Gabe didn’t argue. He attempted to stand, but his knees gave way beneath him, and he sank onto the bed. Trace rigged a makeshift splint to stabilize Gabe’s arm, and the older man didn’t object when Trace scooped him up in his arms and carried him downstairs to the car.
After settling Gabe on the back seat, Trace climbed in beside Cat, and she headed the car down the mountain.
She nodded to her cell phone in the well between the seats. “Better call the paramedics. Tell them to watch out for us on the road.”
While Cat drove, Trace placed the call, then turned to check on Gabe. “Try to stay awake,” he warned him, “just in case you have a concussion.”
“I’m too damned mad to sleep,” came the irascible reply.
Trace glanced at Cat, her face illuminated by the glow of the dash lights. Her brow was slightly furrowed as she concentrated on the dark, winding road, but her courage and determination were unmistakable. Other women might have gone to pieces in a similar situation, but not Cat. Adversity apparently brought out the best in her.
The question of who had caused the trouble niggled at Trace. He hoped to God Gabe was right, that the intruders had been Snake and his pals. Trace could even accept the desperate-drifters-looking-for-cash theory.
What he didn’t want to contemplate was the possibility that his presence at the ranch was connected to the break-in. If someone was interested in Trace Gallagher and what he was doing at High Valley, they were all in serious trouble.
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Cat stepped out the kitchen door into the swirling mist. Although the sun had been up for hours, it served only to brighten the low cloud cover to a dull gray. She’d slept a couple of hours after the sheriff and his deputies had left, but in spite of her exhaustion, she’d awakened at her usual time and couldn’t go back to sleep.
Longing for coffee but unable to face the disorder the intruders had left in the kitchen, she tromped across the yard. The mist obscured the way, and she followed the familiar route by instinct. After feeding the chickens and taking care of the horses, still un-ready to tackle the disaster in the house, she settled onto a bale of hay next to Rogue’s stall and leaned against the door. The horse snuffled companionably, and she took comfort in his presence.
In a little while she would call the hospital to check on her father. As soon as he’d been admitted, Gabe had started insisting that they return to High Valley to assist in the sheriff’s investigation, but she and Trace had waited for results of the doctor’s initial examination. Dr. Wright had diagnosed Gabe’s slight concussion and claimed that the break in his arm was clean and should heal easily. She’d recommended that Gabe stay at least twenty-four hours for observation.
To Cat’s surprise, her father had agreed without protest. She worried that he had acquiesced too quickly to a prolonged stay. Her main worry was that the home invasion had broken his spirit, already bruised by the loss of his boys and his financial worries about the ranch.
“You’re either up early or asleep with your eyes open.” A rich, husky voice intruded on her thoughts.
Startled, Cat glanced up to find Trace, holding a mug of steaming coffee in each hand, standing in front of her. In spite of the early hour and his lack of sleep, his hazel eyes appraised her with surprising clarity. Comfortable and at ease in his jeans, chambray shirt and denim jacket, he looked as if he’d dressed that way all his life. He smelled pleasantly of soap, the strong line of his jaw was freshly shaved, and his thick hair was slightly damp from the shower.
Her heart lifted and did a strange and unmistakable flip-flop at the sight of him, and the dismal day suddenly seemed brighter.
“One of those coffees better be for me,” she said with pretended fierceness, “or I may have to turn violent.”
“There’s been enough violence around here already.” He handed her a cup, stroked Rogue’s muzzle, then sat beside her on the bale. “You seemed a thousand miles away.”
Reflecting on how agreeable sharing her morning coffee with him was, she took a deep swallow. “I was just thinking how lucky we are that spring roundup is already over. The calves have been cut out and sold, and the cattle that needed veterinary care have been tended to. Dad couldn’t handle any of that now with a broken arm.”
“You’re still going to need help.”
“I’ll have to hire someone.” Calculating the additional withdrawal from her already dwindling funds, she sighed.
