Rescued by a Stranger

by Lizbeth Selvig

“Why they as if they’re the school outcasts?”

  She scowled. “It sounds stupid, but that’s kind of what they are. Connery Construction isn’t exactly flavor of the month around here.”

  “Oh?” The words unsettled him.

  “They’re planning to build a gravel quarry right outside of town. It’s a pretty unpopular project. A lot of people are boycotting them.”

  “Harsh.” The unsettled feeling grew.

  “It’s a very local boycott. In truth, nothing we do is going to run them out of business,” she said. “Connery is a very rich man, and Kennison Falls is a pretty tiny cog in their business. Even if we do have construction jobs up the wazoo waiting to get done since our storm last summer.”

  “Storm?”

  “We had a class-three tornado come through here last August,” she said. “If you go into town you’ll see the aftermath. David, the owner here, lost a riding arena and the roof off of one barn and had some damage to his house. It’s not like we don’t need construction workers.”

  He shook his head. “This all sounds like typical small-town politics to me.”

  “It is. But it’s big doings for people here. The quarry will go in only a mile from the state park next to town. We were originally only an alternate site, but big money got involved and, well, sorry. Talking politics is rude and not ever interesting to outsiders.”

  She had no idea how wrong she was in his case. She didn’t need to know Connery Construction was precisely the reason he’d come to Minnesota, but he wondered how she would react if she knew of his relationship with the very rich Duncan Connery.

  “It’s always wise to know the local goings-on.” He scratched the back of his head, checking his surroundings more carefully, taking in the pristine stable yard, the tidy flower beds lining the side of the barn. The scent of wood shavings and horses gave the place working farm ambience in a wealthy estate sort of way. Bridge Creek Stables was no two-bit operation.

  “Jill!”

  A youthful man Chase’s height but a few years younger appeared at the wide barn door. Tan riding breeches and a navy polo shirt emphasized an athletic lower body and a broad chest and arms. The sight of a guy in tight pants took Chase aback. Growing up on a tobacco farm outside Lexington had conditioned him to think of barn wear as sweaty jeans and smelly chambray. This man’s tall black boots and body-hugging clothing would have been as ridiculed on a Preston family work crew as perfume on a pirate.

  “David, sorry.” Jill’s voice dropped a notch on the apology. “I’m finally here. I’m very late, I’m afraid.”

  “Actually, not so awfully, love.” His accent, broad and British, took Chase by surprise. “Mrs. Barnes only just arrived with her daughters.”

  “Daughters?” Jill asked. “The letter from the middle school principal said nothing about more than one.”

  “One of them isn’t here to ride,” he promised. “She’s in a wheelchair.”

  Every nerve ending in Chase’s body scrambled to full alert, but he pushed back. Hyperawareness always surfaced at the whiff of a medical problem, and he was here to squelch that awareness.

  Here to not save the world.

  Jill’s brow creased. “They’re in the office?”

  “They’re in the arena watching Da’ ride. I said I’d fetch them when you arrived.”

  Jill’s shoulders squared visibly, as if she was shoring up for an ordeal. “Give me five minutes?”

  “Of course. You have time.”

  “Not really. I’m scheduled for three o’clock with your father and it’s nearly two-thirty.”

  “Not to worry, love. He’s plenty busy and quite content putting my horses to rights and showing me how poorly I’ve trained them. And in addition,” the man—David—snickered, “we finally got your sister off her high horse, and she’s taking a lesson. She’ll go right before you. You don’t need to rush.”

  Chase hadn’t known Jill half an hour, but the evaporation of her smile was as transparent as cling wrap.

  “Dee? Is riding with your father?” Her measured tone registered irritation.

  David appeared not to notice. “I know. Miracles, ’eh?” He peered more closely and pointed at Jill’s red blotches for the first time. “Good Lord, what’s happened?” He swung his gaze suspiciously toward Chase.

  She shook herself loose from whatever had momentarily upset her. “I’m sorry. This is Chase Preston, he’s my champion of the day. Chase, this is David Pitts-Matherson, Bridge Creek’s owner.”

