Whitney Brookes leaned her forehead on the heel of her hand and wondered if she could do this.

Not that she had any choice.

Three days ago, the phone call from an Oklahoma attorney had seemed like an answer to prayer, a gift straight from God. So, she’d left the city and driven eight hours in the old dependable station wagon loaded with babies and a handful of belongings, encouraged, hopeful, and singing praise songs all the way.

She’d been on top of the world.

Until she’d gotten here.

She, Whitney Brookes, a city girl on an Oklahoma ranch, alone except for her twin toddlers and lots of very small animals she knew nothing about.

She was scared spitless.

Leaning away from the kitchen table and the piles of paperwork and indecipherable notebooks, Whitney stretched and rotated her neck. The twins were asleep, due to awaken any minute, but their long nap was time enough for her to know she was in over her head. Way over her head.

Outside a dirty kitchen window framed by yellow flowered Cape Cod curtains, her completely unexpected inheritance from a distant relative she’d barely heard of spread across forty acres in the rolling hills of Calypso County. A pretty little ranch filled with miniature animals. Tiny horses. Short, squatty cows. Sheep and goats. Fuzzy chickens.

And they were all hers. On one condition. A condition to which she’d agreed without thought or hesitation. Desperation made choices easy.

“I’m thankful, Lord. Really, I am. But I don’t know anything about caring for farm animals.” She’d no more than finished the sentence when a small brown horse trotted past the window.

Whitney bolted upright. The chair clattered against the butter yellow wall. She winced, hoping the twins wouldn’t wake up. When no cry sounded from the back of the house, she darted out the door, crossed the porch, and spotted the miniature pony jogging merrily down the driveway and out onto the country road.

“Clive! Halt. Stop. Whoa.” Or whatever she was supposed to say to a runaway horse.

As if her voice were a cracked whip, Clive broke into a dead run. Whitney gave chase. If anything happened to Clive or his friends, she was back out on the streets.

“Stop, horse. Whoa!”

Her tennis shoes slapped the dirt road, stirring enough red dust to make her blind. Did it ever rain around here?

Clive ran faster. Another pony in the pasture galloped to the fence and whinnied as if cheering on his buddy. Clive took the encouragement to heart and galloped onward.

Racing full throttle now, her breath coming in short rasps, Whitney clenched her teeth and tasted red Oklahoma dirt. Her red dirt. Hers.

No matter how difficult the task, she would not lose this farm. Her babies needed a home, and this was it. They would not live in a shelter again. Ever.

Even if she had to wrangle animals she knew nothing about, even if she had to fall into bed exhausted every night, she would find a way to make this work.

“Stop, horsey!”

Clive’s miniature hoofs battered the road like hail on a tin roof. Clippity-clop. The sound would have been cute if she hadn’t been so desperate to catch him.

Another fifteen seconds and she’d catch up, grab that halter, shove her heels in the dirt, lean back with all one hundred twenty-five pounds and take control. But she had to catch him first.

To add insult to injury, the undersized equine kicked out behind like a bucking bronco and headed toward the side of the road, straight into a bramble of vines and thorny bushes. Even a city girl recognized the painfully sharp stickers of blackberry vines.

Sweat dripping though the day was cool, Whitney plowed into the tangle. A layer of skin peeled from her exposed legs and arms. Sweat stung the open scratches.

The horse stopped and stood still, watching her over one shoulder. Either he’d decided to be docile or he was stuck in the brambles. At only thirty-six inches high and a couple hundred pounds, Clive was small enough she could drag him home if she had to. Maybe.

She calmed her rasping breath and spoke in a soothing voice. “Come on, Clive. Be a prince. Good boy. Good boy.”

Easing closer, she reached out, caught his halter. “Got you, you hairy little nuisance. Don’t give me any more trouble, you hear me? The babies are asleep. We have to get back to the house before they wake up.”

Even five minutes was too long to be away. With active toddlers, anything could happen in five minutes.

