“Right now?”

“Maybe not right now, because I need about a gallon of water.”

“I’ll get it.” He sat up, looked down at her. Another image for his collection, he thought. Caitlyn, naked in starlight. “I’ve got a lot of pictures of you in my head.”

Her eyes, her lips gave him a sleepy, satisfied smile. “Do you?”

“This might be my favorite one. I’ll be right back.”

She lay as she was when he went downstairs, and realized she had a number of pictures of him in her head, too. Starting with the one of the skinny kid coming down the back steps to raid the refrigerator.

Something to think about, she decided. Later. She didn’t want to think tonight.

She sat up when she heard him coming back up the steps, realized every inch of her felt soothed and smoothed.

He paused at the doorway, bottles of water in his hands. “You really are so beautiful.”

She followed her heart, opened her arms.

His internal clock woke him before sunrise with Cate sleeping warm beside him. She had an arm flung over him, and he could smell her hair, feel the long length of her leg pressed to his.

There were moments, rare ones for him, when ranching had real disadvantages.

This ranked as number one.

But he slid out of bed to dress quietly in the dark. Because he couldn’t quite remember furniture placement—he’d been a little preoccupied—he sat on the floor to put on his shoes.

She stirred.

“It has to be the middle of the night.”

“No, just really early in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

“Count on it. Travel cups in the, uh, cabinet to the left of the coffee maker.”

“Thanks.” He got to his feet, leaned over the bed. Brushed at her hair, kissed her. “I want to see you again. Like this.”

Shifting, she drew him down for another kiss. “Is tonight too soon?”

“Not for me.”

“Good. You can experience my reasonably amazing pasta from my limited culinary repertoire.”

“Really? You want to cook?”

“Tonight I do, because I want to see you again. Like this. And going out takes too much time.”

“You’re going to have to seriously think about marrying me. How about seven?”

“That works. Good night,” she added and rolled over.

He went downstairs, made coffee. He drank it, thinking of her, on the drive home.

Maybe he’d toss out that marriage thing, all casual, now and then. That way she might not be shocked when he actually asked her.

She really needed to marry him. Not only because he was crazy in love with her, but because they just worked. If she needed time to fall for him, well, he had time.

He drove up the ranch road, caught the gleam of the downstairs light through the window. He’d never given a lot of thought to fate, but he decided fate had guided Cate toward that light so many years before.

To the light, and to him.

He parked, went into his house. As he showered, changed, grabbed something to eat, he went over the work for the day. Feed and water, move any stabled horses out to pasture. And it was time to herd the beef cattle from Marvel Field to Hawkeye Field, let them graze on fresh grass and get busy fertilizing.

He’d ride Beamer for that job, take the dogs. A good day for all.

He’d tap Red for washing out water tanks, mucking out the stalls, hauling some hay.

Then he had to supervise the seasonals with the plantings.

His mother would handle the pigs and chickens. And between her and Gram, they’d deal with the morning and afternoon milkings.

He’d take the evening.

Needed to put in some time working with a couple of yearlings, but he had it since his ladies handled the co-op deliveries most Saturdays.

He grabbed a light denim jacket, went out to start the day.

By the time the sun bloomed over the hills, he had the horses fed, watered, and out grazing. Since the dogs came running, he knew his ladies—who’d kept them for him the night before—were up and about.

When he opened the gate between pastures, the dogs knew just what it meant. They raced back, barking, scrambling to help herd the cattle.

Just as happy as the dogs, Dillon rode back at an easy trot to join the roundup.

It took a solid hour—there were always some who didn’t think the grass was greener. He ditched the jacket in a saddlebag as the day warmed and his body heated.

The air filled with the mutter of equipment, the scent of manure as a couple of hands spread fertilizer over a field.

He heard the chickens humming and scratching at feed, the pigs snorting over their own. Over the rumbling roll of the sea, a gull cried before winging away.

From the saddle, he watched a falcon circle on a hunt.

His dogs wrestled in the grass while in the near pasture a couple of foals frolicked like any kid on a Saturday morning.

As far as he could see, his world was as perfect as perfect got.

He didn’t see Red’s truck, so figured his unofficial ranch hand either slept in or found a wave to ride. Which meant he’d start cleaning stalls on his own.

Beamer drank while he unsaddled him, toweled him down, checked his hooves. He led him to the paddock, as he’d ride him out to check the fields later, then he headed into the stables.

He found his mother mucking out.

“I’ve got this,” he began, only to feel a quick clutch in his guts when she turned to him.

For a woman of seemingly limitless endurance, she looked exhausted. Her eyes, bruised with fatigue, were sunken against a face pale from lack of sleep.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” He took her arm with one hand, laid his other on her brow. “Is it Gram?”

“No, and no. It’s Red. He’s all right,” she added quickly. “I need to work, honey, I need to work and keep my hands busy while I tell you.”

She forked soiled hay into the barrow, the brim of her hat tipped low so he couldn’t see her face.

“When he was driving home last night, two men in a stolen car . . . they shot his truck up.”

She might have said aliens beamed Red up to Mars for the sense it made to him. “They—what? Is he hurt? Where is he?”

“They grazed his arm. He keeps saying it’s just a graze, but we’ll see for ourselves when we change the bandage. The police brought him back here because he wouldn’t go to the hospital.”

“He’s here.” Okay, that settled the worst fears. “Mom, you should’ve called me.”

“Nothing you could do, Dillon. Really nothing we could do except look after him as much as he’d let us. He’s more upset about the damn truck.”

She stopped, leaned on the pitchfork. “He said they were shooting with one of those semiautomatic rifles, and trying to run him off the cliff.”

“Jesus Christ. Does he know them? Does he know why?”

Her exhausted eyes on Dillon’s, Julia shook her head. “They’re the ones who ended up going over. One of them’s dead, and the other’s in a coma the last we heard. The police identified the one in a coma, and Red doesn’t know him. It’ll take longer to identify the other because he . . . the car exploded. His body’s burned.

“It could’ve been Red down there, burned beyond recognition at the bottom of the cliff.”