Miss Greenhorn
New York Times
bestselling author Diana Palmer delivers a reader-favorite tale of Prince Charming on the range!
When Christy Haley joined an archaeological excavation in Arizona, she unexpectedly comes across the most fascinating find of all: an irascible, yet irresistible, ranch owner! The blonde teacher can't help but be drawn to handsome Nate Lang, who makes it clear he isn't looking for love. But Christy will have to dig a little deeper to find the rancher's true desiresâ¦
The last thing Nate needs is an Eastern greenhorn who doesn't know a cactus from a cornstalk! But Christy has already unearthed his passionâ¦and discovered her rugged Westerner is a greenhorn himselfâat love!
Miss Greenhorn
Diana Palmer
Also available from Diana Palmer
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The Case of the Mesmerizing Boss
The Case of the Confirmed Bachelor
The Case of the Missing Secretary
Carrera's Bride
The Morcai Battalion: The Recruit
The Morcai Battalion: Invictus
Chapter One
I
t was the second day of the dig, and Christiana Haley was having the time of her life. She'd signed up with Dr. Adamson's Pastfinders team earlier in the year, planning the three-week trip to coincide with her summer vacation from teaching. It was a long way from Jacksonville, Florida, to Tucson, Arizona, but as Christiana had pointed out to her worried older sister, sand was sand.
However, she was learning the hard way that ocean sand and desert sand were amazingly different. She'd forgotten to wear a hat yesterday morning, and he had given her hell. In fact,
he
gave her hell at every possible turn, and had ever since she and the team had registered at his dude ranch. If only Professor Adamson had picked
anywhere
other than the Lang Ranch for the dig. It was pure bad luck that the
Hohokam
ruin the professor was interested in was on property owned by Nathanial Lang, who seemed to hate science, modern people, and Christiana with a passion.
Christy had actually daydreamed about meeting a handsome, charming, eligible cowboy out West when she'd paid the group rate for joining the private archaeological expedition. And what did she get? She got Nathanial Lang, who was neither handsome nor charming even though he was eligible. He'd barely looked at Christy at the Tucson airport and his slate-gray eyes had grown quickly colder. Men had really started noticing her just recently. Her new image gave her a confidence she hadn't had, and it had helped her to overcome her former demeanorâwhich was shy and awkward and old-fashioned. She had a nice figure anyway, and the new wardrobe really did emphasize it. She was slender and had pale green eyes and long silvery blond hair, a soft mouth and a delicate oval face. She looked very nearly pretty. But Nathanial Lang had stared at her as if she had germs, and he'd made sure to keep his distance from her, even while he was being charming and courteous to the rest of the twelve-member group.
It wasn't her fault that she had two left feet, Christy kept reassuring herself. Just because she'd tripped over her suitcase at the airport and sent its contents flyingâand her bra had landed on top of Nathanial Lang's dark head and given him a vague resemblance to a World War I flying aceâwell, why should he have been so insulted? Lots of people spilled things. Everyone else had found it simply hilarious. Including, unfortunately, Christy herself.
He hadn't spoken directly to her after that. At supper, a delicious affair served on the ranch's sprawling patio facing a range of mountains that became a shade of pale burgundy in the setting sun, she'd managed to spill a bowl of tomato soup on the lap of her white skirt and while frantically trying to wipe it up with the tablecloth, she'd pulled that off her tableâalong with most of her supper. It was good luck that she'd been sitting alone. Mr. Lang's mother had been caring and sympathetic. Mr. Lang had fried her with his slate-gray eyes.
The first morning they went out to the dig, she'd tried to get on a horse and had to be helped into the saddle. The horse, sensing her fear of it, helped her right back off again and reached down to bite her.
She'd screamed and accused it of cannibalism, at which point the increasingly irritable Mr. Lang had put her into his Jeep and promptly driven her to the dig site, where he'd deposited her with bridled fury. After a day in the sun, her skin was fried and she'd been no trouble to anybody, preferring a bath and bed to supper.
Somehow, she'd managed to avoid Mr. Lang this morning. Two other members of the party hated horses, so the three of them had begged a ride with the equipment truck driver. It was almost noon, and so far no Mr. Lang. Christy mentally patted herself on the back. She'd avoided him for several hours now; maybe her luck would hold.
