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Ranch."
    As they got closer, Regina made out several separate buildings. A square, white farmhouse was practically falling down, surrounded by beautiful, mature trees. A couple of the trees were blackened on one side and the roof had caved in, suggesting that there had been a fire in the house. The windows were covered with plywood and it was clear no one was living in the house. Nearby, the barn she'd seen from the distance looked only a little better. Though it was undamaged by fire, it leaned slightly to one side and was badly in need of paint. As they drove by the barn, however, Regina caught a flash of movement around the side. She craned her neck to see a woman pinning laundry to a clothesline.
    "Watch you don't hit Patch, ma'am," the boy said and Regina turned just in time to avoid running into a scraggly looking donkey standing in the middle of the road.
    She hit the brakes, causing the boy to be thrown against his seatbelt. The donkey chewed and watched them thoughtfully.
    "Sorry, sorry. Can you get him to move?"
    "Oh no, I don't expect so. Best go around."
    Regina drove into the weeds and around the beast, shaking her head.
    On the other side of the farmhouse, a row of shiny trucks looked entirely out of place in front of a single-story, plank-sided building with a broad porch.
    "The bunkhouse, I take it," Regina said.
    "Yep. Head over to the right, is where visitors park."
    "Are some of them visitors?" Regina counted: four pickup trucks in various states of tricked-out glory, all of them high up off the ground; one dented old red pickup; one large truck cab; and one very beat-up old Ford Focus with a listing bumper.
    "Oh no, ma'am, we all live here."
    " We ?"
    "Well—me and my sister live in there." He pointed in the direction of the barn. "But the rest of them all live the bunk house."
    Before Regina could ask the rest of who, the front screen door opened. Chase Warner came out onto the porch with an expression that didn't look the least bit happy.
    "What are you doing home already, Harry?" he asked the boy. "Finish up at Buddy's?"
    "No sir, the lady didn't know how to get here, so I told her—"
    "Well, you delivered her, now get on back," Chase ordered him, his arms folded over his chest. "Don't make me tell you twice."
    "Yeah," the boy mumbled and turned around. Regina watched him go, his shoulders slumping dispiritedly.
    "Don't be mad at him," she said when he was out of earshot. "I asked him to show me."
    "Just don't tell me you paid him."
    Regina blushed, both in embarrassment and indignation. It wasn't any business of this man who she paid and for what. And she wasn't at all sure she liked his tone. The boy seemed nice enough—more than nice. Downright polite.
    "As a matter of fact—"
    "Aw, hell, okay, I'll talk to him when we're finished. Shouldn't be long, anyway. I imagine we can just talk out here on the porch."
    Regina looked doubtfully at a couple of chairs set under the shade of the porch. They had seen better days. Their cane was split and the finish was peeling off.
    The porch door swung open again. A woman came out, holding a coffee mug. Regina suddenly felt self-conscious, painfully aware of her skirt sticking to her thighs, the hem hitting her at exactly the most unflattering place on her knees—why hadn't she gotten around to having it hemmed? The girl on the porch was effortlessly gorgeous, with red hair pulled into a simple ponytail, and freckles dotting her creamy skin. Her cut-off shorts showed off miles of leg. Naturally, a guy like Chase Warner lived with a woman who made his coffee and kept his bed warm at night, the girl he'd written the songs for, the girl he thought about when he sang in the shower or put in a long day on the rig.
    Worst of all, she was wearing a man's plaid shirt knotted under her breasts. Underneath, a tiny gem winked from her navel, surrounded by creamy, smooth flat skin.
    "You are not going to make your guest stand out here on the porch," she scolded. "Get on