The Enemy's Daughter

by Linda Turner

  Just thinking about that twisted her stomach in knots. She would, she promised herself, definitely talk to him about overstepping his bounds—but only after she was sure his father was okay. After all, she wasn’t so hard-hearted that she would hit him with such a minor annoyance when his father might be seriously ill.

  Her thoughts on what was going on inside her study, she didn’t notice that she’d saturated her plants until water began overflowing the flower boxes. Muttering a curse, she hurried to the hydrant and had just turned it off when she heard the front door open and Steve stepped out on the porch. She took one look at the grim set of his face and felt her heart sink.

  “Your father isn’t—”

  “Dead?” he said when she hesitated. “No, but it doesn’t look good. Mom’s very worried about him. He’s got one of those foreign virus things.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! Is he going to be okay?”

  “It’s still too early to tell.” Sighing heavily, he swept his cowboy hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. “His doctors are stumped on how to treat it. So Mom was hoping that I might be able to find something on the Internet.” Giving her a small, sheepish smile, he said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I used your computer to see if there were any doctors in Australia who’d run into this kind of thing before.”

  So that explained it. Relieved, Lise dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry about it. Of course you can use the computer. Did you find anything?”

  Just that easily, she provided the opening Steve had been looking for. “No, but there was so much to look through, and I didn’t want to tie up your study any more than I already had. I would like to come back in the evening, though, if you don’t mind, after I finish my work for the day. There seems to be quite a few experimental treatments being used around the world that I’d like to look into further—if you’re not using the computer and it’s okay with you,” he quickly amended.

  “Of course it’s okay,” she replied. “I do have to clear up some paperwork before we leave for the roundup, but I should be able to take care of that during the day. Unless something else crops up, I don’t have a problem with you using it during the evening. If my father was the one who was sick, I’m sure you’d do the same thing for me.”

  Steve nearly choked at that. Simon was sick—in the head. He was a twisted monster Steve wouldn’t go around the block to help, but that was something he kept to himself. Forcing a grateful smile, he said, “Thanks, Lise. You don’t know how much this means to me. I’ll stop by after supper, then.”

  The next week was wild and hectic and long. All the fluids were changed on the trucks they would be using to haul the supplies and horses into the bush, then belts were changed, coolant topped off and tuneups done. No one wanted to find themselves stuck doing mechanical repairs out in the middle of nowhere, so preventive maintenance was the order of the day. There was, however, no way to anticipate and avoid every possible breakdown, so a wide assortment of auto supplies had to be packed for the trip into the bush, plus enough coolant and oil for a small army—just in case.

  Then there were the horses. They weren’t delicate race-horses, but good, sturdy cutting horses. Still, a large percentage of the work would fall on them, and they had to be in top condition. They were carefully examined for health problems, especially strained tendons. Bridles and saddles were tested for weaknesses, the horse trailers readied and extra feed packed, since there was little for them to graze on out in the bush.

  All in all, it was a complicated process, making sure there was enough gear and food for a two-to-three-week stay in the bush for eight people and twice that many horses. And that didn’t count trying to anticipate every possible emergency that might occur. Steve gained a whole new respect for Lise, who organized the entire thing. Everything had to be coordinated, lists made and checked and checked again—because if something was forgotten, no one was coming back a hundred miles for it.

  Everyone did their part to get ready for the roundup, Steve included. He worked as hard as the others in the heat, without a word of complaint. But his real work began each evening after supper, when he knocked at the front door and Lise waved him into the study.

  Thankfully, she didn’t stick around to see if he’d found anything that might help his father or ask for details of the new treatments he was researching. If she had, he’d have been hard pressed to answer her—because there was no such thing as the Turkish virus that supposedly had his father at death’s door. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to conduct as thorough a search as he would have liked. Because every night, after she showed him to the study and left him alone to work, she left the study’s pocket doors wide open so that he was in full view of anyone who happened to walk by in the hall.

  Stuck, there was little he could do but work under the conditions he was presented, since he couldn’t shut the doors without raising all kinds of suspicions. So with one eye on the door and the other on the computer screen, he spent hours going through each file, regardless of what it was named. And all he discovered was that Lise had been running the ranch on her own since she was sixteen years old. There was no mention of Simon anywhere, and Steve had yet to find any hidden files.

  Frustrated, he scowled at the screen, his fingers furiously flying over the keys, sure he had to be missing something. Simon had owned the station since long before Lise had been born. There had to be a record of him somewhere, dammit!

  The clock on the mantel struck nine-thirty, signaling that he was quickly running out of time. Work started early on the station, and by ten, the lights were usually out. Like it or not, he had to wrap things up for the night. Muttering a curse, he told himself he had time to check just one more file. It wouldn’t take that long. It was marked Receipts and was probably more records concerning the station. He’d just flip through it so he wouldn’t have to do it tomorrow.

  With a single click of the mouse, he opened the file and expected to find feed and vet bills. Instead, old records from the construction of a cabin suddenly filled the screen. Surprised, he stiffened, his eyes narrowing sharply. What cabin? he wondered. On the plane from Cascadilla to Australia, he’d had an entire packet of information about Simon that he’d committed to memory before he’d destroyed it, and there was no mention of a cabin anywhere. Simon owned hideaways—or had the use of them—all over the world, but from what Steve had learned about him, he wasn’t the kind of man to be content with a cabin. So what the hell was this?

