Chapter 1

Damon Carhart winced. He’d heard the hoof connect with a dull thud. That sound barely preceded the pained yelp from his best stock dog as she cart-wheeled through the air. She hit the ground—hard.

“Aw shit, Dixie Belle, why did you try to turn that damned ornery paint like you do cattle? Horses don’t heel well, babe. You know better.”

At the moment, if he’d had a rifle, he’d soon have had a dead horse. It might have been stupid, but thepaint gelding’s kick was worse than stupid. It was plain vicious. Damned horse had a mean streak.

He swung off the ATV, hurrying over to kneel at the injured dog’s side. She whimpered when he touched her, not a good sign. Still, a quick check didn’t reveal any broken bones. He smoothed a tender hand down over her head, talking in a low, calm voice. Meanwhile, his thoughts ran in urgent spirals.

How do I get her back and into the truck with a minimum of pain? Without aggravating whatever injuries she has?

A trip to the vet was definitely the first order of business, in spite of the other work he had planned for the day.

Damon believed in taking care of his animals—all of them. That included about a thousand head of purebred Brangus cattle, ten good horses, and the six Australian Shepherds who helped him manage the cattle with only occasional hired help.

Rosalinda and Julio Mendez didn’t count. Hell, the old Mexican-American couple had been on the ranch since when he was knee high to a Quarter Horse. They really didn’t do a lot any more, but he kept them on out of respect. They were almost family. Rosa had damn near raised him after his mother took off. In spite of her arthritis, Rosa still kept the house up for him and usually cooked his supper. Julio puttered around the headquarters doing odd jobs. He was too stove up to ride anymore, but handy with fence tools, and a fair mechanic.

Ranching in the twenty-first century was a far cry from the style Damon had grown up with. Twenty years had made a big difference. And going back further, from the tales of his father and grandfather, raising cattle had once been a great deal more labor intensive than even in his boyhood. Now with his ATV, horses and dogs, he managed all but the annual branding, ear-notching and weaning chores pretty much by himself.

Ranching was still a hard life, though, often lonely and always busy. He made a decent living, but he’dnever be rich. In fact he was land and livestock poor. His net worth looked good, but the cash flow was sometimes touch-and-go. Money problems, on top of the memory of how his mother had left and the one bad relationship he’d suffered while still in school, had decided it for him. Marriage and ranching didn’t mix.

Not too many women could be the helpmate partner he needed anyway. Most of them would look down their pretty little noses at the old-fashioned house he lived in, the far-from-new pickup that was his sole highway vehicle, and the few hours he’d be able to spend with them. These days he’d heard they called it “quality time.” That seemed to equate to wining and dining, trips to upscale resorts and similar trappings of celebrity seduction. He didn’t have the time, the cash, or the disposition for all that.

Still pondering the immediate transportation problem for Dixie, he started to gather what he could find. He decided to rig an impromptu stretcher with a piece of plywood wired to the rear carry rack of the ATV. He placed Dixie up on the board and strapped her down with his belt and a couple of scraps of rope he found in the ATV’s saddlebags. It wasn’t ideal, but he got her home. She only whined a little.

Back at the headquarters, he eased board and all into the back of his pickup. The dog watched him anxiously, but just gave a faint whimper or two at the jostling. It was a good forty-minute drive to the vet clinic at the nearest edge of Gila Vista. That troubled him. He’d rather have Dixie in the cab, but the board wouldn’t fit. He didn’t want to risk bumping her around anymore than he could help. Luckily it wasn’t a particularly hot day, but it wasn’t cold either. He figured she’d be okay. It was the best he could do.

He drove fast, but carefully, trying to ease around the worst of the ruts and potholes on the gravel road out to the highway. As usual, the just-ended summer rains had played hell with the road. And, as usual, the county hadn’t gotten around to grading it yet. He swore as he hit one bump so hard his hat bumped the cab roof.