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remarried. He can’t still be in mourning.”
    â€œIf you mean Lucas Crawford, I’m watching him walk out the door right now. You better hurry, or you’ll miss him,” Abby said, instantly wishing she could call back her words. Kat was her dearest friend, but until Abby figured out why she felt those butterflies in her tummy whenever Lucas met up with her, she didn’t want anyone—including Kat—complicating the situation. Not that there was a situation . And Abby could certainly understand why the single women in town might fantasize about the quiet rancher who lived a stone’s throw up the hill from her farmette.
    â€œStay put, Abby. I’ll be right there,” Kat said and clicked off.
    Abby laid the cell on the console. No point in taking Sugar inside until Kat had come and gone. Through the windshield, Abby watched Lucas check his phone before sliding it into his jeans pocket. Man, did he ever look good in slim-legged, boot-cut dungarees and a cotton flannel shirt. She hadn’t seen him since those heavy winter rains, when he’d dressed in a knee-length slicker. Drought-stricken California always needed rain, but twenty-one straight days of it had worn heavily on the people who had to work in it, like farmers and ranchers. But her misery over the incessant rain and mud had had a bright spot when, at the end of that rainy period in March, Lucas had dropped by unannounced. He’d come to ask about the aged French drain around Abby’s farmhouse. Was it still holding strong and redirecting the rising water?
    He’d offered to bring her some sandbags if flooding seemed imminent. Abby smiled as she recalled how surprised she’d been to see him and also at the excuse he used to explain the visit. The French drain? Seriously?
    She’d offered him coffee, a freshly baked cinnamon roll, and a towel to dry his face and his wet hair. His eyes, the color of creek water, gazed at her with such intensity that it seemed almost as if he could see into the depths of her heart. It was then that Abby felt the first flutter of attraction. That day in March, he stood facing her, dripping with rainwater like a drowned kitten, and gave her a rare smile. He took the towel she’d offered, shoved it through his curly, brown locks, and swallowed several sips of the steaming black brew. Under the intensity of his gaze, the butterflies in Abby’s tummy took flight. She wondered then if he felt them, too. But she guessed not, since he suddenly said thanks, handed her the cup, gave Sugar a pat on the head, and left. That was the way of enigmatic Lucas, a man of few words, but full of surprises.
    Now, as Abby watched Lucas climb onto the seat of his truck and slam the door behind him, she had to wonder why he hadn’t been around of late. His red truck disappeared around the side of the feed store where an alley turned into the street. Most likely, he was taking off for a new delivery. Nobody provided that kind of customer service anymore. It endeared Lucas all the more to the people of Las Flores and his customers countywide. And today Abby was grateful that she’d parked under the dense walnut tree, next to a pallet of starter feed for laying hens, where she could secretly watch Lucas.
    Kat eased her vintage roadster into a parking space just as Abby slid out of the driver’s side of the Jeep. She held Sugar on the leash as Kat exited her sports car and threw her arms around Abby in a demonstrative hug. Kat wore a navy pantsuit with a crisp white shirt, and a vintage brooch pinned to her lapel. Kat loved anything Victorian, from her cottage behind a large Victorian-style home in Las Flores to her collection of sterling silver thimbles and decorative combs, which she sometimes wore, although not today. Her blond tresses sported an expensive-looking cut and, with mousse, had been coaxed into an edgy style. Kat rarely wore makeup, although Abby could tell that today was