"Hel–lo, gorgeous." Nina pressed her nose to the window as the shuttle van turned in to the dirt parking area, giving her an eyeful of flower–studded green hills and log cabins that looked hobbit–sized from the distance. At the edge of the parking area, a big barn sprouted fenced–in areas, where horses munched from round bales and cattle dozed in the early summer sun. In the background, huge, snowcapped mountains rose up impossibly high into a blue, blue Wyoming sky.

Wow. The Web site hadn't even come close to how pretty Mustang Ridge Ranch was in person.

"Ahem." Traci, a Goth jewelry designer who had become Nina's instant new friend during the long ride from Laramie, elbowed her and pointed out the other side of the bus. "Hel–lo, gorgeouser."

She wasn't pointing at the big, rough–hewn main house, though, or the black–and–white border collie that stood on the porch, wagging a tongue–lolling greeting.

Nope, she was pointing at a big silver SUV, and the man who stood near the open back deck unloading luggage.

Nina didn't get a good look at him, just a glimpse of wavy dark hair, dark glasses and the powerful swing of muscles as he shouldered a battered knapsack. He was wearing worn jeans and a snug t–shirt, and had a body worthy of a "hel–lo," along with a straw Stetson and a rangy way of moving that drew the eye. Yum. "Think he's one of the cowboys?"

"If so, they should really put him on the Web site under ‘come see our amazing scenery.'"

"You'll have to suggest it to the owners." Chuckling, Nina returned her attention to the fields and streams on her side of the bus. There was no need for her to ogle the local talent, after all. After her last few disappointing dips into the dating pool, she was taking a break.

"Ooh!" Traci squealed. "He's looking right at me!"

The windows are tinted, Nina thought with an inner grin. He's probably looking at the bus. But she didn't want to spoil her new friend's fun, so she said, "Wave at him and let's get out there." Ahead of them, the eighteen other guests were shuffling off the bus, spilling out onto the packed dirt of the sun–drenched parking area, and giving lots of "oohs" and "aahs" along with a few travel–weary groans.

While Traci waved at the cowboy, Nina collected her purse and brand–new straw Stetson—when in Wyoming, and all that—and they filed off.

They were the last two out. Most of the others were already headed around the side of the main house, following a gravel path and signs that pointed to the dining hall and said "WELCOME TO RUSTLERS' WEEK! THIS WAY FOR GRUB AND ORIENTATION!"

Their driver, a twentysomething cowboy named Junior, stood up by the front of the bus. Wearing creased Wranglers, shiny boots, and a blingy belt buckle, he was easy on the eyes and young enough to make Nina feel very thirtysomething, even if it was only by a year. As they came out, he grinned and gave a wide, showy sweep of his hand. "Welcome to Mustang Ridge, ladies!"

Well, at least he hadn't "ma'am"ed them.

"Thanks, Junior," Nina said. "It's breathtaking, just like you said." He had given them a good "get excited for your week at the ranch" speech on the bus, and had pointed out some landmarks on the drive.

Then again, the scenery pretty much spoke for itself. Especially now that she had her boots on the dusty ground and her lungs full of thin, sun–warmed air.

"Who's the guy with the SUV?" Traci chirped. "Is he one of the wranglers?"

"Nope," said a deep voice from behind them. "I'm like you, just checking in. Don't know about you ladies, but I'm looking forward to a week of riding and roping, and hopefully not hitting the dirt too many times."

An unexpected shiver went down the back of Nina's neck as she and Traci turned to see the newcomer rounding the back of the bus. Then a blast of hot–cold–hot shot straight to the pit of her stomach at the sight of brilliant blue eyes beneath dark, heavy brows. He had a slightly crooked aquiline nose and angular jaw, and a face that looked like something off an ancient Roman coin, rugged and beautiful at the same time. And familiar.

The breath rushed out of her in a squeak, sounding like someone had just line danced on a mouse. "Ben?"

He did a double take that would've been comical under any other circumstance. "Nina?"

"What are you doing here?" It came out sharper than maybe was necessary, but she hadn't expected him. And she sure wasn't prepared to feel an echo of the same "wheeee!" sort of roller–coaster dip she'd felt when they first met.

"Cheryl booked me for a week—" He broke off, expression darkening. "She didn't."

A half–hysterical bubble of laughter locked itself in Nina's throat. "Apparently, she did." Oh, Cheryl, what have you done? Why?

Dumb question.

"Who is Cheryl?" Traci demanded. "And what did she do?"

"She's my sister," Ben said flatly, "and she's a dead woman."

The ragged giggle broke through, because if Nina didn't laugh, she didn't know what she would do. "She's a customer at my interior design store, a friend who got it in her head that I would be perfect for her brother, and vice versa. But we went out once, things didn't click, end of story." That was close enough, anyway. "She took it well, but when I told her I wanted to get away by myself and do something I'd never done before, she, ah, recommended Mustang Ridge."

"And then booked me a week's vacation for my birthday, and wouldn't take no for an answer," he said in a tone that wasn't quite sour, but wasn't all that happy, either. "It looks like she set us up. Again."