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Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author

ROBYN CARR

“This book is an utter delight.”

—RT Book Reviews on Moonlight Road

“Strong conflict, humor and well-written characters are Carr’s calling cards, and they’re all present here … You won’t want to put this one down.”

—RT Book Reviews on Angel’s Peak

“This story has everything: a courageous, outspoken heroine; a to-die-for hero; and a plot that will touch readers’ hearts on several different levels. Truly excellent.”

—RT Book Reviews on Forbidden Falls

“An intensely satisfying read.

By turns humorous and gut-wrenchingly emotional, it won’t soon be forgotten.”

—RT Book Reviews on Paradise Valley

“Carr has hit her stride with this captivating series.”

—Library Journal on the Virgin River series

“The Virgin River books are so compelling—

I connected instantly with the characters and just wanted more and more and more.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

Also available from
ROBYN CARR and MIRA Books

The Virgin River Series

MOONLIGHT ROAD

ANGEL’S PEAK

FORBIDDEN FALLS

PARADISE VALLEY

TEMPTATION RIDGE

SECOND CHANCE PASS

A VIRGIN RIVER CHRISTMAS

WHISPERING ROCK

SHELTER MOUNTAIN

VIRGIN RIVER

The Grace Valley Series

DEEP IN THE VALLEY

JUST OVER THE MOUNTAIN

DOWN BY THE RIVER

Novels

A SUMMER IN SONOMA

NEVER TOO LATE

RUNAWAY MISTRESS

BLUE SKIES

THE WEDDING PARTY

THE HOUSE ON OLIVE STREET

Don’t miss Robyn’s next book,

WILD MAN CREEK,

Available February 2011

ROBYN

CARR

PROMISE CANYON

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Susan Elizabeth Phillips

with my deepest affection and gratitude.

Acknowledgments

I’m deeply grateful for the dedicated assistance given to me by Scott Lampert, all-around horse expert, farrier and creator of www.ONTRACKEQUINE.com, a sophisticated program used by horse professionals, owners and breeders to assure peak equine performance. This story could not have been told without your help.

Special thanks to Sean Vasquez, Native American musician and actor. Through your eyes I could better envision the Native American characters in this story.

For this story as for almost every story I write, special thanks to Michelle Mazzanti for early reading and research assistance. I just couldn’t get to the end of a book without your input and help.

I am indebted to Kate Bandy and Sharon Lampert. Without your continual loyalty and support I would be lost.

My heartfelt gratitude to Ing Cruz for creating and managing Jack’s Bar online, where hundreds of Virgin River readers exchange book news. (http://groups.yahoo.com/ group/RobynCarr_Chatgroup/)

Thanks to Rebecca Keene for early readings of this and many manuscripts; her feedback is incredibly valuable.

Thanks to everyone at the Nancy Berland Public Relations Agency for the support and for always watching my back. Jeanne Devon of NBPR, thanks for the hours of reading and critiquing—your feedback is a tremendous help.

And as always, thank you to Liza Dawson of Liza Dawson Associates and to Valerie Gray, editorial director of MIRA Books, two of the toughest readers in publishing. Thank you both for being relentless, tireless, devoted perfectionists. Every push makes each book a little better and I owe you. This is always a team effort and I couldn’t have a better team!

One

Clay Tahoma headed into the mountains of Humboldt County, Northern California, along Highway 36, a narrow road that had lots of sharp turns along the way. According to his GPS the next left would lead him to a town called Virgin River. It appeared to be the nearest town to his destination, the Jensen Veterinary Clinic and Stables, and he wanted to check it out. He was nearing the turnoff when he noticed something up ahead—some pickups parked at the side of the road.

He slowed down and pulled over, curious to see what was going on. He got out of his truck and walked past a number of vehicles toward a large flatbed truck. There were men standing around watching as a forklift with a large cable attached pulled away from the edge of the road. Clay approached one of the men. He was as tall as Clay and wore a plaid shirt, jeans, boots and ball cap. “Whatcha got, friend?” Clay asked.

“One of our town slipped off the road and got stuck—luckily came up against a big tree not too far down the hill. That’s how he managed to get out and climb back up.”

“Who’s pulling him out?” Clay asked.

