The Pirate & The Adventurer & The Cowboy

of Tucson in the distance, the ranch was an impressive sight. At the end of a long, winding drive was a graceful house done in the classic Spanish Colonial style. The walls had the look of warm, earth-toned adobe and the roof was red tile. Lush greenery surrounded the place, a welcome antidote to the rugged desert landscape. Low, white, modern-looking barns, white fences and green pastures spread out from the house. Margaret could see horses in the fields.

    "Things were a little rushed during that two-month period after we met," Rafe reminded her coolly. "There wasn't time to get you down here to see the place before you… left me."

    "You mean before you threw me out of your life."

    Rafe drew a breath. "It was an argument, Maggie. A bad one. I lost my temper and said a lot of things I didn't mean."

    "Oh, you meant them, all right. Where are the cows?" Margaret added in mild curiosity. "Shouldn't there be cows on a ranch like this?"

    "This time of year the cattle are scattered all to hell and gone up in the foothills," Rafe said impatiently.

    "Why so many horses? They don't look like quarter horses."

    "They aren't. They're Arabians. We breed them. Some of the best in the world. The profit margin is a lot more reliable than cattle. In fact, I'm thinking of getting out of the cattle business altogether."

    "Well, that figures. I don't see you getting involved in anything that doesn't show an excellent profit margin. Have you considered chickens?"

    "
Chickens
?" His expression was a mask of outrage, the sort of outrage only a true cattleman could manage.

    "Sure. Red meat is out, Rafe. Haven't you been following the latest health advice? Chicken, fish and vegetables are in. Oh, and turkeys. You might try raising turkeys. I understand they're not real bright so you should be able to figure out a way to round them up and brand them if you feel you must maintain the old traditions."

    "Forget chickens and forget turkeys," he growled.

    "All right. I imagine the real basis for the family fortune is Cassidy and Company anyway, isn't it? You rustle companies now instead of cattle."

    Rafe slanted her a brief, annoyed glance as he parked the Mercedes. "You're determined to make this difficult, aren't you?"

    "As difficult as I can," she assured him as she opened her own car door and got out. "Where is my father?"

    "Probably out by the pool. That's where I left him when I went to get you." Rafe got out of the Mercedes just as a young man wearing a striped shirt and black jeans came around the corner of the house. "Tom, this is Maggie Lark. Maggie, this is Tom. He takes care of the house gardens and a lot of other odds and ends around here. Tom, grab the lady's luggage, will you? It goes into the south guest bedroom."

    "Sure thing, Rafe. Afternoon, Miss Lark. We've been expecting you. Have a good trip?"

    "Fine, thank you, Tom." Margaret smiled coolly at him. "Where is the pool?"

    Tom looked surprised. "The pool? Out in the patio. Straight through the house. But don't you want to settle into your room first? Maybe change your clothes?" He eyed her silk suit dubiously.

    "I want to see my father first. This is a business trip as far as I'm concerned."

    "Oh, yeah. Sure. Business." Tom was obviously baffled by that statement. "Like I said, right through the middle of the house."

    Margaret did not wait for Rafe to do the honors. She felt his sardonic gaze on her as she turned and strode straight toward the wide, dark wooden door of the Spanish-style home. She opened it and found herself in a cool, tiled hall. The air-conditioning felt wonderful. She took off her sunglasses and glanced around with unwilling curiosity.

    This was Rafe's hideaway, she knew, the Cassidy family ranch. He had mentioned it once or twice during the brief time she had been dating him. It was the place he came to when the pressure of his fast-track life-style occasionally caught up with him. That wasn't often. Rafe's stamina was legendary.

    The Southwestern style of the outside of Rafe's home had been carried on inside. Soft earthtones, terra cotta, peach and pale turquoise dominated. Here and there was a shot of black in the form of a vase or a lamp. Heavily beamed ceilings and rugs with geometric Indian designs woven into them gave a rustic effect that was also surprisingly gracious.

    Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one entire wall of the long living room Margaret could see the pool. It occupied the center of a beautifully