Miss Greenhorn. Diana Palmer

       Chapter One

      It was the second day of the dig, and Christiana Haley was having the time of her life. She’d signed up with Dr. Adamson’s Pastfinders team earlier in the year, planning the three-week trip to coincide with her summer vacation from teaching. It was a long way from Jacksonville, Florida, to Tucson, Arizona, but as Christiana had pointed out to her worried older sister, sand was sand.

      However, she was learning the hard way that ocean sand and desert sand were amazingly different. She’d forgotten to wear a hat yesterday morning, and he had given her hell. In fact, he gave her hell at every possible turn, and had ever since she and the team had registered at his dude ranch. If only Professor Adamson had picked anywhere other than the Lang Ranch for the dig. It was pure bad luck that the Hohokam ruin the professor was interested in was on property owned by Nathanial Lang, who seemed to hate science, modern people, and Christiana with a passion.

      Christy had actually daydreamed about meeting a handsome, charming, eligible cowboy out West when she’d paid the group rate for joining the private archaeological expedition. And what did she get? She got Nathanial Lang, who was neither handsome nor charming even though he was eligible. He’d barely looked at Christy at the Tucson airport and his slate-gray eyes had grown quickly colder. Men had really started noticing her just recently. Her new image gave her a confidence she hadn’t had, and it had helped her to overcome her former demeanor—which was shy and awkward and old-fashioned. She had a nice figure anyway, and the new wardrobe really did emphasize it. She was slender and had pale green eyes and long silvery blond hair, a soft mouth and a delicate oval face. She looked very nearly pretty. But Nathanial Lang had stared at her as if she had germs, and he’d made sure to keep his distance from her, even while he was being charming and courteous to the rest of the twelve-member group.

      It wasn’t her fault that she had two left feet, Christy kept reassuring herself. Just because she’d tripped over her suitcase at the airport and sent its contents flying—and her bra had landed on top of Nathanial Lang’s dark head and given him a vague resemblance to a World War I flying ace—well, why should he have been so insulted? Lots of people spilled things. Everyone else had found it simply hilarious. Including, unfortunately, Christy herself.

      He hadn’t spoken directly to her after that. At supper, a delicious affair served on the ranch’s sprawling patio facing a range of mountains that became a shade of pale burgundy in the setting sun, she’d managed to spill a bowl of tomato soup on the lap of her white skirt and while frantically trying to wipe it up with the tablecloth, she’d pulled that off her table—along with most of her supper. It was good luck that she’d been sitting alone. Mr. Lang’s mother had been caring and sympathetic. Mr. Lang had fried her with his slate-gray eyes.

      The first morning they went out to the dig, she’d tried to get on a horse and had to be helped into the saddle. The horse, sensing her fear of it, helped her right back off again and reached down to bite her.

      She’d screamed and accused it of cannibalism, at which point the increasingly irritable Mr. Lang had put her into his Jeep and promptly driven her to the dig site, where he’d deposited her with bridled fury. After a day in the sun, her skin was fried and she’d been no trouble to anybody, preferring a bath and bed to supper.

      Somehow, she’d managed to avoid Mr. Lang this morning. Two other members of the party hated horses, so the three of them had begged a ride with the equipment truck driver. It was almost noon, and so far no Mr. Lang. Christy mentally patted herself on the back. She’d avoided him for several hours now; maybe her luck would hold.

      Just as the thought occurred, a Jeep climbed over the distant mountain and threw up a cloud of dust as it barreled toward the dig site. A lean man in a creamy Stetson was driving it, and Christy knew just by the set of his head who it was. With a sigh, she laid down the screen box she’d been manipulating for fragments of pottery. It had been too good to last.

      He got out of the Jeep and after a few terse words with Professor Adamson, he headed straight for Christy.

      “At least you had enough sense to bring the sun hat,” he muttered with a pointed stare at the floppy straw brimmed hat that shaded her pale skin. “Sunstroke is unpleasant.”

      “I’m not stupid,” she informed him. “I teach school—”

      “Yes, I know. Grammar school, isn’t it?” he added, insinuating with that thin smile that she wasn’t