CLEO LORETTE, married to a cowboy, lived on an Arizona cattle ranch for many years -- and claims she has never met a horse she could trust. She has published thirty-five magazine articles on subjects ranging from health and fitness to horsemanship and family relations. Cleo has taught creative writing at two Phoenix-area community colleges.

GRETA MANVILLE left a career in corporate management at a major transportation company in California to move with her husband to Arizona. She began writing fiction after enrolling in one of Cleo’s classes and has earned several awards for both fiction and poetry in national contests.

Lindsey’s heart sank. What else could go wrong?

Uncle Simon’s death was sad but not unexpected. Then the Taylors, she and Cody, got the rude shock of their lives at the reading of the will.

"Now, Cody’s broken his damn leg and gone back to Arizona, leaving me alone here in Colorado to deal with Uncle Simon’s ’legacy.’" She found herself muttering out loud half the time with no listeners, and that annoyed her too. Lindsey gunned the motor of the battered green pickup as she drove up the gravel approach to the ranch and skidded to a halt in a shower of dust and pebbles.

She mopped the sweat from her face with a denim sleeve and looked around the empty yard. "Damn." Where’s the young cowboy Cody called to meet me here at five o’clock? It’s ten after now. He’d better not try the old "horse kicked my Timex" routine unless he has his arm in a sling.

She opened the pickup door and swung her long legs to the ground. Still wearing the boots and leather chaps needed for riding horseback in deep brush, she’d planned early in the day to ride out to check the cattle. But that was before Cody’s accident. Lindsey heaved the door closed with a satisfying slam.

"Is anyone out there?" she called. No pickup around. Perhaps the cowboy was watering his horse behind the barn or out of sight beyond the corral. Surely he would have waited. Only the far-off bawl of a calf broke the quietness.

How she loved this high plains country east of the Rockies and north of the Arkansas River, with its captivating history of pioneers, miners, and adventurers who traveled the old Santa Fe Trail. Surrounded by late summer crops of golden wheat and green milo that studded vast rolling prairies of grassland and desert scrub, Lindsey understood the mingled richness and utility of the land. Now, with fall approaching, much of the alfalfa stubble and grama grass was dry and grazed out in spite of early summer’s abundant rainfall.

An eagle wheeling over a distant field caught her attention until she realized that it lacked the power and graceful flight of an eagle. It was only a common hawk in search of prey.

A chain-link fence surrounded Uncle Simon’s old one-story frame house, which was sadly past needing paint. The fence, intended in bygone days to keep foraging deer and rabbits away from thriving shrubs and bedding plants, now protected a yard dominated by weeds interspersed with a few late summer sunflowers and occasional lupine. As Lindsey swung open the gate, the metallic "squeee" of its galvanized hinges sounded forlorn. She stepped carefully over the tilted, uneven sidewalk with the blossoms of impertinent yellow dandelions poking between its cracks. If she tripped, she could become the final casualty in the diminished household.

She shivered as the first hint of cool air filtered through the ever-present breeze. She didn’t like being alone, but she had work to do. After one last look down the road, she strode through the back door of the ranch house and hung her jacket and range hat on a nail behind the kitchen door.

Lindsey pulled the coffee pot noisily forward on the wood burning cook stove -- so typical of Uncle Simon’s holdouts against modern appliances. She opened the door to check the coals. Not even a flicker.

She threw a handful of kindling into the stove and lit a sheet of crumpled newspaper under the shavings. Carefully placing several ragged pieces of wood over the tiny flame, she watched to make sure the fire caught. Satisfied, she closed the door, adjusted the damper, and waited for the coffee to reheat.

The barn cat, a huge gray-and-white tabby named Felon, had followed her into the house. Lindsey started to shoo him out, then relented and rewarded the mewing beggar with a saucer of milk. After finishing the last tasty drop, the grateful creature brushed against Lindsey’s leg and nuzzled his milk-sopped whiskers against the roughness of her chaps. Lindsey reached absent-mindedly to stroke the coarse fur of his battle-scarred head. Grateful, the cat leaped into her lap.

"Felon," Lindsey said, "you’re too big to be a lap cat, and I hate to say it but you’re kind of ugly. You’re definitely not much for conversation, but at least I’m not talking to myself."