The Rancher's Redemption. Myra Johnson

       Chapter One

      A sunny azure sky overhead, contented cattle grazing beside a tree-shaded pond, field upon field of bluebonnets stretching toward the horizon—in all his thirty-six years, Kent Ritter had yet to see anything prettier than an April day in the Texas Hill Country.

      Until he rode out to round up a couple of strays and came upon a waiflike stranger sitting cross-legged beneath an oak tree.

      His oak tree. On his land.

      Facing the opposite direction, the girl didn’t seem aware of Kent’s approach. An assortment of grasses and twigs lay beside her on a multicolored quilt. She bent low over something in her lap, chin-length auburn curls falling toward her face and her fingers flying.

      Not of a mind to announce his presence until he had a better idea of what she was up to, Kent pulled on his cutting horse’s reins with a whispered “Whoa, Jasmine.”

      He guessed he wasn’t as quiet as he’d thought, because his visitor’s head shot up and she turned with a startled gasp. As she scrambled to her feet, whatever she’d been working on fell to the quilt. Panic filled her eyes, but her stance—fists clenched at her sides, feet apart as if preparing for combat—sent a different message: don’t mess with me!

      Kent’s stomach fell straight to his boot heels. Clearly, this fully grown woman wasn’t the truant teenager he’d assumed her to be. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes suggested late twenties or early thirties—much closer to Kent’s age than he suddenly felt comfortable with, since his initial curious concern now vied with an undeniable and completely inappropriate attraction. Yep, more than likely, this woman’s appearance had something to do with the unsettling letter he’d received two days ago, the one he’d been doing his dead level best to ignore.

      He clenched his jaw. “If you’re from the Juniper Bluff Historical Society, you can leave right now. This is still private property.”

      “I’m so sorry.” Looking both startled and confused, the woman dropped to her knees and began gathering her things into the center of the quilt. “I was just out exploring, and I don’t know anything about the historical society. I’m actually new in town and—” Her hands shook so hard that she kept dropping everything.

      First he’d jumped to conclusions, and now he’d scared the poor lady half to death. “Hey, it’s okay.” Afraid she’d have a heart attack, Kent dismounted and strode over to help. “Ma’am, it’s okay, really.”

      As he drew closer, he saw what she’d been making—a basket woven from twigs and dry pasture grass. He picked it up and studied the intricate design. Blades of grass had been twisted and shaped to resemble miniature bluebonnets and woven into the outside of the basket. Between two of the flowers, a thinner, more pliable twig formed the letter A.

      Glancing up, Kent found the woman standing at the edge of the quilt, arms crossed and her expression wary. He held the basket out to her. “You made this? Just now?”

      “Well, yes. But not just now, exactly.” Taking the basket, she offered a guilty frown. “I—I’ve been here most of the day.”

      Even if she wasn’t a historical society snoop, Kent ought to feel a lot more annoyed that a perfect stranger had been trespassing on his property—he’d chased off ignorant city kids looking to go cow tipping on a dare, hunters who’d unknowingly crossed boundaries, even a few lost hikers and trail riders. But never in all the years he’d been ranching had he come upon anyone quite like this nervous and oh-so-pretty artisan.

      She tugged on the quilt, drawing attention to the fact that he was standing on the edge. Stepping off into the grass, he bent and grabbed the two corners closest to him. When all her craft supplies—bits and pieces of his pasture—were folded inside the quilt,