Worried the twins would crawl out of their crib and get hurt, she managed to edge the pony out of the weeds and onto the dirt road.

Hurry. Hurry. The babies are alone.

What kind of mother left two-and-half-year-old twins all by themselves?

But she knew the answer. The kind of mother who’d burned her bridges at age seventeen and couldn’t go back. The kind who had no one to help her and no one else who even cared if her babies had food and shelter.

Home was here. With her babies. Alone. She would survive. And she would make a go of this funny little ranch. Somehow.

With a sharp tug on the halter, she convinced Clive to follow her down the road. He wasn’t too happy about the detour and paused now and then to yank his head back. For a little guy, he was stout.

In a rush to get to the twins, heart still thundering from the sprint, Whitney strained forward. Clive pulled back. Her fingers slipped on the halter. She blasted him with her meanest look. His liquid brown eyes took her measure, the whites showing, nostrils blowing.

She should have brought a rope.

In the near distance, a vehicle rumbled. She picked up her pace, worried a car would send Clive into galloping mode. She rounded the last curve, and the white farmhouse came into sight.

Some of the tension seeped from her shoulders. Almost there. The end was near.

The hum of an engine loomed closer. “Come on, boy. Good Clive.”

Just when she thought the tiny horse had decided to cooperate, the very moment she grew confident and relaxed, he bolted.

Hanging tightly to the halter, Whitney kept up for a few dusty yards. Clive stretched out like a Kentucky Derby favorite, short legs flying.

Whitney jerked the halter and yelled, “Stop!” heels skidding. Clive lunged. And there on a dirt and gravel road, Whitney executed a full body face-plant.

Dirt in her mouth, her nose, her eyes, she lay still for a minute to regain her depleted air supply. Her damaged elbows and knees smarted. Road burn.

She repeated the prayer that had become her mantra, “I can do all things through Christ. I can, I can, I will.”

No one had promised it would be easy, but anything was better than where she’d been. Here, at least, she had hope.

The hum of that engine grew louder. The earth rumbled. More dirt circled above her head. A door slammed.

“Ma’am, you all right?” A man dropped to his haunches next to her prone body. In her peripheral vision, Whitney spotted scuffed, round-toed western boots and faded jeans. Lovely. A cowboy—probably a neighbor she’d have to face for the rest of her life—had witnessed her graceless humiliation.

“Fine.” She spat a mouthful of dust, flopped over and sat up.

“Let me help you.” Strong hands in leather work gloves took hold of her elbows and easily lifted her to her feet.

“Thanks.” The word came out gruff, embarrassed. Whitney dusted at her shirt and shorts before looking up. When she did, she lost her breath all over again.

The cowboy wasn’t super tall, and no one would call him pretty, but he was a hunk, strongly built, wide at the shoulder, and as rugged as the Oklahoma frontier. A man like this could toss that ornery little horse over his shoulders and jog a mile.

With a gray Stetson pulled down over light brown hair and very attractive sun-crinkles around brown eyes, he was the kind of man dime store cowboys imitate and women ogle. Like she was doing now.

His lips moved. “Sure you’re okay? Can I help you—?”

Whitney snapped into focus. Her babies. She had to get home. “Can you catch the horse?”

He spun on his boot heel and stared down the road. “That was a horse?”

Without explanation, Whitney took off in a dead run and left Mr. Rugged Cowboy in her dust.

Nate fanned his hat against the cloud of dirt swelling around him and stared at the rapidly departing redhead. The very same redhead he’d noticed at Hammond’s Feed Store yesterday. The one who’d caught his attention and lingered in his thoughts ever since.

He replaced his hat and squinted at her departing form. He wasn’t Hollywood handsome like his brothers, but he’d never scared anyone off before.

“First time for everything.”

Straight, cinnamon hair flying out behind, the woman moved like an Olympic sprinter. She was about his age, maybe younger, lithe and trim without being skinny, and maybe sixteen hands high. Five-and-a-half feet in people talk. His sister, Emily, would give him a swift kick for thinking of a pretty woman in horse terms. But he was rusty in the female department. And he planned to stay that way.

