“Come on, come on.” She tried over and over but the convertible was as dead as a proverbial doornail and wasn’t about to budge. “Great. Just bloody terrific!” She thought of her half-brother and his efforts under the hood a short while ago. “Nice try, Jarrod,” she grumbled, but couldn’t really blame him. He was a private investigator, an ex-cop, and never had been a mechanic. Just because he was male didn’t mean he knew anything about alternators or batteries or spark plugs or whatever it was that made a car run.

With a pained sigh she dropped her head onto the steering wheel and whispered, “A cell phone, a cell phone. My kingdom for a cell phone.” Sweat ran down the back of her neck and within seconds a lazy bee buzzed and hovered near her head.

Katie drew in a long, deep breath, then gave herself a quick mental shake.

“Okay, okay, you’re a smart woman, Kinkaid. When Jarrod worked on this he might have messed up and didn’t reconnect a wire or hose properly. It’s probably no big deal.” She buoyed herself up as she slid from behind the steering wheel and looked under the hood. The same engine she’d stared at earlier in the day sat where it always had, ticking as it cooled in front of her. Everything appeared in order, but then she didn’t know up from sideways when it came to cars. Gingerly, hoping not to burn herself or smear oil all over, she jiggled a few wires, poked at the hoses, checked the battery cables and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Not that she would recognize it if it was.

In the distance, beyond the last hill, the sound of an engine reached her ears. “Hallelujah!”

Ignoring all the warnings she’d been given as a schoolgirl, she stepped around the car and raised her hands. On this road she was most likely to come across a farmer or ranch hand, or a mother toting her kids into town.

A battered pickup crested the hill and her heart nosedived. She recognized Luke Gates’s truck before it ground to a stop.

“Great,” she muttered sarcastically. “Just . . . perfect.” She told herself she should be relieved rather than disgusted, angry or embarrassed. After all, he was a man she trusted. Well, sort of. At least, as far as she knew, he wasn’t a rapist or murderer or any other kind of criminal.

He parked just ahead of her car and opened the truck’s door. Long, jeans-clad legs unfolded from behind the wheel and leather boots that had seen better days hit the ground. “Trouble?” he asked as he slammed the door shut.