“Aw, one of our boys has a lot of construction equipment. He’s a contractor up this way.” The man put out his big hand. “Jack Sheridan. You from around here?”

“Name’s Clay Tahoma, originally from Flagstaff and the Navajo Nation. Lately from L.A. I’m up here to work with an old friend, Nathaniel Jensen.”

Jack’s face took light at that. “Nate’s a friend of mine, too! Pleasure to meet you.”

Jack introduced Clay to some other men who were standing around—a guy named John, who they called Preacher; Paul, who owned the flatbed and forklift; Dan Brady, who was Paul’s foreman; and Noah, the minister whose truck slipped off the road. Noah smiled sheepishly as he shook Clay’s hand. No one seemed to react to the sight of a Native American with a ponytail that reached past his waist and an eagle feather in his hat. And right at that moment Noah’s old blue Ford truck began to clear the edge of the road.

“Don’t you guys have a Highway Department or Fire Department you could call to do this?” Clay asked.

“If we had all day,” Jack said. “We tend to take care of ourselves out here. But the big problem is that weak shoulder. Highway Department reinforces it every time we have a slide, but what we really need is something more permanent. A wider road and a guardrail. A long and strong guardrail. We’ve requested it, but this road doesn’t see a lot of travel so our request just gets ignored or denied.” He nodded toward the stretch of road he was talking about. “We had a school bus slide down that hill a couple of years ago. Minor injuries, but it could’a been horrible. Now I hold my breath every time there’s ice on the road.”

“What’s the holdup on the guardrail?”

He shrugged. “Real small population in an unincorporated town in a county in recession that has bigger challenges. Like I said, we get used to taking care of things the best we can.”

“There’s no ice in August,” Clay said. “What happened to the pastor?”

“Deer,” Noah said. “I came around the curve and there she was. I hardly swerved, but all you have to do is get a little too close to the edge and you’re toast. Ohhhh, my poor truck,” he said as the vehicle made it to the road.

“Doesn’t look any worse than it did, Noah,” Jack said.

“Seriously,” Preacher said, hands on his hips.

“What are you talking about?” Noah returned indignantly. “It’s got several new dents!”

“How can you tell?” Jack asked. “That old truck is one big dent!” Then he turned to Clay and said, “Go easy around these curves and tell Doc Jensen I said hello.”

Clay Tahoma drove his diesel truck up to the Jensen Veterinary Clinic and Stables. His truck pulled a large horse trailer that he’d filled with his personal belongings. Shutting off the engine, Clay jumped out of the truck and looked around. The clinic consisted of the veterinary office attached to a big barn, a nice-sized covered round pen for exams, several large pastures for the horses to exercise, the horses’ turnout and a couple of small paddocks for controlled, individual turnout. Horses can’t be turned out together unless they’re acquainted; they can get aggressive with each other.

Opposite the clinic, across what functioned as a parking area large enough for trucks and trailers, was a house built for a big family. The whole lot was surrounded by trees, full with their summer green, barely swaying in the early-August breeze.

He sniffed the air; he smelled hay, horses, dirt, flowers, contentment. There was honeysuckle nearby; his nose caught it. He got close to the ground, sitting on one boot heel, touching the dirt with his long, tan fingers. He was filled with a feeling of inner peace. This was a good place. A place with promise.

“Is that some old Navajo thing you’re doing there?”

Before he could rise Dr. Nathaniel Jensen was walking out of his veterinary office door, wiping his hands on a small blue towel.

Clay laughed and stood up. “Listening for cavalry,” he said.

“How was the drive?” Nate asked Clay, stuffing the towel in his pocket and stretching out a hand.

Clay took Nate’s hand in a hearty shake. “Long. Boring until I got closer—some guys from Virgin River were hauling a truck up a hill. The town minister slid off the road avoiding a deer. No injuries, just a lot of grumbling. How’s the building coming?”

“Excellent. I’ll get you something to drink, then take you on a tour.” Still shaking Clay’s hand, Nate clapped his other hand on his friend’s shoulder and said, “I’m really sorry about Isabel, Clay.”

Clay smiled with melancholy. “If we hadn’t divorced, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, not much has really changed between us, except that I moved out of L.A.”

“A divorce that hasn’t changed much?” Nate asked, tilting his head in question. “Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me. It might be more than I want to know.”

