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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 wasn’t 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 didn’t compose.She only interpreted the music of others when she played the piano or, less frequently, the guitar.
    â€œHurt yourself?” 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.
    â€œMr. Kirk,” she stammered, as she finally recognized Dalton Kirk. She hadn’t seen him often. He wasn’t as familiar to her as Mallory was. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention…”
    He reached out and took one of the earphones, pursing his sensual lips as he listened. He handed it back. “August Rush,” he said.
    Her eyebrows shot up. “You know the score?”
    He smiled at her surprise. “Yes. It’s one of my own favorites, especially that pipe-organ solo.”
    â€œThat’s my favorite, too,” she agreed.
    He glanced at the fence. “Make a note of the coordinates so we can replace that section of fence, will you?” he asked. “It will keep the cattle in for now, but not for long.”
    â€œI already did,” she confirmed. She was still catching her breath.
    â€œThere’s an escaped convict out here somewhere,” he told her. “I don’t think he’s guilty, but he’s desperate. I love music as much as anybody, but there’s a time and place for listening to it, and this isn’t it. If I’d been that man, and desperate enough to shoot somebody or take a hostage, you’d be dead or taken away by now.”
    She’d just realized that. She nodded.
    â€œNow you see why it’s against the law to listen with earphones when you’re driving,” he said. “You couldn’t hear a siren with those on.” He indicated the earphones.
    â€œYes. I mean, yes, sir.”
    He cocked his head. His dark eyes twinkled. “Call me Tank. Everybody does.”
    â€œWhy?” she blurted out.
    â€œWe were facing down an Iraqi tank during the invasion of Iraq,” he told her, “and we were taking substantial damage. We lost comms with the artillery unit that was covering us and we didn’t have an antitank weapon with us.” He shrugged. “I waded in with a grenade and the crew surrendered. Ever since, I’ve been Tank.”
    She laughed. He wasn’t as intimidating as he’d once seemed.
    â€œSo keep those earphones in your pocket and listen to music when it’s a little safer, will you?”
    â€œI will,” she promised, and put away the iPod.
    He mounted the black gelding she hadn’t heardapproaching and rode closer. “That thing isn’t a phone, is it?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œDo you carry a cell phone?” he added, and his lean, strong face was solemn.
    She pulled a little emergency one