Rancher Under Fire

by Vickie McDonough

  “He’s not the first to be shocked that I’m a female. The first was my father,” Mariah said.

  Hailey giggled. Mariah sensed that given the chance, she and the young girl could become friends. “So, how old are you?”

  “Six.”

  “Six, huh?”

  “Yep. I just had my birthday last week. Sometimes it’s the same day as Thanksgiving, but not this year. I’ll be seven next year.”

  A wave of melancholy washed over Mariah. Had she ever looked forward to a birthday? When she was a child, birthdays had been virtually nonexistent. Oh, they came and went like any other day, but they weren’t celebrated, other than her mother slipping her a quarter, if she had one.

  “Daddy says I can have my own horse when I’m older. He loves horses, but he loves football, too. Course, he don’t play football no more. Well, ’cept sometimes he plays with Lance and Justin.” Hailey skipped up the sidewalk that led to the cranberry-red front door of the gray brick ranch house.

  Mariah filed the names Lance and Justin in a mental folder with plans to research them later, and then she studied the area. Though the house itself looked well kept, there was nothing special about the landscaping. In fact, the flower beds overflowed with dried grass and dead stalks. The only signs of life were a couple of dark green weeds and a few pitiful purple pansies that needed watering. The place sure could use a woman’s touch.

  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 st
oically 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 to a woman’s charms once, but that was a long time ago, and it wouldn’t happen again.

  “C’mon, Lord. Help me out here.”

  He could handle wounded horses and cows, could face a line of three-hundred-pound tacklers all bent on sacking him, but give him a sick or crying woman, and he lost all sensibility.

  Get a grip, Durant.

  A soft moan erupted from behind him, and he spun around. Ms. Reyes’s arm rested across her forehead. He hurried to her side and eased onto the edge of the bed. “What can I do to help?”

  She lifted the washcloth from her head, staring unseeing for a few moments. “Please...”

  “What?” Jackson leaned forward, noticing her long, dark lashes.

  “Please tell me I didn’t pass out.” She pressed her hand against her trim stomach.

  “Wish I could, but—”

  “Oh, I did, didn’t I? I’m so embarrassed.” A faint flush of scarlet darkened her olive skin, and then panic dashed across her pretty face as she scanned the room. “I didn’t upset Hailey, did I?”

  She started to sit up, but he gently grasped her shoulders, pressing her back down. Her concern for his daughter warmed him. Maybe he’d been too harsh and misjudged her at first glance. “You need to rest for a bit while I doctor your leg. And no, Hailey wasn’t here when you passed out.”

  “Thank goodness. I wouldn’t want to frighten her. She’s such a sweet little thing.”

  “Yes, she is.” Jackson smiled. Hailey could talk the ears off a mynah bird, but she certainly was a sweetie pie—and tough. She hadn’t even fussed when Sabrina yanked her to the ground or when he’d doctored the rope burns on her hands a few minutes ago. He was proud of his daughter’s fortitude, unlike this city gal, who fainted at the sight of a little gash. A ranch was no place for someone like her.

  The sooner he patched up her leg, the sooner he could get away from her. He refocused his attention on the woman’s injury and forced a politeness in his voice that he didn’t feel. “If you’re done with the washcloth, I’ll finish cleaning your leg with it, Ms. Reyes.”

  Her cheeks darkened in a deep blush again. “Call me Mariah, and I can clean my own leg.”

  Jackson couldn’t refrain from smirking. “I saw what happened when you merely looked at your bloody knee. How do you expect to stare at it long enough to doctor and bandage it? Am I wrong in guessing that you pass out at the sight of blood?”

  Mariah’s faced paled, and she glanced away. “No, you’re not wrong,” she said on a whisper. “This is so embarrassing. Go on and get it over with.” She grabbed the damp cloth and tossed it in his direction.

  He snagged it in midair, cleaned her wound, then washed off the blood that had trailed down her slim leg. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “No, not really, but I imagine I’ll be sore tomorrow.”

  Relief washed over him as he cleansed the wound with peroxide. He squeezed some triple antibiotic salve onto the inch-long gash then applied two wide bandages. No problem. Just like treating one of Hailey’s banged-up knees. Well, not exactly, but at least the woman didn’t cry or fuss about it hurting. Without thinking, Jackson reached behind Mariah’s leg and gave her calf a soft caress, just like he would Hailey’s. He wasn’t prepared for the electric arc that sprinted up his arm. He released her as if he’d been shocked and glanced up.

  His eyes locked with her black gaze and held. Awareness sizzled between them.

  “Daddy, I’m done helpin’ Deuce.” Hailey peered in the doorway. “Are you gonna go catch Sabrina? Can I go, too?”