Clay laughed in good humor, though he wasn’t sure it was funny. He and Isabel weren’t right for each other, but that hadn’t stopped them from falling in love. They were nothing alike and had little in common beyond the equine industry—and even then they were on completely opposite ends of it. She was a rich horsewoman, a breeder and equestrienne of Swedish descent—a ravishing, delicious blonde who had grown up privileged—while he was a Navajo farrier and veterinary technician who had been raised on a reservation. They had been impossibly attracted to each other, had gotten married, and then encountered predictable problems with communication and lifestyle choices. There was also the resistance from her family, who probably thought he was marrying her money. When Isabel had suggested they divorce, Clay had known it was coming and didn’t argue. Divorce was for the best and he’d agreed to her terms, but they hadn’t stopped caring about each other. They hadn’t stopped sleeping together, either. But Isabel’s father probably slept better at night knowing his beautiful, wealthy daughter was no longer legally attached to a Navajo of simple means and some old tribal notions. And he hadn’t exactly been thrilled that Clay had a son prior to marrying Isabel. Gabe lived back on Navajo Nation with Clay’s parents and extended family, but he was still very much a part of Clay’s life and he knew Isabel’s family wasn’t too happy about that history.

Nate Jensen worked with Clay years ago in Los Angeles, long before Nate took over his father’s veterinary practice near Virgin River. It made sense that Nate would have called Clay to ask if he could recommend a good vet tech; Nate’s tech had retired after working first for Nate’s father and then himself.

“I can think of a number of excellent people,” Clay had replied. “But I’m looking for a change and I have family up that way. Any chance you’d consider me?”

Nate jumped on that; Clay was a much-sought-after tech and could function as a farrier, as well. And so here they were.

“I have tea and lemonade in the house,” Nate said. “Can I help you unload anything?”

“I think I’ll leave everything in the trailer for now,” Clay said. “You’re sure you don’t mind if I just use the tech’s overnight quarters?”

“It’s yours for as long as you want it. There are other options, of course. You’re welcome to share the house with me and Annie—it’s just the two of us and there’s lots of room. If you want something larger for yourself, we can help you find a house. It’s all up to you, my friend. I’m just so damn glad you’re here.”

Clay smiled warmly. “Thank you, Nathaniel. The tech’s quarters will be fine. Let’s test that lemonade and look around.”

“Dinner with us tonight, Clay?” he asked.

“It would be a privilege. I can’t imagine a woman who would be willing to marry you—I look forward to meeting her.”

“Annie will blow you away. She’s amazing.”

Clay was thirty-four and had been reared by Navajo men of legend; there was a long history of chiefs, elders, World War II Code Talkers, mystics and warriors. They were naturalists and spiritualists. His father and uncles had been a lot to take with all their tales and teachings while he was growing up, but eventually he came to appreciate the value of some of their lessons. More than once they’d come to his rescue, banding together to help him turn his life around, and for that alone Clay owed them his respect and gratitude.

He grew up in the mountains and canyons around Flagstaff, on a large family ranch on the Navajo Nation. There was plenty of poverty around the reservation, but some families did well. The Navajos didn’t erect casinos but they were rich in magnificent land. The Tahoma family was well-off by comparison to most. They lived simply, then saved, invested, expanded, built and increased the value of what they had. They were not considered wealthy but Clay and his sister grew up in a fine, comfortable home in a family compound that included aunts, uncles and cousins.

When Clay was sixteen, he had a girlfriend. She was a young girl he met at a football game and they fell in love, but under pressure from her parents, she broke up with him. He made a desperate attempt to get her back some months later and found her pregnant. Though she denied it, he knew he was the father, and he was nothing but a boy.

He had no choice but to go to his parents and uncles with the embarrassing news. They, of course, went to the girl’s family. The family claimed Clay had nothing to do with their daughter’s situation; they had arranged an adoption to a very comfortable Arizona family who had no ties to the Native community.

Legal help was readily available to the Tahoma family through the tribe, and there was no tribe on earth that easily lets go of one of their own. When it became clear how far the Tahomas would go to keep this baby if it proved to be Clay’s, the girl’s family simply gave up. There were laws protecting Native Americans from being adopted away from their families against the family’s will. Clay’s son, Gabe, who looked too much like him for anyone to deny their relationship, was brought home to the family.

