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Never the Twain

By Delia Latham

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Chapter 1

CASS TOWNSEND STOOD NEXT TO her rental vehicle, unable to move a muscle.
Hummingbird Hollow—where she’d spend the next two weeks—was clearly more than what one could see with the eyes. She’d stepped out of her car maybe three minutes ago, and already, an ever-so-subtle shift had taken place in her heart and soul. Something amazing. A healing. A softening. A loosening of too-tight emotions.
Without a doubt, the beauty of this place went far beyond the lush foliage and beautiful old trees. Most of the latter were currently occupied with changing their attire—shedding the bright, emerald tones of summer and donning the deeper hues of an autumn wardrobe. A surprising number of green leaves still clung to the branches, along with a variety of fall tones, from yellow to orange to that gorgeous shade of purple that manifested itself most beautifully in nature.
A cynical chuckle burst from between her lips. Maybe her parents weren’t so far off, and she really did need a break. This kind of fanciful thinking in no way fit her Hollywood persona, which leaned more toward sharp, pointed, even double-edged, in certain circumstances.
She stiffened her back, lifted her chin and strode to the trunk for her luggage. Even if her pushy parents were right, she’d certainly not admit such a thing. Not to them, and not to herself.
They and her thankless therapist friend, Booth Meadows, would never know about her ridiculous reaction to Hummingbird Hollow. The three of them had conducted a sort of needless intervention, in which they’d all but ousted Cass from her office in the business she owned—The Townsend Agency—and shoved her onto the first plane out of town.
“It’ll be good for you, darling.” Her mother had laid a beautifully manicured hand on Cass’s stiff shoulder. “You need a little peace and quiet. When was the last time you even had a day off? Why, after what you’ve been through, anyone would need a break.”
Cass clenched her jaw. She would not talk about Lyn.
She didn’t talk at all, because truth be told, she couldn’t remember her last break from the agency. She didn’t take days off, other than Sundays, which were kind of mandatory, since neither side of her clientele were inclined to be available. Even so, she managed to spend at least one Sunday a month in the office—after Sunday service, of course. The other three she simply worked from home. She had no trouble finding things to do that required no input from her clients or the studio executives she wanted to pair them with.
Unable to give her mother a truthful answer that would make her happy, she sat rigid as a stone pillar and refused to look at any of the group of three wannabe rescuers.
“Cassie, honey…” Her eyes stung at the solicitation in her beloved Daddy’s voice, but she blinked back the tears. She would not add to her humiliation by crying. “Do this for me, princess. You need a break, and I happen to think Hummingbird Hollow is just the ticket. I had the most amazing breakfast there when we were filming ‘Deep Country.’ The place has some kind of…” He hesitated. “Don’t laugh, but I can only call it magic. During the couple of hours I spent at the bed and breakfast where you’ll be staying, I swear it healed something in my mind. I left feeling like I’d been on a week-long getaway and had slept through half of it. There’s something restful and soothing about the place. I promise you, sweetheart, you’re going to love it.”
That remained to be seen, but she had to admit…Daddy’s comment about healing and magic might’ve been more truth than hyperbole. She’d never admit it to a single soul, but she hoped he’d been dead serious. Knowing such a place existed would be undeniably comforting in a world filled with anything but such wonderful qualities.
Magic might be beyond belief, but healing came from many sources—all of them originating with God, the Master Healer. Could those sources be at work here in this lovely hollow?
Not that she needed healing. Booth and her parents were wrong about that. They’d be better off to direct their interventions and their prayers elsewhere, for the benefit of someone who really needed help.
Nevertheless, here she was in Hummingbird Hollow.
She lifted her chin, stood frozen for a moment, and then closed the trunk without removing her luggage. For once in her life, she would do something hind side first. Her bags could be dealt with and her reservation claimed after she enjoyed a stroll through at least a portion of the fall-colored Eden in which she found herself.
****
Lodging that also provided convenient parking for his rig hadn’t been easy to find—it rarely was.
