Morning Light by Catherine Anderson Page A

“Something wrong?”
    â€œI forgot my stilts.”
    He extended a hand to her. Loni clasped his hard fingers and hiked up one leg to brace her foot on the door runner. The next instant she catapulted into the cab and almost landed on the center console.
    â€œOops,” he said as she caught her balance and plopped on the passenger seat. “Sorry about that. You’re a lot lighter than you look.”
    Lighter than she looked? What a charmer. Loni wondered if the five pounds she’d gained while redecorating the house and renovating her shop had all settled on her hips. Too much fast food, no time to work out. She was one of those unfortunate people who constantly struggled to stay trim.
    She bent forward over her parted knees to scoop up items from her purse, which had somehow slipped from her shoulder and spilled onto the floorboard while she was airborne. Her searching fingers met with countless items not belonging to her: greasy wrenches, ropes, oily rags, strips of leather, pieces of straw, and oddly shaped metal things she couldn’t identify in the shadows. While her head was still pressed against the glove box, the truck rumbled to life, the roar of the diesel engine almost deafening, the vibration of the dash rattling her teeth.
    When she sat back to fasten her seat belt, she couldn’t help but smile. Her dream cowboy? She’d obviously misinterpreted the meaning of her dreams. Clint Harrigan was her exact opposite. She was a fanatic about keeping her vehicle tidy; his was a total wreck. She was passionate about energy conservation and protecting the environment; he’d never even thought about it much. She liked him well enough so far, but she honestly couldn’t imagine the two of them ever being anything more than friends.
    In no time at all they would drive each other crazy.

    Three hours later Clint was ready to head out. He’d decided to take eight horses, two to carry riders and light packs, another pair to carry his and Loni’s gear and supplies, and four more to pack in enough feed to last a week. The equines would be working hard, and if there was little grass available along the trail for grazing, each horse would require fifteen to twenty pounds of cubed alfalfa a day.
    Even by taking along four pack animals to carry only the feed, Clint would be exceeding the recommended weight load per horse by twenty pounds the first day. Fortunately the alfalfa would dwindle rapidly, until the four extra horses would be carrying almost nothing toward the end of the trip.
    That would be good. Clint expected to be traveling over rugged terrain much of the time, possibly well away from the beaten path. The four lightly worked horses could be used to spell those carrying heavier loads, affording all the animals intermittent rest periods along the way.
    Mentally going over his checklist to be sure he had forgotten nothing, Clint angled across the stable yard toward his truck, which he’d left running with the heater on high to keep his psychic search partner warm while he took care of last-minute details. As he passed the horse trailer he noticed a tire that looked low. Great. If it wasn’t one thing it was another.
    He lowered the tailgate of the Ford, vaulted up into the bed, and pawed through the maze of paraphernalia and gear until he found the portable air compressor and a tire gauge. After plugging the compressor into a special outlet he’d had installed behind the left wheel well, he jumped back to the ground and crouched to inflate the tire. Only, no sooner had he let loose with a blast of air than the truck engine died.
    Now what? Like he needed vehicle trouble to cap off an already exhausting night? Muttering curses, he strode the length of the truck, jerked open the driver’s door, and leaned in to restart the engine. To his surprise he found the ignition key turned off. He angled a puzzled look at Loni.
    â€œDid you just cut the engine?”
    In