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