  “Champion, was it?” David asked, his handshake and quick, thorough assessment those of a very protective friend.

  “Hardly. She saved the life of a dog by swerving her truck down a ditch.” Chase released David’s firm grip. “I just gave her a hand getting out.”

  “That’s our Jill, isn’t it? She would end up off the road over an animal. But you’re all right? The Creature isn’t damaged?” David asked.

  Jill slipped off Chase’s jacket, fully revealing the red Rorschach blob on her chest. “No. The only casualty was my order of fries. At first, Chase thought I’d been skewered.” She folded the jacket, stroking the leather as if it were a mink. “But it’s only ketchup. I’m going to grab a logo T-shirt from the office.”

  “Fine. I’ll garnish your next paycheck.”

  She made a yeah-sure face and handed Chase his jacket. “I can’t thank you enough, Chase Preston,” she said.

  “There’s no need. Do you have a way back to your truck later?”

  “Plenty of ways, I promise.”

  “All right.” The heaviness at her imminent departure rose within him again. She was a sexy package of chameleon emotions, changing in front of him. He wanted to know how many more colors she possessed.

  Her delicate fingers slipped into his grip, and she gave a surprisingly strong squeeze. She let the warm handshake lock them together for extra-long seconds before sliding her hand free.

  “If you happen back through KF some afternoon, stop in. I’m probably here.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  She nodded and headed for the barn but turned before reaching the door. “Hey, David, you traitor,” she called. “What’s Connery doing here?”

  David sighed. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice that yet. We’ll talk about it.”

  “Yup. We will.” She forked her fingers and pointed to her eyes, then flipped her hand in the international I’m-watching-you gesture. David snorted.

  She waved a last time and disappeared.

  The intrigue was too strong to ignore. Chase knew he should get out of Dodge and away from Jill Carpenter five minutes ago, but instead he shrugged into his jacket. “Do you have a minute for a question that’s none of my business?”

  David folded his arms in front of him, his face neutral. “Yes, sure.”

  “Jill says the company is unpopular around here. I ask only because I’m supposed to meet with Duncan Connery tomorrow morning.”

  “I see.” He rubbed at his chin and laughed a little humorlessly. “True enough, I’d be careful whom I tell that to around here.”

  “And yet …” Chase glanced at the truck.

  “Sometimes you have to choose between appeasing an overbearing father and suffering the wrath of an entire community.” The corner of his mouth gave a rueful uptick. “I’ve chosen the lesser of two evils.”

  “Overbearing fathers. We may have to swap stories sometime.”

  “Over a beer one day,” David agreed. “I’m on my way to talk to the Connery bloke now. If you’ve got the time, come on along. Perhaps you’ll get some insight.”

  “Really? I’d appreciate it, thanks.”

  “My father is a former Olympic equestrian for England, recently hired to coach the United States team. His facility in Virginia won’t be ready until September. I have him here for three months.”

  “And that’s … not a good thing?”

  The high afternoon sun gleamed off the white metal barn and highlighted flowers along the fou
ndation. In Chase’s experience, barn sides had cobwebs and dirt spatters, not petunia beds. This place had to have a full-time barn washer and petunia weeder to look like this.

  “Da’s exacting and gets what he wants, but he’s a huge draw. My riders are ecstatic to have him. In fact, Jill”—he inclined his head toward the barn—“is one reason he’s here. She’s got Olympic potential and Da’ is eager to watch her. Not that I want to lose her to the U.S. Equestrian Team, but she’s such a phenomenal rider I can’t hold her back.”

  “She definitely has a spark to her.”

  “That she does. A very special spark.” He stopped walking and faced Chase fully. “Thank you for helping her. She really was all right? I was flippant about the accident only because I’ve learned not to fuss over Jill.”

  “She was far more worried about the dog in the road and getting here than she was about going into the ditch.”

  David nodded. “All right, then, it does sound like she’s fine. Thanks just the same. She’s special to us.”

