fall out and went at the limb.
She had to break pieces off before she could ease it onto the ground. In the process, one of the sharp branches cut her cheek. She muttered as she felt blood on her fingers when she touched it. Well, it would mend.
She pushed the limb onto the ground with a grimace, but she was glad to see that the fence wasnât damaged, only a little bent from the collision. She wrangled it back into some sort of order and made a note on the iPod so that she could report its location to the brothers with the GPS device she always carried with her. They were pretty high-tech for a low-budget operation, she thought. They had laptops that they used during roundup to coordinate all the activity.
She paused as the crescendo built on the soundtrack, and closed her eyes to savor it. How wonderful it must be, she thought, to be a composer and be able to write scores that touched the very heart and soul of listeners. She was musical, but she had no such talent. She didnât compose.She only interpreted the music of others when she played the piano or, less frequently, the guitar.
âHurt yourself?â A deep, drawling voice came from behind.
She whirled, her heart racing, her eyes wide and shocked as she faced a stranger standing a few feet away. She looked like a doe in the sights of a hunter.
He was tall and lean, with dark eyes and hair under a wide-brimmed hat, wearing jeans and a weather-beaten black hat. He was smiling.
âMr. Kirk,â she stammered, as she finally recognized Dalton Kirk. She hadnât seen him often. He wasnât as familiar to her as Mallory was. âSorry, I wasnât paying attentionâ¦â
He reached out and took one of the earphones, pursing his sensual lips as he listened. He handed it back. âAugust Rush,â he said.
Her eyebrows shot up. âYou know the score?â
He smiled at her surprise. âYes. Itâs one of my own favorites, especially that pipe-organ solo.â
âThatâs my favorite, too,â she agreed.
He glanced at the fence. âMake a note of the coordinates so we can replace that section of fence, will you?â he asked. âIt will keep the cattle in for now, but not for long.â
âI already did,â she confirmed. She was still catching her breath.
âThereâs an escaped convict out here somewhere,â he told her. âI donât think heâs guilty, but heâs desperate. I love music as much as anybody, but thereâs a time and place for listening to it, and this isnât it. If Iâd been that man, and desperate enough to shoot somebody or take a hostage, youâd be dead or taken away by now.â
Sheâd just realized that. She nodded.
âNow you see why itâs against the law to listen with earphones when youâre driving,â he said. âYou couldnât hear a siren with those on.â He indicated the earphones.
âYes. I mean, yes, sir.â
He cocked his head. His dark eyes twinkled. âCall me Tank. Everybody does.â
âWhy?â she blurted out.
âWe were facing down an Iraqi tank during the invasion of Iraq,â he told her, âand we were taking substantial damage. We lost comms with the artillery unit that was covering us and we didnât have an antitank weapon with us.â He shrugged. âI waded in with a grenade and the crew surrendered. Ever since, Iâve been Tank.â
She laughed. He wasnât as intimidating as heâd once seemed.
âSo keep those earphones in your pocket and listen to music when itâs a little safer, will you?â
âI will,â she promised, and put away the iPod.
He mounted the black gelding she hadnât heardapproaching and rode closer. âThat thing isnât a phone, is it?â
âNo, sir.â
âDo you carry a cell phone?â he added, and his lean, strong face was solemn.
She pulled a little emergency one