Chapter Two
Cheryl drew a shaky breath and forced herself to calm down. Of course Sam Hardin didn’t know who she was. How could he? It had all happened nearly fifteen years ago. She wasn’t a child anymore; she was an adult now. Driving by the old ranch had dredged up painful feelings and the accident had unnerved her, that was all.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Hardin. My name is Cheryl Steele,” she said at last, watching his reaction. She’d changed her name when she was old enough, wanting to be rid of even that reminder of her childhood. Only a handful of people knew she had once been Cheryl Thatcher.
“Pleased to meet you, Cheryl Steele, and you can call me Sam. So where are you from? That’s an east-coast accent I hear, isn’t it?”
“Manhattan,” she confirmed, relaxing even more. It was true. The city had been her home for the past six years.
“You’re from Manhattan, Kansas?” he asked from under the dash.
“No, Manhattan, New York,” she said quickly. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. She tried but still couldn’t budge her foot. Fiery agony shot up her leg. “The pain’s getting worse.”
“Okay, hold still while I see if I can move this metal.”
“Hurry, please.”
“You’re a long way from home, New York. What are you doing way out here?”
“I thought I was taking a shortcut to Manhattan.”
“You were taking a shortcut to New York City on this road?” he asked, his amusement evident.
“Very funny,” she muttered in annoyance. “No, not a shortcut to the Manhattan. I’m trying to get your Manhattan. I need to be at the University Theater by seven at the latest. It’s very important.”
Her whole foot throbbed painfully now. She had to perform in less than an hour. She couldn’t be trapped out here.
He grunted with effort as he tried to move the crumpled metal. “It gave a little. Try now.”
Her foot wouldn’t budge. Panic swelled in her and she struggled against the confining metal. “Please, get me out of here!”
“I will. Take it easy.”
“I’m a ballet dancer,” she whispered. What if her injury was serious? What if she couldn’t dance? Didn’t he understand how frightened she was?
He sat up beside her. Softly, he cupped her cheek with one hand and wiped a tear away with his thumb. “You’ll be dancing again in no time, New York. Right now we have to keep our heads. Your foot is caught between the floor and the side wall where it’s caved in. I’ll get you out, but it may take a bit.”
She managed a nod. “Okay. I understand.”
“Thatta girl.”
Cheryl worked to regain control of her emotions. He was right. She had to keep her head. She needed to focus on something besides the fear and the pain. She had learned that trick early in life and used it often in her grueling career. She chose his face.
His rugged features softened when he smiled. It made the creases in his lean cheeks deepen and small crinkles appear at the corner of his eyes. His mouth lifted a little higher on one side, giving his smile a roguish charm.
Suddenly, she was grateful to have him in the dimness beside her. His hand was gentle when he’d touched her face. His voice was calm and steady. He inspired trust, and that thought surprised her. For most of her life she had considered ranchers to be the enemy—something else she had learned early on.
He said, “I need to find a way to pry this metal apart.”
“There should be a jack in the trunk,” she volunteered.
“Good thinking.” He flashed her a big, heart-stopping, crooked grin. “Kinda smart for a city girl, aren’t you?”
His teasing comment amused her even though she suspected he was simply trying to distract her from the seriousness of the situation. Well, she could play city-girl versus country-boy, too. After all, she was a rising star with the New York Theater Ballet. She had performed far more difficult roles.
“I don’t imagine you keep a jack in your saddlebags, cowboy. Or do you?” she quipped.
“No, ma’am, I don’t.” He slipped into an exaggerated drawl that would have done a Texan proud. “My ol’ hoss has gone lame, but he ain’t never gone flat.”
Cheryl tried not to smile at his poor joke.
Pulling the keys from the ignition, he grinned as he opened the car door. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
She nodded, but she had to fight another wave of panic as the door closed behind him, leaving her alone. She took several deep breaths until she felt in control of her emotions. A glance out the windshield told her what she already knew. She was going to miss tonight’s performance.
Her understudy would be able to dance the part, but Damon Sands, their director, was going to be furious. He’d already been unhappy about Cheryl’s plans to leave the company during their short break to travel to her sister’s wedding. Only her repeated assurances that she’d be back in plenty of time for the production had mollified him. Now, she’d be lucky if she didn’t lose her position after this fiasco. Damon had an unforgiving nature, especially when it came to his work.
She searched around for her cell phone but couldn’t find it. Moments before the wreck she had tried to use her phone only to see that it displayed No Signal. Chances were it wouldn’t work even if she had it in her hand. She was stuck with no way of letting Damon know where she was.
Stuck in the middle of nowhere, that’s where she was. No, worse. She was stuck in the middle of the Flint Hills. Until two months ago, nothing could have induced her to return here. Nothing, that was, until the call from Angie. Even as she’d listened to her sister’s deliriously happy voice begging her to come for the wedding, Cheryl had hesitated. She’d given in to her sister’s pleading only because the wedding would be in Wichita. A hundred miles seemed far enough away from their old home to let her feel safe about a brief visit.
Yet, even with this catastrophe, Cheryl was glad she had come. She smiled as she remembered the beautiful ceremony in the tiny church decorated with ivy and deep yellow roses. The strains of a classical guitar floating down from the choir loft had filled the air with the sounds of love transformed into music.
A blast of cold air jerked her back to the present as Sam opened the car door and slipped in beside her. Working quickly, he positioned the jack and after several turns, the metal pinning her began to spread. He eased her foot loose and she bit her lip to keep from crying out at the pain.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said.
Unable to speak, she nodded. Her foot throbbed wildly.
“At least you’re free.” His bright tone made her want to hit him.
“Can you ride a horse, New York?”
Her gaze flew to his. “You’re kidding, right?” One look told her he wasn’t. She nearly groaned at the idea of hanging her leg over a horse.
“Of course I can ride,” she answered with more confidence than she felt. She hadn’t been near a horse in fifteen years.
“Good, I’d hate for this to be your first lesson. Do you have a coat or something to keep you warm? The wind is bitter outside.”
“It’s on the backseat.”
He