Clay got calls all the time. Offers of employment and requests for help. Owners, breeders and vets all wanted him and he'd been quoted salaries that would put what Nate was paying him to shame. Besides his technical skills, there was a rumor he took care not to exploit--that he communicated with the thousand-pound beasts. That he read their minds and they read his. That he was a horse whisperer.

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. He had luck with horses, but then he never hurried them or took them for granted and they appreciated that. There were three reasons he'd taken Nathaniel's offer without hesitation. Clay's sister lived in the area--Ursula Toopeek was married to the police chief in Grace Valley, a nearby town. Clay was close to Ursula, Tom and their five children. Reason two--Clay respected Nathaniel's skill and ethics and thought the veterinarian would be successful in this expanded endeavor. Plus Nate wasn't hooking his potential success to any mystical ability Clay might have.

And three--it was time to make a break from Isabel.

Clay had known Nate for years but had never before been to his Northern California stable and practice. He was somewhat familiar with the area, having visited his sister in Grace Valley many times. Carrying glasses of lemonade, Nate and Clay toured the compound. Clay was impressed; the new stable under construction was going to be awesome. The vet tech's quarters in the original stable were small but sufficient and had been built for that occasional night there was a sick animal on the premises and someone had to sleep in the stable to be on hand. It was one room with a small bathroom and shower, a bar-sized refrigerator and a couple of kitchenette cupboards. The bed was built into a wall unit with closets, drawers and shelves, much like a Murphy bed. Opposite that, under the only window, was an additional bureau. Virginia, the tech who had recently retired, had added a microwave and hot plate so she could heat her tea or pop her popcorn and had generously left both behind.

There was an industrial-size washer and dryer set in the stable, but Clay was invited to use the set in the house so he wouldn't be mixing up his laundry with animal excretions and blood. Clay laughed. "Like I won't have plenty of that on my clothes in any case."

"Still," Nate said. "Maybe it's psychological. Clay, I'm afraid you won't be happy in the stable quarters for long."

"How do you know?" he asked, lifting a black brow.

"It's too small. There are no amenities. No TV or DVD player. Nothing for the long term. And I don't want you resigning because you're cramped. We have options," Nate said. "If you won't bunk with us in the house, we can always bring in a mobile home. Lots of property here to park it. Or when the new stable is finished in just a few weeks, we could knock out a wall and enlarge the quarters."

Clay chuckled. "Before I hand in my resignation because my digs aren't fancy enough, I'll think about that." He laughed some more, remembering. "You have no idea how I lived when I followed the rodeo around, and in some ways I was happier than I'd ever been."

"That was then. This is now."

Right, Clay thought. Because at a point a man has to have stability if not roots. He'd lived in Isabel's big house, the cooking and cleaning done on a daily basis by a woman named Juanita and her daughter. It was a beautiful home, but he'd never been comfortable there. It was too much house and designed more for entertaining than for daily living. Isabel had many wealthy and influential acquaintances in the horse business and beyond.

It had been six years since they first met. He moved in with her five years ago, married her four years ago, agreed to the divorce two years ago and when it was final, a year and a half ago, he rented a small cabin on the other side of her family's property. But he was frequently invited back to Isabel's big house, back to her bed. She even braved his cabin sometimes. There seemed to be too many complications for them to make a marriage work, but there was undeniable chemistry between them. The only way Clay could stop that was by moving hundreds of miles north.

They exited the new construction and walked into the corral. "The stable quarters will be fine, Nathaniel," Clay said. "Just let me get acclimated and then maybe I'll look around. By the way, I brought a flat screen and I have my iPod. There's also the guitar and flute...."

"Just let me know how I can help," he said. "Hey, there's Annie." He strode across the corral toward a tall woman near the original stable. She was brushing down a handsome Thoroughbred.