Ryder Hayes eased his pickup and the horse trailer it hauled into a large clearing to one side of the B&B, just as he’d been directed by a pleasant-voiced woman via cell phone. The twelve-hour drive from his ranch near Bandera, Texas had proven long and tedious, but if things here went as planned, he’d return home with a stunning Arabian horse—a proud addition to the growing stable of equine beauties on his family’s dude ranch.
This incredible creature would not be available for guests, who often lacked sensitivity toward his horses—in which case, they were promptly unseated and barred from the stables. He refused to allow even slight mistreatment of his animals. If circumstances allowed him to take the Arabian home, the horse would be his personal mount, untouchable except by himself and his head stableman.
He’d see the animal in the flesh tomorrow, although he didn’t doubt the horse was worth every penny of the sizable price his current owner was asking. Ryder had spent an inordinate amount of time gazing at photos of the magnificent creature before setting up this visit and was eager to see the Arabian in person. He’d been so enamored with the photo, he’d come within an inch of buying the animal “sight unseen.” But his mother talked him down, in her usual quiet but profoundly wise manner. After overhearing the conversation between Ryder and his mother, his teenage niece, Mica, had been delighted to show him examples of how something called “Photoshop” could alter the appearance of anyone or anything to make it look ten times better—or worse.
So he’d made the long drive, and here he was in Arkansas.
For now, he was focused on food, a shower and a bed—in that order. His active lifestyle allowed for a bare minimum of down time. The drive here from Hayes-E Daze Ranch had proved far too confining for his admittedly free spirit, and torture on a body unused to so many sedentary hours.
Come to think of it, he needed to move around a little, even before getting something in his stomach. This gorgeous place called out for folks to wander through it, to admire its lush beauty. A walk would do him good.
He approached the old home, not even trying to stop a wry grin at the cutesy, painted sign hanging over the polished oak doors. Inn the Hollow. Clever. Had the current owner given the place its name, or had she inherited it with the property? He passed by the double doors and rounded a corner, headed for the woods behind the house.
A woman owned the place—Toni Littlebird, according to her online listing. Her name hinted at Native American ancestry, and now that he stood on her land, he sensed the rightness of that assumption. This place belonged in the hands of someone tied to its very roots. Someone who would treat it as a living, breathing entity, to be honored, respected, and loved. Never ignored. Never abused. Always appreciated as a treasure, because even on first sight, Ryder knew that’s what it was.
He crossed a garden area that vibrated with color. Pansies lifted their funny faces to the sun along a lengthy flower bed. Chrysanthemums stood straight and majestic behind the smaller blooms.
By the time he stepped into the shadowed forest, he’d recognized bright purple beautyberries, a huge cluster of gorgeous oak leaf hydrangea loaded with red blossoms, pink and white dahlias in large half barrels, orange gerbera daisies that made him think of his mom…and at least half a dozen species he’d never seen before. He’d keep an eye out for someone with a very green thumb once he got settled inside, so he could compliment them on this unbelievable garden.
Another thing. What was up with the hummingbirds? They flitted and whizzed and buzzed around the various blooms and bushes in droves. He’d never seen anything like it, but it sure ’nuff made a pretty picture.
All of which he appreciated, but as he stepped into the forest, Ryder stopped to lift his face upward and pull in a deep, contented breath. This was peace. This alone made the long drive worthwhile.
Careful to stay on the path, which appeared at least somewhat well-traveled, he meandered through the woods, breathing in the sweet peace of nature, breathing out the weariness, frustration and exhaustion of a long day on the road.
Something about nature always calmed his spirit. How did people exist in big, crowded towns? Forced to live within a network of jam-packed freeways, stacked floors of cement parking spaces, neon light, rampant crime and every other nuisance that came along with city life, his heart would shrivel, his spirit wither. He’d die, and be happy to do so, rather than survive under those conditions.
But this…here in this forest…this he could get used to in a heartbeat. These surroundings provided natural therapy, from the inside out. No one who lived in Hummingbird Hollow should ever pay out a dime to a psychiatrist. A walk in these woods could cure whatever ailed a body, mind, or spirit.
“Hey, wait! Stop! Psst!”
