Chapter One

She first saw Sloan on a sunny April Saturday after her father invited her to ride along with him to Stroh's ranch.

"Sure. How come you're going there?" She climbed into her father's truck. Sometimes he let her drive, but didn't offer today.

"I want to look over his bulls." Each year the Circle C culled their old bulls and replenished them with new stock.

"Why don't you just not castrate some of our bulls?" Through the side mirror Leslie watched dust curl up behind the truck.

"That can cause in-breeding problems, like dwarfism. Stroh runs a purebred operation."

"Is Wade coming?" As foreman, her brother would normally make these decisions with their father.

"Not today. He and Randy have to fix the water system in the heifer pasture."

On the way Leslie and her dad chatted comfortably. The rough side of ranching had never appealed to her but she loved hearing about the inner workings of her family's livelihood.

"How many bulls will you buy? Why didn't you bring the stock trailer?"

"Two or three. I'm just looking today."

"How do you know how many to get?"

"One bull services about twenty cows. It's simple math. How's school? How did you do in that algebra test?"

"Aced it, after all my worrying. Next year, when I'm a senior, I'm taking calculus. They say it's hard. Dad, yesterday one of the guys called me 'Little Miss Runaway.' After all this time. I thought everyone had forgotten about it. I know he was only teasing but..."

"It's going to take time, Les. Just try not to let on that it bothers you. What did you do?"

"I pretended I didn't hear it. I was with Jordan and I just turned to him and said the first thing that came to my mind. I can't even remember what I said. Jordan gave him a dirty look."

Her father slowed the truck as they neared Stroh's ranch. "Jordan's a nice boy."

"He is. I can't believe we've been dating for six months now."

"So what about Kip?"

"He's yesterday's news. History. Toast."

John chuckled. "Poor Kip."

"'Poor Kip' is a control freak. The girl he's dating now complained to me about it!"

The patched fence bordering Stroh's property showed ingenuity in using a variety of local materials. Where the hard, rocky soil made post digging impossible, the fence was supported by cribs -- cages filled with rocks. Four-strand barbed wire stretched between irregular-shaped, split pine poles replaced occasionally by sturdy steel posts.

They pulled into the long driveway bordering the bull pasture. Her father slowed down to look over the stock. Leslie watched him. Dad, like Wade, could see more in a glance than Leslie could by making a real study of it. John Cahill was a well-respected eastern Washington rancher and the Circle C was known for its healthy stock and high standards.

Jake Stroh met them by the house and the three ambled over to a group of Hereford bulls crowded around a stack of alfalfa.

"I want some smaller bulls this year to put in with the heifers."

Mr. Stroh nodded. "Got some prime stock to show you."

Leslie, absorbed in their conversation, started when a man brushed against her arm. He looked about Wade's age, in his late twenties. She felt the warmth of his body, not an unpleasant sensation. "Oh, hello."

He nodded. Pale, almost translucent blue eyes searched her face and quickly scanned her body. Catching her eye, he nodded again, this time showing approval.

Leslie felt a rush of pleasure. No one had ever looked at her that way.

Her father and Mr. Stroh made their way along the pasture fence pointing out likely prospects.

The young man took off his stained billed cap, ran his fingers through hair so blond it almost looked white and replaced the cap. "I've seen you around, but didn't know who you were. You a Cahill?"

"Yes, I'm Leslie Cahill. That's my dad. You probably know my brother Wade. Do you work here?"

He shrugged. "You might say that. Jake Stroh's my uncle. I've been coming here on and off for years. Name's Sloan Stroh."

Leslie, suddenly tongue-tied, couldn't think of a sophisticated response. Should I shake his hand? Say something! "Where's home when you're not here?" Her stomach flipped. What a dumb question.

"You name it, I've lived there."

He stood so close she could feel his breath on her cheek and smell his chewing tobacco. He turned to spit, making a resounding splat on a flat rock. For some reason, she even found this attractive. Neither her father nor brother chewed tobacco. At one time, they smoked, but both gave that up a few years ago after her father developed a nagging cough. Their hired hand, Randy, chewed though and Leslie had found the habit disgusting. But somehow, with this man....

