Читать книгу A Measure Of Love - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 5

Chapter One

Jessie, we need your help.”

She was working on the latest figures that had been called in by her ranchers for the Colorado-Wyoming mustang population. No one ever needed her help. Or if they did, it wasn’t often. They had stuck her away in a small cubicle at the end of the hall of a huge federal building in the heart of bureaucracy in Washington, D.C.

Raising her head, she pushed the thick, heavy strands of blond hair across her shoulder and looked up. Mr. Humphries, second-in-command of the Bureau of Land Management, stood before her.

“Yes, sir?” Immediately her palms became damp, and she tried to inconspicuously pull them off the desk and into her lap, where he couldn’t see them.

Humphries cleared his throat. “Er, well, that is…come with me. This is most urgent.”

Jessie’s heart began to pound in her breast as she hesitantly rose. Something was wrong. Mr. Humphries, who normally looked like a pit bull waiting to bite someone, was shifting from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable.

As Jessie followed him down the brightly lit halls, her curiosity got the most of her. She had been working for the BLM since her divorce. Part of the Department of Interior, the BLM dealt with anything having to do with mustangs. At the time she had applied, they had been looking for someone who could oversee the important project of assigning newly captured mustangs to people who wanted them. They had promised her travel, excitement and field work. That had been five years ago. She had never left her small, dingy office, but it didn’t matter. Placing the unseen mustangs with good, loving homes had become her focus in life. That and coordinating investigations into anything having to do with the wild animals. From her office, she sent the BLM’s agents out all over the U.S.

“In here, Jessie,” Humphries said, holding open the door to a conference room.

Jessie smoothed her light wool heather skirt against her hips as she entered. At one end of the twenty-seat conference table was Joe Allen, one of her field representatives. He didn’t look happy, and barely gave her a nod of recognition when she entered the room. Jessie managed a weak smile, knowing something serious must have happened. She automatically flexed her fingers, realizing it was her head, not Joe’s, that was on the chopping block if Joe had fouled up his assignment in some way.

“Sit down, Jessie. Over there.”

She sat, giving Joe a warm smile of welcome. Joe raised his hand, but his hazel gaze was on Humphries, who remained standing in front of them.

“Now, Jessie, a situation of grave importance has come up.” He cleared his throat, his gray brows falling into a V over his narrowed brown eyes. “You sent Allen here to investigate a rancher out in Colorado after we received an anonymous phone call that Mr. Kincaid, owner of the Triple K, was shooting mustangs.”

Jessie’s lips parted. “Yes, sir, I remember the incident.” Her cinnamon-colored eyes widened slightly as she prepared for Humphries’s blustering tirade.

Humphries glared over at Joe. “To say the least, he and Mr. Kincaid didn’t get along. As a matter of fact, Kincaid had the gall to literally throw him off Triple K property. Isn’t that right, Allen?”

Joe, who was a slender man of thirty-five, nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

Humphries cleared his throat again. “Well, go on, tell her the rest.”

“Yes, sir.” Joe turned his attention to Jessie. “I treated the Kincaid case like any other. When I got to the ranch, Mr. Kincaid was in a foul mood. When I discreetly asked him to let me investigate the matter, he turned ugly. He started questioning me and making allegations that the BLM was acting like a jackass.”

“Mr. Kincaid did that?” Jessie interrupted. She had talked to Sam Kincaid on several occasions several years before and had liked the terse rancher.

Joe nodded weakly.

Jessie couldn’t contain her surprise. “But Mr. Humphries, the Kincaids have been staunch supporters of environmental protection, and they’ve always worked with us on the mustangs. According to my files, and I’ve got a thick one on the Triple K, Mr. Kincaid is on our side.”

“That was Sam Kincaid,” Humphries corrected. “This is his son, Rafe, who’s running things now. And obviously a lot differently. Well, go on, Allen.”

