Morning Light by Catherine Anderson

conversation for while we’re on the trail. Maybe I’ll learn something.”
    â€œOr you’ll be bored to distraction. Not everyone shares my interest in environmental issues.” She grabbed her blue parka from the narrow coat closet, collected her purse, then bent to give Hannah farewell pats and hugs before turning out all but one lamp so Deirdre would be able to see when she came in. “Okay, I’m ready.”
    He followed her out onto the porch. As she fumbled to lock the door she was acutely aware of him standing behind her. She could have sworn she felt his warm breath stirring her hair.
    As they walked toward his vehicle, his boot heels tapped the cement behind her, his pace slowing to accommodate hers. The illumination from the streetlights enabled Loni to see that the rifle was still in his truck. As he drew abreast of her near the front bumper, he hooked a thumb toward her Suburban, parked in front of the garage.
    â€œWhat’s a greenie doing with a gas hog like that?”
    â€œGreenie!” she said with a laugh. “I’m not a greenie or a spotted-owl lover simply because I try to cut down on my power consumption and worry about carbon dioxide emissions. That’s half the problem in this country. People are afraid to dwell too much on environmental concerns for fear of being labeled a fanatic.”
    He opened the rear door on the driver’s side of the Ford and tossed the pillowcase on the backseat. “I can relate to that. People call me names, too—cowboy, buckaroo, goat roper, or shit-kicker. They also assume I have no secondary education, can’t understand long words, never read books, and can only dance if I’m wearing a Stetson and holding on to my belt.”
    Given the fact that Loni had thought of him as her dream cowboy practically all her life, she felt a pang of guilt. “You don’t like being called a cowboy?”
    The brim of his Stetson shadowed his face, obscuring his expression so she couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or scowling. “No better than you like being called a greenie. I’m a horseman. I suppose you could call me a buckaroo and be halfway on target.”
    Loni lifted her shoulders in a bewildered shrug. “What exactly is a buckaroo?”
    â€œI’ll explain on the way. And my question still stands—why the gas hog?”
    â€œI’m an interior decorator. I couldn’t find an economical van large enough to haul all the things I need for my work.” She eyed his pickup. “And just for the record, my Suburban sips fuel compared to Big Gulp, here.” She patted the truck fender as she circled around to the passenger side. “Fair is fair. Why do you drive a tank and carry a weapon everywhere you go?”
    â€œI discovered the hard way that I can’t pull an eight-horse trailer with an economy truck. The rifle is for emergencies I pray will never happen.”
    â€œOn your ranch?”
    â€œThat’s right. When I was teenager one of my father’s stallions tried to jump a fence to reach a mare and impaled itself on a post.”
    Loni winced. “Oh, my, how horrible.”
    â€œIt was horrible, all right, and only made worse when my dad had to run all the way back to the house for a rifle to put the poor critter out of its misery. I’ve made sure I have a weapon handy ever since.”
    The picture that formed in Loni’s mind made her stomach clench. “The poor stallion,” was all she could think to say.
    He opened his door just as she opened hers. She watched him swing up onto the seat by catching hold of a ceiling grip, but she was too short to reach the one on her side. Problem. There was no running board for her to step up on, and the vehicle was jacked up off the ground higher than her hip. To complicate matters, in the dim light she could see junk piled ankle-deep on the floorboard.
    He closed his door and glanced over at her.