“What about me?”
“Hire you?” she sputtered in surprise.
“Not hire,” he said with a shake of his head and a grin that chased away the morning’s gloom. “I’m too inexperienced for you to pay me. But I have several days of leave left, I know horses and I’m strong enough to do grunt work.”
The prospect of his remaining longer at the ranch was very appealing, but she shook her head. “You’re on vacation. I couldn’t ask you to stay here and work when you could be off having fun.”
“You think of this as work.” He waved his hand to encompass the barn and beyond. “To someone like me, it’s an adventure. But if you’d rather hire someone more experienced—”
“No!”
Her too quick and too emphatic response flustered her, reminding her of the lie she’d told Trace the night before. She’d insisted that she’d never love anyone the way she’d loved Ryan, but each time she encountered this handsome stranger, her reactions and responses were almost as strong and unsettling as her feelings toward Ryan had been.
Not that she loved Trace, she assured herself. How could she, when she’d known him only a few days? But the chemistry between them was undeniable, and she had no doubt that with time, the magnetism could grow into something deeper. She felt as if the two of them were caught in a centrifugal force that spun them closer and closer together.
For that reason alone, extending his stay wasn’t a good idea. She was convinced that the longer they were together, the more she’d grow to like him. Liking him, even loving him, wouldn’t be a problem if he wasn’t a Marine who had to spend most of his time in dangerous situations on the other side of the world. She couldn’t face loving and losing again.
She glanced up to find Trace studying her with a contemplative look.
“Having second thoughts?” he asked.
“About what?” For a moment she feared he’d read her mind, then realized he was still talking about working the ranch.
“Having me around. Considering what happened last night, maybe you think I’m bad luck.”
Recalling the home invasion clinched her decision. Trace’s steady presence in a crisis had been a godsend. With her dad incapacitated, until the intruders were caught she’d feel much safer with a combat-trained Marine under her roof. She was a big girl, after all, and could guard her feelings for a few days in exchange for the security and assistance Trace was offering.
“If you’re willing to work for room and board,” she conceded, “I’m glad to have you.”
He nodded with apparent satisfaction. “That’s settled then. And speaking of board, how about some breakfast?”
She groaned and slumped where she sat. “I’m starving, but I can’t face what they did to the kitchen.”
“No need to.” He stood, grabbed her hand and tugged her to her feet. “I cleaned up most of it while the coffee was brewing. And I’m volunteering to cook.”
She laughed. “If I’d known cooking was part of the deal, I’d have offered you a permanent job.”
“We can always renegotiate my contract.” With a nonchalance that made the gesture seem routine, he placed his arm around her shoulders, and they walked to the house.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Cat returned to the kitchen after placing calls to check on her father and Megan. She halted in surprise on the threshold. The shattered crockery had been swept from the floor, drawers replaced in the cabinets, their contents restored. Sugar and flour the intruders had spilled from their canisters had been wiped away, and the entire kitchen sparkled.
“You’ve worked wonders,” she said.
“Just a little leatherneck spit and polish,” he said with a smile. “I aim to please.”
“Pleased isn’t the word. I’m astounded.”
Trace had set the table with a yellow-checkered cloth and her mother’s Blue Willow dishes, which had somehow survived the previous night’s rampage. Cat was grateful they’d come through unscathed. Their sentimental value made them irreplaceable.
At Cat’s place was a plate heaped with fluffy French toast and crisp bacon, accompanied by a glass of orange juice, a fresh cup of coffee and a pitcher of warm huckleberry syrup.
She could get used to this, she thought. Breakfast served by an attractive and companionable man. And that attitude was a problem. As long as Trace was around, she had to keep reminding herself his presence was merely temporary. She had no reason, however, not to appreciate his competence and helpfulness while he was here.
She took her seat. “You certainly know your way around a kitchen.”
“It’s a great place.” Trace sat across from her, then glanced around the room, the strong lines of his face softened by nostalgia. “The heart of the home. Isn’t that what designers call it?”