Ryder halted. Had he imagined that hissing whisper? A quick glance around revealed not a soul.
“Over here!”
A mass of bushes on the right side of the path shook as if caught in a sudden gust—despite the absolute lack of any kind of breeze. Ryder narrowed his gaze and cocked his head toward the dancing shrubbery.
“Talkin’ plants kinda give me the shivers. Just sayin’…”
“I’m not a plant, you big lunk!” A tiny hand appeared from within the leaves and branches and beckoned him closer. “Get in here before that thing eats you.”
Ryder’s attempt to keep a straight face failed abysmally. He shook his head and reached in above the flailing hand, parted the rustling bushes and peered inside.
“Well, whaddaya know?” he drawled. “Who’d’a thunk this type of greenery produced cute little sprites?”
A tiny woman with short black hair that hugged her head like a shiny cap glared up from within the shrub. Dove-gray eyes flashed miniscule daggers his way, even though genuine terror shadowed their depths.
“I am not a sprite! And you…well, you’d best get your wannabe cowboy hind side in here with me before that bear comes back and eats us both.”
A bear? Not a chance—not this close to the inn. Still, the sprite was mighty pretty. He’d play along.
He eased into the bush and squatted beside the petite shrub-dweller.
“So you think you saw a bear, huh?” He whispered, since she seemed to think speaking aloud would bring one a-runnin’.
The poison dart she shot with precise aim would’ve downed a lesser man.
“No, genius, I don’t think any such thing. I know I saw a bear. A big, black one.”
“Hmmm. Well, I suppose there might be a few black bears in the Ozarks, but seriously, sweetheart, it’d be pretty surprisin’ to find one this close to a place where people move in and out and around ever’ day. Big and scary as they are, bears do tend to avoid humans when they can.”
She laid one hand on his forearm and squeezed hard.
“Ouch! You got a big ol’ grip for such a little wisp of a thing.”
A layer of ice coated her gaze, and her fingers clawed deeper into his skin.
“You listen up, cowboy.” Venom spewed from the word like sweat from his Appaloosa, Creature, when the animal gave his big head a mighty shake after a hard ride. “First, I am neither a sprite nor your sweetheart. My name is Cass. Use it, or don’t talk to me at all. Secondly, I’m of sound mind and perfect eyesight. I know what a bear looks like, and I know what I saw, so stop patronizing me, or take yourself and your cowboy boots right back out on the trail. Maybe you’re as tough as you think you are. Maybe you can wrangle with a bear and come out on top.” She released his arm, but not his gaze. One eyebrow rose up under her wispy bangs. “Or maybe not.”
Ryder went still. He’d insulted her, and he sure hadn’t meant to. Judging by her clipped and hurried manner of speaking, she wasn’t from Arkansas or Texas. A quick glance at her attire—quality fabrics, simple but superior lines, ultra-fashionable—he’d guess she haled from somewhere in California. He tucked aside his curiosity as to how a fancy Cali girl wound up hiding in a bit of shrubbery in the Ozark Mountains, because however she’d come to be right here, right now, she’d clearly taken offense at his Texas cowhand lingo, which came as natural as breathing to him.
Colloquial habits aside, though, she was right. He’d been condescending, for no better reason than that she wasn’t much bigger than a child—smaller than some he’d seen. He was a big man and had been known to tease his younger siblings to tears. But he’d been taught better than to disrespect a lady.
“Cass. I’m Ryder, and I am sincerely sorry, ma’am. You surprised me, hidin’ out in these woods and…well, you aren’t big as a minute. I got a little carried away with the funnin’. Please forgive me.”
She regarded him beneath perfect, wing-shaped eyebrows. Those light eyes of hers bored right into his soul, and he squirmed like a wiggle worm on a fishin’ hook. Easy, lady, there are things in there I’d shore like to keep under wraps, if you don’t mind.
Finally, one corner of her full lips lifted, and Ryder released the breath he hadn’t known he held.
“All right then, Ryder. Maybe I’m a little touchy when I’m scared. So if we’re past all that, how do you propose we get back to the inn without becoming dinner for a large black bear?”

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