  Scowling, he quickly began to scan the information on the screen.

  From down the hall, Lise suddenly called to Cookie, “Did you get the ham out of the freezer for breakfast in the morning? Never mind, I’ll do it after I check on Steve. He should be almost through for the night.”

  She was at the study door so quickly that Steve didn’t even have time to mutter a curse. Caught redhanded with a file on the screen that was, in all probability, her father’s, if he didn’t act fast she would discover the file and start asking questions.

  “Uh-oh,” she said, noting the frown he had no time to erase from his brow. “What’s the matter? Bad news?”

  “Just not what I had hoped for,” he said gruffly as she strode across the study toward him to see what he had found. “But I’m still not giving up hope.” And with smooth, unhurried casualness, he hit the save key, exited from the file and program and turned off the computer.

  He gave her no chance to notice that he’d deliberately avoided letting her read what he’d found, but rose to his feet instead to distract her. “I guess you’re ready to throw me out of here, huh? I don’t know where the time went. It just seemed to fly by tonight.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” she replied with a sigh as she dropped into the chair angled in front of the desk. “It seemed to drag to me. I guess you must have found something interesting to read.”

  He didn’t deny it—or elaborate. Instead, he arched a brow at her in surprise. She wasn’t a woman who had time on her hands
. From what he’d seen, she always had more on her plate than any two people could handle. And she seemed to love it. Usually.

  “You okay?” he asked with a frown.

  She should have said yes and changed the subject to anything but herself. As closely as she worked with her drovers, she didn’t make a habit of confiding in them. After all, she was their boss, and it just wasn’t good business practice. Not that she didn’t consider them her friends—they were, in fact, practically family. But it was better if she kept her problems to herself.

  Especially if the alternative meant confiding in Steve. She already found him too easy to talk to and laugh with. And since he’d been spending every evening of the past week doing research in the study, she was more aware of him than ever. His scent seemed to linger in the study—and the rest of the house—long after he’d left for the evening and returned to the bunkhouse, and it was driving her crazy. Lately, she couldn’t close her eyes at night when she went to bed without thinking of him.

  But instead of assuring him she was fine, she found herself blurting, “I’m fine. It’s my father I’m worried about.”

  “Why? Has something happened to him?”

  Caught up in the worry that twisted in her gut like a knife, she never noticed his gray eyes turn razor sharp. “Not that I know of,” she replied, “but when he left last week, he said he’d be back tomorrow for the weekend. I thought he would call, but he hasn’t, and now I’m afraid something’s come up.”

  Every nerve ending jumping to full alert, Steve had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting with satisfaction. He was finally getting a break! So Simon was leaving Turkey to come home, was he? Why? Was he planning to lie low and hide out from the SPEAR operatives who were closing in on him? Or did he have some kind of illicit business to conduct here at the station, far away from prying eyes? What was the bastard up to now?

  Questions swarmed in his head like bees, and he couldn’t ask any of them. Instead, he kept his growing excitement carefully under wraps and said with a casualness that didn’t come easily, “Does he usually call before he comes home or does he just show up?”

  “He just shows up.”

  “Then why do you think something’s wrong?”

  Put that way, Lise had to wonder what she’d been so concerned about. “You’re right.” She sighed in relief. “Dad’s not the type to report in to anyone. He never has been.” Feeling foolish, she grinned sheepishly. “I don’t know why I’m acting so paranoid. I guess it’s just because I’d like to see him tomorrow and I’m afraid business will get in the way.”

  “He’ll call you, won’t he, if his plans change? He won’t just leave you hanging.”

  Lise wanted to believe her father wouldn’t do such a thing, but in her heart, she knew he would. He had his priorities, and business was always at the top of the list. She’d long since stopped wondering how far down that same list she was. What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

  That wasn’t, however, something she intended to admit to Steve or anyone else. Her relationship with her father—or lack of one—was nobody’s business but her own. “Sometimes things come up at the last minute, but he always calls as soon as he can,” she fibbed.

  “So it’s safe to assume, since he hasn’t called, that he’ll be here tomorrow. What about the computer?” he asked with a sudden frown. “I was going to use it again tomorrow night, but if your father’s here—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said quickly. “He won’t mind. Just knock on the door like you normally do.”

  So Simon wouldn’t mind, would he? Steve wondered cynically after she left the study. They’d see about that.

  Chapter 4

  Lise wasn’t one to make a big deal over birthdays, especially her own. They usually came and went without fanfare, and she’d never understood why other people made such a fuss about turning another year older. Years ago, she’d convinced herself it was just another day, which was just as well. Her father never commented on the day and always made a point to be in some other part of the world.

  This year, however, was different. This year, she was thirty, and she felt like a kid with tickets to the circus. She tried to tell herself it was because she was entering another decade and she finally felt like an adult, but she wasn’t kidding anyone, especially herself. The day was special for one reason, and one reason only. For the first time in her life—at least as far as she could remember—her father was going to spend her birthday with her.

