Emma straightened up and looked down at herself-a few pieces of hay clung to the old denim shirt straining at her ample chest. Dirt smudged the thighs of her jeans. Horse manure was packed into the thick treads of her barn boots. She laughed out loud at her own foolishness-whyof course Thomas Tobin found you attractive, Miss Horse Offal! How could any man resist such beauty, such panache!

Such a joke!

The ground rumbled beneath her feet and Emma looked up to see Vesta racing toward her, all glossy muscle, speed, and fire. She stopped at the fence, snorted and tossed her head.

Vesta stayed long enough to let Emma briefly stroke the white blaze between her huge, dark eyes. Then she was off again.

As Emma watched the horse, she took a deep breath and made a promise to herself. From here on out, she wasn't going to waste another minute worrying about why she couldn't find a good man to love. Instead, she was going to be like Vesta, and just appreciate having the pasture all to herself, the wind in her hair, making the trip under her own power.

If the right man never materialized, so be it.

And if-miracle of miracles!-he showed up on her doorstep someday, her heart would know him in an instant. He'd be normal. Honest. Kind. He wouldn't lead her on or try to use her to support his bad habits. He'd be sweet to her. He'd love her just the way she was. He'd respect her.

Emma decided right then that she'd waste no more energy pining for some man to sweep her off her feet-because clearly, once the sweeping part was over she'd end up sprawled on her butt!

She watched Vesta out in the middle of the field, still cavorting and throwing her head in joy. It made her smile to think that maybe she had worked miracles with that horse.

Maybe she could do the same with her own life. Maybe she really was an eternal optimist.

Damn, he felt like a senior citizen tonight. He'd done a number on his left knee in the serum. His lower back and neck were killing him. And he'd smashed up his left hand something fierce. If he wasn't careful they really would be carrying him off the pitch in a body bag, and soon.

Hairy tugged at the leash as he sniffed eagerly around the base of a newspaper box. Thomas gave a few nervous glances around the street. He couldn't believe he was walking down a public sidewalk with a dog in a sweater. Dear God, there couldn't be a single thing more humiliating in this entire world.

Unless, of course, Hairy had been out here in his maxi pad. Thomas sighed. Walking around the house with that thing tied around his waist, Hairy had looked like a-well, he'd looked like an ugly dog in a Kotex. Thomas had laughed his ass off at first, but soon discovered the crazy scheme had saved him about three cleanup jobs in one evening alone.

Emma had been right.

Thomas suddenly groaned in discomfort and stopped to press a hand into the small of his back while he stretched, giving Hairy just enough time to skitter around in circles and tangle the leash around his ankle.

"Damn, Hairy. What have you done now?" Thomas reached down to unravel the mess and a hot streak of pain raced up his back. He was locked up. He couldn't move. Un-fucking-believable.

"Are you all right, young man?"

Thomas raised his eyes to see the familiar face of the elderly lady from three doors down. He had no idea what her name was-he'd never said a word to her. Obviously, that was about to change.

"Fine, ma'am. Just a little stiff."

"Well, I certainly know all about that." She made several "tsk tsk" sounds with her tongue. "Sometimes you just have to jerk up real quick and face the pain." She gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "I'll give you the number for my chiropractor, Dr. Feldman. He's wonderful. He-"

"No. Really. I'm fine." Thomas heaved himself to a stand and watched black patches of agony pulsate on the surface of his retinas.

"I'm Mrs. Sylvia Quatrocci, by the way. I'm a widow." The lady scrunched up her mouth and examined Thomas from head to toe, then wagged an eyebrow. "We've never officially met. You've always seemed too busy to talk before, always so serious."

"Uh-huh." The pain was so bad Thomas feared he would faint. Meanwhile, Hairy had managed to nearly hang himself on the leash and was making wretched gagging sounds.

"Here, let me help you with your little friend." Mrs. Quatrocci bent effortlessly and unhooked Hairy's collar from the leash, then yanked the thin cord of nylon out of Thomas's hand.

"It's an unusual-looking little thing. What is it?"

Thomas stood stunned and annoyed. A little old lady had just rescued him. The last time he checked, it was supposed to be the other way around.

"It's a dog," he said.

Mrs. Quatrocci laughed heartily and looked into the animal's face. "Well, no kidding. But what kind?"

"A Chinese Crested-want it?"

Her face widened in horror. "Of course I don't want it! I was just curious. Here." She shoved Hairy into Thomas's arms. "Be a little more careful with that leash. So what's your name again?"

There was no again about it. "My name is Thomas Tobin."

"Well, Mr. Tobin, it was a pleasure. I suppose we'll see each other around, the way we've been doing for the last five years. Maybe now we can exchange pleasantries the way real neighbors do."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Quatrocci was about to continue her evening stroll but suddenly remembered she had another meddling question. "So what's her name?"

Thomas nearly said "Emma," but stopped himself. "Whose name?"

"The dog's."

"Oh. It's a him. Hairy-H-A-I-R-Y."

Mrs. Quatrocci roared with laughter. "That's just adorable!" She patted Thomas's arm and smiled sweetly. "You know, I never took you for a man with a sense of humor. Just goes to show you that you can't judge a book by its cover."

"No, ma'am. I couldn't agree more."

With that, she moved on. Thomas reattached the $10.95green nylon leash to the matching $7.49 collar and was about to bend over and return Hairy to the sidewalk when he realized that wouldn't be a smart move. Who'd come along to rescue him next-a kid in a wheelchair?

He pondered the physics involved in returning Hairy to the ground, then gingerly leaned to one side at the waist, dangling the dog above the concrete by one hand, getting as close to the sidewalk as possible before letting go.

Hairy's legs splayed out upon impact and he yelped a bit, but nothing seemed to be broken. And they were off again.

Emma had said that Hairy's anxiety would lessen with lots of exercise. She was right about that. Hairy definitely slept better if he'd had a half-hour walk in the evening. And the medicine, lotions, and relaxation exercises seemed to be helping a little. Hairy shook less. He seemed happier. His skin looked healthier.

Emma had been right about so many things-the pustules, the maxi pads, the crate, the fact that they should be dating.

Thomas groaned, and he wasn't sure if it was because his knees hurt or because he'd just remembered what Emma looked like as he'd walked away that morning. Her smile was gone. Her chin began to tremble, like she was going to cry. Those soft blue eyes looked shocked and hurt.

Did she cry after he drove away? Did he make her cry? The thought made him sick.

Oh, God, that little patch of skin right behind her ear had smelled like summer air and warm, delicious woman. And when he'd nipped that earlobe between his teeth, she'd tasted like a dollop of hot salt-water taffy. He wondered what her other dollops might taste like. He wondered if she might ever be willing to give him another chance.

He wondered why he wanted another chance.

He wondered what was wrong with him.