When Old Blackjack was dying, I remember him telling me once, during one of his more lucid moments, that it was like time had slowed down. Like every second suddenly mattered, in a way they hadn't when he had a lot of them left. That's what it felt like to be at Sweetgrass Ranch for those last few days, and Blaze Wilson's presence did nothing to reduce the effect. In fact, she made it much worse. There was something acutely bittersweet about watching her awkwardly chop potatoes in that kitchen – a kitchen she looked oddly at home in, in spite of her city ways – just days before I had to leave forever.

I tried to tell myself it wasn't Blaze, that my emotions were simply about the Ranch I was about to lose, but I knew better. When we were finished eating, and my ability to prevent my eyes lingering along the lush curves of her body was weakening, I suggested we go and take a look at the Moileds.

"The whats?" She asked. "The Spoileds?"

"The Moileds," I corrected her, "although Spoileds is actually more accurate. It's a breed of cattle. Irish Moiled cattle."

"I've never heard of it. Although to be fair I've never heard of any breed of cattle. What are the black and white ones?"

"Holsteins. Those are dairy cows. The Moileds are very rare – in fact I think this might be the only purebred herd in America."

"Really?"

"Well I don't actually know for sure but I've never heard of anyone else owning any. They came over in the 1800s with the original McMurtry, and we've never crossbred them. Blackjack brought over a few heifers and a bull in the 50s to diversify the breeding stock – they were kind of his prized possessions. He never let them out onto the open range with the beef steers, and we only bred them to replace the ones that died – they were more like pets to him than livestock."

I looked down at Blaze's feet – clean, expensive-looking leather shoes. Those wouldn't do.

"Here," I said, putting down a pair of rubber boots in front of her. "Put these on. You'll ruin your shoes otherwise."

"It's so idyllic here," Blaze mused as we walked down to the barn. "I mean – oh, I'm sorry, Jack, I didn't mean to –"

"It's OK," I replied, shrugging. "It's not like I don't know it – and it's not like I forgot it won't be mine in a few days. So don't worry yourself about –"

"A few days?!"

"Yeah. I got the final notice of, uh..."

"Final Notice of Intent to Levy." Blaze said quietly.

"Yeah, I got that a little while ago. I can't fight it, so there was no appeal or anything. I've got to be out by November 3rd."

Blaze cast her eyes down and didn't respond, but we were at the barn by that time. I unlatched the big, heavy barn doors and threw them open.

"Ugh," she said at once, putting her hand over her nose and mouth. "That smell."

Ah, yes, the puking. I'd forgotten about her reaction to the smell of manure. "Yeah," I admitted, "that's what you're smelling. But this is a few cows in a barn, it's not what you were smelling when you were here back in the summer – that was pigs, and hundreds of them. There's a big operation a few miles away and sometimes, when the wind is right, it smells like it's right next door. Come on, it should be fine."

I watched as she tentatively took her hand away from her face and breathed in. She gagged, once, and then took another breath. And another.

"OK," she said, looking up at me. "It might be OK. It's not as bad as that day I got sick. But it's still disgusting."

I flipped on the big overheard light that hung from the rafters of the barn and led Blaze over to Daisy's stall.

"This is Daisy – and this is her calf, Buttercup. Daisy is the boss of the herd – and, I admit, my favorite."

Blaze laughed, as if I'd said something ridiculous. "You have a favorite cow?"

"Yeah, I do. They're just like dogs, you know. They have personalities. They play. Daisy is like the policewoman of the herd – she keeps everyone in line."

"Police-Cow," Blaze grinned. "Can I pet her?"

"Let's see if she lets you."

Blaze wasn't quite tall enough to reach over the stall wall properly, so instead of trying to find a stool or a chair, I simply wrapped my arms around her legs and boosted her up myself. She went stiff at first, unsure of what I was going, but she relaxed soon enough when Daisy walked over and sniffed her hand.

"Oh my God!" She shrieked. "Her nose is all wet!"

