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B efore going inside to get ready for her date, Claire slung the strap of her rifle over her shoulder and jogged to the barn to finish the chores she usually tackled in the morning.

As soon as she unlatched and rolled back the heavy barn door, high-pitched mewing and the tromp of paws greeted her.

She never understood how these so-called mousers, with their soft-padded feet sounded like stampeding cattle rushing the doors.

How they ever managed to sneak up on anything, let alone field mice, was beyond her.

She stooped to pet the three calicos in turn. “Good evening, Wes, Fez, and In-go. You know you’re supposed to be mousers, don’cha? If Grams knew I was feeding you… Well, she won’t know, will she, kitties?”

Claire stood and walked to the cabinet where she kept the bag of cat food, treats, and Buttercup’s supplements. The cats darted between her legs like chaos on four legs.

Nearly tripping, she laughed. “You shouldn’t run among giants, guys! That’s how you get squashed!”

Obviously hearing that it was dinnertime, Vizzy — the old ornery goat, as Grams called him — charged out from one of the no-longer-used stalls.

Claire backed out of his way, knowing the old coot loved to ram into her.

She was pretty sure he was mostly blind, which, of course, was better than being mostly dead .

The old thing caught the tail of her shirt, so she snatched it out of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Vizzy.”

Before feeding the ravenous quartet, she grabbed a handful of pre-bagged supplements for Buttercup. Over the past year, she’d grown more and more concerned about how they were caring for the horses.

Rusty did a decent job grooming her, but the feed quality had gone downhill. Earlier this winter, when she’d changed her riding schedule and showed up at feeding time, she’d nearly barfed.

Still, it wasn’t like she could haul hay back and forth herself.

So she started showing up even earlier, cleaning out the icky stuff and adding supplements Mr. Belgarde had recommended.

Maybe now that his sons were working at the ranch, they’d call out the cheapskates.

Grams paid good money to board Buttercup.

Fez tried to crawl headfirst into the cat food bag as she scooped out their dinner. She nudged him back, then carried the scoop — more like three cups — to their tins. Not that it mattered. They tore into their dishes, only to crash into one another’s halfway through.

Finished with the no-longer-feral cats, she grabbed a bucket of grain and headed toward the chicken coop.

As always, she scanned the fence and the woods beyond.

Gramps had drilled into her that crepuscular hours were the most dangerous times to tend livestock.

He’d always told her to feed the chickens well after sunrise, and to be back inside long before full dark.

But Alaska light played tricks in spring.

Even though it was still daylight, her visibility was nothing compared to a wolf’s or a bear’s.

And bears coming out of hibernation were hungry and unpredictable, often prowling for an easy meal.

She rounded the barn, eyes sweeping the shadows at the tree line, where a predator might already be watching.

The wind had picked up through the day and, now, microbursts sent leathery brown aspen leaves spinning across the lawn like tumbleweeds in an old western.

No matter how hard she tried, she could never round them all up.

Once the snow came, the wily sprites got trapped — only to haunt her come spring.

After feeding the chickens, Claire bolted the door, then hooked the empty pail outside the coop — snap !

Holding steady, she quietly shifted the rifle forward, then slowly turned.

“Hola!”

Claire smacked a hand to her chest. “Lala! I told you not to do that! I might have shot you.”

“Oh, Claire-Belle, you’re so dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic?” Frustrated, Claire sidestepped, but Lala matched her movement. “What are you doing?”

“I made dates for us tonight.”

Claire huffed and looked down at Lala’s shoes. “Not interested.” She walked in the opposite direction quickly enough that Lala missed her movement, then marched toward the house.

“You have to make up with Boyd,” Lala called behind her. “He’s Roger’s best friend!”

“Not in a million years!” Claire laughed, then took off toward the house. With Lala’s wedge sandals, she’d never keep up. If Grams and Gramps weren’t home, she could lock her out, like Lala liked to do to her.

