A MEASURE OF LOVE…

That was what Rafe Kincaid offered her. Yet Jessie knew it wasn’t enough—for either of them.

She’d come to protect the wild horses that roamed his land. But one look at the proud, defiant rancher was enough to warn her—it was her heart that was in danger. Rafe had lost love once to tragedy, and Jessie feared she could never persuade him to take that chance again. OR could she? Could their passion convince him to abandon the past…before history repeated itself?

A Measure of Love

Lindsay McKenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter One

Jessie, we need your help.”

She was working on the latest figures that had been called in by her ranchers for the Colorado-Wyoming mustang population. No one ever needed her help. Or if they did, it wasn’t often. They had stuck her away in a small cubicle at the end of the hall of a huge federal building in the heart of bureaucracy in Washington, D.C.

Raising her head, she pushed the thick, heavy strands of blond hair across her shoulder and looked up. Mr. Humphries, second-in-command of the Bureau of Land Management, stood before her.

“Yes, sir?” Immediately her palms became damp, and she tried to inconspicuously pull them off the desk and into her lap, where he couldn’t see them.

Humphries cleared his throat. “Er, well, that is…come with me. This is most urgent.”

Jessie’s heart began to pound in her breast as she hesitantly rose. Something was wrong. Mr. Humphries, who normally looked like a pit bull waiting to bite someone, was shifting from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable.

As Jessie followed him down the brightly lit halls, her curiosity got the most of her. She had been working for the BLM since her divorce. Part of the Department of Interior, the BLM dealt with anything having to do with mustangs. At the time she had applied, they had been looking for someone who could oversee the important project of assigning newly captured mustangs to people who wanted them. They had promised her travel, excitement and field work. That had been five years ago. She had never left her small, dingy office, but it didn’t matter. Placing the unseen mustangs with good, loving homes had become her focus in life. That and coordinating investigations into anything having to do with the wild animals. From her office, she sent the BLM’s agents out all over the U.S.

“In here, Jessie,” Humphries said, holding open the door to a conference room.

Jessie smoothed her light wool heather skirt against her hips as she entered. At one end of the twenty-seat conference table was Joe Allen, one of her field representatives. He didn’t look happy, and barely gave her a nod of recognition when she entered the room. Jessie managed a weak smile, knowing something serious must have happened. She automatically flexed her fingers, realizing it was her head, not Joe’s, that was on the chopping block if Joe had fouled up his assignment in some way.

“Sit down, Jessie. Over there.”

She sat, giving Joe a warm smile of welcome. Joe raised his hand, but his hazel gaze was on Humphries, who remained standing in front of them.

“Now, Jessie, a situation of grave importance has come up.” He cleared his throat, his gray brows falling into a V over his narrowed brown eyes. “You sent Allen here to investigate a rancher out in Colorado after we received an anonymous phone call that Mr. Kincaid, owner of the Triple K, was shooting mustangs.”

Jessie’s lips parted. “Yes, sir, I remember the incident.” Her cinnamon-colored eyes widened slightly as she prepared for Humphries’s blustering tirade.

Humphries glared over at Joe. “To say the least, he and Mr. Kincaid didn’t get along. As a matter of fact, Kincaid had the gall to literally throw him off Triple K property. Isn’t that right, Allen?”

Joe, who was a slender man of thirty-five, nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

Humphries cleared his throat again. “Well, go on, tell her the rest.”

“Yes, sir.” Joe turned his attention to Jessie. “I treated the Kincaid case like any other. When I got to the ranch, Mr. Kincaid was in a foul mood. When I discreetly asked him to let me investigate the matter, he turned ugly. He started questioning me and making allegations that the BLM was acting like a jackass.”

“Mr. Kincaid did that?” Jessie interrupted. She had talked to Sam Kincaid on several occasions several years before and had liked the terse rancher.

Joe nodded weakly.

Jessie couldn’t contain her surprise. “But Mr. Humphries, the Kincaids have been staunch supporters of environmental protection, and they’ve always worked with us on the mustangs. According to my files, and I’ve got a thick one on the Triple K, Mr. Kincaid is on our side.”

“That was Sam Kincaid,” Humphries corrected. “This is his son, Rafe, who’s running things now. And obviously a lot differently. Well, go on, Allen.”

“When I asked for Kincaid’s cooperation, he asked if I had a search warrant. I said no. He demanded to know what the investigation was for. Well, naturally, I couldn’t tell him. I just told him that we wanted to inspect the northern boundary of his property, where it butts up against the federal reserve. He didn’t trust me or my intentions. Instead of allowing me to go up there to see if I could find any mustang carcasses, he threw me off the ranch and told me that if I came back I’d be staring down the barrel of a thirty-aught-six rifle.”

There were a few moments of silence, then Humphries said, “Allen, you can leave now.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door closed quietly behind him. Jessie tensed as Humphries circled her like a buzzard. Was he going to fire her because of Joe’s disastrous encounter with Rafe Kincaid?

“Your boss, Nicholas Van der Meer, seems to feel that you have the right combination of talent, resources, knowledge and diplomacy to deal with Rafe Kincaid.” He sat one ponderous hip on the table, and it creaked accordingly. “Van der Meer feels your assets could be invaluable to this case. Right now we’re getting a lot of pressure from environmental groups to treat the mustang as a natural resource. I can’t afford to have the damn papers blaring with news headlines that some bullheaded rancher is picking them off like crow bait just because they’re on his property. I want you to leave this evening for Denver, Jessie. My secretary has already made a plane reservation for you, and there’ll be a rental car waiting for you there. I want you personally to deal with this problem. Do you understand?”

Jessie stared at him, feeling the blood draining from her face. “Me?”

“Why not you?”

“Well, uh, because, Mr. Humphries, I’ve never stepped out of this office. I don’t know the first thing about being a field rep–”

“Nonsense. You have five hundred ranchers that you take care of in connection with the mustangs. You’ve had contact with these men and their families for five years, plus you assign our agents all over the country. No one’s more familiar with the intricacy of investigating than yourself.”

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the chair. “Well, yes, sir, that’s true in one sense. But I’ve only done this over the phone and through the mail; I’ve never actually set foot on a ranch.”

He gave a negligent wave of his hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jessie rose, her eyes wide. “I’ve never been west of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I know nothing about the West.”

“You’ve got more knowledge about the mustangs, the land they live on and wander across, and the ranchers than anyone else in this office.”