I couldn't help but laugh. I laughed so hard I almost dropped her. "Yeah," I confirmed, "cows do have wet noses."

"And slimy! Ugh!"

Daisy's ears were twitching as she tried to figure out what to make of the human emitting strange, high-pitched sounds in front of her.

"Scratch her ears," I suggested. "They're really soft, and Daisy loves it."

Blaze scratched the cow's ears. "Oh wow. Jack, they are soft. And so big! Her ears are about as big as my hand!"

I often find myself irritated by city folk and what I always interpret as their prissiness over farm animals and ranch life. But Blaze wasn't irritating me at all. In fact I was glad of being behind her, where she couldn't see my face, because the grin spread across it just would not go away. I was loving every second of that particular city slicker's introduction to her first cow. She kept making excited little comments, too, about Daisy. "Look at those spots, Jack! She's got brown spots all over her back. Look at her eyes! She's looking at me!"

It was only when she was back on her feet and looking at me that she saw how I was reacting and frowned.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No," I replied, trying and failing to wipe the smile off my face. "I mean, I'm laughing, but not like that. Not at you."

"What's so funny?"

Just as she asked that question Daisy decided to stretch her head out of the stall and nudge Blaze in the shoulder. Blaze jumped about a foot into the air, and the look on her face was pure gold. I bent over double, laughing, as she stepped out of Daisy's reach and smoothed her hair down.

"Is she trying to bite me?"

"No," I replied, still unable to keep my amusement to myself, "she's not trying to bite you. She's just curious, is all."

Blaze put her hands on her hips suddenly and looked at me. "Go on, cowboy, laugh it up. One day I'll invite you to the city and we'll do something you're completely unfamiliar with. And then I'll laugh my head off at you. How about that?"

"Hey, sounds good to me," I responded, still erupting with chuckles. "Oh, I wish you could have seen the look on your face just now! That was priceless. You know Daisy is –"

"What's going to happen to them? To the Moileds, I mean? To Daisy?"

Never has the humor drained out of a situation quite so quickly as it did then. Blaze must have seen my face drop, too, because she immediately started to apologize.

"No," I told her, holding up my hand. "Don't. It's not your fault. I don't even know why I brought you down here. They're being sold – for less than a tenth of what they're worth. But no one here even knows what Moiled cattle are – and no one is interested in keeping them as curiosities."

"So they're going to another ranch?" Blaze asked hopefully.

"Maybe. Or maybe they'll go straight to the slaughterhouse, I don't know. Once they're sold, they're –"

"What?" Blaze blinked at me, dismayed. "They'll go – where?"

"The slaughterhouse. Where do you think cattle go?"

She stepped back, looking like she'd been slapped, and I instantly regretted being so harsh in my choice of words. I rubbed my forehead and sighed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so blatant. It's just that the Moileds feel sort of like pets to me."

"What about Daisy?" Blaze asked in a small voice. "Will she go to slaughter, too? And Buttercup?"

"I don't know. I've been talking to one of the neighbors, they might be willing to take them on as part of their small herd, but I wouldn't get paid. And I just don't know if I can afford to –"

"I'll pay for them!" She blurted out. "Jack, I'll pay for them! Hell, I'll pay the neighbor to take them, too, if you want. I mean, I can't pay for all of them but for Daisy and Buttercup I think I –"

I shook my head no, moved by Blaze's spontaneous offer even as I knew I couldn't accept it.

"But why not? Just for Daisy and –"

"Because I just can't, Blaze. I can't take money from you – you shouldn't even be offering. Isn't that against some kind of IRS rule?"

"I don't know. Probably not specifically, but still." She reached out as she was speaking to me and ran her hand over Daisy's forehead. "It's weird, Jack."

"What's weird?"

Blaze shrugged. "Uh, nothing. No, it's nothing."

"Hey," I said, remembering something and wanting to change the subject. "I have something I want to show you. Back at the house."

"Really? What's that?"

