey, Jones,” a bearded behemoth shouted over his shoulder, “you’ve got a groupie.”

      The others laughed and lifted their bottles of beer. Right. This was why cowboys had stopped appealing to her, despite their tight jeans, tilted hats and dusty shirts. Men plus beer equaled jerks.

      “Just a moment,” a voice said from the other side of the shelter. “Must get my bag.”

      She peered through the throng. Being short made that a little difficult since each man appeared to be the height of one of the logs they’d tossed. Really, what was the point of throwing a tree?

      “Good afternoon, Ms. Leigh.” The voice was deep, with a Ewan McGregor accent.

      A man nearly a foot taller than her, with arms and chest appropriately large enough to toss all the things that had just been tossed, strode over. He looked at her with eyes the deep, dark green of a ponderosa pine. “Lavonda,” she said automatically, holding out a hand and smiling. They must grow them big in Scotland. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

      Another chorus of masculine comments, including “That’s what she said,” which didn’t make any sense. This group might be more elementary school than junior high.

      “I’m ready,” he said, trying to rearrange his longer-than-it-should-be auburn hair, a color just like a bay horse her dad had owned.

      “I’ll say it so you guys don’t have to,” Lavonda said to the crowd of academics. “‘That’s what she said.’”

      The professor looked down at her and squinted a little before leaning forward and whispering, “What does that mean? They’ve been saying that and I can’t quite—”

      “I’ll explain in the car. You only have the one bag?”

      “The others are being delivered.” He easily lifted the large duffel at his feet. His arm bulged nicely. No. Not nicely, Lavonda told herself. This was the man she was babysitting, nothing more.

      * * *

      LAVONDA HAD NEVER felt her Mini Cooper was small until Professor Kincaid—no, she was supposed to call him Jones—had wedged himself inside. Why hadn’t she brought the ranch pickup? They still had another thirty minutes or more stuck in her vehicle.

      “You study beans, right?” she asked, hoping this conversation would go better than her attempts to explain “that’s what she said.”

      “Yes. By examining the usage of foodstuffs, we can discern...”

      He went on, but her brain had hit the pleasant autopilot where she could nod as needed without actually listening. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” From the silence, she knew she’d missed something.

      “I asked about the other transportation at the ranch.”

      “An old pickup, three horses and a donkey,” she said, glancing over at him and catching a look of annoyance.

      “I need to make a call,” he said, and pulled a cell phone from the furry sporran, aka Scottish man-purse, which previously she’d only ever seen on someone dressed up at Halloween.

      She’d been dismissed. She’d gotten used to it working with the movers and shakers in her corporate jobs, but that didn’t stop her from being miffed. She watched the road, ignoring the nearness of her passenger, the familiar odor of sweaty male combined with Jones’s own scent of dusty wool and cool, dark earth. She did not, however, find it sexy. Sexy to her nearly thirty-year-old self included a tailored jacket, starched shirt and silk tie, like Harvey Specter from Suits.

      She glanced over, thinking his hair was too long and his prickly jaw too sharp. He was also too tall, probably even taller than her brother, Danny. Why had she gotten the short genes?

      “I understand that you will be providing meals?”

      That was news to her, but she’d promised her friend Gwen, the president of the college, she’d keep this man happy—within reason. “I can certainly do that,” she said calmly, while she scrambled to remember what food she had at the house.

      “Then we will