“When I asked for Kincaid’s cooperation, he asked if I had a search warrant. I said no. He demanded to know what the investigation was for. Well, naturally, I couldn’t tell him. I just told him that we wanted to inspect the northern boundary of his property, where it butts up against the federal reserve. He didn’t trust me or my intentions. Instead of allowing me to go up there to see if I could find any mustang carcasses, he threw me off the ranch and told me that if I came back I’d be staring down the barrel of a thirty-aught-six rifle.”

There were a few moments of silence, then Humphries said, “Allen, you can leave now.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door closed quietly behind him. Jessie tensed as Humphries circled her like a buzzard. Was he going to fire her because of Joe’s disastrous encounter with Rafe Kincaid?

“Your boss, Nicholas Van der Meer, seems to feel that you have the right combination of talent, resources, knowledge and diplomacy to deal with Rafe Kincaid.” He sat one ponderous hip on the table, and it creaked accordingly. “Van der Meer feels your assets could be invaluable to this case. Right now we’re getting a lot of pressure from environmental groups to treat the mustang as a natural resource. I can’t afford to have the damn papers blaring with news headlines that some bullheaded rancher is picking them off like crow bait just because they’re on his property. I want you to leave this evening for Denver, Jessie. My secretary has already made a plane reservation for you, and there’ll be a rental car waiting for you there. I want you personally to deal with this problem. Do you understand?”

Jessie stared at him, feeling the blood draining from her face. “Me?”

“Why not you?”

“Well, uh, because, Mr. Humphries, I’ve never stepped out of this office. I don’t know the first thing about being a field rep–”

“Nonsense. You have five hundred ranchers that you take care of in connection with the mustangs. You’ve had contact with these men and their families for five years, plus you assign our agents all over the country. No one’s more familiar with the intricacy of investigating than yourself.”

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the chair. “Well, yes, sir, that’s true in one sense. But I’ve only done this over the phone and through the mail; I’ve never actually set foot on a ranch.”

He gave a negligent wave of his hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jessie rose, her eyes wide. “I’ve never been west of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I know nothing about the West.”

“You’ve got more knowledge about the mustangs, the land they live on and wander across, and the ranchers than anyone else in this office.”

Panic was setting in, and Jessie began to pace, using her hands to punctuate her words. “But, sir, I’m an office manager! A paper pusher! I’ve never seen a horse except in a parade along Pennsylvania Avenue. My knowledge is through the books and reports I read. I only know the ranchers through minimal phone contact or letters.” She compressed her full lips, wondering if they were trying to fire her.

Humphries rose, scowling. “You have your orders, Ms. Scott. We feel your diplomacy and ability to humor Kincaid will do the trick.”

Humor? Sure, people had always commented on her ability to see humor in every situation. And some of her friends even called her Sunny. That was all fine and dandy, but she still didn’t see how she could persuade someone like Rafe Kincaid to cooperate with the BLM.

Jessie stood there as Humphries opened the door and disappeared. Her hands were damp and cold, and she rubbed them on the sides of her tailored wool skirt. This couldn’t be happening! Were they trying to get rid of her? She couldn’t stand still a moment longer and headed down the hall with swift strides.

“Nick!” she stage-whispered, sticking her head inside her immediate superior’s office door.

Nick Van der Meer looked up and smiled, then motioned for her to come in. “I see you’ve talked with Mr. Humphries, Jessie.”

Jessie closed the door and pressed her back up against it. “Get me off the hook, Nick. I’m not cut out for this assignment. I’m strictly office material.”

Nick smiled from beneath his full gray mustache, and set down his pen on a stack of papers in front of him. “No, you’re not. I’ve been saying for years that you’d be good out in the field.”

“This is crazy, Nick.” Her voice quavered, and Jessie waited for a moment, gathering her fortitude before she went on. “I’m no more a field rep than that mouse that lives in my office!”

“You still feeding him every day?”

“Of course I am. Nick, I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Come on, sit down. You look like you’re ready to explode, and really, there’s no reason for your panic.”

Jessie sat, with her hands gripped in her lap and her jaw set in a stubborn line. “You did this, didn’t you? You put Mr. Humphries up to this.”