  “To you?” Chase raised one brow and started off again.

  David laughed at the implied question. “She’s one of my best friends, but that sort of fire never started. I doubt it’s occurred to either of us to strike a match.”

  For some reason that made Chase exceedingly happy.

  And uneasy.

  They neared the green Connery truck. Beside it, assessing the yard, stood a middle-aged man with gray-templed brown hair, a clipboard, and a green button-down shirt tucked into faded jeans.

  “What are you building?” Chase asked.

  “A riding arena. To replace the one we lost last summer in a tornado, of all things.”

  “I heard about it.”

  The worker from Connery introduced himself as Jeff Rigby and laid out a proposal and building schedule efficiently and clearly.

  “We could start next week,” Rigby said. “And we could finish in three weeks plus, depending on the finishing details.”

  “Quite impressive,” David said.

  “Can I ask how big the company is?” Chase asked. “You must have a decent workforce to field a crew this quickly.”

  “They’ll have to dig me up four or five,” Rigby said. “I think we have twenty-five full-time crew and a handful of part-timers.” Rigby scratched the side of his mouth. “They’ll be hiring more soon for a big project.”

  “So, you’ve had a look ’round the building site?” David asked, and Rigby nodded. “I think the plan sounds fine,” David continued. “I think I’d like to seal the deal here and now. Will a handshake do, or have you papers to sign?”

  Jeff Rigby held out his hand. “I’ll report on the site, tell them there’s nothing that’ll require us to change the quote at this point. We’ll write up a final work order and someone will call about a start date.”

  Chase liked the man’s easy professionalism.

  “Is that it for now, then?” David asked.

  “I think so.”

  “I have to get some new clients sorted if you’ll excuse me, you two feel free to look around.” He held out his hand to Chase a last time. “Good luck. Thanks again for rescuing our Jill.”

  Chase’s pulse tripped at the sound of her name. “I’m glad I was there to help.”

  “David?”

  Chase spun in surprise at Jill’s familiar voice, but she was nowhere in sight. The woman who did approach, however, sounded so similar he’d been fooled. This had to be Jill’s sister, but other than their voices, they were as unalike as a house cat and a lioness.

  “My, my, what have we here?” The leggy blonde sashayed toward their group of three in form-fitting riding breeches, boots shined to military perfection, and a polo shirt of vivid red. “A convention of romance cover models?” Her eyes lingered on Chase, and the tip of her tongue actually swept from one corner of her mouth to the other, as if she’d chosen her prey.

  “Dee.” David’s voice held a friendly warning. “Haven’t you got a lesson in about two minutes?”

  “Yes. But, your dad sent me to find you before we start. He’d like you to do something about the spectators you put in the arena. He claims they’re too distracting.”

  “Bloody hell,” David replied dully. “He’s been here two days. Perhaps I’ll shoot him after all and get it over with.”

  Chase laughed. “The very reason I ran away from home years ago. To keep myself out of prison.”

  “My goodness,” Dee practically purred and sidled closer. “Whatever is such a delightful accent doing this far north?”

  “Ma’am,” he greeted her. “Just passin’ through.”

  “A pity you’re in such a hurry.” Her smile started in her lips and slowly lit her eyes into come-hither pools of hazel. “A North-South union might be kinda fun.”

  “I think we handled that merger pretty successfully a hundred and fifty years ago.” He winked at her, and David snorted.

  Dee pursed sultry lips. “If you do decide to stay for a while, look me up. Dee Carpenter.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Chase Preston. Likewise. Ma’am.”

  She turned in place and walked back toward the barn.

  “That’s our Dee,” David said simply. “Have a care. She’s exactly what she seems.”

  Chase watched her hips sway out of sight. “She seems like my signal to run for the hills.”

  “Good plan.” David laughed again. “Good plan.”

