Rancher at Risk. Barbara Daille White

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      Heat flooded her face. She turned around to look down the length of the driveway. Sure enough, Caleb had just begun to back his truck onto the road in front of the house. His truck with the engine that was loud enough to make her aids vibrate.

      Wonderful. Earlier, she’d messed up reading Caleb’s words, and now she’d completely missed the clue that would have told her he hadn’t yet left.

      From tiredness, that was all. Tiredness after the long drive from Chicago. Excitement over the new job. Frustration over dealing with this darned cowboy again. And...

      ...and fear.

      Normally, she could handle anything that came her way. But every once in a while when she thought of the scope of this project, a small part of her worried she’d gotten in over her head.

      She owed that to Mark, too.

      Forcing a smile, she waved goodbye to Caleb. Then she turned back to Ryan, moments too late. He had pulled a box from the backseat of the Camry, taken the bag from the trunk, and was already going up the front porch steps.

      The box he carried, filled with books and file folders, weighed a ton. Ryan cradled the cardboard box in one arm as though it weighed no more than the pillow she’d tossed on top of the bags in the passenger seat.

      She stared at his arms and shoulders, at bulging muscles probably honed through hard labor. Nothing at all like most of the men she knew in Chicago, who sculpted their bodies at the gym. None of those men would have ventured out in public dressed the way he was, either, in boots so old and cracked that the leather had worn to suede in spots and jeans so threadbare they’d turned white in places. The perfect specimen of a true-blue, red-blooded, thank-you-ma’am-polite cowboy.

      Until he’d started in on her this morning and the image had shattered like a mirror dropped on concrete.

      * * *

      TWO HUNDRED YARDS shy of the railroad crossing at the south end of town, the car swerved, painting black rainbows on the asphalt, straightened again, slid forward and ended up grill-first against an unyielding concrete fence. Fiberglass popped. Distressed metal collapsed, twisting and bending, folding in on itself like a beer can in the hands of a drunken man.

      He could smell the rubber, hear the metal scream, feel the pounding in his temples.

      But he wasn’t there....

      He hadn’t been there the day of the accident. He didn’t know where he was now, other than sitting bolt upright in an inky darkness that stretched on into forever. His heart limped for a few beats as he sat waiting for his eyes to adjust.

      Dead ahead a thin gold thread appeared, outlining a dark rectangle—light seeping around the edges of a window shade. Off to one side of him, bright red LED numbers hovered in the dark like a candle flame. A bedside clock, reading 5:43 a.m.

      The red images gave him his bearings: Caleb’s ranch house, the guest room on the second floor, the faint light from the porch fixture outside. A deep sleep after two days of no shut-eye. A nightmare he had hoped he’d left behind.

      The screeching metal and shattering glass had only added sound effects to a bad dream.

      Then why did they still echo inside his head?

      Lianne?

      He crawled out of bed, grabbed his jeans and slid them on, all the while trying to identify the source and location of the racket that wasn’t in his head at all. And that had just ended as abruptly as if someone had pulled a plug.

      The noise had come from below.

      He took the stairs in two leaps. Not a sound down here, and dark as pitch except for the band of light streaming from an open door halfway down the hall to the kitchen. The continuing silence made the previous noises all the more ominous.

      He hurried toward the light from the office Caleb had shown him that afternoon and then skidded to a halt in the doorway, expecting splinters from the polished wooden floor to pierce his bare soles. One glance told him serious damage had been done.

      Every door in the wall of custom-built cabinets hung wide open. A drawer of each file cabinet gaped. The rest of the room looked like a field back home after a winter storm, except instead of snow, every horizontal surface had been covered with clipboards, plastic filing trays and folders spilling their guts.

      Over everything drifted the scent of freshly brewed coffee from a table in one corner, the only uncluttered space in the room.

      In a far corner, his new housemate stood with her back to him near one of the file cabinets. She flung another folder the few feet over to the desk behind her without looking. It slid from the edge to join the rest of them on the floor.

      What the—?

      Maybe he hadn’t woken up yet. He scrubbed his face with his bare hand, attempting to wipe away the last traces of drowsiness.

      When he took his hand from his face, he found Lianne watching him.

      “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

      Biting his tongue, he fought to come up with a question that didn’t include any swear words. “What are you doing up?”

      She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, either. I’ve got a busy schedule, so I thought I would get in here and rearrange everything the way I want it. While I’ve still got the opportunity. Before I get to work.”

      She was babbling and, for the first time, had spoken to him naturally. Nerves had made her forget her defenses. Probably best not to point that out.

      “Did you need something?” she asked.

      “Some peace and quiet.”

      “Oh.” She grimaced. “I forgot to close the door, didn’t I?”

      “You forgot more than that.” He glanced at the center of the room. The sound of plastic file trays and a half dozen other items crashing to the floor in front of the desk had played right into the crumpling metal and breaking glass of his dream.

      She followed his gaze. “I guess I got a little involved.”

      And a lot reckless.

      Her cheeks pinker than the T-shirt she was wearing, she stooped and began scooping papers together.

      He dropped to one knee and grabbed her wrist. When she looked up at him, her brows lowered, he gestured toward the floor. “Watch it. You’ll hurt yourself.”

      “You’re worried about paper cuts?”

      “No. This.” From under a flurry of paper, he lifted the jagged pieces of glass and wood.

      She took the broken frame from his hand and turned it over. A trio of smiling faces looked up at them. Caleb. His wife, Tess. Their daughter, Nate.

      “Oh, no. Caleb just had this photo taken.” Lianne stared down, her face stricken. Broken glass had left a deep scratch across the surface.

      “It’s only a picture,” he muttered. “Easy enough to replace.”

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