Clay followed. He smiled appreciatively, maybe enviously, as Nathaniel slipped an arm around her waist and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. All the while she was looking over Nathaniel's shoulder at Clay, her smile instant and her eyes sparkling. She transferred the brush to her left hand and stuck out her right. The kiss was barely finished as she said, "You must be Clay. At last! I'm so happy to meet you."

She's so pretty, he thought. She had earthy beauty; she was long-legged and slim, tall in her boots, and she had shiny dark red hair, bright green eyes and a rosy, freckled complexion. Her smile was strong, as was her hand when she grasped Clay's. "Nice to meet you," Clay said. "How'd he get you to agree to marry him?"

She didn't bite at the joke, but rather chuckled and said, "We've been so excited for you to get here. Nate's been telling me stories about some of the experiences you've had together. I understand you have a special relationship with the horses and I have a couple who could use some lessons in manners if you'd just have a word with them."

Clay tipped his head back slightly, smiling, silent and tolerant.

"Don't worry," she said. "I've been told you'd rather not advertise that ability."

"If I could count on it, I might. Some animals are more private than others. I'd hate to crush expectations. I have other skills."

"As I've also been told. Best farrier in the business, complete with digital diagnostic equipment to use in examining gaits, alignment and sports performance. I can't wait for a demonstration."

His grin widened at that. "It's the ONTRACKEQUINE software. I can't wait to show you."

"But I want to hear about the other skill." She lowered her voice when she said, "The whispering."

He tilted his head. "Do you garden?" he asked her.

"She's a farmer's daughter. She can grow anything," Nathaniel answered for her.

Clay focused on Annie. "Do you talk to plants?" When she nodded he asked, "And do they respond by becoming tall and healthy? Robust?"

"Sometimes. I've heard it's the oxygen you breathe on them," she said.

He shook his head. "You emit more carbon dioxide than oxygen. Perhaps it's the sound of your voice or your intention or it could be hypnosis," he said with a shrug. "Whatever that is, it's been working since the sun first warmed the ground. Sometimes it's better not to question but just accept. And also accept that there are no guarantees on anything."

She edged closer. "But if I promise not to advertise this magical thing that works sometimes, will you tell me a little about it? Some of your experiences? Friend to friend?"

"Yes, Annie. I'll tell you training stories as long as you promise to remember no one knows if the horse and I communicated or if the horse just decided to stop screwing around and get with the program."

"Promise," she said with a laugh. "I'd better get in the shower," Annie said. "I'll have dinner ready in an hour and a half. Is there anything you need in the meantime?"

He shook his head. "I'll grab my duffel. Nathaniel will show me where to park the truck and trailer and maybe I'll get my own shower before dinner."

So, Nathaniel was worried about the lack of amenities in the tech's quarters, Clay mused. The biggest problem he could tell from checking the place out was the bed. He was a long-legged man for a regular-size double bed. And the showerhead was a little low. But there'd been times he'd slept in his truck or trailer, camped, borrowed cots or couches, made a nest in a stall, whatever worked. The best thing about Isabel's big house was her extra-long king-size platform bed, good even when she wasn't in it.

There had been no settlement in the divorce; he hadn't wanted anything of hers and she couldn't get away with asking a farrier for money when she had so much personal wealth. It was interesting that they hadn't put together a prenup, that she trusted him in marriage and in divorce. He briefly wondered if he'd remembered to thank her for that. Trust was more valuable to Clay than money. But he regretted that he hadn't asked for the bed. That was a good bed. Firm like the ground, not hard like asphalt, but with a little give like the earth. Spacious. Generous. Long.

Clay pulled clean jeans out of his duffel and a fresh denim shirt. He brushed off his boots and combed his long, damp hair back into its ponytail. With his bronze skin, high cheekbones and long, silky black ponytail, there was no need for him to drive the point home with Native American affectations, but his cowboy hat sported an eagle feather. Even when his hats got worn to death and he got new ones, he transferred the feather. Finding an eagle feather was good mojo.

