I dreamed of a man on horseback. Splashing through the surf, his very presence called to me. Walking across the sand packed firm by the waves, I stared at the beautiful man jumping down off his mighty steed and starting toward me. But at the same time, a man who looked curiously like Clark waded in from the sea with a briefcase full of clamshells, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to throw out any of the lobsters I might find in my shoes.

“Lobsters? What lobsters?” I’d asked, to the tune of “Rock Lobster” by the B-52’s, of course. He’d pointed down, and I was horrified to see my legs were now lobster claws, clacking up and down the beach.

I woke in a cold sweat. But the soothing sound of the waves lulled me to sleep again, and I was back to the Land of Nod in no time.

I woke again as the morning light began to creep into the sky, my body still on East Coast time. I needed to stay up later tonight, try and get on West Coast time. Except for the disturbing dream, I’d slept like a rock. No drips, no leaky roof.

I pulled the covers over my face, trying to squeeze in one more set of forty winks, but it was useless. Then I realized that it was after six. And that meant . . .

Coffee!

I threw on some leggings and a fleece, pushed my hair back into a headband, and clattered down the front steps. I decided to walk into town, wanting to stretch my legs a bit after the hard work they’d done the day before, and would surely do again today. Down the long driveway I went, turning down the main street into town. Maybe a quarter mile or so, I could walk it in less than ten minutes, which was nice to know. As I came upon the main drag, I noticed a shop that specialized in antiques, and notably, old paintings. Landscapes, several of the town. I wondered if any of Aunt Maude’s paintings would be worth anything. Might be a good idea to keep in mind.

But now coffee called, and I answered it. Pushing open the tinkly door, I looked for Jessica’s smiling face behind the counter. She waved, and I headed down to the last seat again.

“Same as yesterday?”

“Yes, please, I’m starving. I forgot to eat dinner last night.” I sat down and picked up a newspaper someone had left.

“I’ve never had that problem, but that’s because John is such a good cook,” she proclaimed, pouring me a cup of coffee and sticking a ticket with my Hungry Man on the hook behind the counter for the short-order cook.

“I can see how that would never come up,” I agreed, nodding a hello to Mr. Martin in the seat next to mine. I began to read the news of the day. Did two days in a row create a breakfast routine? Not sure, but I liked already where this was going.

After I ate my weight in bacon, I headed home. The sun was shining fully now, and it promised to be another clear and warm day. Autumn was beginning back home, but here it was still full summer. As I walked back to the house, I marveled once more at the view. I would never get tired of looking at that ocean. Gulls surfed the thermals, dive-bombing and swirling. As I reached the garage, I stopped to peer through the grimy windows, trying to see what was in there. Boxes, sitting on top of a tarp, which covered a car. I wondered what kind it was. Best guess? A pink Pinto.

I flipped through the keys on my ring, trying a few until one slid home. The door creaked open, disappearing into the rafters with a puff of dust. I coughed a few times, the dust stinging my lungs. I’d inhaled so much of it over the past few days, I’d no doubt that if you patted my lungs, puffs would rise.

I entered the garage, cracked concrete below my feet. I removed a few boxes from the hood, gearing up for the big reveal. Holding my breath as I gripped the edge of the tarp, I pulled it out into the driveway, revealing . . . miles and miles of painted Detroit iron.

A 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible. White fins. Whitewall tires. Powder-blue body. Not to mention steering wheel.

“You beautiful thing, you,” I breathed, running my fingers across the trim. It looked like it was in good condition, and I could barely believe my good luck. I couldn’t wait to drive it! I reluctantly covered it once more with the tarp, then closed the garage door. And as I started walking back toward the house, I noticed the barn door was ajar. I course corrected, heading for the open door. I could hear the rustle of hay inside, and as the chickens hurried from my path I watched for any calling cards the horses may have left. I wasn’t doing that again . . .

As I poked my head inside, there was Hank. Good God almighty, he was a sight.

Shoveling hay down from the loft with a pitchfork, he was already working up a sweat. I leaned against a barn post, the sweet smell of hay thick in the air. And speaking of thick, his white T-shirt clung to his broad body, which was ridiculously strong. He was like a steak, a prime cut of man.

He pivoted, catching me off guard, tossing down a load of hay right in front of me.

“Hey! Hay!” I cried out, trying to dodge it in time but getting a tuft in my mouth in the process.

“Told you to stay out of the barn,” he called down, throwing the pitchfork aside and descending the ladder with perfect grace. I started to brush myself off, irritated with his attitude and also the feeling of hayseeds in my bra, and more than ready to tell him I could go in the barn whenever I darn well pleased when he . . . began . . . to brush me off.

Strong, capable fingers made deft work of the remaining strands, his hands dancing lightly over my collarbone, straying closer than was probably necessary to my br**sts. I held my breath as he continued, his body noticeably warm within the confined space. His cologne once more rose up in the air and swirled, making me drunk. Making me swoon. Making me sneeze.

“Achoo!” I blew, and hay flew.

In a romance novel, it would have been dainty and darling, a sneeze one could write sonnets about. In the life of Viv Franklin, it was powerful enough to scatter chickens.

His hands left my shoulders and he exited the barn.

I followed. “So, what exactly do you do here, Hank?”

“I take care of the animals,” he answered, striding toward his truck.

“Yeah, I got that. But is that like daily? Twice daily?” I asked, still hurrying after him. Ridiculous.

“Depends,” he said, swinging up into the cab. He was a man of few words. And pecs you could cut your teeth on. Yes, please.

“Depends?” I asked, slowing down and trying to recover a little bit of mystery, a little intrigue.

“Yeah, it depends. I’ll be back later today, going to ride Paula.”

Who was Paula, and how much could I kill her for getting to be ridden by Cowboy Hank?