"It's nothing, don't get excited. But I want to show you. Come on, let's go."

We walked back to the house together and I could feel something had changed between us. I didn't know what it was, or whether or not it was good, but something was slightly different, some little emotional undercurrent had taken on a new meaning.

"Wait here," I told Blaze, after leading her to the front room. "I'll be right back."

I don't even know why I was so eager to show her the old deposit book I'd found in the safety deposit box – the account almost certainly didn't exist anymore. Maybe it was because I wanted Blaze to see that I actually had followed up on her recommendations to turn over every stone – that I wasn't just lying passively down and taking what was being thrown at me. Not that attempting to fight was going to change anything, but I still wanted her to know I tried.

When I handed her the deposit book she looked up at me. "What's this?"

"I found it in a safety deposit box Grandma Dottie made Blackjack open at the Little Falls Bank – didn't even know it existed until a little while ago. Sheriff Randall told me about it – he was pretty tight with Blackjack."

Blaze pointedly did not open the faded little booklet in her hands. "Why are you showing me this?" She asked. "You shouldn't be showing me anything, Jack. I work for the IRS. Even if I'm not officially in charge of handling your case anymore I would still be obliged to –"

"It's more of a curiosity," I told her. "I haven't found a map leading to the McMurtry family's buried hoard of gold, if that's what you're thinking. Seriously, it's nothing. Just a piece of family history I found interesting. Grandma Dottie's old Irish passport was in there, too."

With careful fingers, Blaze opened the deposit book and read the first few pages before flipping slowly through the rest. On the last page she peered a little closer.

"Can you turn on a brighter light? There's something written here but I can't quite make it out."

I hadn't noticed anything written on the back page – just that little slip of paper that had fallen out, the one that said whatever had been in that old Irish bank account was meant for me – not Blackjack or my father. I turned on a standing lamp, though, and pulled it closer so it shone directly onto what Blaze was trying to read.

"It's something about my son. Wait, no. 'Not' my son. Hold on."

I stood watching as she leaned in close to the words and began to read slowly. "All funds in this account are for my grandson, Jack McMurtry. Not my husband and not my son of the same name."

"Yeah," I said. "There was a little piece of paper in there that said basically the same thing. I've still got it."

"Wait," Blaze said. "It's signed. Dorothy McMurtry and – Stanley Randall? I can't tell what that last name is. Randall? Do you know any Stanley Randalls?"

"No, I –" I stopped. "Wait – Randall?"

"Yeah, that's what it looks like, although it's difficult to be sure."

"Yeah, I think that's the Sheriff. Sheriff Randall. I guess I'm not sure what his first name is but I don't know who else it could be."

"Looks like he was signing in some sort of witness capacity – not that this is in any way a legal document." Blaze flipped back to the first page. "Two thousand pounds. Jack, if this account still exists, and if those funds were never touched or withdrawn, this could be a decent amount of money by now. It could be –" she looked up at the ceiling, concentrating – "a couple hundred thousand? Well, it depends on the interest rate, but what I'm saying is you should definitely check this out."

"Well," I said, admittedly surprised to hear that two thousand pounds could possibly turn into two hundred thousand pounds in a relatively short space of time, "I guess you're the one who should check it out, though, right? Actually, David McMillan."

Blaze looked up at me and held my gaze. "Jack –"

"What?"

"Don't ask me to – please don't ask me to do anything that could get me in trouble."

"What am I asking you to do?" I asked, a little offended at what I assumed she was implying. "Blaze, I actually just flat out said this is probably something David McMillan should handle – especially if you think there's any chance the account still exists – and that it could be a much bigger amount of money now."

She looked back down at the little pamphlet in her hands and then back up at me briefly. "You're right, you didn't ask me to do anything. And I'm not going to do anything." She closed the deposit book and handed it back to me. "I didn't see this, Jack. You didn't show this to me. And that doesn't mean that David McMillan won't find out about it in any number of other ways, but he's not going to find out about it – about this thing that I did not see – from me. OK?"