He heard the grinding of an engine and distant barking of a dog. Of course his immediate thought was that it was a patient. He put the hat on his head and exited the stable in time to see an old Ford pickup back up to the barn's double doors. It was full of hay and feed. As he watched, a young woman with black hair and tan skin jumped energetically out of the cab, ran around to the back, donned heavy work gloves, dropped the tailgate on the pickup and grabbed a fifty-pound bale. She was short and trim, maybe five foot four and a hundred and fifteen pounds, but she pulled that bale out of the truck, hefted it and carried it into the stable.

Clay backtracked into his new quarters and grabbed a pair of work gloves from his duffel. He joined her at the back of her truck when she returned.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw him. She looked more than surprised, her blue eyes wide with shock. It was almost as if she'd seen a ghost. "Nate didn't mention he had a new hand," she said, eyeing the work gloves.

"I'm Clay," he said, introducing himself. "Let me give you a hand here."

"I have it," she said, moving past him to the truck. She jumped up on the tailgate and pulled another bale toward her.

Clay ignored her dismissal, but he smiled at the sight of her hefting that heavy bale and marching into the stable. She was wearing a denim jacket and he would bet that underneath it she had some shoulders and guns on her that other women would kill for. And that tight round butt in a pair of jeans was pretty sweet, too. But the kid didn't make five and a half feet even in her cowboy boots. Tiny. Firm. Young.

He grabbed two bales and followed her into the stable. She actually jumped in surprise when she turned around and found him standing there behind her with a fifty-pound bale in each hand. She seemed to struggle for words for a second and finally settled on, "Thanks, but I can handle it just fine."

"Me, too," he said. "You do the feed delivery all the time?"

"Mondays and Thursdays," she said, lowering her gaze and quickly walking around him, back to the truck. She reached in after another bale, leaving only a couple of feed bags in the back.

He followed her. "Do you have a name?" he bluntly asked.

"Lilly," she said, pulling that bale toward her out of the truck bed. "Yazhi," she added with a grunt.

"You're Hopi?" he asked. His eyebrows rose. "A blue-eyed Hopi?"

She hesitated before answering. You had to have blue-eyed DNA on both sides to get more blue eyes. Lilly's father was unknown to her, but she'd always been told her mother had always believed herself to be one hundred percent Native. "About half, yes," she finally said, hefting the bale. "Where are you from?"

"Flagstaff," he answered.

"Navajo?" she asked.

He smiled lazily. "Yes, ma'am."

"We're historic enemies."

He smiled enthusiastically. "I've gotten over it," he said. "You still mad?"

She rolled her eyes and turned away, carrying her bale. Little Indian girl didn't want to play. Once again he couldn't help but notice the strain in her shoulders, the firm muscles under those jeans. "I don't pay attention to all that stuff," she said as she went into the barn.

Clay chuckled. He grabbed the last two bags of feed, stacked one on top of the other and threw them up on a shoulder, following her. When he caught up with her he asked, "Where do you want the feed?"

"Feed room, with the hay. When did you start here?"

"Actually, today. Have you been delivering feed long?"

"Part-time, a few years. I do it for my grandfather. He owns the feed business. He's an old Hopi man and doesn't like his business out of the family. Trouble is, there's not that much family."

Clay understood all of that, the thing about her people and family. First off, most people preferred their tribal designation when referred to, and family was everything; they were slow to trust anyone outside the race, the tribe, the family.

"Couple of old grandfathers in my family, also," he said by way of understanding. "You're good to help him."

"If I didn't, I'd never hear the end of it."

He began to notice pleasant things about her face. She wore her hair in a sleek, modern cut, short in the back and longer along her jaw. Her brows were beautifully shaped. Her blue eyes sparkled and her lips were glossy. She wasn't wearing makeup and her skin looked like tan butter. Soft and tender. She was beautiful. He guessed she was in her early twenties at most.