Marooned with the Maverick. Christine Rimmer

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      Side by side, they swam for the place where the road rose up out of the ditch. His boots touched ground. Beside him, she found her footing, too—for an instant. Then she staggered and went under.

      He grabbed her again, hauling her up, getting one arm around her waist. Lightning tore another hole in the sky and thunder boomed as he half carried, half dragged her up and out of the racing water.

      She coughed and sputtered, but she kept her feet moving. The woman had grit. He had to give her that. He kept hold of her, half-supporting her, urging her to the high side of the road and up the hill far enough that they were well above the water and reasonably safe.

      They collapsed side by side onto the streaming ground as the rain continued to beat down on them, hard and heavy, never ending. She turned over, got up on her hands and knees and started hacking and coughing, spitting up water. He dragged in one long, hungry breath after another and pounded her back for her, helping her clear her airways so she could breathe. When she was finally doing more breathing than hacking, he fell back on the ground and concentrated on catching his own breath.

      Lucky for him, he just happened to turn his head and glance in the direction of his truck about then. The water had risen. Considerably. It was maybe two feet from his front wheels now.

      He turned to the waterlogged woman gasping beside him. “Stay here. Do not move. I’ll be right back.”

      Swearing low and with feeling, he lurched upright and beat feet on a parallel track with the road. When he got even with his truck, he half ran, half slid down the hill, raced around the rear of the pickup and hauled himself up into the cab. The key was still in the ignition—and the water was lapping around his front wheel wells by then.

      He turned it over, released the brake, put it in Reverse and backed to the top of the last rise. Once there, he slammed it in Park again and jumped out to see how things looked behind him.

      Not good. The road was flooded in the previous trough. Water in front of him, water behind. The truck was going nowhere until the water receded.

      Fair enough. He got back in and parked on the shoulder. Taking his keys with him that time, he left the truck and locked it up.

      Then he looked for Willa.

      She was gone.

       Chapter Two

      A moment later, Collin spotted her.

      She was on her feet and slogging up the long slope of the hill. He knew then where she was headed. There was a big, weathered, rambling structure way at the top—the Christensen barn.

      “Willa, what the hell?” he yelled good and loud. “Hold on a minute!”

      She didn’t pause, she didn’t turn. Her hair plastered to her head, and her little white T-shirt and snug jeans covered with mud and debris, she just kept on putting one boot in front of the other, heading up that hill.

      He was powerfully tempted to let her go.

      But who knew what trouble she’d get herself into next? If something happened to her, he’d end up with a guilty conscience for leaving her all by her lonesome. Plus, well, he didn’t have a lot of options himself, at the moment. The floodwaters were all around.

      And it might be July, but the rain was a cold rain and the wind was up, too. He needed shelter to wait out the storm and the barn had walls and a roof. It was better than nothing. Willa was going to have to get over her aversion to him, at least until there was somewhere else he could go.

      With a grunt of resignation, he climbed the hill after her, tucking his head down, putting one foot in front of the other, as the water streamed over him and his boots made sucking sounds with each step he took.

      He caught up to her maybe twenty yards from the barn. She must have heard the sloshing of his boots at last.

      She stopped, her arms wrapped around herself to control the shivers that racked her, and whirled to confront him. “Collin.” She tipped her head up and drew her slim shoulders back. Water ran down her cheeks, into her wide mouth and over her chin.

      He could see her nipples, hard as rocks, right through her T-shirt and her bra. “What, Willa?”

      “Thank you for saving my life.”

      “Hey.” He swiped water off his nose. Not that it did any good. “No problem. Can we move it along? It’s pretty damn wet out here. I’d like to get in that barn.”

      She gripped her arms tighter around herself. “I would like for you to go away and leave me alone.”

      “Oh, you would, would you?”

      “Yes. Please.”

      He raised his arms out wide, indicating all of it—the never-ending storm, the floodwaters surrounding them, the cold wind and the flash of bright lightning that lit up the sky again right at that moment. The thunder rumbled. He waited for the sound to die away. “Exactly where do you suggest I go, Willa?”

      She flung out a hand. “What about your truck?”

      He folded his arms across his chest and simply looked at her.

      Her shoulders sagged and she let out a low cry. “Oh, fine. All right. You can come in the barn. Just … fine. Okay.” And she turned around again and continued walking.

      He fell in behind her.

      The barn loomed ahead. When they reached it, she undid the latch and slipped in. He went in after her, pulling the door to, latching it from within.

      The barn had another door on the far wall. Someone must have left the latch undone, because that door stood wide-open. It was probably not a bad thing in this situation. The Christensen livestock needed more than a run-in shed on a day like today and the animals had found what they needed through that wide-open door.

      The rambling space was wall-to-wall critters. There were cattle, goats, some chickens and several cooing pigeons. Carping blackbirds perched in the rafters. A couple of pigs snorted beneath one of the two windows and somewhere nearby a barn cat hissed and then yowled.

      A dog barked. Collin spotted a muddy white Labrador retriever. The dog was headed for Willa.

      She let out a happy little cry. “Buster! There you are!” She dropped to a crouch and opened her arms. The dog reared up and put his front paws on her shoulders. Whining with excitement, he licked her face with his sloppy pink tongue. “You are such a bad, bad dog,” she crooned in a tone that communicated no criticism whatsoever. “Hey, now. Eww.” She turned her head away from Buster’s slobbery attentions and saw Collin watching her.

      “Nice dog.” He’d had a great dog named Libby who’d died the winter before. She’d been sixteen, with him since he was eleven and she was an ugly pup, the runt of the litter wanted by no one—but him.

      “Down, Buster.” She rose again and tried to brush the mud and water off her soaking wet shirt and muddy jeans. It did zero good. “Technically, he’s my dog,” she explained, “but he’s always loved it here on the ranch, so he lives here more than with me. He was supposed to be staying with СКАЧАТЬ