level surface, gritting her teeth as weeds scraped her door.
There was nowhere to turn around, and stopping would bring Lane to her rescue. He’d take her to the ranch and she’d be stuck there. She didn’t want to spend any more time in the company of horses than she had to. Or in the company of Lane Carrigan.
He turned onto a weed-choked two-track after about a quarter-mile, passing under a massive log ranch gate decorated with a set of elk horns flanked by two mule deer racks. It was atmospheric but not ostentatious, so it didn’t prepare her for the view as she steered the Malibu around a rutted bend in the road.
The barn rose up before her, tall, ancient, and weathered. Wide, welcoming doors at the front slid open to either side, offering a glimpse of the shadowed interior. A hay door at the top framed stacks of gleaming straw.
Generations of ranchers had embellished and added to the basic edifice. On one side, old lean-to additions tilted against its solid mass like chicks round a hen, but on the other a modern new addition stretched out, with wide windows over dutch doors that indicated nearly a dozen individual stalls. A few chickens and something that looked like a pheasant pecked in the driveway, adding a homey barnyard feel.
Old corrals built of a haphazard assortment of poles and boards created a free-form patchwork that stretched from the barn, undulating over the hills like a roughly stitched quilt. Linked in a complex network by every imaginable type of gate, each square was polka-dotted with horses in colors ranging from black to palomino. The corrals gave way to a pasture surrounded by miles of crooked, weathered fence, with more horses scattered over the yellowing grass that stretched to the horizon.
The place looked like a picture-book ranch—or a scene from her adolescent fantasies of some future paradise. She felt like a goose-girl again, a barnyard princess, and this was her kind of castle.
The house, though, was less of a dream and more of a nightmare. Someone had concluded that if big was good, enormous was better. The result was a place so grandiose that it looked absurd. The high stone front was set with massive carved doors that looked large enough to admit a herd of cattle. The stone section was topped by a cathedral-style log edifice that was mostly windows. Two-story log-and-stone wings flanked the center, and a round tower rose from one side. The top story of the tower was even higher than the cathedral roof, and it had windows all around. Sarah could only imagine the view from inside.
She heard Lane’s truck door slam behind her and the crunch of his boots on the gravel drive.
“Grandaddy grew up poor.” He gave the house a rueful smile. “He wanted to make sure everybody knew how much money he’d made.”
She shot him an irritated look. “You thought Trevor had to have this all to himself last night?”
He looked away, squinting toward the corrals as if he hadn’t heard her.
“This place must sleep about fifty,” she said.
“There are only twelve bedrooms. Each one has a different theme, so its fun to switch around.” He shrugged. “I wanted to give him his privacy. I hadn’t warned him I was coming.”
“You didn’t warn me either, and I had to keep a lot closer quarters with you.”
“Yeah, that worked out pretty well.”
“Dog.” She suppressed the urge to smile as he stepped up to the corral fence and rested his elbows on the top. Joining him, she propped one foot on the bottom rail and watched three horses sidle toward them. There was a pretty sorrel with a white blaze, a slightly bony palomino, and a roan that didn’t look to be much more than a yearling. The sorrel stretched her neck as she approached, testing the air.
“They’re gorgeous,” she said. “Well, except for the palomino.”
“That’s Tony,” Lane said. “He had a rough time. He’ll be a good-looking boy once he gets some food in him.”
“Poor thing. But they’re all quarter horses, aren’t they?”
“I’m partial to ’em.”
She couldn’t really blame him. The horses all had strong hindquarters, broad chests, and beautiful heads, wide at the forehead and tapering to an almost delicate muzzle. Their eyes were curious and soft, and she felt an urge stirring inside her—an urge she’d managed to suppress for over a decade.
Lane watched her stroke the sorrel’s nose, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his smile widened. “That’s Sadie,” he said. “She’s