As appealing as the notion was, she couldn’t. Claire was born in Alaska — Lala was from California. The girl couldn’t find her way out of a Kmart.

But Claire could lock her out of her bedroom.

“Claire!” Lala shouted. “I’m talking to you!”

Locking her out was sounding better.

“Where have you been?”

With that, Claire turned. “You know, Lala, just because you’re a couple of years older than me, doesn’t make you my mother.”

Lala fisted her hands and put them on her hips. “I didn’t say you could take my Blazer.”

Claire sighed. “You were sleeping. You always sleep all day on Sunday…” She looked at the driveway, making sure Grams and Gramps hadn’t come back from their friends’ house. “… so you don’t have to go to church.”

Her cousin narrowed her eyes.

“Chill,” Claire said, using one of Lala’s favorite words. “I’m not telling them. But it’s only a matter of time before Gramps figures out you can’t have cramps every week.”

Lala walked closer. She removed her hands from her hips, but then crossed them over her chest. She stared Claire up and down. “You went riding? I told you I wanted to go riding today.”

No sense in lying. Clearly, Shirley had already informed Lala that Claire was talking to the new hand. She could almost hear Shirley’s whiny voice. And then Rusty ran off, leaving me all alone in the ring …

“You never go riding on Sunday,” Claire responded. She knew why Lala was interrogating her, but she wondered if Lala knew why.

Lala stomped her leather wedge on the ground. “I had fun yesterday. I wanted to go. Now it’s too late. You knew I wanted to go, so you took off before I woke —”

Claire walked off, effectively cutting off her cousin’s tirade.

Lala’s mother and grandfather might tolerate her tantrums, but Claire agreed with Lala’s stepfather: the girl was a spoiled brat.

While Claire was grateful Lala had stood up for her last night, her suggestion that Claire go out with Boyd again had undone every ounce of respect she’d felt.

On the porch now, Lala pushed Claire aside and raced to the door. She ran inside, then pulled the metal screen door shut, locking it.

Claire closed her eyes, then dug in her pocket. She pulled out the keyring with the red and yellow KISS emblem. “I still have your keys. No Blazer, no date with Roger.”

“What do I care? I don’t even want to go out with Roger. I was just trying to help you. If you and Boyd break up, who will you go to prom with? Did you think about that, Claire-Belle?”

“Open the door, Lala.”

Lala pouted, crossing her arms again. “Did he ask about me?”

“Did who ask about you?”

Lala slammed her foot against the floor again. “You know who! Shirley told me! I’m not stupid, you know!”

“Shirley told you what?” Claire feigned innocence. “That I rode Buttercup?”

“That you were talking to Thomas.”

Claire could tell the truth about this. “I wasn’t talking to Thomas.”

“Yes, you were! She told me! And just like last night, Rusty came running to protect you.”

Claire deflected. “The new hand? He saddled up Buttercup, so what?”

“That’s Thomas!” Seemingly pleased that Claire had dismissed him as the new hand , Lala unlocked the screen door. “The new hand is Thomas. You didn’t recognize him?”

Again, Claire answered honestly. “No, I didn’t recognize the new hand as Thomas. I didn’t know him well.”

How could Lala not know that he was Adam not Thomas? Had she not spoken with him yesterday? Had she only seen him from a distance? It just didn’t make sense.

Covertly returning the keyring to her pocket as she pulled the rifle off her back, Claire entered the house, stowed her gun, then headed to her room.

“I thought you were going out with Roger tonight?” Claire called over her shoulder.

Evident by the clack, clack, clack of her wedges, Lala followed closely behind. “I didn’t set it up. I was just checking to see what you were thinking.”

Claire stopped in her doorway, turning to her.

“What I think ? I think I need a shower. Just walking through the barn you pick up the smell of hay and manure.” Something Lala always said.

Claire actually liked the smell of hay, and she never smelled like manure.

It wasn’t like she rolled in the stall with Buttercup.

Besides, Buttercup was a lady — sophisticated and sweet-smelling.

Lala crinkled her nose. “You’re right. You smell.”

