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resist?
    “What makes you so good?” she asked.
    “My rapport with horses,” he answered easily. “Runs in my family, along with conceit. You ever heard of my brother, Jake Coulter?”
    Samantha thought for a moment. “The horse whisperer?”
    Tucker let loose with another deep chuckle. “He isn’t a whisperer. Is there such a thing?”
    Samantha hugged her waist, a posture she recognized as being defensive even as she assumed it. As much as she liked this man, he frightened her on a deep and purelyfeminine level. She felt like a starvation dieter who’d stumbled into a room filled with chocolate cake.
    “I don’t know. You tell me,” she challenged.
    He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and gazed at her over the tips of his steepled fingers. “To my knowledge, horse whisperers don’t really exist. Rare individuals who have an instinctive understanding of horses are another story. My brother Jake is one of them. He calls himself an equine behavioral analyst.”
    “A sort of horse psychiatrist?”
    “That pretty much sums it up. He takes in horses with serious behavior issues and patiently works with them to correct the problems. Then he sends them back to their owners so the problems can start all over again. He’s a firm believer that the major problem with any horse is the person who owns it.”
    Samantha held to that belief herself. “And you? What do you think?”
    “I absolutely agree. Which leads me straight back to why I’m so good with equines—because I have more respect for them than I do for most people.”
    Samantha nodded. “I know what you mean.” And she did. In the stables with her horses was the only place she felt truly at peace. No lies, no subterfuge, no heartbreaking betrayals. Her animals loved her absolutely and unconditionally, and they were unfailingly steadfast. She couldn’t say that about many of the humans she’d known over the course of her lifetime. “They’re incredible creatures.”
    “Very large, powerful creatures,” he elaborated. “Which is why a lot of vets prefer a small-animal practice. Going into a stall with a strange horse can be a dicey situation, especially if the animal is sick or in pain.”
    “But it doesn’t bother you?”
    “Didn’t say that. I have a healthy respect for the kicking power of an equine. I don’t waltz into a stall and start poking and prodding, I can tell you that.”
    Samantha had seen cautious vets in action. They came armed with hobbles and lip twitches. She had nothing against a vet using preventive measures with an ill-mannered horse, but she strongly objected when her own equines were victimized. Every animal on her ranch had been imprinted at birth and was easy to handle. “You take precautions, then?”
    “I do,” he confessed. “I start off by having a talk with the horse. Normally they’ll let me know, right up front, if they’d like to kick my teeth down my throat.” Amusement warmed his eyes. “Most times they wouldn’t. They seem to realize I’m there to help and are glad to see me.”
    “I own a horse ranch,” Samantha revealed.
    A deep dimple she hadn’t noticed before slashed his lean cheek. “You don’t say? Never would have guessed.”
    She chose to let that pass. She knew her clothing marked her as a horsewoman, and she had no intention of changing that. As she retraced her steps across the room, she said, “This community can use another good horse vet. Doc Washburn, the vet we’ve used for as long as I can remember, is getting close to retirement age. My father worries that he may be the last of a dying breed.”
    The door swung open just then, and the female deputy entered with two plastic bags in her hands. “You folks are free to go,” she chirped as she put their possessions on thedesk. “Mr. Matlock finally admitted striking you,” she said to Samantha. “Unapologetically, I might add. He says you interfered between him and his horse, and you had it coming for trying to