A lot of people liked animals better than their fellow human beings, he supposed, and he could empathize. He’d often thought the world might be a better place if the critters had it to themselves.

They were quiet for a while, man and girl; the silence was weary but companionable enough.

“You could teach me how to train horses, like you do,” ventured his might-be daughter. “And how to ride…” In some ways, maybe a lot of ways, Cord hoped this spunky little hellcat really was his, and not just some clever con artist looking for a mark.

If it hadn’t been for her heart-stopping resemblance to Reba, he probably wouldn’t have believed a thing she said. That resemblance couldn’t help awaking a few very specific memories of Reba. The post high school party, of course, the one that ended in disaster for his most important friendships. An evening of laughter at the old pre-Brynne Bailey’s. A walk in the woods, with plenty of moments spent leaning against trees, kissing…

Cord shook his head, dispelling those memories.

“I could teach you,” he replied after a moment. “But I’d have to know your name, for a start. Not a made-up one, either. The real deal.”

She considered that. “It’s stupid,” she said, at some length. “My name, I mean.”

“Your mother must not have thought so,” Cord observed carefully.

A long pause ensued.

“It’s Charlotte,” she admitted with marked reluctance.

Cord repeated the name in the silence of his mind. Liked it.

“What’s wrong with ‘Charlotte’? I think it’s kind of pretty. Classy, even.”

“It isn’t me,” said Charlotte. “Do I look classy to you?”

“Whoa, back,” Cord said. “The tattoo maybe not, and your clothes have seen better days, but I reckon you’d clean up all right.”

“Gee, thanks.” She glowered at him. “What do you have against tattoos?”

“Nothing,” Cord responded truthfully. Except when they’re on the neck of a teenage girl who might have my blood running through her veins.

The turn onto the ranch road was coming up in a few hundred yards, so he signaled a left and slowed the rig.

“Is that it? Your place?” She pointed toward the large house on top of the rise, lit up against the gloom, thanks to Tina. She’d be waiting there, all down-home sweetness and good will, with fresh coffee brewing and some hearty dish ready to be popped into the microwave.

“That’s it,” Cord confirmed.

“It looks big.”

“It is. But it isn’t fancy, so don’t think you’re headed for the Ponderosa.”

“What’s the Ponderosa?”

“Never mind,” Cord answered, with a tired grin. His grandfather had loved the old TV Westerns, especially Bonanza and Gunsmoke, and Cord had been raised on the reruns. He still spoke the lingo.