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It was Rule Three that ensured she travelled safely while she made her way across the country, hopping from rodeo to rodeo.

It was Rule Three that, for the next week at least, led her to Arizona and the annual Rodeo Scottsdale, just an eight-hour drive from her final destination: Hunt Ranch, Santa Barbara County, California.

Sheridan, one of the barrel racers she’d met on the road, had given her the name of a local dairy-farming family who took in stray rodeo folks for a small nightly fee. After two weeks of camping out with Smokey, Skye was more than happy to pay for the convenience of a hot shower and a clean bed.

She rolled over the cattle grid and onto the farm on Tuesday evening, two days before the rodeo.

Around her, Arizona spread for miles and miles, flat irrigated pastures running into flat red dirt running into flat paved roads. The brush was coarse and thorny. The only trees in sight were those up ahead, planted around the pretty farmhouse like a protective regiment.

Skye pulled up and climbed out of the truck. The temperature in March was already hovering in the high seventies in the day before dropping into the low fifties at night. But just then, it was crisp, the faint smell of cow riding below the breeze.

Skye raised her hands above her head in a long stretch, twisting her torso to either side. Unable to resist, she bent over, stretching out her hamstrings and calves. A long moan of relief and the words ‘Holy crap’ left her lips as her cramped muscles breathed after hours of driving.

The sound of a throat clearing had her popping upright.

She spun around, one hand to her racing heart.

A man stood a good six feet away, one hip cocked, his lean rangy build emphasized by old blue jeans and a fitted black T-shirt. He was probably in his early thirties, though it was hard to tell beneath the cowboy hat, stained with sweat. His work boots were as cracked and scarred as the Arizona dirt. When he stepped closer and held out one hand in greeting, she noticed his green eyes. They were laughing at her; of that, she was sure. But there was no menace in them.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’

Skye relaxed slightly. ‘It’s okay. Didn’t hear you come up behind me. I’m Skye. You must be Mr Jones?’ She returned the shake because it was the normal thing to do, but when his big, rough hand dwarfed hers, she broke contact almost instantly, keeping the greeting brief but polite.

‘In a sense.’ His grin was quick and devastating. ‘Jesse James Jones. TJ. My father’d be the Mr Jones you’re looking for.’ He shucked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a huge, white structure. ‘He’s doing the evening milking right now, but I can help you offload and show you your stall, give you the tour.’

‘Ah, sure.’ Skye cast one quick glance at the barn. ‘Thanks.’

They walked around the trailer together. ‘My dad said you were a friend of Sheridan’s? In town for the Rodeo?’

‘Ah, yeah. Sheri and I met in Oklahoma a few months back. We’ve stayed in touch, and she was kind enough to mention your place.’

‘You a barrel racer then?’ he asked. His eyes flickered over her. ‘I haven’t seen you around before.’

‘Not quite,’ Skye replied honestly. ‘I only just got back into riding a few months ago, so I’m a way from anything close to barrel racing. I’d like to, though. Smokey – my horse – is still green. I’ve been trying to ride her every night, but she was a little sick when I bought her. And it’s slow work when you’re on the road.’ Slower work still, she thought, when all your knowledge came from YouTube videos, and all your practice had to be done on the trail or the rare open field. ‘But she’s fast and athletic. She’s going to need a job soon.’

They lowered the ramp together. Smokey, well used to life on the road, merely turned her head to look at them. She’d started shedding her winter woollies already, so her silvery coat gleamed.

TJ whistled low. ‘Hey, pretty girl.’

Skye couldn’t say why, but those words, issued in TJ’s deep voice, wove a thread of heat through her. A fierce blush flooded her cheeks. She might have been more embarrassed had Smokey not seemed affected too. But the horse pricked her ears and blew a flirty snort in TJ’s direction.

TJ shot Skye a wink. ‘She likes me.’

‘Go figure.’ Skye climbed into the trailer, mock-chastised her horse with, ‘You’d do well to remember who feeds you,’ as she untied the lead rope and backed Smokey out.

TJ grinned but didn’t say anything.

He led the way, chatting politely the entire time. ‘That big white structure is the milking parlour. There’s a barn attached to it for cows that are calving or need vet care. The others are pastured and then called in for feeding and milking.’

‘What happens to them – the calves?’

‘Most places put them in calf hutches for the first eight weeks.’ He pointed to where a line of what looked like little white dog kennels sat, clearly unused. ‘But my mom couldn’t stand them being put straight into a hutch after coming into the world. She built a separate barn and pasture for them. She calls it “The Nursery”. And you don’t have to worry,’ he added, when he caught her forlorn look. ‘Those calves are better looked after than me and my sister ever were.’

Skye scrunched her nose. ‘That obvious?’

He tipped his head slightly. ‘You’re all city beneath those blue jeans.’

‘You cannot tell that just by looking at me,’ Skye insisted. In her blue jeans, boots, a faded Wrangler tee, and a ball cap, she looked like any Western horse girl she’d ever met.