A glance in the rear view leaves me sure no one is following me. Not that there’s anyone to follow me anyway. Out here, under the stifling Texas sun, I realize I’ve driven nearly six hundred miles and I’m tired.

The kind of tired that’s sinking right down deep into my bones. But that scared side of me tells me to keep running. I have to keep going. I haven’t gone far enough.

Pushing aside the troubling thoughts, I try to settle into happier times, happier memories. Out here, on an old dirt road that reminds me of home, I’ve seen a few gates between stretches of fenced land. The gates have huge wooden frames of old logs that are a throwback the time when Texas was truly wild. Hung from each wooden frame is a name; the name of the ranch proudly on display. One creeps up on me now: Mustang Ranch.

I slow down as I notice an odd-looking bit of paper clinging to the beam on the right side of the frame.

Help wanted.

It’s like every prayer I’ve ever said that’s gone unanswered has suddenly left me here, finally heard and saved.

Before I can change my mind, I pull in before the closed gate. I sit for a moment. Am I really doing this? Am I crazy? I can’t stop. I haven’t put enough distance between me and…

It’ll be fine.

With a deep breath, I calm myself and I get out of my old car. It’s on its last legs after the punishing drive we’ve just endured. The sky just seems to stretch on endlessly as I open the gate before heading back to my car to pull through. On the other side, I get back out and close the gate behind me. Might as well make a good first impression, right?

What was that old rule dad made sure I remembered? A closed gate must be closed behind oneself.

The drive is dirt and rough, potholes claim my tires and jolt the car. Along both sides, fences trap plots of land and pastures stretch as far as the eye can see. The sparse grasses and few trees offer spotty shade to majestic-looking horses of many colors that stand in groups of two and threes.

I drive slowly, but still, my tires kick up enough dust to announce my presence long before I ever even see the house.

When the house comes into view, I feel my jaw drop. It’s not an old ranch house; it’s an old ranch mansion. It’s like a cross between an old plantation mansion and a castle. My heart thunders in my chest as I pull up and park my car.

They’re looking for help, I remind myself. I know that Texas is a stand your ground state, but the sign said they’re looking for help. Besides, what self-respecting man would shoot an unarmed, obviously tired woman?

With slow steps, I walk up the sprawling porch, loving the white swinging loveseat and the several matching white wicker chairs. This place reminds me more of home than home did in its final glory days.

I step up to the door and gather my courage to knock. Before I can, the door swings open and I find myself under the intense brown stare of a man who’s taller than me by a foot and a half at least. He leans on the door frame, his imposing form enough to make every drop of saliva dry up on my tongue.

His heavy brow, shiny black hair and tanned skin all make up an incredibly handsome face. His eyes are hooded, like he trusts no one and nothing, his jaw is wide and powerful and working like he’s clenching it and deciding whether or not to shoot me.

Maybe he should shoot me. Put me out of my misery.

Suddenly, he smiles and it’s like the sun parting heavy gray thunderclouds. “Ma’am,” he says, tipping his hat. “May I help you?”

At a loss for words, I turn and gesture back to the gate that’s easily several miles down the drive. “I’m May. You’re looking for help?” My voice sounds small and breathless, even to me and I see his eyes narrow a bit before someone behind him calls out something I don’t quite hear.

“A lady inquiring about the job,” he says over his shoulder and I hear laughter. My face flames red hot and I turn to walk away, an apology quick on my lips.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time--”

The words die as a strong hand curls around my arm just above my elbow and stops me dead in my tracks. I turn to face the man and notice there’s not even a hint of amusement in his face.

“Can you work hard, miss?” he asks, all seriousness that send my heart fluttering like a scrap of paper caught in the wind.

“I can,” I say, wondering why I can hardly draw a deep breath.

He looks me up and down, his hand falling away from me like he realized he’d been touching me for much longer than is proper. “You’re not suitable for a ranch hand, but I might have something else for you,” he says slowly, his eyes wandering across my face like he’s committing my features to memory – or like he recognizes me.