  Chapter Three

  IT WOULD HAVE been much easier for Jill to focus if Chase Preston had simply gone on his drifter’s way once he’d dropped her off. Instead, after she’d changed into breeches, boots, and a ketchup-free shirt, her heart gave a leap at the sight of the red and silver Triumph still standing where she’d gratefully climbed off it ten minutes before.

  If she closed her eyes she could still feel the terror and exhilaration of their ride. She hadn’t thought for a long time about the panic that had blindsided her fifteen years before when police had come to their door to say her father had been in the accident. In the end he’d been fine, after three surgeries and a six-month recuperation. Her father had taken her on many a ride before that, but then and there she’d vowed never to ride a motorcycle again.

  How had some stranger, then, convinced her to climb on an ancient bike? One that had coughed and sputtered like it was hacking up a mechanical lung. He definitely possessed more than powers of persuasion. Something before she’d ever straddled the seat had convinced her he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. And leaning with his long, strong body into the turns, feeling his reassuring hands on hers, had made her believe she could ride with him, even on a motorcycle, forever.

  Asinine. He was mysterious as a phantom. The last thing her complicated life needed was a leather-clad mystery.

  With effort, she spun her focus to the imminent meeting with her new student. She sat at the huge desk in Bridge Creek’s office and reached into a drawer designated as hers. She pulled out the short-but-fateful letter printed from her personal e-mail. In the past two weeks she’d read the words twenty times and still knew little more than nothing about the letter’s subject.

  Dear Miss Carpenter,

  In reference to our phone conversation of May 20, I’m writing to let you know how grateful I am for your support of our student, Rebecca Barnes. Mrs. Barnes informs me her daughter’s first riding lesson has already been scheduled.

  As we’ve discussed, Rebecca has been an exceptional student. We will continue working closely with the family to determine why she is suddenly failing. I truly hope her interest in horses and your success last year with another student, Cassie Johnson, will combine to create more success this summer.

  Please feel free to contact me any time. Our school counselor and the district social worker are also available. I wish you a pleasant summer. Many thanks again for your help.

  Sincerely,

  Randall Knapp

  Principal, Cannon Falls Middle School

/>   Rebecca Barnes. How could such a sweetly named thirteen-year-old cause this big a stir? In conversations, Randall Knapp made her sound like a bomb ticking toward detonation.

  Jill loved new riding students. They were like Christmas presents to be opened—full of potential and surprise. However, she’d never been expected to take on a disturbed teenager with the express expectation of turning her life around.

  Hearing voices and footsteps in the short hall outside the door, Jill tucked the letter back in her drawer right before David appeared, gesturing for a woman and a sullen-faced teenager to enter the office ahead of him. He then guided a second teen over the threshold in a wheelchair.

  “Jill, may I introduce Mrs. Anita Barnes and her daughters, Rebecca and Jamie.”

  Only he could pull off such a deadly proper announcement with total naturalness. Jill reached for Anita Barnes’s hand, fascinated by the curious anachronism she presented. Not a single age line marred her face, but the rest of her looked like she’d fallen through a time tunnel and hit every decade for forty years. She’d poufed her mousy-brown hair into a bouffant bob that could have made a sixties stylist proud. Her burgundy-framed glasses were eighties owlish, and she wore tight, gold-colored capri pants under a flowered, sleeveless, button-down blouse from Jill-had-no-idea-when.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Barnes. I’m Jill Carpenter.”

  “Jill. You’re younger than I expected. Have you been teaching long?”

  Jill set a smile in place. “Seven years.”

  “Jill’s a wonderful instructor and a top-notch rider herself.” David came to her aid. “Your daughter couldn’t be in better hands.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Rebecca stood a full body length from anyone else, and Jill worked very hard not to judge on first impressions. The girl had obviously been practicing the art of looking older and wore her makeup fairly expertly applied, if far too dark. She was gymnast short, her sandy, cropped hair stood in stiff spikes with a swath of bright blue bangs, and her tight flared jeans matched her tight knit top. The jeans left her knees showing, the top left her midriff bare, but what killed the attempt at visual maturity were the cherub-round cheeks beneath the mix of Goth and garish colors.