Panic was setting in, and Jessie began to pace, using her hands to punctuate her words. “But, sir, I’m an office manager! A paper pusher! I’ve never seen a horse except in a parade along Pennsylvania Avenue. My knowledge is through the books and reports I read. I only know the ranchers through minimal phone contact or letters.” She compressed her full lips, wondering if they were trying to fire her.

Humphries rose, scowling. “You have your orders, Ms. Scott. We feel your diplomacy and ability to humor Kincaid will do the trick.”

Humor? Sure, people had always commented on her ability to see humor in every situation. And some of her friends even called her Sunny. That was all fine and dandy, but she still didn’t see how she could persuade someone like Rafe Kincaid to cooperate with the BLM.

Jessie stood there as Humphries opened the door and disappeared. Her hands were damp and cold, and she rubbed them on the sides of her tailored wool skirt. This couldn’t be happening! Were they trying to get rid of her? She couldn’t stand still a moment longer and headed down the hall with swift strides.

“Nick!” she stage-whispered, sticking her head inside her immediate superior’s office door.

Nick Van der Meer looked up and smiled, then motioned for her to come in. “I see you’ve talked with Mr. Humphries, Jessie.”

Jessie closed the door and pressed her back up against it. “Get me off the hook, Nick. I’m not cut out for this assignment. I’m strictly office material.”

Nick smiled from beneath his full gray mustache, and set down his pen on a stack of papers in front of him. “No, you’re not. I’ve been saying for years that you’d be good out in the field.”

“This is crazy, Nick.” Her voice quavered, and Jessie waited for a moment, gathering her fortitude before she went on. “I’m no more a field rep than that mouse that lives in my office!”

“You still feeding him every day?”

“Of course I am. Nick, I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Come on, sit down. You look like you’re ready to explode, and really, there’s no reason for your panic.”

Jessie sat, with her hands gripped in her lap and her jaw set in a stubborn line. “You did this, didn’t you? You put Mr. Humphries up to this.”

“Yes, I did,” he admitted slowly, leaning back in his expensive leather chair. “I felt it was about time you started seeing something of the world, Jessie, instead of spending your life back in that dark little office you fondly call your second home.” He held up his hand. “I know you love your job. That’s obvious from the long hours and care you put into it. But there is life outside these walls.”

Her nostrils flared, and she avoided his gaze. Nick had been her boss for the five years she had been with the BLM; he was like the father she had never had and always dreamed of having. But right now she wasn’t feeling particularly like a daughter toward him or his attitude that he knew what was best for her. “I happen to like my office, my mouse, my job, my little apartment and Washington, D.C.”

“No question about it.” Nick sighed, becoming serious. “Look, we’re both in a spot. Joe Allen is fairly new at being a rep, and sometimes he gets a little too eager. Even you have to admit that. I know you’ve dealt with Sam Kincaid and you’re familiar with the Triple K, its resources and the mustang reserve that borders it. Rafe Kincaid, the son, is now the owner. I find it hard to believe that he would cold-bloodedly kill mustangs when he was raised by a father who respected the land and wild animals.”

Jessie frowned. “From the way Joe talked, he didn’t exactly level with the rancher, and it’s obvious he should have. Why not just send him back and have him explain the whole thing?”

“Because, Jessie, he’s done too much damage already. And somehow I don’t doubt Rafe Kincaid’s coming out with a rifle. We need you to repair the damage he’s done. The Kincaids have been long-time friends of the BLM, and we want to smooth over the waters with them. Joe should have leveled with him. My personal feeling is that Rafe Kincaid isn’t shooting mustangs.” He gave Jessie the fatherly smile that always got to her. “There isn’t a rancher under your jurisdiction that doesn’t have something good to say about you, Jessie. Right now, I need your gift of human relations to heal this rift with the Kincaids. This’ll give you a chance to broaden your experience with the ranchers, see some mustangs and travel, all at the same time.”

Worriedly Jessie stared down at her interlaced fingers, which were bunched in her lap. Her fingers were as cold as the drizzle of freezing rain that fell outside the window behind her boss. “I thought maybe you were trying to get rid of me, Nick.”

His laughter was rich and he sat up, resting his elbows on the heavy walnut desk. “Not a chance, Jessie. Take your time on this assignment. You know from handling the reports that this kind of thing can take from a week to a month to solve. If you need help, I’m always here. Just call.” He smiled warmly. “Knowing you, however, I think you’ll do just fine, you always have. Stay in touch. And enjoy the experience. It won’t be all that bad.”

* * *

All that bad, Jessie thought. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep on the plane. The entire day had been a blur. She had managed to catch her next-door neighbor, a college professor, at home. Susan Prigozen had agreed to water her many plants while she was away. Other than racing through the motions of packing items she thought she might need, there had been little else to do. Jessie felt alone. And scared. Right now, all she wanted to do was ask the captain to turn around and head back to D.C.

She opened her eyes and stared pensively out the window into the blackness. She could see lights of small towns far below them. They looked like jeweled pendants twinkling on the velvet setting of the earth. It was a beautiful sight.

There had been so many firsts that day: first airplane ride, first time to leave her hometown, first assignment. Why had Nick chosen her? He knew she lived a cloistered existence that ranged from her apartment to her job with the BLM. But so what? She was happy.

You’re a mouse, Jessie. Just like the one that lives in your office and you feed. Mice are frightened little creatures. They scamper away at the first sign of danger. Her mouth went dry, and she took a long drink of the white wine she had ordered from the flight attendant. And where you’re going, there’s a great big lion who eats up little mice like you. She scrunched down in the seat. Her life had just been uprooted. A tornado couldn’t have done a better job. She was a walking disaster, and Nick and Mr. Humphries expected her to be successful with Rafe Kincaid.

Jessie shut her eyes tightly. In another hour they would land in Denver. She would get a hotel room for the night and in the morning rent a car and drive out to the Triple K. As she pried open one eye, she noticed the luminescent full moon in the sky. Wonderful. Dracula and the vampire came out with the full moon. What effect would it have on Rafe Kincaid?

* * *

Rain was pouring out of a slit in the gray underbelly of the sky that hovered over the valley. Rafe’s black brows were dipped ominously beneath his felt cowboy hat of the same color, and his narrowed blue eyes were barely visible beneath the brim. He pulled his gunmetal-gray Arabian gelding to a halt on the muddy road, motioning with one gloved hand at his cowhands to start bringing the cattle across. His mouth compressed as he sat on the horse. The black rain slicker he wore was shiny with water and draped over his body like a huge tent. The cattle moved slowly; they didn’t want to leave the lowlands and begin their trek up through the valley to the high pastures that were still dotted with snow. Grass was easier to forage where there was no snow. Cattle were basically a lazy lot, Rafe thought.

