A Measure Of Love. Lindsay McKenna

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      Rafe sat at the huge cherry-wood desk, the stained-glass Tiffany lamp near his elbow providing the necessary light in the dark paneled library and study. Her purse was small and dainty, like her. He felt a twinge of guilt as he rummaged through the contents, locating and pulling out the slender leather billfold. Unsnapping it, he found her driver’s license, made out to Jessica Scott. His brows drew down as he read her address: Washington D.C. He’d just gotten rid of a BLM guy two weeks earlier from the same damn city. Was he cursed with people from D.C.? Rubbing his jaw, he studied the plastic license. She couldn’t be a government official; she looked too young and…fresh.

      He set aside the license and rummaged through the rest of the contents: a social security card, a YWCA membership and a Visa card were all that were enclosed. Rafe glanced again at the license, offhandedly noticing her birthdate. Surprise flickered in his dark blue eyes. She couldn’t be twenty-eight! She barely looked twenty-three.

      Intrigued, he slowly went through the pictures on the other side of the wallet. The first one was of a much older woman, probably in her seventies, bound to a wheelchair with a colorful afghan across her lap, smiling. Must be her grandmother, Rafe thought. The second photo was obviously cut from a magazine. Jessie was turning out to be quite a surprise. In the magazine photo was a picture of a rare medicine hat mustang running free. Did she own the horse? Or did she know who owned it? He lifted his head, peering out through the gloom toward the hallway. Jessie Scott. Interesting…

      * * *

      Jessie heard rain drumming in a staccato beat around her. She moved her head slightly, but the pain kept banging away inside her brain. She heard the faint movement of cloth against nylon and then softened footsteps gradually fading away. Forcing open her eyes to mere slits, she became aware of the smell of her damp hair, of the warmth surrounding her and the muted light pouring in through large-paned windows to the right of the bed. Bed…she was in a bed. She pulled her hand from beneath the heavy goosedown quilt and touched her brow.

      “Ouch!” She winced as she carefully felt around the lump on the side of her head. The light hurt her eyes, making them water. The effort to lift her hand drained what little returning strength she had, and she dropped her arm across her stomach, trying to think, to remember.

      The sound of heavy, steady footfalls snagged her groggy awareness, and she looked toward the opened door. An older woman slipped quietly through it, and then a man. He was much younger than the woman, and powerfully built. Jessie’s eyes widened as they both approached her bed. Despite the toll of agony it took for her to speak, she said, “What happened? Where am I?”

      Rafe placed his hands on his narrow hips, studying her. “You don’t remember? You damn near hit me and my herd of cattle up on the road earlier.” He hadn’t meant for his words to come out quite so clipped, and he saw hurt register immediately in her wan features.

      Millie glared across the bed at Rafe as she moved to Jessie’s side. “Don’t pay him no mind. I’m Millie Martin, the housekeeper. Now, we want you to just stay quiet until Doc Miller arrives. You took a nasty bump on the head in that car accident.” She reached out and patted Jessie’s cool hand.

      Jessie remained staring up at the rancher. She was too groggy to sort out the impressions he was making on her. His features were so weathered by the seasons that he looked as if he were hewn from rock. Deep crow’s-feet at the corners of his intensely dark blue eyes told her that he squinted a great deal. His forehead was broad and lined, as if he frowned more than he smiled. Jessie noticed that his nose, which had once been clean-lined and aquiline, had several bumps on it, indicating he’d broken it more than just a few times. Harsh lines bracketed his mouth, but the corners curled softly upward. His full, flat lower lip gentled his rugged features, yet didn’t deny the stubbornness of his jutting chin.

      Rafe relented a little, pleased that she had fearlessly met his gaze and not shrank back from him. “You’re at the Triple K, Jessie Scott. I’m the owner, Rafe Kincaid. Do you remember what happened?”

      Jessie gripped the edge of the bedcovers that were draped across her shoulders. “Oh, no….” she croaked as the entire sequence of events came back to her. Heat swept up through her cheeks, and she shut her eyes tightly. She had nearly killed the man who was standing in front of her, the man she had come to see. This was his ranch, and his bed. And she was in a lot of trouble. What about the car? And how had she gotten here…?

      She tried desperately to sort out her priorities. Her knuckles whitened against the quilt as she struggled to think clearly. Finally she opened her eyes and forced herself to look at him. “A-are you okay? I mean…I could have killed you….”

      A slight hint of a smile shadowed his mouth as he heard her concern, not for herself, but for him. “I’m fine.”

      “A-and your horse?”

      “The horse will survive. More importantly, how are you feeling?”

      Jessie shivered on hearing the warm timbre of his voice and was momentarily arrested by the change in his face. One moment he was glowering at her, the next his blue eyes lightened, the corners of his mouth eased, and his voice caressed her like a gentle touch.

      Rafe waited patiently for her to speak, well aware of how slowly her mind must be functioning. As he gazed at her, a sharp ache moved through him. She looked so fragile in the large bed, so delicate, and he wondered what it would be like to tunnel his hands through the thick honey hair that framed her face. And those lips…. He scowled. What was he thinking of? She was hurt, and all he could do was think of getting into bed with her and pulling her close? Was he that starved for a woman? He didn’t look too closely at the last question.

      Jessie saw him scowl, and she blurted out, “I’m fine…I think. Just an awful headache. Really, I’m okay. Honest.”

      “Now, now,” Millie soothed. “You just stay lying there. Doc Miller should be arriving shortly. You’re not taking up much space, and we don’t mind helping you, so stay put.”

      Properly chastised, Jessie remained still. Why was Rafe scowling at her? Then she remembered that her identification and file on the Triple K had been in her briefcase in the car. If he knew her name, he had to have gone through her luggage. Joe Allen’s vivid description of the rancher came back to her. She’d made an even bigger mess of things: she’d wrecked a car, nearly killed Rafe Kincaid and hadn’t mended any fences. In fact, she had made the rift between him and the BLM worse.

      “Mr. Kincaid,” she began in a scratchy voice, “I’m deeply sorry for what happened. I can assure you that the BLM didn’t send me out here to make things worse. I–”

      “The what?”

      His voice cut like a whip through the room. Jessie’s eyes became round, and she pulled the quilt up to her chin, caught in his glare.

      “The BLM,” she croaked. “You looked through my attaché case. You must have seen I was the field representative from the BLM.”

      Rafe’s brows shot up, and he allowed his hands to fall from his hips. “You are from the BLM?”

      Her mind whirled. Hadn’t he gone through her briefcase? Her purse! He must have looked in her purse. Biting the bullet, she said in a clear, calm voice, “Mr. Kincaid, I’ve been sent by the BLM to straighten out the misunderstanding between us.”

      “I don’t believe it,” he ground out, looking first at her and then at Millie.

      “Now, СКАЧАТЬ