  Instantly his connection with the troublesome reporter severed. He shook his head, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Leaping off the bed, he accidentally looked in Mariah’s direction again.

  She must have sensed whatever it was he had felt, because she wore a dazed expression, too—or maybe she’d gotten a glimpse of the bloody washrag. Jackson shrugged off the unwanted sensations. This wasn’t good.

  Women were trouble, and he had enough trouble already—especially with all the strange goings-on lately. To make matters worse, Tim Denton couldn’t begin fixing the reporter’s car until the first of next week—and that was if the vehicle wasn’t totaled. He was stuck with the nosy reporter for at least the whole weekend since Westin, the nearest town to the ranch, didn’t have a motel—or a car rental agency.

  “Oh, you hurt your leg?” Hailey crossed the room to the bed, and Jackson stepped back.

  “It’s nothing. Just a little cut.” Mariah sat up and rolled down her pant leg then turned to sit on the side of the bed. “Your dad patched me up.”

  “He’s good at fixin’ things. See, he put princess bandages on my hands.”

  Hailey held up her palms as if they were trophies and flashed him a dimpled smile, sending a warm sensation, better than a cup of hot coffee on a chilly day, down his midsection.

  “So, what about Sabrina?”

  “I’ll catch her.” He stalked out, not bothering to look at the reporter again. He and his daughter were a team. They got along fine and didn’t need another female around to mess up things. He especially didn’t need a reporter around when problems were plaguing him. What if she got hurt? Or what if she told the world about what had been happening here?

  He clenched his jaw. He needed to get her car fixed and get her on the road home.

  THREE

  Delicious odors wafting from the kitchen lured Mariah out of her room and down the hallway. The door near the living room that had previously been closed was now open. Her reporter’s instinct and insatiable curiosity drew her to the unknown, and she couldn’t resist a peek.

  Stepping inside the room, her gaze immediately focused on a huge desk positioned in front of a large picture window that offered a tranquil view of a small pond and a pasture with grazing horses. In the distance, on the far side of the pasture, a car zipped by on the same road she’d recently traveled, snagging her attention. Her pulse kicked up several notches as her thoughts veered to the black truck again. Should she have mentioned it to Jackson? If she hadn’t made that turn on time she could have been killed. No, it was probably nothing. Just some country boys having fun at her expense. At least that was what she wanted to believe. She shook away the troubling image and continued to look around the room.

  Along the far wall was a wide oak credenza with a computer and printer. Papers littered the adjacent desk in what she felt sure was some kind of chaotic order. The walls were covered in pictures of horses, eagles and football memorabil
ia.

  Jackson’s office. He probably spent his evenings working at the desk or reading in the hunter-green leather recliner. A well-worn leather Bible lay on top of a pile of magazines on an end table next to the chair. While the rest of the house was neat and orderly, this room looked as if a housekeeper hadn’t touched it in a decade.

  Curiosity sated for the moment, she backed out and headed toward the sound of voices coming from the kitchen, if she wasn’t mistaken. Her mouth watered at the fragrant scent of frying chicken. She rounded the corner and stopped. Hailey stood on a step stool, washing potatoes in the sink beside a grizzled old man who was dicing tomatoes and adding them to a salad.

  He glanced over his shoulder and flashed a whiskery, gap-toothed smile. “You must be that reporter I heard so much about. Kind of got J.D. all stirred up in a tizzy, what with you bein’ a woman and all.”

  She cringed inwardly at his remark but struggled to keep her discomfort from reflecting in her expression. Just what had Mr. Durant said about her?

  The old man deftly chopped two stalks of green onions and slid the pieces off the cutting board into the salad. Using a long-handled spoon and fork, he stirred the mixture then shoved it into the refrigerator. He closed the fridge door and grinned. “I’m Deuce, J.D. and Hailey’s chief cook and bottle washer.”

  Giggling, Hailey peeked over her shoulder, eyes twinkling. “You don’t wash bottles. We put them in the dishwasher.”

  Mariah and Deuce exchanged a knowing smile. She studied the man from his mad-professor hairdo to his baggy, faded blue overalls and scuffed cowboy boots. A cook was the last thing she’d expect this strange character to be. Still, he’d seemed quite handy at mixing his salad. He stabbed a flour-coated drumstick in a skillet and deftly flipped it over, revealing its golden side. The chicken popped and sizzled, filling the room with a tantalizing aroma. She’d never seen anyone fry chicken before, and she watched, mesmerized.

  The door to the mudroom opened and a tall, handsome man strode through it and into the kitchen as though he owned the place. He aimed for the stove and failed to notice her standing just outside the kitchen. He lifted his nose in the air. “Mmm...fried chicken. Deuce, you seen J.D.? And whose smashed-up Mustang is that?”