He watched his four men, on sturdy, small Arabians, going about the business of moving the hundred balky, bawling steers across the ranch road that was now little more than a brown ribbon of quagmire. As he sat on his restive mount, Rafe fumed. If he had had extra money, he would have bought the necessary gravel to lay on the road earlier, before the late April rains had come. But he hadn’t, and so four-wheel drive was the only type of vehicle that could negotiate the ten-mile stretch between the Triple K and the asphalt highway.

Water followed the hard line of his jaw, gathering on his stubborn chin before dripping off. His thin deerskin gloves were soaked. Water was leaking down the back of his neck, soaking into his cotton shirt, making his skin itch. But he wouldn’t have traded any of the minimal discomforts for the world as he looked toward the small valley below him. The valley was a favorite of his sister Dal. It was ringed with ponderosa pine, blue spruce, fir and tamarack, all darkly green, silver or blue, depending on the species silhouetted against the lead-colored sky. Buffalo grass grew thick and tall on the valley floor, providing a rich, vibrant background for the more somber trees.

Rafe gazed appreciatively over his land.

Then his blue eyes clouded. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the past, if he had been more alert to the changes in the fluctuating stock market, the ranch might be in better shape than it was presently. He shifted position in the saddle, and the leather creaked pleasantly. The past was dead and gone. Let it go. Let it go….

His alert gelding heard it first. The rain had intensified, sending sheets of torrential water down from the sky, nearly obliterating visibility. Suddenly, a small red car burst over the crest of the steep hill as if it had been shot out of a cannon. It was aimed directly at him. The engine was screaming, the wheels spun, and mud flew in every direction. A shout rose in Rafe’s throat and time seemed to slow down to single frames of a movie. He saw the car land with a thunderous clunk on the rutted road, then slew sideways to avoid hitting him, his horse and the milling cattle.

To his horror, he watched helplessly as the car swerved over the edge of the soft earthen bank and slid down the hillside. With a shout, he sank his spurs into the gelding. The horse lunged forward in a few strides and went over the edge. Rafe rode the sliding, slipping animal down the precarious bank. It was a hundred-foot incline to a wall of pine below. He twisted and turned in rhythm with the animal and bolted to attention as he saw the car crunch into the densely packed trees.

With a curse, Rafe brought his horse to a halt and leapt out of the saddle. Steam was rising from beneath the hood of the car. Miraculously, there seemed to be little damage, except for dents on the passenger’s side, where the car had come to rest, lodged up against some bushes and the stand of pine. He slipped in the sucking mud and cursed again as he made his way toward the driver’s door. He’d better have worn a seat belt, was Rafe’s only thought. Rafe heard the steers bawling far above him and a shout from Pinto Pete, the old man who was in charge of the drive. Clutching the handle, Rafe pulled on the car door. It wouldn’t give. Then, with a more powerful yank, he wrenched it open.

His eyes widened. The “he” was a “she.” And she hadn’t worn a seat belt. A kaleidoscope of impressions assailed Rafe as he stared at her unconscious figure lying prone before him. She looked to be in her early-twenties, and as Rafe leaned over the steering wheel to see the extent of her injuries, the delicate scent of her perfume surrounded him. A heady, almost spicy fragrance… Rafe shook his head, muttering to himself.

The poncho he was wearing smattered water all over the interior of the car as he reached forward to lay his hand on her camel-colored wool blazer. It was impossible to get to the other side of the car since the door was barricaded with a huge pine tree trunk. As gently as he could, Rafe brought her into a slumped sitting position, pressing her gently back against the seat. Her blond hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck; a neat and severe look that was marred by the crimson line trailing down her temple.

He heard another horse and rider approaching, and pulled out of the car. Pinto Pete, with his grizzled gray mustache and beard, sat astride his bay mare.

“You need help?” the old man called, his voice drowned out in the thunderous downpour.

“Yeah, get on the walkie-talkie and see if you can locate Mel. He’s got the four-wheel drive. There’s a woman hurt in here. While you’re at it, raise Millie at the ranch and have her call the doctor.”

Pete nodded, pulling the plastic-encased walkie-talkie from the safety of his saddlebag.

Rafe glanced back over his shoulder, the adrenaline pumping through him making him a bit shaky. The damn woman. Who the hell was she? Didn’t she know any better than to drive like a kamikaze pilot down a dirt road like that? He grudgingly admitted that at least she had had the presence of mind to veer away from him.

“Hey, Boss,” Pete called.

Rafe lifted his head, rain slashing at his face. “Yeah?”

“Mel’s clear up by the first line shack. That’s fifteen miles away.”

Damn! They had the first herd of the year to move up to the high pastures. He couldn’t afford the costly time out to take care of the woman himself. “All right, tell him to stay put. I’ll take her back to the ranch myself. What about Millie?”

Pete dipped his head, his dark chocolate eyes mirroring his worry. “Said she’d call the doctor and prepare a room for the little lady.”

“Good. Come on down and give me a hand,” he ordered.

Pinto Pete was only five feet nine inches in height, but he was wiry and amazingly agile for his sixty-five years. The old mustang wrangler had joined the Triple K forty years before and had stayed ever since. He watched as his boss jerked off his hat and then pulled off the huge poncho, leaving himself to be soaked by the rain.

“You want her in that?” he guessed.

Rafe nodded, settling the hat back on his head. The late-April temperature was in the forties, the rain cold and bone-chilling. “Yeah, I’ve got to ride with her for two miles. I can’t have her getting pneumonia on top of whatever else is wrong with her. Here, help me, and I’ll put this over her.”

Pinto Pete squeezed in between Rafe and the car door to lend a hand.

They managed to get the poncho over her head, but it snagged on the bun at the base of her neck. Jerking off one deerskin glove, Rafe leaned across her and fumbled with an array of bobby pins. Her feminine scent assailed his nostrils, and automatically he inhaled it. The almost forgotten perfume of a woman’s body unconsciously pleased him, and he pulled the remaining pins out of her hair more gently.

“Okay, let me pull her clear,” he said to Pete.

Rafe braced his shoulder against the frame of the car door as he slid his arms beneath her, taking care not to snap her neck back and possibly cause her more injury. The fact that she hadn’t awakened in the past ten minutes bothered him. A bump on the head was one thing–a concussion another. Usually, if a person was knocked out, they could be expected to wake up in five or ten minutes.

