His quiet disapproval rankled. “I don’t like dogs.”

Hank’s eyes sparkled with devilry. “Dogs and Christmas. Wow. Sure your name isn’t Ebenezer Scrooge?”

Ally gave him her most repressing look. “Very funny,” she snapped, more annoyed now than embarrassed. “I was bit by a dog that strayed onto our ranch when I was five. I’ve been leery of them ever since.”

Comprehension lent compassion. “That’s a shame,” Hank said sincerely, shaking his head in regret. “You’re really missing out.”

Still keeping a cautious eye on the suddenly docile creature, Ally remained where she was. She didn’t care how friendly the big mutt looked now-there was no way Hank was getting her to venture over there. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

A car motor sounded in the drive behind them. Ally turned to see a Cadillac pulling up in front of the barn. An elegantly dressed, silver-haired man in a gray Western suit, and a Resistol hat emerged from the car.

“Expecting someone?” Hank asked curiously.

She nodded as the stranger strode over to meet them.

I am doing the right thing, she assured herself.

The short, slim man extended his hand and flashed a smile. “Ally Garrett, I presume? I’m Graham Penderson, of Corporate Farms.”


SO THAT WAS WHY Ally had arrived so early, dressed in a business suit, Hank thought, a mixture of disapproval and disappointment welling up inside him. She’d known she was taking the first step to sell the ranch that had meant everything to her mom and dad.

And now that Corporate Farms was involved, there was no doubt in his mind who would be the highest bidder.

Ally pivoted to face him, her expression as coolly commanding as her voice. “I take it you can handle this situation?” she inquired gesturing toward the filthy stray.

Hank lifted his free hand to tip up the brim of his hat. If she wanted him to act like the hired help, he’d do just that. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, putting as much twang as he could into the words, just to rile her, “I shorely can.”

Ally narrowed her eyes and smiled at him deliberately.

“All right.” She pivoted once again. “Mr. Penderson. This way…”

Hank watched as she led the slick representative toward the ranch house. They were inside the sadly neglected domicile less than two minutes, then walked back out-maps of the property in tow-and climbed into the older man’s Cadillac.

Hank looked down at the soaked, shivering dog cuddled against his side. “Well, I didn’t expect that, at least not today.” He rubbed some of the dirt off a fancy pink rhinestone collar hidden in the fur, which spelled out the first clear hint to the pet’s identity. “But I’ll deal with it. Meantime, what do you say we get you cleaned up?”

An hour later, Hank was kneeling in the big, old-fashioned bathroom upstairs, toweling off his canine companion, when Ally came down the hall.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw the mess of mud and hair and occasional spots of blood that had been left in the claw-footed tub, the pile of thorns and burrs heaped in the wastebasket.

It had taken some doing, but Hank finally had the animal in decent shape.

He noticed that Ally didn’t come any closer than the door frame when she set eyes on the golden retriever. “What’s that thing doing in here?”

“Getting a bath,” he said shortly.

Ally propped her hands on her slender hips and wrinkled her nose. “And that smell?” she asked.

“Wet dog and my shampoo,” he explained.

Ally studied the heap of wet towels next to the tub and made another face. “Ugh.”

Hank passed up the opportunity to reassure her he planned to clean everything. Instead, he leveled a matter-of-fact glance her way. “Where’s your pal Penderson?” he asked.

She tensed. “He left.”

Slowly, Hank got to his feet and braced his own hands on his waist. “Tell me you’re not selling to Corporate Farms.”

Ally flushed uncomfortably. “I’m not selling to anyone until I’ve had a chance to have the property appraised,” she told him quietly.

That made sense from a business point of view, he noted. “When is that going to happen?”

Her pretty chin took on a stubborn line. “A broker from Premier Realty in Laramie is coming out later this week, once I’ve had a chance to get the ranch house in order.”

Wishing she’d stop looking so damn kissable, Hank pushed his desire aside and forced himself to concentrate on the very important business at hand. “And once you know what the property is worth?”

Ally swept a hand through her sleek cap of honey-blond hair. “As in all competitions,” she replied, tucking the silky strands behind her ear, “the highest bid wins.” She let her hand fall to her side and regarded the retriever with a disgruntled frown. “I really wish you hadn’t brought him up here.”