Blaze took a deep breath and swallowed hard, averting her eyes. I sat down next to her on the faded antique sofa, awash with a new emotion. Admiration? Respect? I'd just watched one of the most rule-bound people I think I'd ever met break a very serious one. Blatantly, and right in front of me.

"Blaze," I said, intending to thank her.

"Don't," she stopped me, her eyes wide with worry. "Please, Jack. Don't. I know you're probably thinking I just did the right thing but I feel like you and I come from different worlds on that whole 'right thing' count. I just did something that would legitimately get me fired – and it's not the first thing I've done lately, either. If I get fired then it means my education was for nothing. It means... " she trailed off.

"Well it's not too late," I told her. "It's not too late to tell David McMillan. I'm definitely not asking you to risk your job for me."

"I know you're not asking me!" She snapped. "Don't you think I know that?! But I'm doing it anyway, because – I don't even know! Because I have some weird blind spot when it comes to you! Because you had to show me those damned cows!"

It wasn't difficult to see how torn Blaze was. I leaned back against the arm of the sofa, watching her wrestle with herself. "A blind spot, huh? Well don't feel too bad, I think I might have one of those myself."

She looked up at me. "You think so?"

I laughed. "What, you don't think so? I invited you out here, didn't I? Even though anyone with a lick of sense would have said, jeez, Jack, I'm not so sure it's the best idea you've ever had to invite the woman who tried to take away your family home and property to come stay at your... family home and property."

Blaze thought about what I'd just said for a little while, and then shook her head, smiling sheepishly. "Just what the hell are we doing, Jack? Have we both lost our minds? I mean – yeah. I could get fired for this. Me! The girl who never, ever does anything against the rules. And I'm not even tempted to change my mind! Fuck it, I'm not! Take that bank book and call the bank, see how much money there is in that account, if it's still there, and move to the Caribbean. I won't tell a soul. I'm not even joking – I really wouldn't tell anyone."

"I know," I said quietly, looking her in the eye. "I know you wouldn't. But, uh, there's one condition, if this is the plan."

"You have to make sure Daisy and Buttercup have a good home."

"Well, yes, that's true. But that's not the condition. The condition is you'd have to come with me."

We were both kidding, and we both knew it – it was one of those cathartic moments of levity that often come after a serious revelation or emotional reckoning.

"OK," Blaze giggled. "I'll come with you. It's a plan."

We sat quietly for a few minutes, not saying much, as what had just happened – Blaze giving me the go-ahead to keep a secret from the IRS – sank in for both of us.

"Will you call them tomorrow?" She asked. "The bank, I mean – in Ireland?"

I nodded. "Yes, I will."

It was hard not to stare at her as she sat there beside me, one side of her face illuminated by the lamp I'd moved so she could read the bank deposit book. All it would take is one movement and my hand would be on her thigh, or her shoulder, or her slender neck.

I would have been attracted to Blaze Wilson if I met her at the Little Falls Saloon and she drunkenly groped me while ordering herself a third pink girly drink. She was just my type – all soft, feminine curves paired magically with that spunky, give-it-right-back attitude I've always had a weakness for. But we weren't at the Saloon, and she wasn't ordering awful drinks. No. She was in my living room, looking at me with clear eyes after risking her job for me. She wasn't obliged to do that, and she knew it. But she did it anyway.

"I think you have a good heart," I whispered, taking her fingertips in my grasp.

"No," she demurred, embarrassed. "No I don't, Jack. It's like I said – I've got a blind spot."

As she denied my statement about her good heart she did not move to pull her hand away from mine.

"And why do you think that is?" I asked, no longer teasing. "Why would you do something like this for me – for anyone?"

"But I wouldn't do it for anyone, Jack. That's what I'm saying."