After some jockeying, Pinto Pete lifted the woman back into Rafe’s rain-soaked arms after he had mounted. At least she would remain reasonably dry. Something old and hurting wrenched free in Rafe’s chest when her long blond mane fell starkly across the slippery black surface of the poncho as her head came to rest against his chest. He made sure she was comfortably situated across the saddle, and he kept both arms around her. He guided his gray gelding down through the pine with pressure from his legs. Like all good ranch horses, the animal had a long, swift walk. Rafe didn’t dare go any faster for fear of hurting the woman even more. He tried to protect her face, which was nuzzled beneath his chin, from the rain. Her blond hair quickly became soaked by the rain, lying in vivid goldenrod colored sheets across the poncho. Rafe had never seen anyone with hair that unusual blond before, and he was transfixed by it.

The ride took a good twenty minutes, and he tried to ignore how good it felt to have a woman in his arms again. How long had it been? Then he snapped the lid shut on those memories that still burned in his heart like a painful branding iron. Pete had stuffed her black leather purse into one of the saddlebags. He’d find out who she was in a while. What was she doing out here? Had she gotten lost on the back roads of the Rockies? Was she looking for directions on how to escape the mountains and get back to civilization? A bare hint of a smile tipped one corner of his mouth as he gazed down at her. His initial anger had abated, and he studied her curiously. Maybe it was the soft fullness of her parted lips that made him feel less antagonistic toward what she had done. Maybe it was the thick mane of blond hair she had tried to capture into a bun that made him a little more inclined to ease up on her stupidity. He wasn’t sure. She looked like a city girl, with her fancy tailored suit, black heels and hair tamed into a sophisticated style.

Too bad, Rafe thought, his blue eyes glittering. His hands tightened against the slippery poncho, keeping her balanced as he guided his horse between the barns and to the back porch of the ranch house. He saw Millie, the housekeeper, come flying out to the enclosed screened porch, and a ranch hand, Carl Cramer, came to help.

Rafe lowered the woman into Carl’s waiting arms and then dismounted. The rain was easing. That figured, Rafe thought with irony. He took the woman back into his arms and mounted the wooden stairs onto the porch. Millie’s plump face was pinched with worry as she opened the door to the house.

“What happened, Rafe?” she asked, waddling quickly through the kitchen and down the hall.

“Car accident,” he muttered, his boots squishing with each step he took across the polished brick floor of the kitchen. “She came over the hill like a grand-prix racer, saw us and then took to the hill. Ended up in some pine.”

Millie clucked sympathetically, hurrying as fast as she could make her sixty-year-old body move as they went down the darkened hall. “Doc Miller is on his way. But you know what the weather and roads are like. He said it’d be at least an hour. Said to treat her for shock and a possible concussion, from the description Pinto gave me.”

Rafe slowed his stride, frowning. He’d hoped Millie had given the woman the guest room. Instead she swung the door open to another bedroom: the one that hadn’t been used since Mary Ann’s death.

“Can’t use the guest room,” Millie said, as if reading his mind and the objections he was going to voice. She hurried over to the bed. “I’m busy spring-cleaning it.”

“I see.” Rafe had given orders that this room never be used again; it hurt too much to be in the room because of the memories it dredged up. Swallowing hard against the past that still haunted him, he gently laid the woman on the bed, took off his drenched hat and let it drop to the highly polished cedar floor. He glanced up at Millie. “Can you handle her by yourself?” There wasn’t another female around to help the old housekeeper.

Millie’s face puckered. “Of course I can’t, Rafe! Now don’t go giving me that moon-eyed look! You’ve seen a woman before. Land’s sakes! Come on, help me get her out of this poncho.”

Properly chastised, Rafe took the poncho off her. And then Millie found the woman’s clothes were damp despite all he had tried to do to protect her from the wet weather.

“We’ll have to undress her,” Millie muttered. “I can’t put her to bed like this. She’ll catch her death of cold.”

“I’d like to paddle her,” he growled.

“You ought to be thankin’ her for not hitting you! Now stop your growling like an old grizzly.”

Rafe helped Millie gently remove the wool blazer, then the pale peach blouse. They left her full-length slip on, and Rafe was momentarily transfixed by the sight of her slender, gently contoured body outlined by the ivory silk.

“She’s built like an Arab,” Rafe muttered, picking her up while Millie pulled back the bedding. He laid her on the mattress, and the housekeeper tucked in the crisp sheet and covers around her.

Millie raised one eyebrow. “Is that a compliment or an insult, Rafe? You’re just like your daddy, always comparing women to horses. I swear.”

“It was a compliment,” he said, bending down to retrieve his hat.

The housekeeper leaned over and studied the lump on the woman’s head. “Well,” she said sternly, “you’d better hope she’s tough like an Arabian, Rafe Kincaid. This isn’t good; she should be waking up.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Millie examined the bluish-purple lump that was now the size of a hen’s egg. “What if this is serious? Doc Miller ain’t gonna be able to do much for her here at the ranch.”

He walked to the door and then hesitated. “Then I’ll take her and the doctor down to Denver by helicopter. There’s no place closer.” Grimly Rafe turned, thinking that his day was turning into nothing but mud. “I’m going to get her purse. Pete put it in the saddlebag. Maybe we can find out who she is and contact her family. I’ll be in the study after I get some dry clothes on, if you need me.”

* * *

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, Rafe,” Millie said, “don’t you take your anger out on this poor girl. She’s been injured.” She wagged her finger at him. “Go on. Ain’t you got anything better to do right now? Let’s get Doc here, first. Everything else can wait.”

He ran his fingers through his black hair, then glared at Jessie. “If that doctor gives you a clean bill of health, you’d better hightail it, Ms. Scott,” he said through clenched teeth, before he stalked out of the room.

Millie patted her hand. “Never mind him.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Jessie mumbled, feeling almost physically hurt by his anger.

“Rafe’s got a lot on his mind of late. This is a busy time of year at any ranch with calving, foaling and all. Let him cool down. He’ll be in a better frame of mind later.”

Somehow Jessie doubted that. And then she closed her eyes. What a mess she had made. How was she ever going to rectify the situation? Judging from Kincaid’s murderous looks, she had lost not only the battle, but the war, as well.