  After pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, she tied her hair back in a ponytail and didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry. Ever since her mother had died, she’d been waiting for her father to let go of his grief and realize that he had a daughter who desperately wanted to love him. But he was always so distant, so wrapped up in his business, that she hadn’t known how to get close to him. There were times when she’d even wondered if he loved her. But he must, she’d assured herself. Wasn’t it written somewhere that parents had to love their children?

  And she was her mother’s daughter. Granted, she wasn’t petite, but she had her eyes—and her smile. And her father had to see that every time he looked at her. He loved her, she’d assured herself countless times over the years. He just didn’t known how to show it.

  But that was all about to change, she thought with a tremulous smile. She didn’t know what had happened to wake him up, but she didn’t care. He would be home by dinner, not only to celebrate her birthday with her, but to spend the weekend. They were finally going to be a family.

  Her eyes shining with expectation, she hurried downstairs to breakfast, but her mind had already jumped ahead to all the things she had to do. The house had to be cleaned, of course, and her father’s bedroom freshened up. She didn’t usually have a cake, but this year, she was baking her own—and cooking dinner. Caught up in her thoughts, she hardly touched the waffles Cookie had made especially for her birthday.

  When she carried her nearly full plate into the kitchen, Cookie took one look at it and scowled. “Something wrong with the waffles?”

  Not surprised by his tone, Lise just barely bit back a smile. He wasn’t happy about her plans for the day and had been mumbling to himself about them all week. “They were delicious, and you know it,” she said with a smile. “I’m just not very hungry.”

  “You might be if you’d sit back and let someone do something for you for once in your life instead of insisting on doing it all yourself,” he grumbled. “It’s your birthday, for God’s sake! You should take it easy and enjoy the day, not clean the house from top to bottom like a maid.”

  “I like cleaning house.”

  He sniffed at that, far from appeased. “You’re not supposed to do it on your birthday, dammit! And what’s all the secrecy about, anyway? Why don’t you want the boys to know it’s your birthday? If you’d let me tell them, they’d throw a party together by the time Mr. Meldrum got here, and you wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Hell, they’d probably even clean the house for you if you’d let them.”

  “Which is why I’m not telling them,” she retorted. “They’ve got enough to do without going to any extra trouble for me.”

  With the roundup set to begin on Monday, he knew she was right, so he let that slide. But he still wasn’t happy about the situation, and he wasn’t one to suffer in silence. Frowning, he muttered, “You could at least let me make your cake. And dinner, too! Or is there something wrong with my cooking all of a sudden? Is that it? Is that why you didn’t touch your waffles? You’re trying to tell me something?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Go ahead. Give it to me straight. I can take it. I’m a big boy.”

  Biting her lip, it was all Lise could do not to smile. “I’m not complaining, and you know it. This is just something I’d like to do myself. I don’t get an opportunity to fool around in the kitchen very often. It’ll be like a present to myself.”

  Considering it was her birthday, he couldn’t argue with that. That did
n’t mean he was happy about it. “Have it your way,” he growled. “You’re going to, anyway. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some laundry to do. The kitchen’s all yours.”

  Her blue eyes dancing, Lise watched him stomp into the laundry room and didn’t dare laugh until the door to the kitchen swung shut behind him. His nose might be a little out of joint, but she knew the second she stepped into the kitchen, he’d be there for her if she needed help. After all, he was the one who’d taught her to cook in the first place.

  Before she did that, however, she had to clean the house. Usually, she and Cookie split that responsibility, but today, she would enjoy doing it herself. Grabbing the vacuum cleaner from the closet in the utility room, she worked her way through the downstairs, belting out Cher’s latest hit as she went. Singing had always been a secret vice of hers, one that she kept to herself because she was so awful at it, but Lord, she loved it. Grinning, her hips gyrating, she could just imagine what her drovers would think if they could see her now.

  They, however, were busy far from the house, and she could indulge herself. If Cookie heard her caterwauling, he gave no sign of it. Still sulking, he kept to himself, but Lise wasn’t about to let that ruin her birthday. Finished with her housecleaning, she hurried into the kitchen to start cooking. There was never any question of what kind of cake she would make. Chocolate. It was her favorite. In spite of that, though—and the fact that it was her birthday—she would have made her father’s favorite, but she didn’t know what it was. Normally, just thinking that would have made her quite sad, but not today. Because things were changing. Finally!

  Unable to stop smiling, she made a chocolate cake using her mother’s favorite recipe, then made a cream cheese icing. Then she started on a chicken dish that was the first thing Cookie had taught her to cook. While it was baking, she hurried upstairs to take a bath and dress.

  She wasn’t a woman who primped, which was a good thing. By the time she finished dressing, it was five minutes to six, and her father was expected at any time. She hurried downstairs, put rice on to cook then pulled the chicken from the oven. Setting the table in the dining room with her mother’s blue willow china, she listened for her father’s plane, sure she would hear its familiar drone at any time. But fifteen minutes dragged by, then another thirty, and still there was no sign of him.