Pretty. Yeah, she was, even with dirt on her face and blood running down her knees. He’d have tended to her injuries if she hadn’t run off, yelling something about a horse.

“Was that really a horse?” With a shake of his head, he hopped into his truck and followed the road, figuring to catch the small critter that looked more like a dog than any horse he’d ever ridden.

“Must be one of Sally’s.” In his book, Sally Rogers was a little odd. Scratch that. A lot odd. A nice neighbor but not a real rancher. Not even close. But not being one to think ill of the dead, he checked himself. Sally, in her hippie skirts and wide-brimmed hats, might have been eccentric to the extreme, but she’d had a good heart and had taken good care of her livestock. Such as they were. The old woman’s taste in little bitty farm animals didn’t fit with his idea of raising the biggest, strongest cows and bulls possible, but she, and they, were harmless.

Anyway, Sally was gone, and, apparently, one of her animals was on the loose.

He hopped in his truck and, in moments, he passed Sally’s farmhouse and spotted the redhead darting through the front door.

“And the day gets curiouser and curiouser.” He’d gone to Sally’s funeral and didn’t remember one single relative in attendance. Had the redhead bought Sally’s farm? Was that why he’d seen her at Hammond’s Feed Store yesterday?

Figuring to be neighborly if indeed she was a new neighbor, Nate drove further on and spotted a small animal with too much mane and forelock and not enough leg.

“If that’s a real horse, I’ll kiss it.” He stopped the truck and, taking his lariat from the floorboard, got out and approached the miniature steed from the side with the soft, shushing sounds he made to all his animals, a gloved hand open as if he had a treat. He had a way with horses, with all animals, in fact.

Easy as you please, the handsome little critter plodded to him and stuck a nose into his palm. Nate grabbed the braided halter and quickly slipped the rope through the rings. “Sorry. No carrot. I cheated.”

He turned the horse—for the critter was a horse of sorts—toward the house, aware that he’d have to leave his truck on the side of the road while he walked the stubby equine back to Sally’s farm. No big deal out here in the country, and the walk wasn’t far. Almost daily, he walked or rode his horse for miles on the ranch, up and down ravines, through canyons, over high hills, through creeks and woods. Walking was part of ranch life, though he was fond of his three-quarter ton truck and his favorite gelding, Uncle Buck. A real horse.

One hand on the rope, he reached, shut off the engine, and took the keys.

In five minutes, he stepped up on Sally’s long covered porch, his boots noisy on the wood, and knocked. The little stallion stepped right up with him as if accustomed to this sort of afternoon adventure. Not surprising. He’d heard Sally sometimes let her animals live in the house with her.

From inside, he heard crying. He knocked harder. Maybe the redhead was hurt worse than she let on. Maybe she’d broken that scraped and bloody arm.

He should have offered help. He should have paid more attention. He should have insisted on driving her home. Guilt flooded in. Guilt and bad memories. He never seemed to notice the important things in time to fix them.

The door whipped open. The redhead held a tear-stained toddler on one hip while an identical child clung to her bleeding kneecap with one arm and clutched a stuffed animal in the other. His gaze went from one baby to the other. Twins. They had to be.

He didn’t recall seeing babies at the Feed Store. Had they been in the backseat of that old station wagon?

“Uh.” Nate floundered, off balance. “I found your…uh…horse.” He’d almost said dog. Except his dogs were bigger than this living, breathing stuffed animal.

“Thank you.” She stepped outside, dragging the floor toddler on her leg as she reached for the rope. “I’ll put him in the pen.”

With those babies hanging on her like possums?

“I’ll do it. Show me where.”

“I don’t know.” An expression he could only describe as hopeless creased her face. “Anywhere that will hold him. This is the third time in two days he’s escaped.”