“Yes, I did,” he admitted slowly, leaning back in his expensive leather chair. “I felt it was about time you started seeing something of the world, Jessie, instead of spending your life back in that dark little office you fondly call your second home.” He held up his hand. “I know you love your job. That’s obvious from the long hours and care you put into it. But there is life outside these walls.”

Her nostrils flared, and she avoided his gaze. Nick had been her boss for the five years she had been with the BLM; he was like the father she had never had and always dreamed of having. But right now she wasn’t feeling particularly like a daughter toward him or his attitude that he knew what was best for her. “I happen to like my office, my mouse, my job, my little apartment and Washington, D.C.”

“No question about it.” Nick sighed, becoming serious. “Look, we’re both in a spot. Joe Allen is fairly new at being a rep, and sometimes he gets a little too eager. Even you have to admit that. I know you’ve dealt with Sam Kincaid and you’re familiar with the Triple K, its resources and the mustang reserve that borders it. Rafe Kincaid, the son, is now the owner. I find it hard to believe that he would cold-bloodedly kill mustangs when he was raised by a father who respected the land and wild animals.”

Jessie frowned. “From the way Joe talked, he didn’t exactly level with the rancher, and it’s obvious he should have. Why not just send him back and have him explain the whole thing?”

“Because, Jessie, he’s done too much damage already. And somehow I don’t doubt Rafe Kincaid’s coming out with a rifle. We need you to repair the damage he’s done. The Kincaids have been long-time friends of the BLM, and we want to smooth over the waters with them. Joe should have leveled with him. My personal feeling is that Rafe Kincaid isn’t shooting mustangs.” He gave Jessie the fatherly smile that always got to her. “There isn’t a rancher under your jurisdiction that doesn’t have something good to say about you, Jessie. Right now, I need your gift of human relations to heal this rift with the Kincaids. This’ll give you a chance to broaden your experience with the ranchers, see some mustangs and travel, all at the same time.”

Worriedly Jessie stared down at her interlaced fingers, which were bunched in her lap. Her fingers were as cold as the drizzle of freezing rain that fell outside the window behind her boss. “I thought maybe you were trying to get rid of me, Nick.”

His laughter was rich and he sat up, resting his elbows on the heavy walnut desk. “Not a chance, Jessie. Take your time on this assignment. You know from handling the reports that this kind of thing can take from a week to a month to solve. If you need help, I’m always here. Just call.” He smiled warmly. “Knowing you, however, I think you’ll do just fine, you always have. Stay in touch. And enjoy the experience. It won’t be all that bad.”

* * *

All that bad, Jessie thought. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep on the plane. The entire day had been a blur. She had managed to catch her next-door neighbor, a college professor, at home. Susan Prigozen had agreed to water her many plants while she was away. Other than racing through the motions of packing items she thought she might need, there had been little else to do. Jessie felt alone. And scared. Right now, all she wanted to do was ask the captain to turn around and head back to D.C.

She opened her eyes and stared pensively out the window into the blackness. She could see lights of small towns far below them. They looked like jeweled pendants twinkling on the velvet setting of the earth. It was a beautiful sight.

There had been so many firsts that day: first airplane ride, first time to leave her hometown, first assignment. Why had Nick chosen her? He knew she lived a cloistered existence that ranged from her apartment to her job with the BLM. But so what? She was happy.

You’re a mouse, Jessie. Just like the one that lives in your office and you feed. Mice are frightened little creatures. They scamper away at the first sign of danger. Her mouth went dry, and she took a long drink of the white wine she had ordered from the flight attendant. And where you’re going, there’s a great big lion who eats up little mice like you. She scrunched down in the seat. Her life had just been uprooted. A tornado couldn’t have done a better job. She was a walking disaster, and Nick and Mr. Humphries expected her to be successful with Rafe Kincaid.

Jessie shut her eyes tightly. In another hour they would land in Denver. She would get a hotel room for the night and in the morning rent a car and drive out to the Triple K. As she pried open one eye, she noticed the luminescent full moon in the sky. Wonderful. Dracula and the vampire came out with the full moon. What effect would it have on Rafe Kincaid?

