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cocky flyboy shocked her nerve endings to life again.
    "Captain Rokowsky was charmed by Kirstie."Paige hooked her lunch sack over her shoulder. "I should probably check on Seth manning the reception desk and see if he needs ice for his ankle—"
    "Captain, huh? He must not be too young."
    "Still too young for me, since regardless of my actual age I feel a hundred these days." She smoothed a hand over her sleeping daughter's head resting on Vic's shoulder. "How about you put Kirstie down on the sofa inside and I'll get a head start unloading the supplies?"
    "Damn sweet deal for me."
    "Just make sure to click on the intercoms so I can keep an ear out for her."
    His smile faded. "I won't let anything happen to her."
    She squeezed his sturdy forearm. "I know. Thank you."
    A long swallow and curt nod later, he thudded up the steps to the circa 1920s farmhouse.
    Paige circled around to the back of the truck and lowered the tailgate. Bending at the knees, she hefted a fifty-pound bag of Mrs. Svenson's rice-fortified dog food for her aging collie. Paige adjusted the weight on her shoulder and started toward the vet offices spoking off the house, a five-by-five clinic sign flapping in the wind, hinges creaking.
    Muscle ache offered a healthy, welcome reminder that she held her own now. She trudged up the four side steps, her eyes drawn to the lonely landing strip out back where their cousin's Cessna Skyhawk was parked, stirring images of a certain guitar-toting pilot.
    That plane would be better served reminding her of their precarious financial position. They stayed solvent by Seth flying them out to remote locales for emergency calls. Ranchers paid through the nose for that service. But mad cow disease and lower beef prices had hit the plains states hard, leaving ranchers panicking over every sick animal, yet short of funds to pay the doctor bill.
    Their cousin's sprained ankle would take at least two to three weeks to heal before he could fly again.
    What a long time to pay a stand-in pilot, even the crappy one Seth had scrounged up who was working for bargain-basement rates.
    "Maybe I should invest in a parachute," she mumbled, leaning a hip against the wooden door frame to bear some weight while she slid one hand to the knob.
    She reminded herself the substitute was licensed. His finesse factor in the air wasn't great, but they didn't need pretty flying.
    Bo Rokowsky was all about finesse and charm—
    Ah, for Pete's sake.
    The bell tinkled as the door swung wide to reveal her cousin manning the reception desk. Resembling a blond beach bum more than a meticulous pilot, he lounged back in the office chair with his foot propped on the counter. Baggy cargo shorts and a faded fishing hat made for eclectic receptionist garb. "Have fun today?"
    "A blast." Paige kicked the door closed behind her, the scent of ammonia-washed tile greeting her with antiseptic reality. No flowery, insubstantial fantasies here.
    Would she be doomed to think of Bo every time she saw a plane? You'd figure she would have enough jammed in her head. She was a working, single mother with a floundering family business to keep alive and a life to rebuild. She would not allow some player flyboy with his charming swagger and killer smile to derail her. "How's the pain today?"
    Seth shrugged in that guy manner indicating that to admit pain would be considered wussy. "I'll be ready to kick Vic's ass in a couple of weeks."
    "I'll be sure to warn him." Paige flung the sack of dog food onto the counter, her muscles screaming
    "thank you" in relief.
    Not exactly dog food in the looks department, huh? She glanced down at her ragged fingernails and chapped hands, flipped them over to reveal more calluses. Damn it, she was proud of these hands, and she wouldn't let silly vanity steal the joy of accomplishment.
    Closing her fingers into a fist, Paige knuckle-nudged her glasses so her unsteady world would tip right again, only to find they were already straight. And she had no