She wondered if he was homesick for his mother’s kitchen in Syracuse. “Do you still own your family’s home in New York?”
He gazed at her blankly for a moment, then blinked rapidly. “No, I sold the house after they died.”
His obviously uncomfortable reaction to her question made her change the subject. “I spoke with Dad’s doctor.”
“Can he come home today?”
She shook her head and attempted to tamp down her concern. “Dr. Wright wants to keep him a while longer. His blood pressure spiked during the night. She thinks it’s probably a delayed reaction to the break-in, but she wants him under observation, just to be certain.”
“Your father has a fighting spirit.” Trace’s voice was calm, a soothing balm to her troubled mind. “Attitude’s half the battle. I’m betting he’ll be feeling better and on his way home soon.”
She took a bite of French toast, which tasted as good as it looked and smelled. “Mrs. Mac suggested Megan stay at least until tomorrow.”
Trace nodded. “Maybe Gabe will be back by then. And her extended stay gives us time to clean up the place before she comes home. She wouldn’t understand what’s happened. Hell, I don’t understand it.”
Just another trait to like about the man, she thought. He cared about her daughter’s welfare. And his use of the word “us” made Cat feel less alone and overwhelmed by the chaos the intruders had inflicted on her home.
“Will Megan be homesick?” he asked.
“Mrs. Mac’s oldest son has a daughter Megan’s age, plus she told me this morning that one of the barn cats has a new litter of kittens. Megan will have the time of her life. I may have to drag her away when the time comes.”
He grinned. “She may arrive home with one of those kittens. Would you mind?”
Cat shook her head. “What’s one more animal when we have so many?”
They dug into their breakfast in companionable silence. As they were eating, Cat remembered something from earlier that morning that had been puzzling her.
“Why,” she asked Trace, “were you so adamant that the deputies not dust for fingerprints?”
A strained look flitted across his face. Guilt? Surprise? It was gone before she could identify it.
“Both your father and I noticed that the intruders wore gloves.” He reached for the pitcher and drizzled more syrup on his toast. “Have you ever seen the mess technicians make when they dust for prints?”
She shook her head.
“Believe me,” he said, “picking up after the jerks who broke in will be enough of a chore without having to clean fingerprint chemicals, too.”
Slightly in awe, she gazed at him. Maybe his Marine training had him better prepared to deal with the unexpected, but she’d never have thought in a million years to object to the unnecessary fingerprinting.
“What I don’t understand,” Trace said between mouthfuls, “is why the sheriff didn’t meet the intruders on the highway. Your dad said it’s the only way in and out of here.”
“The highway’s the only paved road, but an entire network of logging roads run off it and crisscross through the mountains. The men who broke in could have pulled onto one of those roads long enough for the sheriff to pass.”
Trace seemed lost in thought for a moment before he spoke again. “Would Snake Larson be familiar with those roads?”
She nodded. “He’s worked on Forest Service brush crews since he was in high school. He knows the whole county as well as anyone.”
“Gabe seems convinced the break-in was Snake’s doing.”
“I agree,” Cat said. “Otherwise, it makes no sense.”
He cocked an eyebrow in question. “How come?”
“Nothing was taken. Mom’s sterling silver flat-ware, the cash in Dad’s wallet. Seems like all they were interested in was wreaking havoc—right up Snake’s alley.”
Trace frowned but said nothing.
“You don’t agree?” Cat asked.
He shrugged, and his expression remained troubled. “I don’t know this Snake guy, so I can’t form an opinion about his motives. But there is another explanation for nothing being stolen.”
“Our arrival scared them off?”
His frown melted into an admiring grin. “You read my mind.”
His approval pleased her—too much. And the smile on his lips reminded her of the kiss they’d shared yesterday. A kiss that had touched her more than she wanted to admit. A kiss that could prove deliciously addictive. So addictive, in fact, that she had to guard against it being repeated, even though at this very moment, all she wanted to do was leave her place at the table, perch on his lap and kiss him senseless.