Clay had raised Gabe while living on the Navajo Nation, and even when he moved to L.A. to try and build his career, he visited his son as often as possible and still talked to him almost every day. But what he really wanted was to have his son with him, close by. Now that he was divorced from Isabel and her intolerant family no longer played a role in his life, maybe he could think about moving Gabe out here with him. Clay’s sister, Ursula, had long ago offered to take Gabe in, but Clay’s dad insisted she focus on her own children, saying Gabe was fine out in Flagstaff with the Tahoma family. But perhaps Clay could bring him out here now … maybe they could finally be a real father and son. Gabe could benefit from being around horses here at the stables, just as Clay had been around horses when he was growing up.

Clay had bonded with horses at an early age—he seemed to understand them and they understood him. It made sense that he would end up in the horse industry, but he didn’t start there. Clay began his education at Northern Arizona University studying business. Classmates who weren’t Navajo asked him why he wasn’t enrolled in Native American Studies. He said, “You’re kidding me, right? I’m a Tahoma—I grew up in Native American Studies.” After a couple of years of college, he started working as a farrier, with the skills he’d learned from his father and uncles. He worked rodeos, stables, farms, eventually being formally trained as a farrier and vet tech and doing out-of-town jobs here and there. There were some real rough patches along the way, but by the time he was twenty-eight he was offered a good position with a Southern California breeder of racehorses. He would manage the stable and several hands would work under his supervision. It was hard to leave Gabe and his family behind, but the opportunity was such a good one, and he thought he’d be there for a long time and could eventually move his son out there with him.

But then he fell in love with the breeder’s daughter, Isabel. And the rest was history.

The call from Nathaniel, looking for a vet tech and assistant for his relatively small operation, came as a surprise, but it shouldn’t have. Nathaniel Jensen had always aspired to own and operate a large equine clinic, breeding horses for competition and racing. His father’s large animal practice had been built to provide care for the local livestock, including horses, and the practice became Nathaniel’s when his father retired. With the right help, he could do both—breeding and veterinary services. He was expanding, building a second barn that would be complete within weeks. Nate’s fiancée, Annie, was an accomplished equestrienne who could teach riding, and Nate was a talented vet. The location might be a bit off the beaten track and served mainly farmers and ranchers who made their living off the land, but there was no reason Nathaniel couldn’t make a significant impact on the racing and show industries.

Clay got calls all the time. Offers of employment and requests for help. Owners, breeders and vets all wanted him and he’d been quoted salaries that would put what Nate was paying him to shame. Besides his technical skills, there was a rumor he took care not to exploit—that he communicated with the thousand-pound beasts. That he read their minds and they read his. That he was a horse whisperer.

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. He had luck with horses, but then he never hurried them or took them for granted and they appreciated that. There were three reasons he’d taken Nathaniel’s offer without hesitation. Clay’s sister lived in the area—Ursula Toopeek was married to the police chief in Grace Valley, a nearby town. Clay was close to Ursula, Tom and their five children. Reason two—Clay respected Nathaniel’s skill and ethics and thought the veterinarian would be successful in this expanded endeavor. Plus Nate wasn’t hooking his potential success to any mystical ability Clay might have.

And three—it was time to make a break from Isabel.

Clay had known Nate for years but had never before been to his Northern California stable and practice. He was somewhat familiar with the area, having visited his sister in Grace Valley many times. Carrying glasses of lemonade, Nate and Clay toured the compound. Clay was impressed; the new stable under construction was going to be awesome. The vet tech’s quarters in the original stable were small but sufficient and had been built for that occasional night there was a sick animal on the premises and someone had to sleep in the stable to be on hand. It was one room with a small bathroom and shower, a bar-sized refrigerator and a couple of kitchenette cupboards. The bed was built into a wall unit with closets, drawers and shelves, much like a Murphy bed. Opposite that, under the only window, was an additional bureau. Virginia, the tech who had recently retired, had added a microwave and hot plate so she could heat her tea or pop her popcorn and had generously left both behind.

There was an industrial-size washer and dryer set in the stable, but Clay was invited to use the set in the house so he wouldn’t be mixing up his laundry with animal excretions and blood. Clay laughed. “Like I won’t have plenty of that on my clothes in any case.”

