She wondered where they’d live. There was usually a bunkhouse for single cowboys, but there might be a small house they could rent from his boss. It was too early to concern herself with that, really. She still had the worry about what to do about her own ranch if she left Catelow.

She could put in a manager, perhaps Fender, her new full-time man. He seemed to be honest and trustworthy, and he was proving to be a competent worker. She allowed herself to dream of a future with Cort, of a baby in her arms and a happy marriage. Surely he wouldn’t mind her profession. After all, the only things she needed were a laptop and an internet connection to pursue her craft. She could tell him about the writing without dropping the truth of her research into his lap until he got used to the idea of her profession. Surely he wouldn’t mind.

“You’re very quiet,” Jake remarked as they finished dessert.

She laughed. “I’m working.” She flushed. “Sorry, I tend to work out details in my mind before I ever put them down in a word processing program. It saves rewrites.”

He chuckled. “Ah, the life of a writer,” he teased. “You do love it, don’t you?”

“It’s been my whole life, for a long time now.”

“I noticed.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Jake,” she said, her dark eyes meeting his. “I can fly commercial, but I’m nervous of planes, even with the guys.”

“What do they fly around in?” he wondered aloud.

“This ancient DC-3,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s well maintained and it gets us where we’re going, but I’m constantly amazed that it can get off the ground.”

“They need something newer,” he said.

She sighed. “I mentioned that. And they said that gear was far more important. They can borrow air transport if they need it. Gear, that’s another thing.” She grinned. “They even had a special suit made for me. I brought it home, along with the .45 auto they gave me.” She whistled. “My hands aren’t really big enough for a weapon that size, but I’m getting better with it.”

“A smaller caliber might be a better fit,” he ventured.

“It might be, but I like what I’ve got.” She didn’t tell him the real reason. A .45 could knock down a vicious target, something a lesser caliber couldn’t do. If she and the group were in a really dangerous situation—like the last time, when she’d been shot—it could mean the difference between life and death.

He cocked his head and smiled at the picture she made in her demure black cocktail dress, with her hair long and pretty around her shoulders.

“You really are a dish,” he mused gently.

She flushed. “Thanks.”

He studied his coffee instead of her. “You and Cort Grier—is it getting serious?”

She smiled and made a face at him. “Classified.”

He burst out laughing. “Okay, I’ll stop fishing. But if he ever goes to the back of the line, you have to keep me in mind.”