"This is so weird," I told. "I mean, even if there is a couple hundred grand in that account, I'm not going to take it and run away to some hideout in the Caribbean. That's not something I would do. I'll just hand it over to the IRS, because that last thing I need is to spend my life wondering when something like that is going to catch up with me. So, you know, I should still feel like shit. Like I've been feeling – well, ever since I found out about all this. But... I don't. I don't feel like shit."

"Me neither," Blaze whispered, pushing her fingers between mine, seeking the reassurance I wanted nothing more than to give her. "I don't even feel a little bit bad. And I didn't feel bad even before you told me you were just going to give any money there may be in that account to the IRS, either."

I looked down at the soft, pale fingers intertwined with mine. "Look at this hand, Blaze. Look at this little hand."

"What? What's wrong with my hand?"

"Nothing," I murmured, leaning in and kissing the corner of her mouth very, very slowly. "Absolutely nothing is wrong with your hand. It's beautiful."

A thrill of desire shot through my body when Blaze turned her face, almost imperceptibly, towards mine. She wanted to be kissed again, so I gave her what she wanted.

I've probably kissed a few more girls than I should have in my life. And it's not that I didn't like it, believe me. It's that it was always a means to an end. It was always that thing I did before I got to do the things I really wanted to do. And it's not like I wasn't vaguely aware of the importance women put on kissing. Emily used to leave her Cosmo magazines on the kitchen table and when no one was looking I would flip through them – admittedly mainly for the scantily clad models. But there were often articles in there, too. Articles that made kissing sound like some mysterious test of sexual compatibility, or that offered pointers on how to correct a boyfriend's bad technique.

The point is, I never truly understood what the big deal was with kissing until I kissed Blaze Wilson that night on the floral-print sofa at Sweetgrass Ranch. She didn't try to suck my face off or jam her tongue sloppily down my throat. No. Blaze's kisses were responsive, heightening the tension between us as she parted her lips just a little and sighed when I slid my tongue between them.

I don't think anything has ever made me that hard, and that fast. She needed me. I could taste it in those slow kisses of hers. More than two months had passed since I first wanted to kiss her, and they hadn't done anything to diminish how badly I wanted it. Quite the opposite.

When we paused and she smiled shyly up at me I swear to God the volume of blood rushing downwards from my head to – well, other parts of me – almost made me dizzy. We looked at each other for a few seconds and then she reached for me and the floodgates opened. I kissed her harder, pulling her onto my lap and digging my fingers into her hips, pressing her down against me.

"Jack –"

Oh, God, the sound of her breathless little sigh when she felt me – felt what she was doing to me – between her legs.

"Jack. Jack, wait..."

"What is it?" I asked, lifting my hips up off the sofa and pulling her down hard against me.

"Wait a second. I – Jack – I don't know if –"

I took my hands off her and squeezed my eyes tightly shut. I took a deep breath. Everything inside me, every cell, every little voice in my head, every angel and devil on my shoulders, was screaming at me in unison.

"What is it?" I asked. And then, when she didn't answer right away, I lifted her gently off me and stood up. "I'm sorry, Blaze. I literally can't talk with you like that – on my lap. It's turning my brain off."

"Yeah," she breathed. "Me too. It's – nothing. It's nothing, Jack. I'm just, oh my God, I don't even know. I can't think right now."

"Me neither."

I turned my body away from her so I could adjust my aching cock into a more comfortable position in my now way-too-restrictive jeans.

"This is so stupid," she said, drawing her knees up to her chin and resting her head against them. "This is going to sound so stupid. I want to do this. I – Jack, I couldn't even tell you right now how much I want to do this. But I just – I don't know. I'm scared."

"You're scared?" I asked, worried. "Blaze, why are you –"

"Not of you!" She broke in. "Not scared of you, Jack. Scared of myself. Scared of how," she paused and put her hands over her face, "oh God this is embarrassing. I already sound like I'm about 15 years old right now, don't I?"