She wanted him like a thirsty woman craves water.
Just like she’d wanted Ryan.
With a flush of embarrassment, she struggled to tame her rebellious feelings. After a few days, Trace would be gone, probably for good. She couldn’t allow herself to indulge in emotional entanglements that led nowhere. She wanted to be able to say goodbye with a light heart and no regrets.
“I hope you can’t read my mind,” she said cryptically and avoided his curious gaze as she stood to clear the table.
“LET’S START in Megan’s room,” Trace said after breakfast. “If she decides to come home early, at least her space will be the way she’s used to.”
Besides his concern for Megan, he had another good reason for wanting to start on the second floor. Last night, he’d heard one of the intruders yell from upstairs that he’d found something. If Cat could determine what was missing, they might have a better chance of identifying the culprits.
Gabe and Cat believed Snake and his pals were responsible, and Trace hoped they were right. They should know soon enough. When the sheriff and his deputies had left in the wee hours before dawn, they were headed back to town to find Snake and check his alibi.
The fingerprint issue had been a close call. Fortunately, the intruders had worn gloves, as Trace and Gabe had seen. Otherwise, the crime techs would have dusted for prints—and Trace would have faced the problem of explaining why the fingerprints of Ryan Christopher, a dead man, were all over the house.
“Choose your weapon,” Cat said, interrupting his musings. She held a broom in one hand and a mop in the other.
“I’ll take both. This campaign requires a full-scale assault.”
She responded with a cocky salute and a saucy sparkle in her blue eyes that almost undid his resolve to keep his distance.
“You’re in charge of the heavy guns,” she said. “I’ll manage the light artillery.”
She opened the cabinet beneath the sink and knelt before it, pulling out a bucket, dust cloths and cleaning solutions. Reaching for something in the back of the cupboard, she leaned forward, thrusting her well-formed bo
ttom, encased in smooth denim, into the air with an unintentional but extremely provocative wiggle.
Desire stabbed through him like a Marine dress saber, and his palms itched with the memory of her bottom cupped in his hands while sunlight filtered through the trees of the glade and bathed their naked bodies like a blessing. Calling on all the discipline the Corps had instilled in him, he shoved the cherished memory away. His task would be so much easier if, instead of forgetting who’d bombed the embassy, he’d forgotten loving Cat.
Forget loving Cat? Who was he kidding?
He’d give his right arm before he’d relinquish recollections of their lovemaking. If his suppressed memories didn’t surface, those cherished reminiscences might be all he had left of his life with Cat.
She likes Trace Gallagher, an inner voice taunted him. Trace could win her heart if Ryan can’t return.
The possibility was enticing, but Trace rejected it on the spot. Unless he could somehow dredge up the terrorist’s name from his subconscious or Wentworth could track down Righteous Sword without Trace’s help, Ryan Christopher would remain buried forever in the family plot on the hill above the ranch. And Trace Gallagher would disappear in order to keep Cat and Megan safe from terrorist attention.
Trace had initially balked at the idea that Ryan’s existence put the Ericksons in danger, but Wentworth had driven home the truth of it with gruesome clarity. “The main reason we haven’t caught these bastards,” Wentworth insisted, “is their attention to detail. Every time we caught the faintest lead, we’d arrive to question a suspect only to find him and his entire family butchered. Righteous Sword is relentless about not leaving a trail.”
“Why should they think Ryan a threat?”
“Word of Marc’s dying statement, that Ryan knew who’d shot him, spread through the embassy personnel like wildfire. Since the terrorist had a man inside, it’s a cinch they know that Ryan knew who at least one of them was.” Wentworth had leaned forward across his desk, his expression grim. “I’m telling you that if Ryan surfaces before they’re caught, the terrorists will know, and they’ll kill everyone close to him.”
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