Mariah’s shoes scuffed against the sidewalk as she limped beside Hailey. Glancing down, she noticed a dark spot staining the knee of her new pantsuit, which was covered in white powder from the air bag. She quickly looked up before she got woozy. She must have banged her leg when she wrecked the car and was just now feeling the stinging sensation where the injury rubbed against her pants. She tried not to limp as she passed her reluctant host.
Hailey pulled open a screeching metal storm door, pushed against the main door and slipped inside. The screen slammed against Mariah’s arm as she stepped across the threshold. The door handle scraped against her elbow, forcing her into the doorjamb. She winced.
“Sorry ’bout that,” J.D. mumbled. He pulled back the door and held it while she walked in.
At least he had some manners.
Mariah looked around as her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the house. They passed through a small mudroom and into a spacious kitchen decorated in dark green and yellow with wallpaper covered in birdhouses and tiny flowers. Everything was neat and tidy, not at all what she expected of a single father’s home.
She followed Hailey, passing a more formal table and chairs in the dining room, which looked as if they were brand-new—a sign the family probably took their meals in the kitchen. Mariah peeked into the living area as they walked past the door, noting the Southwest theme with dark red, green and tan accents. Continuing down the hallway, they passed a closed door, and then Hailey walked into a bedroom with light blue walls.
“This is the guest bedroom. That’s my room. It’s painted lavender.” She pointed to a closed door across the hall with a big purple-and-yellow daisy on it. “Daddy’s is that way.” Waving her hand in the air, she motioned on down the long hall.
Mariah glanced at J.D. and noticed his ears reddening, probably from the mention of his bedroom. She bit back a smile that such a tiny thing would rattle the rugged man after the way he lit into her for endangering his daughter. Ignoring the jealous ache caused by the thought of a father actually protecting his child, she turned her attention to the cozy bedroom. Powder-blue curtains matched the blue floral quilt on the queen-size bed. Through another door was a small bathroom that would give her privacy. She would be comfortable, even if she wasn’t there for very long.
Her suitcase bounced as her host dropped it onto the bed. “I’ll call Denton’s shop in town and see if they can start repairing your car today.” He turned and stalked out of the room, obviously anxious to be rid of her as soon as possible.
“Deuce says Daddy’s kinda like a summer thunderstorm. He gets mad and blows up but calms down quickly.”
Wondering who Deuce was, Mariah smiled at the young girl’s analogy.
Hailey flopped onto the bed. “I’m glad you’re a woman even if Daddy isn’t happy. Sometimes Aunt Kelly comes out and takes care of me, but not as much as she used to when I was little. She lived here then. This was her room.”
The talkative child might be a wealth of information if Mariah could get to know her and could overcome her aversion to using the child to gain information on her father. She unzipped her suitcase, hoping for a longer stay than one night. “Where does your aunt Kelly live now?” She pulled out her black pantsuit, gave it a shake and hung it up in the empty closet.
“Oh, she lives in town. But she comes out here a lot.” Hailey stopped her bouncing and leaned forward, a mischievous smile brightening her face. “She’s sweet on Lance. At least she used to be.”
“And who’s Lance?”
“He owns the ranch next to us. He’s Daddy’s best friend.”
“Hai—ley!” Jackson’s bellow echoed down the hall. “Come and help Deuce put away the groceries.”
Mariah smiled, certain he must have finally realized he’d left his chatty daughter alone with her.
“Okay!” Hailey took one last bounce and hopped off the bed.
“Who’s Deuce?” Mariah asked as she hung a teal velour top on a hanger.
“Daddy’s old friend. He lives here—in the room off the kitchen.”
That was one room Mariah had obviously missed.
“He’s really old. Daddy says he looks like he needs to be ironed, ’cause he gots so many wrinkles.” Hailey giggled as she headed out the door. “Deuce is our cook.”
Mariah wondered how old Hailey’s version of “really old” was. The youth back at the Tank Up had called her “ma’am,” even though she was only twenty-four.
She contemplated the black truck that had chased her as she arranged her folded clothing and undergarments in the empty dresser. Had the attack been random? Or maybe one of the cowboys from the bar just wanting to scare a city girl? What else could it have been? Not a soul in the state of Oklahoma knew her. She blew out a tense breath and set her suitcase in the bottom of the closet, next to her white tennis shoes. She sat on the chair that matched the small desk and looked at her pants. At least she hadn’t torn her new business suit in the wreck, but she’d have to soak the pants in cold water to get the bloodstain out.
She rolled up her left pant leg, sucking in a deep breath as pain burned down her shin when she gently pulled the fabric away from an inch-long gash on her knee. A thin trail of blood ran halfway down her shin. Quickly, she shifted her gaze away.
Ignoring the nausea churning in her stomach, Mariah glanced around for a tissue. When she didn’t find one, she dared to look more closely at her leg. The sight of blood had always made her feel like vomiting, if not fainting. She grabbed hold of the desk, desperately hoping the room would stop swirling. This was not the way to impress J. D. Durant and change his mind about the interview.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
Mariah jumped at the closeness of J.D.’s masculine voice. No! Not now. Why did he have to appear just when she was at her weakest? She waved a dismissive hand in the air as she struggled to regain her composure.
Ignoring her, he disappeared into the bathroom and rummaged around for a minute, then returned with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, ointment and bandages, which he set on the desk beside her. He returned to the bathroom, ran the faucet for a moment and came back with a damp cloth.
When he knelt beside her, Mariah sucked in a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the task at hand. She reached for the aqua washcloth, but he pulled it away. “I can do it,” she whispered, still not sure her stomach wasn’t going to revolt and totally embarrass her.
He stoically ignored her again and gently cupped her calf, his warm touch sending odd tingles spiraling down her leg. She placed her hand on his shoulder, intending to push him away, but her gaze landed on the bloodstained cloth. Instantly she realized her mistake, but it was too late. Darkness swirled with light as she felt her body wilt.
* * *
Jackson dropped the wet washcloth and grabbed the reporter as she sagged toward him. Pushing to his feet, he lifted her in his arms and hugged her limp body against his chest. He couldn’t believe this was the same spitfire who’d argued with him outside only minutes ago.
He laid her on the bed then pulled off her shoes. Snatching the clean washcloth off the floor, Jackson folded it in a long line and laid the clean side across her head. Now what? He’d never had a female faint on him before.
Was she injured worse than he first thought? There was the cut on her knee, but maybe she’d also banged her head in the accident and now had a concussion. Guilt plagued him for being so hard on her earlier. He may be a Christian, but he sure hadn’t acted like one. He paced the room, trying to decide what he should do.
Why did women always cause him problems? This was the very reason he’d moved to the country, to get away from pesky, gawking fans and hovering women who wanted to be with him simply because he was a rich, famous athlete. He’d yielded