* * *

Rain was pouring out of a slit in the gray underbelly of the sky that hovered over the valley. Rafe’s black brows were dipped ominously beneath his felt cowboy hat of the same color, and his narrowed blue eyes were barely visible beneath the brim. He pulled his gunmetal-gray Arabian gelding to a halt on the muddy road, motioning with one gloved hand at his cowhands to start bringing the cattle across. His mouth compressed as he sat on the horse. The black rain slicker he wore was shiny with water and draped over his body like a huge tent. The cattle moved slowly; they didn’t want to leave the lowlands and begin their trek up through the valley to the high pastures that were still dotted with snow. Grass was easier to forage where there was no snow. Cattle were basically a lazy lot, Rafe thought.

He watched his four men, on sturdy, small Arabians, going about the business of moving the hundred balky, bawling steers across the ranch road that was now little more than a brown ribbon of quagmire. As he sat on his restive mount, Rafe fumed. If he had had extra money, he would have bought the necessary gravel to lay on the road earlier, before the late April rains had come. But he hadn’t, and so four-wheel drive was the only type of vehicle that could negotiate the ten-mile stretch between the Triple K and the asphalt highway.

Water followed the hard line of his jaw, gathering on his stubborn chin before dripping off. His thin deerskin gloves were soaked. Water was leaking down the back of his neck, soaking into his cotton shirt, making his skin itch. But he wouldn’t have traded any of the minimal discomforts for the world as he looked toward the small valley below him. The valley was a favorite of his sister Dal. It was ringed with ponderosa pine, blue spruce, fir and tamarack, all darkly green, silver or blue, depending on the species silhouetted against the lead-colored sky. Buffalo grass grew thick and tall on the valley floor, providing a rich, vibrant background for the more somber trees.

Rafe gazed appreciatively over his land.

Then his blue eyes clouded. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the past, if he had been more alert to the changes in the fluctuating stock market, the ranch might be in better shape than it was presently. He shifted position in the saddle, and the leather creaked pleasantly. The past was dead and gone. Let it go. Let it go….

His alert gelding heard it first. The rain had intensified, sending sheets of torrential water down from the sky, nearly obliterating visibility. Suddenly, a small red car burst over the crest of the steep hill as if it had been shot out of a cannon. It was aimed directly at him. The engine was screaming, the wheels spun, and mud flew in every direction. A shout rose in Rafe’s throat and time seemed to slow down to single frames of a movie. He saw the car land with a thunderous clunk on the rutted road, then slew sideways to avoid hitting him, his horse and the milling cattle.

To his horror, he watched helplessly as the car swerved over the edge of the soft earthen bank and slid down the hillside. With a shout, he sank his spurs into the gelding. The horse lunged forward in a few strides and went over the edge. Rafe rode the sliding, slipping animal down the precarious bank. It was a hundred-foot incline to a wall of pine below. He twisted and turned in rhythm with the animal and bolted to attention as he saw the car crunch into the densely packed trees.

With a curse, Rafe brought his horse to a halt and leapt out of the saddle. Steam was rising from beneath the hood of the car. Miraculously, there seemed to be little damage, except for dents on the passenger’s side, where the car had come to rest, lodged up against some bushes and the stand of pine. He slipped in the sucking mud and cursed again as he made his way toward the driver’s door. He’d better have worn a seat belt, was Rafe’s only thought. Rafe heard the steers bawling far above him and a shout from Pinto Pete, the old man who was in charge of the drive. Clutching the handle, Rafe pulled on the car door. It wouldn’t give. Then, with a more powerful yank, he wrenched it open.

His eyes widened. The “he” was a “she.” And she hadn’t worn a seat belt. A kaleidoscope of impressions assailed Rafe as he stared at her unconscious figure lying prone before him. She looked to be in her early-twenties, and as Rafe leaned over the steering wheel to see the extent of her injuries, the delicate scent of her perfume surrounded him. A heady, almost spicy fragrance… Rafe shook his head, muttering to himself.

