out to be a cannibal with power tools. The truck barrels closer and it’s too late to escape detection, so I settle for a cheerful wave and one of my big, enchanting smiles. The gesture should say, Hi there! Look at me, I’m too pleasant to murder!
The truck pulls to a stop beside me and two older, tanned men with beat-up cowboy hats take up the entire bench seat. The one closer to me rolls down the window and props his elbow on the sill. I scan the front seat for killing implements but instead spot a tub of chewing tobacco and two matching Big Gulps.
“Lost, darlin’?”
DARLIN! I swoon and forget I’m supposed to be fearing for my life.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” I smile and explain confidently, “I’m looking for Blue Stone Ranch.”
The man near me frowns and tips his head, confused. “You mean Blue Stone Farm?”
I’m pretty sure Helen said Blue Stone Ranch in her email.
“Umm, now I’m not sure. Is there a difference?”
“Blue Stone Farm is the fancy restaurant a few miles that way.” He points back in the direction I’ve been walking and my heart sinks. No. NO. I am not turning back. “Blue Stone Ranch is…well, a ranch.”
“Where would I find Jack McNight?”
He nods. “Jack’ll be at the ranch.”
“Okay then that’s where I’m going.”
They exchange a glance, and then the one closer to me nods toward the bed of the truck. “We’re going that way too. It ain’t the smoothest ride, but you’re welcome to hop in there if ya want.”
The driver thumps his friend on the head. “Karl, don’t be an idiot—you get in the back and let the nice lady sit up here. Didn’t your mama teach you jack shit?”
I leap into action before Karl can move. “No! No. It’s all right. I insist on riding in the back. It’ll remind me of hayrides when I was a kid. I’m very nostalgic.”
My survival instincts have kicked in again: at least if I’m sitting back there, I can toss myself out of the truck if I get the feeling they’ve decided to kidnap me.
It takes me a few tries before I’m able to hoist myself into the bed of the truck using one of the back tires. I am a picture of grace and elegance as I take a seat near the tailgate, situate my purse on my lap, and then smack the bed twice to signal that I’m ready. The truck shifts into drive and away we go.
I spend the next ten minutes in hell as we trudge along the neglected country road. It’s a bumpy ride, to say the least. I spit dirt out of my mouth and squeeze my eyes closed to keep dust out of them. Pebbles ping off the tires and somehow fling themselves at my head. I’m getting assaulted on all fronts, and that doesn’t even include what the wind is doing to my hair. It takes me too long to realize it’s much more pleasant to sit with my back against the cab of the truck rather than the tailgate. As we pull up to a tall, arched wrought iron gate that boldly announces that we’ve arrived at Blue Stone Ranch, I am convinced I look as if I’ve just stepped off the front line of a war. I think I even have some blood on my forehead from a particularly beefy bug.
My current physical condition aside, I’m shocked by the sight before me. I’ve never set foot on a ranch before, but I had concocted a pretty dismal picture in my head, preparing for the worst so I wouldn’t be disappointed. Instead, it seems I’ve stumbled upon what can only be described as an adorable movie set. The main road we’re on dead-ends into a circular gravel drive, smack-dab in the center of it all. On one side of the circle, there’s a two-story white farmhouse with a metal roof and an inviting porch swing swaying in the wind. There are potted plants and flowers soaking up the sun on the rim of the porch. Beyond that, cows amble in a pasture beneath the shade of massive oak trees. I scan past a large chicken coop and a field with a few glistening horses, and beside that, a massive red barn divides the animals from the largest garden I’ve ever seen.
There are people at work everywhere—scratch that, not people, men. There isn’t a single female in sight, which is probably why I garner quite