“First of all-” Hank leaned past Ally “-it’s a she. And according to the rhinestone-studded collar she was wearing-” he lifted said collar out of the cleansing bubbles in the sink “-her name is Duchess.”

Ally leaned closer and inspected the fancy collar without touching it. Then once again her gaze met Hank’s. “Who does she belong to?”

“I don’t know yet.” Ignoring the quickening of his pulse, he knelt and fastened the pink leather strap around Duchess’s throat. This was no time to want to bed a woman.

Especially when she was his landlord. “It had no ring for metal identification tags.” And hence was strictly decorative. But that confirmed Hank’s guess that Duchess was a beloved house pet, not your run-of-the-mill stray.

He gave her fur one last rub, then dropped the towel and stood, motioning for the dog to do the same.

Abruptly fearful once again, Ally moved back into the hall. “So what are you going to do next?” she demanded.

“Feed her. Get her a bowl of water.” Come back and clean up this mess. And most of all, stop feeling attracted to you. Hank moved through the door, and Duchess trotted by his side.

“And then?” Ally pressed.

He paused in his bedroom to remove his damp shirt and pull a dry, long-sleeved henley over his head. He grabbed a pair of jeans and slipped into the bathroom to change. “I already put in a call to my cousin Kurt.”

When he emerged, still zipping up his pants, Ally was staring at him as if she’d never seen a man disrobe. Her mouth agape, she watched him fish a pair of wool socks from a dresser drawer.

Hank sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled on the socks. Conversationally, he continued. “Kurt is a veterinarian here now.”

Scowling, Ally shook her head as if to clear it. “I know that,” she stated irritably.

“Anyway-” ignoring Ally’s sudden pique, Hank headed down the stairs, Duchess by his side “-Kurt can’t recall a golden retriever named Duchess, but he’s having his staff go through the clinic’s records to make sure she isn’t a patient of one of the other veterinarians in the practice.”

Ally followed slowly, her arms clamped defensively in front of her. Giving Duchess and Hank plenty of room, she finally reached the foyer. Lingering next to the newel post, she asked, “And what if that’s not the case? Then what?”

Hank shrugged. “Kurt’ll put out the word to other veterinarians in the area. I’ll notify the Laramie County animal shelter, the newspaper and any other organization I can think of, till we figure out where she belongs.” He strode past Ally into the kitchen, with Duchess right on his heels.

Ally followed, again keeping wide a berth from the two of them. She watched Hank pull a stoneware bowl out of the cupboard, fill it with water and set it on the floor in front of the dog.

Duchess lowered her head and drank thirstily.

Ally lounged against the aging laminate counter. “How do you know she wasn’t just dumped in the country because her owners decided they no longer wanted her?”

Hank shot her an astonished look. “Seriously?”

He went to the fridge and, for lack of anything better, pulled out a package of smoked ham and several slices of bread. He crumbled them on a plate and set that in front of the dog, too. It was just as quickly and efficiently demolished.

“Seriously,” Ally replied in a flat, no-nonsense tone.

Hank debated giving the dog more food, then decided to wait an hour, rather than overdoing it initially and having the food come right back up.

He headed for the living room, and motioned for Duchess to follow. Once there, he glanced out the window at the increasingly gloomy sky, then walked over to build a fire in the grate. The retriever collapsed beside him while Ally lingered in the doorway once again. “Well, for starters, I can’t imagine anyone no longer wanting such a beautiful, loving dog,” Hank said. “Duchess’s temperament and behavior indicate she has been very well cared for up to now, wherever her home was. So it follows that whoever bought her the collar must be missing her desperately, wondering what’s happened to her. Especially now.”

Ally blinked. “What do you mean, especially now?”

Hank glanced at the dog’s drooping, barrel-shaped belly. “You really don’t know?” he asked in amazement.

Ally waved an impatient hand. “Don’t know and don’t care. The point is, Hank…” she paused and stared at him defiantly “…the dog can’t stay here.”

As if on cue, a cold rain began to beat against the windows. After lighting the fire, he looked out at the gloomy sky again and knew the winter storm they had been anticipating had finally arrived. He turned back to Ally, not about to throw out into the elements the dog he had just painstakingly cleaned up. “I don’t know why not. It’s not as if I’m asking you to do anything, Ally. I plan to take care of her.” He lit the fire.

Crossing her arms yet again, Ally watched the blaze take off. “I don’t want a dog in the house,” she stated.