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trying to make up her mind whether she was doing the right thing by going to Red, or if she was the world’s biggest fool.
    Jury, it appeared, was still out on that one. For another forty-seven hours and counting.
    But she didn’t regret going over there, even if she ended up with nothing but egg on her face. She’d never know if she didn’t try, and Red was the best chance she had to save the ranch with minimal fuss.
    Besides, if she hadn’t gone over there at such an early hour, she never would have scored the prime sight of Red in nothing but his boxers. God, that’d been a treat. It would be so much easier to dislike the man if he had a potbelly, or some weird deformity. But no, he had to look like God’s gift to females. All tan, smooth skin pulled tight over hard muscles. And that intriguing little happy trail that led...
    Led to nowhere good. Time for a mental kick in the ass if that’s where her mind was heading all on its own.
    Pulling up to the ranch house, she stopped short when another rig was in her Jeep’s spot. Old, slightly rusted, and dinged in several places, it’d seen better days. Better decades, really. Glancing on down the yard, she saw a horse trailer that didn’t belong to the ranch. That, of course, was newer and shiny. Cowboys always took great care with their trailers and equipment. Personal items ranked low on the list, behind anything their animal might need.
    But who the hell was this? And why was he—or she—parked in her spot? She whipped around and pulled up next to the rust-bucket-rig and slammed her door shut. Just what she needed. Company, when she was hoping for a nap.
    Who the hell came to call at five-thirty in the morning?
    After wiping her boots on the mat and toeing them off in the mudroom—Emma could put the fear of God into anyone who muddied up her floors—she started the hunt for the rig owner.
    “Emma? You up yet?”
    The answer was quick in coming. “Quit your hollering and get in the kitchen. I’ve got breakfast started in here and I’m not leaving it to chase you down.”
    She smiled. In a year full of changes, it was great to know that some things didn’t change at all. She followed the scent of bacon and eggs to the kitchen. “Emma, do you know whose rig that is out—”
    She stopped short, breath cut from her lungs as the figure seated at the kitchen table rose and faced her.
    “Hey sis. Long time no see.”
    Breathe. Breathe, dammit. She whooshed out a breath. “Trace? What the hell are you doing here?”
    His grin was slow and easy as he held out his hands. “Wasn’t that you who left the angry voicemail saying I needed to get the lead out of my lazy ass and call you back?”
    Time to pop her eyes back in her head. “Yeah. But . . . but . . .”
    “But you didn’t think I’d come on over this way, huh?” He walked toward her, long legs carrying him in a few steps, socks padding quietly over the kitchen tile. He grabbed her in a hug and lifted her straight off her feet. At six feet, he’d always been able to toss her around. It was his favorite pastime as a boy. “Christ, you grew up on me. I missed you, shortie.”
    “Don’t call me that.” She beat her fists on his back, but only to give the appearance of resistance. Then, giving up on all hope of remaining aloof, she wrapped her arms and legs around him and squeezed like she would never let go. “I missed you, too,” she whispered. Hot tears burned the back of her throat. So long, she’d been holding things together, including herself, with some gum, a shoestring, and a prayer. And with the sight of one friendly face, she was about to crumble.
    Then she remembered exactly what it had taken to get him back there, and she straightened. “I’m so mad at you.”
    “I know. But be mad at me a little later.” Trace set her gently down and stepped back. Peyton took the chance to look him over.
    He looked leaner, stronger than the last time she’d seen him. But then again, he’d only