The poncho he was wearing smattered water all over the interior of the car as he reached forward to lay his hand on her camel-colored wool blazer. It was impossible to get to the other side of the car since the door was barricaded with a huge pine tree trunk. As gently as he could, Rafe brought her into a slumped sitting position, pressing her gently back against the seat. Her blond hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck; a neat and severe look that was marred by the crimson line trailing down her temple.

He heard another horse and rider approaching, and pulled out of the car. Pinto Pete, with his grizzled gray mustache and beard, sat astride his bay mare.

“You need help?” the old man called, his voice drowned out in the thunderous downpour.

“Yeah, get on the walkie-talkie and see if you can locate Mel. He’s got the four-wheel drive. There’s a woman hurt in here. While you’re at it, raise Millie at the ranch and have her call the doctor.”

Pete nodded, pulling the plastic-encased walkie-talkie from the safety of his saddlebag.

Rafe glanced back over his shoulder, the adrenaline pumping through him making him a bit shaky. The damn woman. Who the hell was she? Didn’t she know any better than to drive like a kamikaze pilot down a dirt road like that? He grudgingly admitted that at least she had had the presence of mind to veer away from him.

“Hey, Boss,” Pete called.

Rafe lifted his head, rain slashing at his face. “Yeah?”

“Mel’s clear up by the first line shack. That’s fifteen miles away.”

Damn! They had the first herd of the year to move up to the high pastures. He couldn’t afford the costly time out to take care of the woman himself. “All right, tell him to stay put. I’ll take her back to the ranch myself. What about Millie?”

Pete dipped his head, his dark chocolate eyes mirroring his worry. “Said she’d call the doctor and prepare a room for the little lady.”

“Good. Come on down and give me a hand,” he ordered.

Pinto Pete was only five feet nine inches in height, but he was wiry and amazingly agile for his sixty-five years. The old mustang wrangler had joined the Triple K forty years before and had stayed ever since. He watched as his boss jerked off his hat and then pulled off the huge poncho, leaving himself to be soaked by the rain.

“You want her in that?” he guessed.

Rafe nodded, settling the hat back on his head. The late-April temperature was in the forties, the rain cold and bone-chilling. “Yeah, I’ve got to ride with her for two miles. I can’t have her getting pneumonia on top of whatever else is wrong with her. Here, help me, and I’ll put this over her.”

Pinto Pete squeezed in between Rafe and the car door to lend a hand.

They managed to get the poncho over her head, but it snagged on the bun at the base of her neck. Jerking off one deerskin glove, Rafe leaned across her and fumbled with an array of bobby pins. Her feminine scent assailed his nostrils, and automatically he inhaled it. The almost forgotten perfume of a woman’s body unconsciously pleased him, and he pulled the remaining pins out of her hair more gently.

“Okay, let me pull her clear,” he said to Pete.

Rafe braced his shoulder against the frame of the car door as he slid his arms beneath her, taking care not to snap her neck back and possibly cause her more injury. The fact that she hadn’t awakened in the past ten minutes bothered him. A bump on the head was one thing–a concussion another. Usually, if a person was knocked out, they could be expected to wake up in five or ten minutes.

After some jockeying, Pinto Pete lifted the woman back into Rafe’s rain-soaked arms after he had mounted. At least she would remain reasonably dry. Something old and hurting wrenched free in Rafe’s chest when her long blond mane fell starkly across the slippery black surface of the poncho as her head came to rest against his chest. He made sure she was comfortably situated across the saddle, and he kept both arms around her. He guided his gray gelding down through the pine with pressure from his legs. Like all good ranch horses, the animal had a long, swift walk. Rafe didn’t dare go any faster for fear of hurting the woman even more. He tried to protect her face, which was nuzzled beneath his chin, from the rain. Her blond hair quickly became soaked by the rain, lying in vivid goldenrod colored sheets across the poncho. Rafe had never seen anyone with hair that unusual blond before, and he was transfixed by it.