Claire shut the door, locked it, then raced to the bathroom.

With any luck, Lala would turn on the TV and The Wonderful World of Disney would be rerunning Freaky Friday or The Parent Trap — two of her favorites. Even so, she’d seen them so many times, Lala usually fell asleep halfway through. If she wasn’t sucking face with Roger, that is.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, when Claire inched open her bedroom door, all she heard was… Sports commentary? Was that right?

No Disney fanfare. No Tinker Bell with her magic wand.

She held fast behind the door, waiting.

Baseball, maybe?

Perfect!

Lala was certainly steaming that they interrupted one of her shows to feature sports.

Claire was eternally grateful that she’d been under the shower head so she didn’t have to listen to her cousin cry about how unfair life was.

If she were home in California, she’d have HBO, her own TV, and no stupid baseball interruptions.

The good news for Claire… Nothing put Lala asleep like baseball.

Claire scooped up her boots and purse, then tiptoed out of her bedroom. She paused long enough at the living room wall to see that Lala was in fact sound asleep.

She shuffled her socked feet to the front door, hooked her rifle over her shoulder, and slipped out.

Lala would be livid when she discovered that Claire had taken her truck — again.

Oh well, such was life. She’d have to ask Grams to take money out of her trust for a truck. Before yesterday, she hadn’t needed a vehicle. Between school and the ranch, Grams’s Cherokee had always been enough. But now, the idea of going out at night appealed to her.

Claire slipped on her boots and made a run for the Blazer. Lala’s catnaps didn’t last long.

Door open, Claire lowered her rifle in the back, threw her purse on the passenger seat, then gripped the steering wheel, pulling herself up into the ridiculously high truck.

“Claire!”

Lala stood at the railing, shoeless. She wouldn’t walk barefoot. Her cousin scanned the deck for shoes, then ran back inside.

Claire smacked the lock, shoved the key into the ignition, and started the Blazer.

The screen door swung open, hitting the wall, and Lala darted out, running down the steps, but it was too late.

Claire rolled down the window as she pulled away. “Thanks, Lala! I’ll make it up to you.”

“Where are you going?” Lala screamed, stomping both feet in place.

Claire waved out the window and tore down the long driveway.

As soon as she got to the property line, Grams pulled in, gesturing for Claire to stop.

Claire obeyed, even though she didn’t want to. “Hi, Grams!” She smiled, making it clear she wasn’t doing anything wrong. In the rearview mirror, though, she saw Lala running toward her. “Love you, Grams, but I gotta go.”

“Where are you going — alone?”

“I have my rifle, and I won’t be alone. I’m studying with Jean.

” She hated lying — especially to Grams — but if she’d said the ranch or the drive-in, Lala would come up with some tragic story of why she needed to track her down.

If Lala believed she was studying, she might not try to find her.

And Jean Bedard was the most sensible girl she’d met since moving to Wasilla.

Even Grams liked her. “I have to go, Grams!”

Her grandmother nodded to Lala. “That hussy trying to rope you into doing something you don’t want to again?”

“Yes!” Claire said, which was true. “Please, don’t let her come looking for me.”

“You know how I hate you out alone,” Grams said, but blew her a kiss and waved her off. “Be smart, Claire-bear!”

Claire pushed the gas pedal a bit too hard, sending mud in Lala’s direction. She didn’t look to see if she’d done any damage to Lala’s newest outfit.

As she sped down the road, Claire told herself she wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Still, something didn’t feel right. Something was wrong. Why had the Belgarde sons — two of them, anyway — showed up overnight. Literally.

What if she were wrong about the boy she was going to the movies with?

A shiver swept over her at how fast Boyd had attacked her. She’d waved off Rusty’s concerns, but the whole situation had visited her more than a few times today. Each time, she’d realized how helpless she was — even with a supposed escort in the vehicle.

What if the guy she met today wasn’t Adam? And if he were Thomas… where the hell was Adam? And what was she walking into?