“Still,” Nate said. “Maybe it’s psychological. Clay, I’m afraid you won’t be happy in the stable quarters for long.”

“How do you know?” he asked, lifting a black brow.

“It’s too small. There are no amenities. No TV or DVD player. Nothing for the long term. And I don’t want you resigning because you’re cramped. We have options,” Nate said. “If you won’t bunk with us in the house, we can always bring in a mobile home. Lots of property here to park it. Or when the new stable is finished in just a few weeks, we could knock out a wall and enlarge the quarters.”

Clay chuckled. “Before I hand in my resignation because my digs aren’t fancy enough, I’ll think about that.” He laughed some more, remembering. “You have no idea how I lived when I followed the rodeo around, and in some ways I was happier than I’d ever been.”

“That was then. This is now.”

Right, Clay thought. Because at a point a man has to have stability if not roots. He’d lived in Isabel’s big house, the cooking and cleaning done on a daily basis by a woman named Juanita and her daughter. It was a beautiful home, but he’d never been comfortable there. It was too much house and designed more for entertaining than for daily living. Isabel had many wealthy and influential acquaintances in the horse business and beyond.

It had been six years since they first met. He moved in with her five years ago, married her four years ago, agreed to the divorce two years ago and when it was final, a year and a half ago, he rented a small cabin on the other side of her family’s property. But he was frequently invited back to Isabel’s big house, back to her bed. She even braved his cabin sometimes. There seemed to be too many complications for them to make a marriage work, but there was undeniable chemistry between them. The only way Clay could stop that was by moving hundreds of miles north.

They exited the new construction and walked into the corral. “The stable quarters will be fine, Nathaniel,” Clay said. “Just let me get acclimated and then maybe I’ll look around. By the way, I brought a flat screen and I have my iPod. There’s also the guitar and flute ….”

“Just let me know how I can help,” he said. “Hey, there’s Annie.” He strode across the corral toward a tall woman near the original stable. She was brushing down a handsome Thoroughbred.

Clay followed. He smiled appreciatively, maybe enviously, as Nathaniel slipped an arm around her waist and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. All the while she was looking over Nathaniel’s shoulder at Clay, her smile instant and her eyes sparkling. She transferred the brush to her left hand and stuck out her right. The kiss was barely finished as she said, “You must be Clay. At last! I’m so happy to meet you.”

She’s so pretty, he thought. She had earthy beauty; she was long-legged and slim, tall in her boots, and she had shiny dark red hair, bright green eyes and a rosy, freckled complexion. Her smile was strong, as was her hand when she grasped Clay’s. “Nice to meet you,” Clay said. “How’d he get you to agree to marry him?”

She didn’t bite at the joke, but rather chuckled and said, “We’ve been so excited for you to get here. Nate’s been telling me stories about some of the experiences you’ve had together. I understand you have a special relationship with the horses and I have a couple who could use some lessons in manners if you’d just have a word with them.”

Clay tipped his head back slightly, smiling, silent and tolerant.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve been told you’d rather not advertise that ability.”

“If I could count on it, I might. Some animals are more private than others. I’d hate to crush expectations. I have other skills.”

“As I’ve also been told. Best farrier in the business, complete with digital diagnostic equipment to use in examining gaits, alignment and sports performance. I can’t wait for a demonstration.”

His grin widened at that. “It’s the ONTRACKEQUINE software. I can’t wait to show you.”

“But I want to hear about the other skill.” She lowered her voice when she said, “The whispering.”

He tilted his head. “Do you garden?” he asked her.

“She’s a farmer’s daughter. She can grow anything,” Nathaniel answered for her.

Clay focused on Annie. “Do you talk to plants?” When she nodded he asked, “And do they respond by becoming tall and healthy? Robust?”

“Sometimes. I’ve heard it’s the oxygen you breathe on them,” she said.

He shook his head. “You emit more carbon dioxide than oxygen. Perhaps it’s the sound of your voice or your intention or it could be hypnosis,” he said with a shrug. “Whatever that is, it’s been working since the sun first warmed the ground. Sometimes it’s better not to question but just accept. And also accept that there are no guarantees on anything.”

