Charlie tried to imagine Robin in that type of getup and failed. It was impossible to guess her shape with the way her clothing fit. Maybe that was the point.

The other four people were busy with the horses, and he knew he’d only make her uncomfortable if he tried to talk to her now. Tipping back his head, he finished off the can of soda.

“I’ll see you all later,” he said to no one in particular after he’d tossed the empty can into a nearby recycling bin. “Duty calls.”

Three male heads turned. Three masculine voices said goodbye. Dr. Marlowe was bent down by the colt. She never even looked up.

“Something else?” Adam asked when Charlie hesitated.

“I hope the little guy’s okay,” Charlie said, staring at the back of Robin’s head. Her short hair was as dark as a crow’s and as shiny as the paint on a new Mercedes.

Adam gave him a puzzled look. “Thanks. Keep me up to speed on the other business.”

Other business? Had Adam picked up on Charlie’s interest in the new vet?

His momentary blankness must have shown. “My cattle,” Adam prompted him dryly. “They’re dying, remember?”

“Sure thing,” Charlie stuttered. “I’ll let you know.” He didn’t dare risk another glance at Robin to see if she’d been listening to the awkward exchange. Before his oldest brother, as sharp as the rowel on a new spur and twice as scary as any bad guy, could figure out the reason Charlie had been distracted, he turned and fled.

Robin pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. She’d been on the go since six that morning, blowing out the side door with a bagel in one hand, accompanying Doc Harmon on a call first thing, assisting him in surgery back at the clinic to set a dog’s shattered leg and then vaccinating a litter of kittens. In the afternoon, with a map and Erline’s written instructions on the seat next to her bag, she’d made two calls on her own.

Robin frowned as her grip on the wheel tightened. She made herself glance down at the small basket of plump ripe tomatoes given to her by a grateful patient. After she’d treated the eye of an old pony with conjunctivitis, his equally ancient but much nicer owner had presented Robin with the fresh-picked tomatoes.

“Jethro usually bites Doc Harmon,” the woman added, which explained why he’d sent Robin this time.

“I’m quicker on my feet than my boss,” she’d replied with a wink that had earned a cackle of laughter.

Mrs. Sloan’s thanks had still been echoing in her ears when she’d arrived at her next stop, feeling cocky and confident, to check on a gelding with a persistent cough.

“I asked for Doc Harmon,” the rancher had snarled after she’d introduced herself and stuck out her hand. “Go back and tell him not to send a girl to do a man’s job.” After spitting a stream of tobacco that landed an inch from her shoe, he’d stalked away, leaving her stunned and speechless.

Robin wasn’t given to tears, but her eyes had been burning when she’d let herself back out the gate. She’d figured that convincing people to trust her with their livestock might take time, given her lack of experience. Her advisor had even suggested that a shrimp like her would be better off specializing in cats or exotic birds.

What Robin hadn’t expected, had not been prepared for at all, was such open rudeness, such bristling hostility, because she was a female.

She’d spent most of the drive back to town thinking of all the replies she could have made but hadn’t. Even if her chance of prying open his closed mind was zero, zilch, nada, she should have tried.

Now Robin got out of her car, too tired to contemplate the possible number of chauvinists in Elbert County, and walked back down the driveway to check her mail.

Before she got to the box at the curb, Mae came out her front door. “You didn’t get anything today,” she called.

“I beg your pardon?” Automatically, Robin looked into the mailbox lined up with those of her neighbors. Sure enough, it was empty.

Mae came around the end of the picket fence between their two houses carrying a plate covered with plastic wrap. Today her crinkled nylon jogging suit was fluorescent pink.

“I would have left your mail on your side porch when I got ours,” she said. “Did you put in a change of address? You know it takes a few days to go through.”

Robin wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t want to be rude, but neither did she like having her privacy invaded. Clearly she needed to establish boundaries before things got out of hand.

“Don’t feel bad, dear,” Mae continued. “Your friends probably don’t have your new address yet, but you’ll be hearing from them before you know it.”

Robin couldn’t think of anyone who’d contact her, unless it was about some bill she’d overlooked when she left Chicago. She’d kept to herself and with good reason. Did pariahs have friends?