If she wanted him to stay put, she should put him somewhere secure. Pretty easy decision from Nate’s viewpoint. If she didn’t know the basics of animal care, why was she here on a ranch?

Mulling that puzzling piece of information, he nodded and led the horse across the overgrown lawn to the barn. He’d been here a few times after Sally took sick, but she’d been too proud and stubborn to let him help her. When he’d heard she’d passed on, he regretted not insisting—or simply doing what needed to be done. He hadn’t known she was that bad off.

Story of his life. Too little, too late. Don’t notice what needs doing until after the fact.

Inside the large, red barn, which was newer and nicer than the old-style farmhouse, a testament to Sally’s love of her animals, he led the horse into a stall and removed his rope.

“This should hold you for now.” He stroked a gloved hand down the soft muzzle. “Stay put, little man.”

When he left the barn, he took in the size and scope of Sally’s stock. Wire pens squared off at least twenty acres of pasture that was dotted with a few shade trees and feed troughs. Another twenty acres spread to the north, while a double row of cottonwood and pecan and a few willows lined the narrow creek and circled a small pond.

Each of the pens within sight held some sort of critter, all of them perfectly useless-looking to him. Who would spend money on miniature goats, sheep, horses, and donkeys? Even the scrawny-necked chickens pecking the ground outside an elevated hen house had rock star haircuts and feathery feet. Did they lay eggs or jelly beans?

“Strange.” But Sally had always been eccentric, especially in a county of genuine cattle ranchers. No one had taken her seriously. They had real animals. Hers were toys, a cute hobby.

Nate walked the short distance back to his truck, thinking of the animals and the redhead and those two little girls with the identical chocolate eyes and nearly black hair.

Who were they? What were they doing here?

Nate didn’t know why, other being a neighborly sort, but he pulled down the rough, rutted driveway. Someone needed to get out the box blade and do some serious grading. A man could lose an eighteen wheeler in one of these potholes.

The redhead came outside. This time, the two little ones followed like ducklings. They were cuties. Like their mom.

That way lay danger, so he redirected his thinking. He was being a good neighbor. End of story.

“I put him in the stall and wired the latch. He won’t escape again.”

“Thank you. Sorry about running off on you like that. The babies were alone and…” She lifted a dirt-streaked shoulder and let the obvious slide as she offered a slender hand. “I’m Whitney Brookes.”

“Whitney.” He tried the name on for size and decided he liked it. Then, realizing he was still wearing gloves, Nate ripped one off and took her hand. His big paw swallowed hers and was a lot rougher. A lot. Hers felt like velvet. City girl. He had an instant flash of his ex-wife. If Whitney was anything like Alicia, she wouldn’t last long on a ranch. “Nate Caldwell.”

“Caldwell.” An attractive frown dipped between her brown eyebrows. “As in the Caldwell Ranch?”

“Yes, ma’am. The Triple C. My brothers and sister own it, along with me.”

“So we’re neighbors.”

I guess we are.” He hadn’t felt so tongue-tied since third grade when Mrs. Crandle made him stand in front of the class and explain why he’d let a garter snake loose in the girl’s locker room. “You’re taking over Sally’s place?”

“I am.”

Why did the first woman he’d found attractive in years have to become his neighbor? A neighbor he was already feeling sorry for. A neighbor whose house he’d have to drive past almost every day.

A tiny pair of arms encircled his leg. Relieved to have a distraction, he crouched down to eye level with the small beauty. “Hey, little one. You sure are pretty.”

He’d almost said, “as pretty as a bay mare,” but he caught himself in time to shut up. To his bafflement, women did not receive such compliments in the spirit in which they were given.

“That’s Olivia.” Whitney put her hand on the other toddler’s back. The little girl leaned away from Nate, giving him the once over with eyes as big and dark as Oreos. “Miss Shy Bones here is Sophia.”

“How do you tell them apart?”

She smiled a gentle mama’s smile that spoke of her feelings for the twins as words never could. “Most of the time, I’m the only one who can. I just know.”