Her father and Stroh walked further away from Leslie and Sloan, engrossed in conversation. Her father turned once and started to call her but was distracted by something Mr. Stroh said. He frowned absently and turned his attention back to the business of bulls.

"Your daddy let you date?"

"Of course I date!" Oh man. What's going on here?

"How old are you? Eighteen, nineteen?"

Flattered that she appeared older, she hated to admit otherwise. "Not quite."

"Not quite what?"

She laughed. Keep him guessing.

"You like to dance? I'll bet you knock 'em dead on the dance floor."

"Sure. I mean...sure I like to dance." But she wasn't about to reveal that the only dances she'd attended were at the high school. He thinks I'd knock 'em dead!

"How about me and you doin' a little boogyin' in town? I think we could smuggle you into Big Jim's."

Stunned that he would consider taking her to a tavern, her mind turned to jelly. "Well. . ."

"Leslie," her dad called, "it's time to go."

"What do you say?" he whispered urgently.

"I, ah--"

"Leslie, let's go." Her father's voice had an edge to it -- she didn't want him to call her again.

"Okay, Dad. I'm coming." She flashed Sloan a smile and turned to join her father and walked with him toward his truck.

Once on the road she studied her father's face, at the familiar strong Cahill jaw now flexing with agitation. His big, calloused hands gripped the wheel. Something was wrong. "Did you take care of your business? We didn't stay very long."

"We stayed long enough."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No, Les, I'm not mad. Who was that guy you were talking to?"

She caught the tone of the question. "Sloan Stroh. Mr. Stroh's nephew. Why? What's wrong?"

"I didn't like the way he came on to you."

"We were just talking, Dad." Maybe I should tell him Sloan asked me out. No, it would just tick him off more. Anyway, I didn't say I'd go.

Her father shook his head. He apparently didn't even want to talk about Sloan. Fine, we won't talk about him.

They maintained their silence all the way home. Her father dropped her off at the house, obviously preoccupied with his gloomy thoughts, barely nodding when she said, "See you later, Dad."

The two-story ranch house bore a welcoming appeal. Originally built by Leslie's grandparents, her father's parents, the well-maintained house sprawled under the shade of Ponderosa pine, magnolia and oak trees. One improvement Leslie's father had made within recent years was the addition of a ranch office, accessible from both the outside and from the kitchen, thereby avoiding the traffic of ranch business traipsing through the house. Leslie loved her home - she'd lived here all her life.

She slowly climbed the stairs to her room. The entire upstairs consisted of two large bedrooms - Leslie's and Wade's and a shared bathroom. She sighed as she dropped down on her bed. A distant clatter in the kitchen broke the otherwise stillness of her room, her sanctuary. Last year Maureen, their housekeeper, had helped her select the matching soft-color floral bedspread and curtains. On the large oak dresser neatly stacked laundry waited her attention - Maureen never opened Leslie's dresser drawers. Her desk, a recent Christmas gift from Wade, stood next to an overflowing bookcase. The large window looked out over the back yard with its large brick barbeque pit. Beyond, a driveway wound around to the front of the house.

Sloan filled the rest of her day. His scent of leather, sweat and tobacco lingered. She felt his presence wherever she went. She wandered into the kitchen where Maureen launched into a conversation about a sale in town. Something about summer clothes, a swimsuit. As soon as she could, she excused herself and again climbed the stairs to her bedroom and flopped onto her bed. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, with Sloan. He'd been attracted to her. That much was obvious. Should she have told him her age?

She thought of Jordan -- kind, faithful Jordan. Predictable Jordan. Leslie doubted he dated anyone else; since they had started seeing one another, she hadn't either. But they weren't exactly "going steady." Sloan's muscular body crowded her thoughts. His pale blue eyes and almost white eyelashes haunted her. How tall was he? Not as tall as Wade, but broader. He looked as strong as one of his uncle's bulls. He'd been around, not just lived here all his life like most of the boys she knew. "You name it, I've lived there."

He wanted to take me dancing! Of all the women he could date, he wanted to date me. The scent of Maureen's roasting beef tenderloin tinged with sage wafted upstairs to her room. Usually so appetizing, now the smell almost nauseated her anxious stomach.