Just as the thought occurred, a Jeep climbed over the distant mountain and threw up a cloud of dust as it barreled toward the dig site. A lean man in a creamy Stetson was driving it, and Christy knew just by the set of his head who it was. With a sigh, she laid down the screen box she'd been manipulating for fragments of pottery. It had been too good to last.
He got out of the Jeep and after a few terse words with Professor Adamson, he headed straight for Christy.
“At least you had enough sense to bring the sun hat,” he muttered with a pointed stare at the floppy straw brimmed hat that shaded her pale skin. “Sunstroke is unpleasant.”
“I'm not stupid,” she informed him. “I teach schoolâ”
“Yes, I know. Grammar school, isn't it?” he added, insinuating with that thin smile that she wasn't intelligent enough to teach older students.
She bristled. “Second grade, in fact. I have thirty students most years.”
“Amazing,” he murmured, studying her. “They carry medical insurance, presumably?”
She got to her feet. Too quickly. She tripped over the screen box and cannoned into a startled Nathanial Lang, tipping him headfirst into another amateur archaeologist. They collided in an almost balletic sequence, toppling down the small rise and into the small trickle of water in the creek.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Lang!” Christy wailed.
He and the other man got to their feet as she made her way carefully down the small incline, her hand against her mouth.
Nathanial Lang's once-immaculate pale blue pinstriped shirt was muddy now, along with the deep blue sports coat he'd worn with it. There was a long trail of mud down one sharply creased trouser leg, and a smear on his creamy Stetson. He stared down at Christy with eyes that she couldn't meet.
“Things were so quiet around here before you came, Miss Haley,” he said through his teeth. “And this is only your second day, isn't it?”
Christy swallowed down her fear. He was tall and very intimidating, not at all the hero type she'd been hoping to meet. “I'm doing my best, Mr. Lang.”
“Obviously,” he said without inflection.
She reached out to brush off a few spots of dust on his jacket, but he caught her wrist. His touch, even firm and irritable, was exciting.
“Gosh, Mr. Lang, I'm sorry about that,” George, the young student archaeologist, apologized. George had gone down the hill with the older man.
“Not your fault,” Nathanial said curtly.
“Not Christy's, either,” George defended her bravely. He was tall, thin, blond and wore glasses. He was studious and shy and had a habit of going scarlet when he was embarrassedâlike now. He managed a smile for Christy and plodded back to his table, where he was sorting and matching pottery shards.
“A fan of yours, I gather,” Nathanial remarked as he brushed angrily at his Stetson while his slate-gray eyes pinned Christy.
“A friend,” she corrected. She shifted. He made her nervous.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked unexpectedly.
Glad for an opportunity to really talk about her work, she said, “I'm searching for pieces of
Hohokam
pottery. We've mapped this area and we're doing a pottery search.”
“I know that,” he said with forced patience. “What are you doing in Arizona?”
“I had a vacation and I like ruins.”
“There's Rome,” he pointed out. “They have lots of ruins over there.”
“They've all been dug up,” she replied. “I wanted to go someplace where everything hasn't already been discovered.”
“You might try the North Pole.” He frowned. “On second thought, don't do it. There's a theory about the calamity that would strike if it melted. With your background, who knows? You might trip over some forgotten thermonuclear device and blow it up.”
She glared at him. Anger gave her delicate features added beauty and color, and her green eyes blazed up. “I can't help having the occasional accident!” she said angrily, wishing she could see him better. He was very tall and his face seemed far away.
He put his spotted Stetson back on his head and cocked it at an angle across his brow. “I'll bet your insurance company has prayer every morning.”
“I don't have an insurance company,” she managed under her breath.
“Why doesn't that surprise me?” He tipped his hat and started to walk away.
“I'm really sorry about your hat and all,” she called after him.
“Lucky for me that it was a little creek instead of an old mine.” He stopped and turned, his expression very serious. “That reminds me, there are a few old mines around here, so for God's sake stick to well-traveled areas. If you go down a shaft, you could disappear forever.”
She sighed. “Okay. I'll stay where I'm told.”
“You'd better,” he said firmly and kept walking.
The thought of a mine shaft opening under her kept Christy nervous for the rest of the day. So far all they'd found had been little bits and pieces of pottery, mostly gray. But the fact that it was over a thousand years old made her giddy. Imagine holding something in her hand that a
Hohokam
potter had held in his or hers that many centuries ago! She held one shard up to her nose and drank in its earthy, dark scent with her eyes closed.
