* * *
Brock knew he should stay away from Hannah Ryder.
Publicly, it made sense to keep the relationship quiet since he didn’t need to draw more attention to his family in the days—hours, perhaps—before a scandal broke. And privately, Brock had yet to figure out the expression on Hannah’s face when she’d learned of his identity last night, so it wasn’t a good idea to get too involved with a woman so clearly rattled by the McNeill name.
Yet here he was on the set of her film before noon the day after they’d met. After they’d parted awkwardly and she’d dominated his thoughts all night.
He paced behind the camera while the set crew worked to change some components in front of the lens. Lights were rolled out of the open barn doors and new lights were rolled in on handcarts and dollies. Props were switched. Hay was raked and “fluffed” using methods that rendered it unusable for horses—glue, silicon spray and filler were mixed in to make the piles look bigger against the walls. The whole place bustled with activity while the actors and director were on break.
Brock had missed seeing Hannah’s scene earlier in the day, but he’d been busy with his family. His brother Carson’s new girlfriend—Emma Layton, a stunt woman for Winning the West—had shared what might be an important clue about a connection between the McNeills and the Venturas, one the blackmailer could be exploiting. Emma’s mother, Jane, had been hinting at the connection in recent phone conversations. Jane Layton had worked as a maid for the Ventura families for years and had been privy to many of the family’s private affairs, but Emma also confided that her mother was emotionally unstable.
So could they trust any information gleaned from Jane Layton?
The McNeill family’s private investigator couldn’t follow up all the blackmail leads fast enough now that the time had almost expired on the threat to expose Paige McNeill’s past. Brock’s father was scared his wife was going to have a nervous breakdown, since she hadn’t yet fully recovered from her time spent in a coma. And Scarlett, Paige’s youngest daughter, refused to speak to any of them while she nursed her anger that they’d somehow forsaken Paige by not trying to work something out with the blackmailer.
Now this.
The woman who’d so thoroughly captivated Brock last night was hiding something, and he was determined to find out what. The family suspected the blackmailer might be working on the film or have a close connection to someone who did. Could Hannah Ryder be capable of blackmail? Anger flared at the thought she might have used sex to get closer to him. He was certain the attraction was real, but the possibility of deception rankled.
He was so caught up in those dark thoughts he didn’t hear anyone approach him as he held the side door open for a woman pushing a catering cart of fruit, breakfast pastries and coffee.
“Brock.”
The sound of Hannah’s voice behind him sent a spike of unwanted heat up his spine. He really needed to get his attraction to her under control until he figured out where she stood in this mess with his family.
Pivoting on his boot heel, he faced her.
She was even lovelier than he remembered. Her hair was pinned up on either side, the back falling in curls that struck him as a vaguely historical style—maybe because the curls were so carefully molded. She wore a frontier-woman kind of gown, too. It was cream-colored and dotted with tiny flowers. The bodice shaped her torso in an exaggerated manner that looked sort of painful—cinching her waist and lifting her breasts in a way guaranteed to draw the eye. The full skirt of her dress would have reached the floor if she didn’t have the fabric tucked into the waist, probably to keep it clean when she wasn’t filming.
Even her black lace-up boots with tiny heels were from another era.
He battled the urge to touch her. To greet her with a kiss, or a whispered word about how beautiful she looked. Instead, he needed to come straight to the point. He was running out of time to help his family. He needed to know why his name had upset this West Coast actress who shouldn’t care about his identity one way or the other.
“Hello, Hannah.” His nod was as terse as his tone, but it couldn’t be helped. “We said we’d talk more today. Can we go somewhere to speak privately?”
“My next scene is supposed to start filming soon.” She seemed different. More guarded.
Which was to be expected, he supposed, even if she didn’t have anything to do with the blackmail scheme. He ground his teeth against the frustration of the past few weeks. He was a horse breeder and trainer, damn it. Not a sleuth.
“I need to ask you about last night,” he pressed, unwilling to let it go. He simply lowered his voice more and drew her into a dark corner of the barn, between the side door and the open front doors. “About the way you reacted when I told you my name.”
There it was.
A tiny flinch. A slight flare of her nostrils.
He’d been with a woman who kept secrets before. He recognized the signs, and it was an experience he refused to repeat.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied smoothly enough, but the words didn’t erase that moment of honest response he’d seen on her face.
“Yes, you do.” He wasn’t going to drop it. And he wasn’t going to let her off the hook. “My family is going through hell right now, Hannah, and if you know something about that—about the threats leveled against the McNeills—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She shook her head, the curls brushing her shoulders, catching on the lace detail of her sleeve. Her face paled. “What threats?”
Behind him, another dolly rumbled past with electronic equipment, but with the shouting and noise made by the crew, he wasn’t worried about being overheard.
He plowed ahead. “Someone has been threatening my family. Time is running out for me to figure out who’s behind those threats.” He stepped closer to her, sensing movement behind him as the set workers adjusted lights overhead. “We’re being blackmailed—”
His speech wavered, then halted, as something heavy cracked the back of his skull. He had a flash of awareness that he was falling. A moment to see panic on Hannah’s lovely face before...
The world went black.
* * *
“Brock!” Hannah watched in horror as the big, strong man beside her crumpled to the ground.
It took her a moment to process what had happened. One of the overhead lights had broken free of the grid, hitting the back of Brock’s head. The light lay smashed on the floor behind him, the heavy black housing bent on one side. Already, people were shouting, grips and gaffers scrambling to secure the grid and clear the set.
“Brock?” Hannah sank to her knees beside the fallen rancher, her fingers tentative as she touched his shoulder, fear icing her insides. “Are you all right?”
He was breathing, but he remained stone-still.
Two production assistants were suddenly beside her, leaning over him, informing her not to move him.
Because she was flustered and scared, it took her a moment to process why. He had a head injury. He could have a concussion or much worse. A spinal injury would be...
Oh, God. She laid her hand over his, taking his fingers—careful not to move his arm—and squeezing them gently.
“Call 911!” she shouted, even as one of the wardrobe assistants flashed a thumbs-up sign as she spoke into her phone.
Someone was already taking care of that.
The minutes stretched out endlessly as they waited for an ambulance. In the background, Hannah heard the second director yelling at the production staff while someone swept up broken glass. Hannah debated how to reach Brock’s family to let someone