Chapter Two

Rafe tried to concentrate on the numbers staring back at him. Red–they were all in the red. His large hand clenched and then slowly unclenched. If, and it was a big if, all the Herefords produced healthy calves, it would be a bumper crop this year. The biggest “if” was the weather. It might be mid-April, but that didn’t mean a thing up in the Rocky Mountains. A spring blizzard could come tearing out of Canada, dumping four or five feet of snow in its path. His eyes clouded. If that happened, many of the newborn calves would freeze to death. Just as they had last year. He had planned on the last year to bring the ranch back into the black after– Quickly he shut his mind to the past.

Rubbing his furrowed brow, he got up and headed to the liquor cabinet, where he poured a shot of whiskey. It wasn’t like him to take a drink in the early afternoon. Late at night, of course, after a good day’s work had been put in, there was nothing like a bit of whiskey to warm his insides as he watched the sun sink behind the rugged mountains he had grown up with. But now… Rafe turned and moodily stared around the study that doubled as a library. Why the hell was he thinking of her?

When he looked down at the figures, all he could see was the ripe color of her hair and her huge cinnamon-colored eyes. And her mouth. He threw the potent whiskey into his mouth, grimacing as the heat curled down his throat and into his knotted stomach. With the back of his hand he wiped his mouth, then set the shot glass back down on the cabinet. Jessie Scott was burning through his mind and his daily work schedule like a branding iron.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Rafe strode back to the desk. The whole day was a complete loss, and he didn’t like the way his routine had been upset. Especially by a blond-haired filly who–

“Well, looks like you’re up to your hocks in paperwork,” Doctor Miller said by way of a greeting, ambling through the door, black bag in hand. He flashed Rafe a smile.

Bringing his mind back to focus around him, Rafe hesitated only a moment before greeting the doctor. “Sit down, Doc. Has Millie fed you yet?”

Dr. Miller patted his flat stomach, then sat down. “Fed, primed and ready for packaging,” he said with a chuckle.

Rafe leaned back in the huge leather chair. “Good. So, how’s Ms. Scott?”

“Doing fine. Oh, she’s got a roaring headache from that bump, but all in all, I’d say she’ll survive.” Dr. Miller smiled fondly. “She has the normal collection of bruises here and there.”

“No concussion, then?”

“No. Should have, but doesn’t.” He laughed. “She said she had a hard head, and I believe her.”

“Did she tell you she’s a BLM agent?” Rafe asked suddenly.

The older man nodded, his hazel eyes dancing with amusement. “Yes, she did. Matter of fact, she told me the whole story of how you two met.”

“Well, she’s going right back where she came from as soon as she’s ready to leave. When will that be?”

“Give her a couple of days. She’s not too steady on her feet yet. A little dizzy. If it isn’t putting too much of a strain on Millie or yourself, let her stay in bed for the rest of the day. Tomorrow is the earliest she should be up and walking around.”

Rafe grunted and rose. “Thanks for coming, Doc.”

“My pleasure.” He rose and shook Rafe’s hand. “You’re looking tired.”

He shrugged it off, walking the doctor out of the study and toward the front door. “It’s usual for this time of year.”

“I s’pose it is, Rafe. Calving and all. Hear you got a bumper crop of Arabians planned this year, too.”

“Yeah, I do. The best of the lot will be sold at some fancy sales down in Arizona and back East this fall.”

“Hope it brings in a bumper crop of cash,” Dr. Miller commented with a chuckle, shrugging into his coat.

Rain was still falling, but at a lesser rate as Rafe opened the door for the doctor. “Makes two of us, Doc. See you later.”

He watched as the doctor climbed back into his four-wheel drive pickup. After closing the door, Rafe shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and wandered aimlessly through the house. Eventually he found himself at the door that used to be his and Mary Ann’s bedroom. The one that Jessie now occupied. Millie knew it was never to be used–just like the nursery directly across the hall. Of course, with the guest room all torn apart from spring cleaning, where was Millie going to put Jessie? In her room? Or his? There hadn’t been a lot of choices in the matter. Dal’s room, which was next to the unused nursery, had been turned into a sewing room for Millie. Cathy’s room was the one that long ago been turned into a nursery…one that would sit empty forever.

Grimly Rafe swung open the door in front of him. He scowled. “What the hell are you doing up?” he demanded.

Jessie gasped and turned toward the thundering voice. She had managed to sit up, slip into a white chenille robe and walk to the couch that was adjacent to the windows. Now Rafe Kincaid stood blocking the doorway, his face set in an angry cast and his large hands on his narrow hips. The throbbing ache in her head intensified accordingly.

“Don’t shout at me!” She gripped the back of the couch with one hand, and pressed her other against her temple.

“Doc Miller said you were to stay in bed,” Rafe rumbled. Dammit, why did she have to look like a waif? The robe was too big on her; the sleeves were below her fingers and the bottom of it dragged around her bare feet. His anger began to dissolve as he took in her slender form, graceful carriage and her proud look. Her hair was dry and had obviously been combed. It was shimmering and glossy even in the murky light of the rainy day. He wondered what her hair would look like out in the sun. Would her eyes also sparkle and dance in the light, and not look as they did now, dark in her narrowed gaze?

“I was looking for my clothes,” Jessie told him, forcing her voice into a more neutral tone.

“Millie’s taking care of them. They were wet.”

She allowed her hand to drop and faced him squarely. He had harsh features, broad shoulders and a barrel chest. But Jessie lived more on her instincts than on what she saw initially in any person, and she switched to that internal radar. Perhaps it was the color of his eyes, their dark blue cast that carried hidden pain in their depths. Or the wry twist of his mouth. Jessie couldn’t be sure. She felt that he was a man who was carrying tremendous burdens; some, if not all of them, sad. Rafe Kincaid was not happy outwardly or inwardly, and that struck Jessie’s heart.

“I wanted to leave, Mr. Kincaid. I don’t feel I’ve started off on the right foot with you. What I’d like to do is find the nearest motel, spend a couple days recuperating from the accident and then come back to the Triple K.” Her voice became more firm, and she held his stare. “There’s unfinished business between us. I was sent here to straighten it out, not make more of a mess for you.” She slowly sat down on the arm of the flower-print couch, her hands in her lap.

“What do you know, an honorable agent.” Rafe crossed his arms.

Jessie’s lips compressed, and her eyes turned a dark cinnamon color. “Sarcasm is not going to help the situation, Mr. Kincaid.”

“You should have told that to the first agent, Ms. Scott.”

“Joe Allen is new. And young. He was just a little too eager, that’s all.”