The ride took a good twenty minutes, and he tried to ignore how good it felt to have a woman in his arms again. How long had it been? Then he snapped the lid shut on those memories that still burned in his heart like a painful branding iron. Pete had stuffed her black leather purse into one of the saddlebags. He’d find out who she was in a while. What was she doing out here? Had she gotten lost on the back roads of the Rockies? Was she looking for directions on how to escape the mountains and get back to civilization? A bare hint of a smile tipped one corner of his mouth as he gazed down at her. His initial anger had abated, and he studied her curiously. Maybe it was the soft fullness of her parted lips that made him feel less antagonistic toward what she had done. Maybe it was the thick mane of blond hair she had tried to capture into a bun that made him a little more inclined to ease up on her stupidity. He wasn’t sure. She looked like a city girl, with her fancy tailored suit, black heels and hair tamed into a sophisticated style.

Too bad, Rafe thought, his blue eyes glittering. His hands tightened against the slippery poncho, keeping her balanced as he guided his horse between the barns and to the back porch of the ranch house. He saw Millie, the housekeeper, come flying out to the enclosed screened porch, and a ranch hand, Carl Cramer, came to help.

Rafe lowered the woman into Carl’s waiting arms and then dismounted. The rain was easing. That figured, Rafe thought with irony. He took the woman back into his arms and mounted the wooden stairs onto the porch. Millie’s plump face was pinched with worry as she opened the door to the house.

“What happened, Rafe?” she asked, waddling quickly through the kitchen and down the hall.

“Car accident,” he muttered, his boots squishing with each step he took across the polished brick floor of the kitchen. “She came over the hill like a grand-prix racer, saw us and then took to the hill. Ended up in some pine.”

Millie clucked sympathetically, hurrying as fast as she could make her sixty-year-old body move as they went down the darkened hall. “Doc Miller is on his way. But you know what the weather and roads are like. He said it’d be at least an hour. Said to treat her for shock and a possible concussion, from the description Pinto gave me.”

Rafe slowed his stride, frowning. He’d hoped Millie had given the woman the guest room. Instead she swung the door open to another bedroom: the one that hadn’t been used since Mary Ann’s death.

“Can’t use the guest room,” Millie said, as if reading his mind and the objections he was going to voice. She hurried over to the bed. “I’m busy spring-cleaning it.”

“I see.” Rafe had given orders that this room never be used again; it hurt too much to be in the room because of the memories it dredged up. Swallowing hard against the past that still haunted him, he gently laid the woman on the bed, took off his drenched hat and let it drop to the highly polished cedar floor. He glanced up at Millie. “Can you handle her by yourself?” There wasn’t another female around to help the old housekeeper.

Millie’s face puckered. “Of course I can’t, Rafe! Now don’t go giving me that moon-eyed look! You’ve seen a woman before. Land’s sakes! Come on, help me get her out of this poncho.”

Properly chastised, Rafe took the poncho off her. And then Millie found the woman’s clothes were damp despite all he had tried to do to protect her from the wet weather.

“We’ll have to undress her,” Millie muttered. “I can’t put her to bed like this. She’ll catch her death of cold.”

“I’d like to paddle her,” he growled.

“You ought to be thankin’ her for not hitting you! Now stop your growling like an old grizzly.”

Rafe helped Millie gently remove the wool blazer, then the pale peach blouse. They left her full-length slip on, and Rafe was momentarily transfixed by the sight of her slender, gently contoured body outlined by the ivory silk.

“She’s built like an Arab,” Rafe muttered, picking her up while Millie pulled back the bedding. He laid her on the mattress, and the housekeeper tucked in the crisp sheet and covers around her.

Millie raised one eyebrow. “Is that a compliment or an insult, Rafe? You’re just like your daddy, always comparing women to horses. I swear.”

“It was a compliment,” he said, bending down to retrieve his hat.

The housekeeper leaned over and studied the lump on the woman’s head. “Well,” she said sternly, “you’d better hope she’s tough like an Arabian, Rafe Kincaid. This isn’t good; she should be waking up.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Millie examined the bluish-purple lump that was now the size of a hen’s egg. “What if this is serious? Doc Miller ain’t gonna be able to do much for her here at the ranch.”