She edged closer. “But if I promise not to advertise this magical thing that works sometimes, will you tell me a little about it? Some of your experiences? Friend to friend?”

“Yes, Annie. I’ll tell you training stories as long as you promise to remember no one knows if the horse and I communicated or if the horse just decided to stop screwing around and get with the program.”

“Promise,” she said with a laugh. “I’d better get in the shower,” Annie said. “I’ll have dinner ready in an hour and a half. Is there anything you need in the meantime?”

He shook his head. “I’ll grab my duffel. Nathaniel will show me where to park the truck and trailer and maybe I’ll get my own shower before dinner.”

So, Nathaniel was worried about the lack of amenities in the tech’s quarters, Clay mused. The biggest problem he could tell from checking the place out was the bed. He was a long-legged man for a regular-size double bed. And the showerhead was a little low. But there’d been times he’d slept in his truck or trailer, camped, borrowed cots or couches, made a nest in a stall, whatever worked. The best thing about Isabel’s big house was her extra-long king-size platform bed, good even when she wasn’t in it.

There had been no settlement in the divorce; he hadn’t wanted anything of hers and she couldn’t get away with asking a farrier for money when she had so much personal wealth. It was interesting that they hadn’t put together a prenup, that she trusted him in marriage and in divorce. He briefly wondered if he’d remembered to thank her for that. Trust was more valuable to Clay than money. But he regretted that he hadn’t asked for the bed. That was a good bed. Firm like the ground, not hard like asphalt, but with a little give like the earth. Spacious. Generous. Long.

Clay pulled clean jeans out of his duffel and a fresh denim shirt. He brushed off his boots and combed his long, damp hair back into its ponytail. With his bronze skin, high cheekbones and long, silky black ponytail, there was no need for him to drive the point home with Native American affectations, but his cowboy hat sported an eagle feather. Even when his hats got worn to death and he got new ones, he transferred the feather. Finding an eagle feather was good mojo.

He heard the grinding of an engine and distant barking of a dog. Of course his immediate thought was that it was a patient. He put the hat on his head and exited the stable in time to see an old Ford pickup back up to the barn’s double doors. It was full of hay and feed. As he watched, a young woman with black hair and tan skin jumped energetically out of the cab, ran around to the back, donned heavy work gloves, dropped the tailgate on the pickup and grabbed a fifty-pound bale. She was short and trim, maybe five foot four and a hundred and fifteen pounds, but she pulled that bale out of the truck, hefted it and carried it into the stable.

Clay backtracked into his new quarters and grabbed a pair of work gloves from his duffel. He joined her at the back of her truck when she returned.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw him. She looked more than surprised, her blue eyes wide with shock. It was almost as if she’d seen a ghost. “Nate didn’t mention he had a new hand,” she said, eyeing the work gloves.

“I’m Clay,” he said, introducing himself. “Let me give you a hand here.”

“I have it,” she said, moving past him to the truck. She jumped up on the tailgate and pulled another bale toward her.

Clay ignored her dismissal, but he smiled at the sight of her hefting that heavy bale and marching into the stable. She was wearing a denim jacket and he would bet that underneath it she had some shoulders and guns on her that other women would kill for. And that tight round butt in a pair of jeans was pretty sweet, too. But the kid didn’t make five and a half feet even in her cowboy boots. Tiny. Firm. Young.

He grabbed two bales and followed her into the stable. She actually jumped in surprise when she turned around and found him standing there behind her with a fifty-pound bale in each hand. She seemed to struggle for words for a second and finally settled on, “Thanks, but I can handle it just fine.”

“Me, too,” he said. “You do the feed delivery all the time?”

“Mondays and Thursdays,” she said, lowering her gaze and quickly walking around him, back to the truck. She reached in after another bale, leaving only a couple of feed bags in the back.

He followed her. “Do you have a name?” he bluntly asked.

“Lilly,” she said, pulling that bale toward her out of the truck bed. “Yazhi,” she added with a grunt.

“You’re Hopi?” he asked. His eyebrows rose. “A blue-eyed Hopi?”

She hesitated before answering. You had to have blue-eyed DNA on both sides to get more blue eyes. Lilly’s father was unknown to her, but she’d always been told her mother had always believed herself to be one hundred percent Native. “About half, yes,” she finally said, hefting the bale. “Where are you from?”