With a snort, Rafe circled the room, never allowing his gaze to leave her. The backlight from the window outlined her in radiance; almost as if she were ethereal. “So why’d they send you, Ms. Scott? To dodge my questions by putting a pretty face in front of me?”

Jessie gasped and then winced as her head began to pound. Gently she rubbed her temple, holding on to her anger. “What are you implying?”

Rafe smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s obvious to me. It should be to you, too,” he drawled.

Color heightened in her pale cheeks, and this time Jessie wasn’t embarrassed–she was mad. “Mr. Kincaid, I could lower myself to your level of needling me with innuendos, but I’m not going to. One of us has to conduct themselves in a professional manner. I know you had words with Mr. Allen. And judging from what he told us, he wasn’t honest and up-front about why he came to you in the first place.”

Rafe came closer until he stood directly in front of her. Ruthlessly he stared down at her, yet she didn’t pull back. A grudging admiration shot through him. “And you’re honest?” he prodded.

She held his stare. “Yes, I am.”

Rafe turned abruptly and walked back toward the door. If she had been snippy or pushy, he’d have wanted to throttle her. Instead, the inner calm he felt around her had appeased him. He halted and turned. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“What?”

He nodded. “You’re staying here. The closest motel is sixty miles away. The doctor said you were to stay in bed until tomorrow.”

Jessie’s lips parted. “But–my car. I can drive to the motel.”

“Really?” he goaded softly. “I haven’t seen many cars with a broken axle travel very far.”

“Oh, no. Are you serious? A broken axle?” She closed her eyes. Nick and Mr. Humphries were going to have her head on a platter.

“I’m having some of my men drag it out of the pines. The rental agency has already been contacted, and they’ll be bringing out a tow truck to have it taken back to Denver.”

Jessie opened her eyes. At least he wasn’t a total bastard. No, he wasn’t one at all. Millie had told her earlier how he had rescued and carried her back to the ranch. She owed him for that. “I see…. Thank you for calling them.”

“Look,” Rafe said gently, his conscience needled by the bleakness in her eyes and voice, “why don’t you get back to bed and rest? Millie will bring you dinner around six.” Then he disappeared as quietly as he had come.

A quiver moved through Jessie. Rafe’s voice had dropped into that dark, low tone again, and she had felt as if he had reached out and physically stroked her. Touching her breast, Jessie breathed deeply, trying to still her fluttering heart. Rafe was more of a man than she had ever met. Of course, how many men had she met other than her ex-husband? Not many. With a determined look on her face, she slowly stood, allowed the dizziness to pass and then walked back to the brass bed. She would have to call Nick and tell him what had happened. But not now. First, she somehow had to persuade Rafe Kincaid to allow her to investigate the mustang killings. She lay down and almost immediately fell asleep.

* * *

Rafe’s eyes smarted and he blinked. The figures swam before him. It was nearly one in the morning. Time was a robber when he tried to balance the budget: rob Peter to pay Paul, and practice a form of financial wizardry that would get them through the spring. Suddenly Rafe found himself wondering about Jessie. Dammit, he’d done it again. He’d had a hell of a time concentrating on the budget: his mind was always wandering back to her, her soft but firm voice and the glimpse of fire he’d seen flash in the depths of her eyes. God! He dropped the pencil, rubbing his face wearily.

A sound caught his attention. Was Millie up? Impossible. She always went to bed around ten every night. Rafe hauled himself to his feet and walked quietly into the hall toward the direction of the noise. At the entrance to the living room, he halted. Jessie was standing near the open flames of the stone fireplace. His breath jammed in his chest as he saw the way the molten gold of the fire bathed her long thick hair as it fell in careless abandon over her small shoulders. A warm feeling trickled through his heart; she looked like a waif in the huge robe she had on. Then he noticed how drawn her face was, and the tired way she put her hand on the mantel to support her weight. “Are you all right?”

Jessie’s head snapped up, and she whirled in his direction, her mane of hair flying about her shoulders. “My God, you scared me to death! Do you always go sneaking around like that?”

A sour grin tugged at his mouth as he walked toward her. “I heard a sound and came out to investigate.”

Her heart was banging away in her throat, and she pressed her hand against the pulse there. “I thought everyone was asleep.”

“So did I.”

She grimaced, placing her hand back on the mantel. “I thought ranchers went to bed early and got up early,” she muttered, managing a slight smile to match his.

Rafe leaned his elbow on the mantel and studied her more thoroughly by the firelight. The room was dark and quiet, with the exception of a few cattle lowing now and then, out in the paddocks near the barns. “Most ranchers this time of year are up early and go to bed late.”

“Why?”

“It’s calving and foaling season. My men take shifts around the clock checking on the cows and mares to see how they’re doing.”

She watched as shadows and light emphasized certain planes of his exhausted features. “Calving?”

He gave her a long look. “You really are a city girl, aren’t you?”

“Is it a sin?”

“No. It’s just that–”

“What?”

Rafe grimaced. “You look wild and free. Like that picture you carry in your wallet of that mustang.”

She smiled softly, pleased by his compliment because she had never expected anything like it from him. “Thank you.” She touched her hair. “I think it’s my mane of hair that gives me that look.”

His face grew still, and longing briefly showed in his eyes. “You have beautiful hair.”

A shiver flowed through Jessie, and she stood transfixed by the sudden flame she saw in his dark eyes. His voice was like melting butter, and she felt an ache begin deep within her. What was happening? She had to get a hold on herself. “Th-thank you.”

Seeing her sudden shyness, Rafe changed the subject. “Why were you up?”

Jessie breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing his casual drawl again. “I had a bad dream about the accident. Doctor Miller said I might have a few afterward. Something about trauma, or whatever.”

“I see. Did Doc Miller say anything about giving you some apricot brandy?”

“Why–no.”

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Jessie watched him disappear around the corner. One moment he could be so hard and cold, and the next, almost gentle with concern. The man was confusing. She rubbed her arms with her hands, suddenly aware of the night chill in the house.

Rafe came back as silently as he had left; only this time Jessie was prepared for his approach. He held out the shot glass filled with amber contents. “Apricot brandy. My sister Dal would sometimes have a shot before going to bed. She went through a pretty traumatic divorce a couple of years ago and said it always helped her when she had problems going to sleep sometimes.”

Their fingers touched as she took the small glass, and both withdrew quickly, as if the contact had been electric. “I wish a shot of brandy could have helped my marriage,” she finally said in jest, sipping the liquid cautiously.

“I’m afraid it’s not a miracle cure. Down it all in one gulp,” he advised.