At dinner Leslie shoved a piece of roast beef around her plate. She strove to keep her voice calm. "Wade, do you know Sloan Stroh, Jake's nephew?"

Her brother could win an eating contest in either category -- amount consumed and speed. His fork was a blur as he attacked the roast beef and mountain of mashed potatoes. He'd made a lake in the center of the potatoes and filled it with rich, brown gravy but it was all disappearing so fast she wondered why he bothered. "That white-haired guy? Don't know him. Know who he is."

John looked up sharply.

Wade's eyes darted to their father, then to her. "Why?"

She could feel her face redden. "Oh, I just wondered. I met him today at Stroh's."

Wade helped himself to more meat, potatoes and gravy and a single, shiny baked carrot. "He's too old for you."

Leslie sputtered, "I didn't ask you how old he is, just if you knew him. Geez."

"Did he ask you out?"

"Wade!" She glanced sidelong at her father.

"Did he?" His fork hung suspended as he watched her and waited for an answer.

"Well. . ."

Her father's temper boiled to the surface. "Leslie, don't even think of going out with that guy. The answer's no."

"Why? How can you say something like that without even knowing him?"

"Because I know the type."

"What happened to our agreement about talking things over?"

"We're talking it over right now. The answer is no."

She glared at her father, but his set jaw and flashing eyes warned her to keep still.

Maureen, never comfortable with family arguments, rose from the table. "There's apple pie for dessert."

Wade grinned at her. "Got any ice cream to go with that pie?"

Leslie's glare wavered. Her dad wasn't budging an inch. I'll wait until he calms down and try to talk to him again.

That night, alone with her thoughts, sleep wouldn't come. She vaguely remembered that Jordan had called. She'd tried to cover her impatience with him. They closed the conversation with Jordan saying something like, "I guess you're busy now. I'll talk to you tomorrow." It wasn't that she'd been busy-she just wanted time to think about Sloan.

Now, lying in bed, she envisioned dancing with Sloan, riding with Sloan, going for a drive with Sloan. She still felt his breath on her cheek, his arm on hers. Hot, she threw off the covers, then shivering, covered herself again. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, she fell asleep, only to wake thinking of him. Deep inside, her stomach ached.

"What's going on? I've never felt like this before."

* ~ *

After breakfast the next morning Leslie sat at her piano. During the school year she practiced an hour each day, more when she prepared for a concert. She lived for her music. They were getting ready for the school's year-end concert and she had two solos and would accompany other instrumentalists for their numbers.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she played one of the pieces. In a couple of places it wasn't quite right. Mr. Baxter, her piano teacher, would have to work with her on the timing. The hour passed quickly and then it was time to go to church with Maureen.

She'd been really desperate when she'd run away, and had made a pact with God. If He'd help her find work, she would try to lead a better life. That very day she found work on a ranch in Oregon. Not exactly what she'd had in mind, but it was work, at least. One of the ways she could lead a better life, she figured, was to go to church with Maureen.

Their housekeeper beamed now, standing at the doorway. "Oh, you look lovely this morning." Maureen always mentioned how nice she looked whenever it was anything besides jeans. This morning Leslie wore brown slacks and a soft beige sweater.

"Maureen, lots of kids wear jeans to church."

"I know, but I'm happy when you don't. It's time to go, dear."

One of the benefits of going to church with Maureen was that Leslie usually got to drive. As they passed Stroh's ranch, Leslie craned her neck to look up the long driveway. "Do you know Mrs. Stroh?"

"Just barely. Why?"

"Oh, I just wondered. I met her nephew the other day. Sloan."

"Is that what all that fuss was about at dinner last night?"

Leslie's face reddened. "That was so ridiculous! I don't know what Dad and Wade's problem is. They don't even know Sloan."

Maureen glanced her way. "Honey, they know how they feel, even if they can't express it well. From what I gathered, they think he's too old for you."

"Humph." Leslie slipped on a pair of sunglasses. The sun was glaring, but more than that, they provided a shield against prying eyes.

"It is a bright day," Maureen agreed. "Before you know it, spring round up will be here."