The Texas sun beat down on her like flames from hell. A straw western hat shaded her blond hair, but her T-shirt and jeans felt as though they'd been shrink-wrapped to her body like cellophane in a hot sauna.

Irritated, Sunny imagined ten different scenarios of how she'd kill her mother. She'd been under the impression that Jack had been in on the summons to bring her home, had agreed to ask for her help. But when she'd arrived at the Forked S ranch ten minutes ago and gone in search of Jack, there didn't appear to be a speck of tension--a tension she'd expected if there was a suspected outbreak of cattle disease. None of the ranch hands gave any indication that they recognized her or expected her.

Peachy.

In fact, she'd been told that Jack wasn't even here--although he was due any minute now.

"Meddling," she said to the huge dog at her side. "Mama's the Texas state champion at it. I'd lay odds that the minute she found out Michael was out of the picture, her Southern Lady, all-good-girls-should-be-married-and-settled engine went into overdrive."

Simba raised his head and gave her a goofy look of agreement, his pink tongue snaking out to bathe her arm with a quick lick.

If matchmaking was Anna's game, Sunny would let her know right quick that she was barking up the wrong tree. Never mind it was fairly typical behavior. Men always came first in Anna Carmichael's book. It was in the Southern code. Heck, ten years ago, she'd even advised Sunny to turn a blind eye to Jack's betrayal.

Fat chance. That wasn't Sunny's style. And right now, she'd had it with men. The only male she intended to let close was Simba.

She looped her arm around the dog's neck. Since his wide skull came nearly to her chest, she was able to affectionately hug his thick neck for his loyal show of support.

"See any signs of an airplane yet?"

Simba ignored her question and snapped at a grasshopper that had the misfortune to fly in front of his face.

Instead of watching the private airstrip where Jackson Slade would land, Sunny looked out over the ranch, ignoring the oppressive smell of manure, sweat, and the stir of dust. Although she worked mostly indoors nowadays, she sometimes traveled to farms and ranches where diseased livestock required assessment.

Slade Ranch was some operation, not at all as she'd remembered it from ten years ago. Then again, ten years ago, this acreage had been owned by a man who cared more about his next bottle of whiskey than increasing his herd or doing repairs on the outbuildings.

Cattle milled in pens, some bawling as they were squeezed through chutes, kicking up clouds of rich Texas dust, others dotting the verdant land, munching happily on the feathery grass swaying in the hot summer wind.

Ranch hands in dusty hats, boots and jeans all seemed to have a job to do and took their duties seriously. No one lazed around smoking in the shade or tipping an icy cold beer behind the barn.

Evidently the boss-man ran a tight ship.

Sunny took a breath, choking on the cloying hot air stirred by dust. This was the last place she'd expected to end up--standing in the middle of a ranch that held myriad memories she had no desire to confront.

She ought to be in Tahiti, drinking sweetly potent concoctions with little umbrellas stuck in a pineapple garnish, floating on a raft in a clear blue bay, licking her emotional wounds in comfort and style.

The drone of an engine sent Simba to his feet, dancing around like a happy student who'd done well on his test.

"Yes, I hear it, boy." Sunny shaded her eyes with her hand and watched as a flashy Cessna descended lower in the blue sky, wings dipping ever so slightly as the pilot held his course and aimed for the short runway. It looked as though the landing gear was about to brush the tree tops, and Sunny held her breath, letting it out when the tail cleared the foliage by inches.

Tires chirped on the asphalt strip as the Cessna touched down soft as cotton on a thistle. Typical of a hotrod pilot at the controls, the single-engine blue and white plane barely slowed before it was put into a turn and brought around like a Porsche taking a slalom curve.

"Show off," she muttered, impressed despite herself. She appreciated skill, admired a person who strove to be the best. "At least that's one curiosity solved," she remarked to Simba. "The man hasn't outgrown his recklessness."

The engine shut off and the two-blade propeller jerked to a stop like a whirly-gig with a child's finger suddenly thrust into it. After several minutes, the door popped open and he climbed out, lithely jumping down onto the sticky asphalt where heat wave mirages danced over the black surface like transparent flames. Sunny's heart pumped and a line of sweat trickled down her spine.

She was about to come face-to-face with her past.

But she could handle it. She would handle it. She'd spent ten long years building a shield around her heart. And a one month vacation in Texas wasn't going to tear it down.

For a moment he paused, facing her from a distance of one hundred yards. She couldn't see past the aviator sunglasses to his blue eyes, couldn't gauge his mood by the position of his brow because he wore his tobacco-brown Stetson pulled low and sexy over his forehead.

Good granny's goose, Jackson Slade still made her mouth water.

He was six-foot-four inches of bad attitude that drew women like flies to a watermelon, radiating a masculinity that just made a girl want to swoon like a Southern belle of old.

But Sunny wasn't a Southern belle of old. Southern, yes, but as much as her mother had tried, her manners were at times abysmal. And swooning wasn't her style.

After the brief hesitation, his stride was long and loose as he headed toward her. If there was a sense of urgency, it didn't show. Nor did recognition.

That poked at her pride.

Then again, Jackson Slade was a master at hiding his emotions when he wanted to.

He stopped in front of her, gazed down at her. As she craned her head back, bright sunshine made her eyes water. Subtly, he shifted so that his body blocked the light--and crowded her as well. Deliberately, it seemed.

"Well if it isn't Miss Sunny Leigh Carmichael."

Damn it, that slow Texas drawl still made her stomach do cartwheels. She kept her hand on Simba--not that she was afraid the hound would attack. She didn't think Jack would appreciate Simba's obsession for giving sloppy dog kisses just now.

"Good memory, Slade." She couldn't tell if he was surprised or annoyed to see her.

"You back in town for a visit, sugar babe?"

"Maybe." She wanted him to take off those dark glasses so she could see if he was mocking her. Sugar babe had been the pet name he'd called her all those years ago, at a time when she was certain he'd loved her, certain he'd intended to ask her daddy's permission for her hand in marriage. Well, Daddy was gone now, and Jack had ended up marrying someone else.

"Been a lot of years," he commented and stepped back. "Any other time, I'd be happy to socialize some, but I've got a cow with a possible prolapsed uterus. She's one of my best breeders and if I don't get in there right quick, I'll lose her." His tone implied he was happy for an excuse not to be social with her.

Astonished, she stood for several seconds and gaped at his back as he turned and walked away.

Who the heck had put a burr up his behind? The man had cheated on her ten years ago and had a child with another woman. Sunny, on the other hand, had nursed a hurt that cut to the quick, and pined--yes, darn it, she'd pined--for him.

If anyone should be acting bitchy here, it should be her!

Miffed by his attitude, she considered leaving. But years of training as a veterinarian forced her to stay.

If Jack's dead cattle turned out to be nothing more than routine, she was off the hook. In the mean time, she'd made a promise to her mother to look into the matter. And when Sunny made a promise, she didn't break it.

Unlike Jackson Slade.

From the book Courted By A Cowboy
by Mindy Neff Harlequin American Romance
ISBN 0-373-16993-0 - November 2003
Copywrite by Mindy Neff

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