She looked at him doubtingly, but followed his instructions. The fire hit her stomach, and she took in a deep breath. “Now I see why it would help her sleep,” she whispered hoarsely, handing him the glass.

Rafe managed a slight smile. “Yeah, that’s over hundred-proof homemade brandy. You’d better get going, or you won’t make it to bed before that hits you. Come on, I’ll walk you down the hall.” Although there was no real reason to reach out and slide his hand beneath her elbow, he did it, anyway. Merely a precaution, he told himself as he guided her down the hall, extremely conscious of her delicacy next to his large frame.

“How much do you weigh?” he asked.

“A hundred and three pounds.”

He chuckled. “You’re nothing but a feather.”

“Don’t let my size deceive you,” she warned him with amusement in her voice.

Rafe halted and opened the door to her bedroom. Reluctantly he dropped his hand from her elbow as she turned and faced him. “There’s an old Western saying: never underestimate a banty rooster.”

“What does that mean?”

He smiled as she fearlessly looked up at him, the darkness playing across her soft features. Rafe wanted to reach across the inches that separated them and slide his fingers across her hair. For those precious few seconds, he realized that he was actually happy. Happy. An emotion, a feeling, that had died two years before, with Mary Ann. He scowled, unable to cope with the discovery and Jessie’s nearness. “I’ll tell you about it some other time,” he muttered.

“Well, we’ll see how much talking you’ll do to me tomorrow morning after I tell you about the reason why I’m here,” Jessie said in just as somber a tone. She saw the longing in his eyes, and pain. Somehow, she wanted to erase whatever Rafe was carrying around inside him. “Good night, Rafe. And thank you for the brandy. I think it’s doing its job.”

He watched her turn and enter the bedroom. Frowning, he quietly shut the door and headed down the hall to the study.

* * *

Sunlight was streaming through the bedroom windows when Jessie awoke. Swathed in the large robe, she went in search of the housekeeper. When she entered the kitchen, she found Millie hard at work kneading bread on the table.

“Good morning,” Jessie murmured.

“Morning.” Millie turned and smiled, then resumed the kneading, flour staining her hands and wrists. “Rafe said to let you sleep in. Said you were up late last night.”

Jessie rubbed her eyes, still drugged from the good eight hours of rest. “He told you about that?”

Millie tittered. “Said you about jumped out of your skin when he found you in the living room. Let me get this dough in the pans, and then I’ll fix you breakfast.”

“Please, don’t go to the trouble.”

Millie arched an eyebrow. “You ain’t trouble. Rafe had one of his men get your luggage from the car. It’s sitting right inside the bathroom between your two rooms. Why don’t you get a nice hot bath, dress and then join me out in the dining room? Doc Miller said to feed you good.”

Smiling widely, Jessie said, “You’re a dear. I won’t be long.”

“Now, don’t go hurrying. There’s no reason to. Rafe ain’t gonna be back until noon. That’s three hours from now. He said you were lookin’ mighty peaked last night. And Doc told you to rest today.”

Smiling, Jessie trailed out of the kitchen. At the entrance, she stopped and turned to Millie. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a good mother?”

The housekeeper beamed, her apple-red cheeks shining. “Ask Rafe and those two sisters of his, and they’ll tell you they had two mamas–their real one and me. Now scat! I’ll see you in a little while.”

* * *

Jessie stood at the rear porch window, watching the activity in the back of the ranch house. She had finished a huge breakfast of whole-wheat pancakes, maple syrup and fresh fruit earlier. Millie had stuffed her like the proverbial turkey. Now, her curiosity of ranch life held her in its magical embrace. Mesmerized, she watched as the wranglers, mounted on small, delicate Arabians, moved bawling cattle from holding pens. She almost couldn’t contain her excitement. Finally, after twenty-eight years, she was getting to see real cowboys at work on ranch horses!

“You know, you can go outside for a while if you’re getting cooped up in here,” Millie said, coming around with her feather duster. “There’s a jacket in that hall closet that might fit you. Dal keeps one out here for when she and her husband, Jim, visit. Don’t think she’ll mind you using it.” Millie stopped by her side, pointing to the red barn. “If you like good horseflesh, go to that barn. That’s the stud barn where Rafe keeps his three stallions. The green barn next to it is the broodmare barn. If you like the foals, you might want to go there, instead.”

Jessie brightened. “I’d love to see the new babies.”

With a chuckle, Millie nodded. “Figured you would. You look like a mothering type.”

With a smile, Jessie went to the closet and donned the heavy wool coat over her apricot turtleneck sweater and brown wool slacks. “Just to babies,” she amended, “not to men.”

“Amen to that! I think Pinto Pete’s out in the broodmare barn. Rafe always keeps him hoverin’ around when one of the mares is gonna foal. You might see if you can’t scare him up. Pete’ll give you the grand tour.”

“I’ll do that,” she promised. Going out the door and stepping onto the screened porch, Jessie smiled to herself. The Colorado morning was crisp with brilliant sunlight. Between the snorts of the horses, the lowing of the cattle and the panoramic splash of colors that surrounded her, her senses were overwhelmed. The odors ranged from pungent to pine as Jessie walked down the stairs. She’d plaited her hair into one long braid, and the wind played with the wispy bangs across her brow. She inhaled deeply, staying on the sidewalk of red brick that led her safely past the lawn and muddy areas to the barns.

The huge doors were open on one end of the broodmare complex, and Jessie stepped into the well lit, immaculate area. Rows of large, roomy boxstalls stood on either side of the aisle, a horse in each one. A few stablehands were cleaning some of the stalls, putting water in others, or simply passing through on their way to other duties. The smell of sweet alfalfa and oat straw was like a perfume. No wonder Westerners loved their ranches so much!

How long she stood at the first stall watching a wobbly-legged bay foal walk stiffly around her mother, Jessie didn’t know. The beauty of the Arabians was breathtaking. She’d seen photos of them, but had never seen one in person. They were beautiful. And it was Rafe who had an eye for such art in a living animal. That made her feel good about him. Beneath that dark, brooding mask he wore, there was a human being who not only saw beauty, but reveled in it.

Jessie wasn’t sure when Rafe walked up behind her, she only knew that in a moment she was aware of his powerful presence. She had been torn between watching the foal cavort awkwardly around in the straw, and turning toward the feeling of warmth radiating from behind her.

“The foals are my favorite part of the day,” he confided, looking down at her.