He walked to the door and then hesitated. “Then I’ll take her and the doctor down to Denver by helicopter. There’s no place closer.” Grimly Rafe turned, thinking that his day was turning into nothing but mud. “I’m going to get her purse. Pete put it in the saddlebag. Maybe we can find out who she is and contact her family. I’ll be in the study after I get some dry clothes on, if you need me.”

* * *

Rafe sat at the huge cherry-wood desk, the stained-glass Tiffany lamp near his elbow providing the necessary light in the dark paneled library and study. Her purse was small and dainty, like her. He felt a twinge of guilt as he rummaged through the contents, locating and pulling out the slender leather billfold. Unsnapping it, he found her driver’s license, made out to Jessica Scott. His brows drew down as he read her address: Washington D.C. He’d just gotten rid of a BLM guy two weeks earlier from the same damn city. Was he cursed with people from D.C.? Rubbing his jaw, he studied the plastic license. She couldn’t be a government official; she looked too young and…fresh.

He set aside the license and rummaged through the rest of the contents: a social security card, a YWCA membership and a Visa card were all that were enclosed. Rafe glanced again at the license, offhandedly noticing her birthdate. Surprise flickered in his dark blue eyes. She couldn’t be twenty-eight! She barely looked twenty-three.

Intrigued, he slowly went through the pictures on the other side of the wallet. The first one was of a much older woman, probably in her seventies, bound to a wheelchair with a colorful afghan across her lap, smiling. Must be her grandmother, Rafe thought. The second photo was obviously cut from a magazine. Jessie was turning out to be quite a surprise. In the magazine photo was a picture of a rare medicine hat mustang running free. Did she own the horse? Or did she know who owned it? He lifted his head, peering out through the gloom toward the hallway. Jessie Scott. Interesting…

* * *

Jessie heard rain drumming in a staccato beat around her. She moved her head slightly, but the pain kept banging away inside her brain. She heard the faint movement of cloth against nylon and then softened footsteps gradually fading away. Forcing open her eyes to mere slits, she became aware of the smell of her damp hair, of the warmth surrounding her and the muted light pouring in through large-paned windows to the right of the bed. Bed…she was in a bed. She pulled her hand from beneath the heavy goosedown quilt and touched her brow.

“Ouch!” She winced as she carefully felt around the lump on the side of her head. The light hurt her eyes, making them water. The effort to lift her hand drained what little returning strength she had, and she dropped her arm across her stomach, trying to think, to remember.

The sound of heavy, steady footfalls snagged her groggy awareness, and she looked toward the opened door. An older woman slipped quietly through it, and then a man. He was much younger than the woman, and powerfully built. Jessie’s eyes widened as they both approached her bed. Despite the toll of agony it took for her to speak, she said, “What happened? Where am I?”

Rafe placed his hands on his narrow hips, studying her. “You don’t remember? You damn near hit me and my herd of cattle up on the road earlier.” He hadn’t meant for his words to come out quite so clipped, and he saw hurt register immediately in her wan features.

Millie glared across the bed at Rafe as she moved to Jessie’s side. “Don’t pay him no mind. I’m Millie Martin, the housekeeper. Now, we want you to just stay quiet until Doc Miller arrives. You took a nasty bump on the head in that car accident.” She reached out and patted Jessie’s cool hand.

Jessie remained staring up at the rancher. She was too groggy to sort out the impressions he was making on her. His features were so weathered by the seasons that he looked as if he were hewn from rock. Deep crow’s-feet at the corners of his intensely dark blue eyes told her that he squinted a great deal. His forehead was broad and lined, as if he frowned more than he smiled. Jessie noticed that his nose, which had once been clean-lined and aquiline, had several bumps on it, indicating he’d broken it more than just a few times. Harsh lines bracketed his mouth, but the corners curled softly upward. His full, flat lower lip gentled his rugged features, yet didn’t deny the stubbornness of his jutting chin.