The notion made him feel soft inside. Mamas and their babies. Watching them got to him. Not that he’d let on in front of his brothers or the ranch hands, but that’s why he enjoyed working with the brood cows. They not only fed and nurtured their calves, they’d die fighting for them—and sometimes did. A human mama was even more ferocious.

Suddenly, he missed his mother with a pang as sharp as a spur rowel. She’d been gone most of his life, and yet, the hurt and loss was always there.

He stood, and the twin, Olivia, latched onto his leg again.

Whitney laughed softly, another sound that made his heart squeeze. “I think she’s taken with you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He liked kids but had missed the fatherhood train when Alicia miscarried and decided she was happy about that turn of events. Motherhood wasn’t her gifting. Neither was ranch life with a bunch of smelly cowboys. That’s what she’d said. Right before she’d driven off with another man. Her big city orthodontist.

That was seven years ago, and he’d not had the inclination to ride in the love rodeo since. Not even once.

“I made some iced tea,” the redhead said. “Come in for a glass. It’s the least I can do to repay your help.”

He should leave. He had pregnant heifers to check and a gate to replace before the sun faded and he headed home. Connie, the Triple C’s chief cook and housekeeper and everyone’s surrogate mom, had promised enchiladas tonight, his favorite, and no one made the Mexican specialty better.

But instead of making his excuses, he said, “Sounds good.”

Truth was, he was curious about Whitney Brookes and this farm. Not in a romantic way. He was done with that. Two strikes and he was not only out at the plate, he was out of the game. But he felt a responsibility as a neighbor and a Christian to make her welcome. And he couldn’t help his curiosity. Who was she? What was she doing here? And where was the daddy to these pretty babies?

Whitney opened the old-style storm door—a window on top and a screen on bottom—to let in the fresh air, and lifted first one and then the other child over the threshold.

Nate noticed her legs, smooth, tanned and shapely beneath rumpled, dirty shorts and long, bloody scratches. Nothing wrong with noticing. Christian or not, he was still a man, though he’d tried hard to put the longing for wife and kids behind him. He had the Triple C, and the hodgepodge family they’d made together was enough. Most of the time.

Removing his hat, he followed Whitney and her children into Sally’s living room. The place was a mess. Boxes stacked here and there. Baby toys scattered over the couch and floor.

“You haven’t been here long.”

“No.” Stepping around boxes, she moved into the kitchen. The old-style house separated the two rooms, and he followed Whitney through the disheveled living room into the kitchen. Two more boxes, one of them open and displaying a mismatch of plates, plastic bowls, and cups, rested on the short butcher block counter.

“I hadn’t realized this property was for sale.” He might have bought it if he’d known. The back of Sally’s forty acres joined the Triple C, and they wouldn’t mind adding this corner to their eleven thousand acres. Sally wouldn’t sell, and they didn’t push.

“It isn’t. I inherited it. Sort of.”

He blinked, surprised. “You’re Sally’s kin?”

One slender shoulder lifted. “I didn’t know she existed until a few days ago. But apparently, Sally and my great-grandmother were double cousins and very close back in the day. According to her will, Sally had one closer relative, my distant cousin, Ronnie Flood, but she never liked him.”

And Nate knew why. “So she left everything to you?”

“Crazy, huh? But a huge blessing to me and the girls. A real answer to prayer.”

“Bet your cousin wasn’t happy about that.”

“I don’t know. I’ve only seen him once or twice in my life.” She glanced away and worried her bottom lip. Nate wondered why the mention of family bothered her. He could read it in her body language.

He remembered Ronnie, probably knew him better than she did. Nate certainly understood why Sally hadn’t left her precious farm to the weasel of a man. Ronnie had come around Calypso one summer ostensibly to work for Sally. Turned out, the man was a mooch who borrowed off everyone, including him and his brothers, and likely skinned Sally for a good bit of cash before he split for parts unknown. He hoped the pretty redhead wasn’t anything like her distant cousin.