I didn't know how old Blaze sounded, because it was already taking every single ounce of my self-control to actually listen to what she was saying instead of scooping her into my arms. "I – uh, I don't know," I replied. "You're scared of – what, Blaze? Of yourself? What does that mean?"

"Ugh!" She exclaimed suddenly, throwing one of the pillows on the sofa at me. "Why are men so dense sometimes?! Yes, Jack, I'm scared of myself. I'm scared of how you make me feel."

Her cheeks were flushed bright pink and her eyes were sparkling with what she wanted. And believe me, I knew what Blaze wanted. I ran my hand through my hair as I looked down at her, filled with a restless energy. "Jesus, you're beautiful."

She laughed and closed her eyes. "Please don't say things like that, Jack. I'm hanging by a thread here. Please –"

"You are, though," I told her, looking her right in the eyes and not bothering to try and hide my hard-on anymore. If she needed me to wait, I would wait. But I knew there was no point in trying to conceal what she was doing to me. "You are beautiful, Blaze. Part of me feels like I'm going to die if I don't kiss you again right now. But I'll wait. I will wait if you need me to."

"OK," she whispered, standing up. "Thank you, Jack."

We both knew if we so much as brushed fingers we were both done for, so we didn't even give each other a goodnight hug. She leaned in a little, almost like she was going to kiss my cheek, and then pulled away at the last minute.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I just don't want to do anything stupid. I feel like I've kind of been spiraling these past few weeks and I don't – I don't trust myself with you. I don't trust myself not to lose it completely."

"I understand," I told her. "I get it. But I want you to know that I'm not going to hurt you, Blaze. I'm not going to take advantage of you or knock down your defenses."

"I know, Jack."

She scurried out of the room with the haste of a woman who knew even a few more seconds of proximity could well be enough to send us both crashing to the floor in a frenzy of flying clothes.

As soon as I was alone I reached down and adjusted myself again, wincing a little at just how ready to go I was. I looked around, desperate for something to distract me from what I wanted to do – which was jerk off in the middle of the living room, in full view of my Grandma Dottie's small collection of dancing porcelain figurines. My eyes landed on the deposit book. I pulled out my phone to check the time. Almost eleven o'clock. Damn. Time flies when you're all wrapped up in a beautiful girl.

I sat back down on the sofa and Googled the Bank of Ireland, trying to find a phone number I could call the next day, as I'd promised Blaze I would. Not that I expected anything to halt the process that the IRS had already put in motion – David McMillan had already told me that it was going to take a lot more than a few thousand dollars to get them to even consider making a deal. Would two hundred thousand dollars do it? Even if it did, where would the payments come from? And that was assuming there even was a huge chunk of money like that sitting in some forgotten bank account halfway across the world, which there almost certainly wasn't.

I woke up, disoriented, from the doze I'd accidentally fallen into and grabbed my phone. Almost 4 o'clock in the morning. I had to go to bed. Blaze was presumably asleep in the same guest bedroom she'd slept in on her previous visit. But just as I was about to head upstairs, I remembered that there's a time difference between North America and Ireland. Google told me it was seven hours later there than in Montana, which meant it was almost 11 o'clock in the morning there. That was opening hours. I could call the bank before going to bed.

So that's just what I did, trying the whole time I was on hold and then being transferred from person to person not to get too excited or hopeful. Which was an excellent instinct, because when I finally got through to someone and told her what was going on, she informed me less than two minutes later that they had no savings accounts of that age in Dorothy McMurtry's name.

I confess, my stomach sank a little. The woman on the phone asked me if there was an account number in the deposit book and I flipped through it one more time, unable to find anything. She must have heard the disappointment in my voice because she checked one more time, only to confirm that no, there was no savings account under that name.

So that was that. I was almost glad of the distraction provided by the extreme level of sexual frustration I felt that night. It didn't leave a lot of room to be sad about there not being a convenient chunk of change waiting for me in an Irish bank account.

I headed up to my bedroom and fell asleep on top of the bed, fully clothed because I was going to have to be up again very soon to feed the cattle.