Rafe relented a little, pleased that she had fearlessly met his gaze and not shrank back from him. “You’re at the Triple K, Jessie Scott. I’m the owner, Rafe Kincaid. Do you remember what happened?”

Jessie gripped the edge of the bedcovers that were draped across her shoulders. “Oh, no….” she croaked as the entire sequence of events came back to her. Heat swept up through her cheeks, and she shut her eyes tightly. She had nearly killed the man who was standing in front of her, the man she had come to see. This was his ranch, and his bed. And she was in a lot of trouble. What about the car? And how had she gotten here…?

She tried desperately to sort out her priorities. Her knuckles whitened against the quilt as she struggled to think clearly. Finally she opened her eyes and forced herself to look at him. “A-are you okay? I mean…I could have killed you….”

A slight hint of a smile shadowed his mouth as he heard her concern, not for herself, but for him. “I’m fine.”

“A-and your horse?”

“The horse will survive. More importantly, how are you feeling?”

Jessie shivered on hearing the warm timbre of his voice and was momentarily arrested by the change in his face. One moment he was glowering at her, the next his blue eyes lightened, the corners of his mouth eased, and his voice caressed her like a gentle touch.

Rafe waited patiently for her to speak, well aware of how slowly her mind must be functioning. As he gazed at her, a sharp ache moved through him. She looked so fragile in the large bed, so delicate, and he wondered what it would be like to tunnel his hands through the thick honey hair that framed her face. And those lips…. He scowled. What was he thinking of? She was hurt, and all he could do was think of getting into bed with her and pulling her close? Was he that starved for a woman? He didn’t look too closely at the last question.

Jessie saw him scowl, and she blurted out, “I’m fine…I think. Just an awful headache. Really, I’m okay. Honest.”

“Now, now,” Millie soothed. “You just stay lying there. Doc Miller should be arriving shortly. You’re not taking up much space, and we don’t mind helping you, so stay put.”

Properly chastised, Jessie remained still. Why was Rafe scowling at her? Then she remembered that her identification and file on the Triple K had been in her briefcase in the car. If he knew her name, he had to have gone through her luggage. Joe Allen’s vivid description of the rancher came back to her. She’d made an even bigger mess of things: she’d wrecked a car, nearly killed Rafe Kincaid and hadn’t mended any fences. In fact, she had made the rift between him and the BLM worse.

“Mr. Kincaid,” she began in a scratchy voice, “I’m deeply sorry for what happened. I can assure you that the BLM didn’t send me out here to make things worse. I–”

“The what?”

His voice cut like a whip through the room. Jessie’s eyes became round, and she pulled the quilt up to her chin, caught in his glare.

“The BLM,” she croaked. “You looked through my attaché case. You must have seen I was the field representative from the BLM.”

Rafe’s brows shot up, and he allowed his hands to fall from his hips. “You are from the BLM?”

Her mind whirled. Hadn’t he gone through her briefcase? Her purse! He must have looked in her purse. Biting the bullet, she said in a clear, calm voice, “Mr. Kincaid, I’ve been sent by the BLM to straighten out the misunderstanding between us.”

“I don’t believe it,” he ground out, looking first at her and then at Millie.

“Now, Rafe,” Millie said, “don’t you take your anger out on this poor girl. She’s been injured.” She wagged her finger at him. “Go on. Ain’t you got anything better to do right now? Let’s get Doc here, first. Everything else can wait.”

He ran his fingers through his black hair, then glared at Jessie. “If that doctor gives you a clean bill of health, you’d better hightail it, Ms. Scott,” he said through clenched teeth, before he stalked out of the room.

Millie patted her hand. “Never mind him.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Jessie mumbled, feeling almost physically hurt by his anger.

“Rafe’s got a lot on his mind of late. This is a busy time of year at any ranch with calving, foaling and all. Let him cool down. He’ll be in a better frame of mind later.”

Somehow Jessie doubted that. And then she closed her eyes. What a mess she had made. How was she ever going to rectify the situation? Judging from Kincaid’s murderous looks, she had lost not only the battle, but the war, as well.