Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "Uh. Liv Ramsey. Just arrived."
"I gathered," he said, lips twitching in amusement. "I'm Mike Watkins. Head cook, goat herder, retired Marine, jack-of-all-backbreaking-trades. Sorry Tiny tried to test your reflexes. He's got a thing for suitcases. Thinks they're competition."
Mike. So this was The Mike. The man who'd interviewed her over speakerphone while she hid in a storage closet of a Holiday Inn two states east.
He whistled sharply, and the goat, who was still darting around in tangents, turned and barreled toward him like a heat-seeking missile. Mike stepped to the side just as Tiny skidded near, then grabbed the creature by its makeshift collar and slung a rope halter over its head in one practiced motion.
His voice dropped, went soft as butter. "Easy now, buddy. You're all right." He scratched behind the goat's ear with the kind of patience that made Liv's throat tighten unexpectedly.
She'd forgotten men could be gentle like that. Gentle without wanting something.
"Well, Tiny likes you already," he said, glancing back at her with a grin. "That's either a good omen or an early warning."
Liv bent to retrieve her suitcase, trying very hard not to look impressed. "So, is that part of the interview? Survive a goat charge, get a job?"
"Nah," Mike grinned. "Just the west Texas welcome package." He eyed her sandals and gently lifted one side of her suitcase handle as he gathered the reins to his horse and began to walk. The goat, showing an incredibly obedient side, trotted after the horse as though the beast was its Mama.
Liv hesitated. She'd never been this close to a horse and the sheer size of the animal gave her pause. Yes, Mike Watkins was holding the reins, but she'd seen runaway horses on TV and knew about unpredictability.
"You want to ride?" Mike asked, obviously reacting to the way she stared at his horse.
"Um, no. I'm fine." But she did move two steps to the side.
"Well, then. C'mon, let's get inside before that pink skin of yours turns into baked Alaska."
She caught up, her suitcase bouncing awkwardly between them, keeping a sharp eye on both the goat and the horse lest the noise spook either of them. "For the record, I'm Italian and Irish. I tan. I also bake a very respectable baked Alaska."
He chuckled. "Yeah? We'll see about that, Miss Ramsey."
The main house loomed like a cheerful wooden fortress on a hill, built wide and low, with broad porches and rocking chairs. Wildflowers framed the long drive and the faint smell of smoked meat teased Liv's senses. Her stomach growled—loud enough that she pressed a hand to it, embarrassed. When was the last time she'd eaten? A stale muffin at a rest stop somewhere in Louisiana?
Verdant green pastures enclosed several horses with white ranch rail fencing. This place was restful. Peaceful. Despite herself, she released a long exhale.
Mike looped the reins of his horse over a post by the back door, narrowly avoiding a clucking hen that strutted across the gravel with opinions of her own.
They'd spent most of the walk with slightly awkward small talk about the weather and the wide open spaces—well awkward on her part at least. If Liv had been at home—and by home that meant Manhattan—she'd have written Mike Watkins off as a charming but clearly allergic-to-traffic-lights kind of guy.
But here, in Bear Valley, he wasn't out of place.
She was.
A woman came out of the back door, her dark hair tied in a high ponytail, a gentle confidence in her bearing that made Liv feel instantly less guarded.
"You must be Liv," she said, smiling as she wiped her hands on her denim-clad thighs. "I'm Heather Prescott. Or Heather Watkins now. Lyle's my husband. One of Mike's brothers,” she clarified. “There are four of these guys, Lord help us! Lyle's out wrangling something with hooves, probably, and no telling what the other two are up to."
"Nice to meet you."
"I imagine you're worn out," Heather said. "That bus looked ready to give up the ghost by the time it passed our fence line."
Liv blinked at the kindness of the welcome—unfussy and direct. She cleared her throat. "Thank you for having me. I know I'm not the usual hire."
"I've got nothing to do with the hiring," Heather said. "That's all Mike's department. And we're used to city slickers here on the guest ranch. Some of them even turn out to be decent cowhands."
"Some," Mike muttered under his breath, grinning. "Most run at the first sight of cow poop."
Heather shot Mike a look so practiced it made Liv want to laugh. Something she hadn't done in a while.
"Go check the roast," Heather ordered. "You left the oven on and I've got dogs to see to."