Jessie nodded, and her voice was hushed, even though her heartbeat had quickened appreciably. “She’s so cute.”

“It’s a he.” Rafe walked up to the stall, leaving only inches separating them.

“Of course,” she said, blushing.

Rafe rested his arms on the edge of the stall. “Kind of hard to tell, though, at this age. He was born last night.”

Jessie was grateful that Rafe allowed her error to pass. As she looked up at him, she saw that his features had softened. “I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here,” she admitted. “I love babies. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a little foal…”

“Oh?”

She wasn’t going to lie to him. There was too much to lose by doing so. “When I joined the BLM five years ago, Mr. Kincaid, I was stuck away in a cubicle. My job was to stay in touch with the ranchers who were capturing and penning up the mustangs. I coordinated finding owners for these mustangs all over the U.S.” She walked to the stall and rested her hands on the cool bars. “I did a lot of study on the mustangs, even though I’ve never been near them. In fact, the closest I’ve ever come to a horse is watching one go down the parade route of Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C.” She twisted her head to see what kind of a reaction her confession would have on him.

He held her steady gaze, noticing how clear her eyes were this morning, and how the strain around her mouth had disappeared. “Why?”

“Because I’m afraid of them. They’re big.”

“If I were a banty rooster, I’d be respectful of them, too,” he said with a slight smile.

“You aren’t upset that I haven’t had a lot of experience with horses?”

Rafe shrugged. “You’re out here this morning, aren’t you? If you were really afraid, you wouldn’t be here. I think you’re ignorant, not scared of them.”

“Is that supposed to be an oblique compliment?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is. Come on.” He slipped his hand beneath her elbow, drawing her to him.

Jessie trusted Rafe, for whatever that was worth. As he slid the bolt back and opened the door to the stall, she figured he was either going to help her overcome her fear, or he was about to embarrass her. She didn’t know which, and she stood uncertainly in the ankle-deep straw, waiting as he shut the door.

“Now, stay at my side and do as I tell you,” he told her in a low voice.

With a nod, she walked forward with him, her throat tight with fear. The mare looked awesome to her. Crooning to the mother, Rafe crouched down in front of the animals. Jessie followed suit. As soon as they knelt, both horses walked over to them.

“There’s a trick in getting a horse to come over to you,” Rafe told her quietly, his eyes never leaving the mare. “The eyes of a horse are constructed so that we appear almost twice our normal height to them. We look like giants. So if we crouch down, we become much smaller and less of a threat. Since they’re real curious animals, eventually they’ll come up to investigate.”

The mare’s velvet muzzle found Jessie’s cheek. Prickles of pleasure went through her as the mare sniffed her, fanning her moist breath across her cheek. “This is wonderful!” she whispered. “Her nose is so soft. Like a baby’s bottom.”

Rafe smiled at Jessie, enjoying her first experience with a horse almost as much as she. He rested one hand on the mare’s front leg to make sure she wouldn’t accidentally bowl Jessie over as she continued her investigation.

Laughter gurgled up through Jessie. “She’s so friendly! I can’t believe this. I never knew…”

Her bubbling enthusiasm was contagious. Rafe glanced at her again. She was beautiful. Her eyes danced with a golden flame, her cheeks were flushed scarlet, and her lips were curved into a delightful smile. He wanted to reach out, draw her into his arms and kiss her and to drink in the absolute happiness that radiated from her. It was only in that moment that he began to understand how depressed he had been. Jessie’s laughter had lifted him out of the abyss of grief, and for a split second he felt like living again.

The bay foal came bounding around the rear of his mother and with a little grunt, crashed headlong into Jessie. With a gasp of surprise, she fell back into the straw, the foal sprawled across her.

Luckily the broodmare was a relatively calm mother who didn’t consider humans harmful to her baby, and she just stood there, watching. Jessie’s arms closed around the winded foal. His fur was soft and fuzzy, and she reveled in it. She saw Rafe get slowly to his feet and with a broad smile, she allowed him to pick the foal off her. His hand was firm on her arm as he guided her to her knees.

“He’s so silky,” she whispered, petting the foal lying across her thighs. “Look, Rafe, he loves this! He loves me petting him.”

Kneeling beside her, Rafe felt an ache sweep through him. His name had rolled off her lips like a husky prayer. “The colt’s got sense,” he murmured, picking bits of straw out of her hair. “I’d lie in your lap, too, if I got the chance.”

Jessie lifted her face and stared up into his dark blue eyes, lost in their sudden intensity. Longing rippled through her as he continued to pull out straw that had collected on her braid when she had tipped over backward. When his callused fingers grazed the nape of her neck, her lips parted. A bolt of fiery pleasure nearly unstrung her. He was so close, so male and so virile. Her breath caught in her chest as she felt herself responding to an unspoken, primitive message.

The colt whinnied plaintively, breaking the tenuous silence that stretched between Jessie and Rafe. She helped the colt back to his feet, then watched the baby forge headlong to the rear legs of his patient mother, in search of his noonday meal.

Giving Rafe a shy glance, Jessie started to get up. His hand settled on her shoulder.

“Stay put. He’ll come back to you,” he said.

“But–”

“This is the way we gentle the babies, Jessie. A wrangler will sit in the stall, talk to the foal, handle him, and generally make friends with him. The sooner it’s done, the more accepting the foal is of people.” He slanted a glance down at her and reluctantly removed his hand. “You did want to get to know horses, didn’t you?”

“Well–I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“You aren’t in the way, believe me.”

In silence they remained where they were. Without touching him, Jessie was vividly aware of his strength and the power that emanated from him. The scent that was vividly his wafted over to her, mixed with the damp odor of his sheepskin jacket. Something raw and elemental inside her moved, stirred to life by the unique amalgam that was Rafe. No man had ever made her feel like a caldron of simmering, explosive emotions. And she was out of her league. Completely.

The foal quenched his thirst then leapt back on his hind legs, nearly bowling himself over. His huge dark eyes focused on Jessie, and he toddled toward her. With a nicker, he thrust his tiny muzzle into her chest, nudging at the wool coat she wore. With a laugh, she curled her arms around the colt, petting him gently.

“I’ve got to tell you,” she confided, “this is the greatest experience. I love babies. All babies. I never knew a foal could be so loving.”

“Normally foals aren’t this friendly at first,” Rafe said with a nod toward the colt. “It’s you. The foal senses something good about you. He feels safe, or he wouldn’t have come back.” Hell, he’d feel safe, too, if he were wrapped in her arms.

Frowning at the sudden thought, he gave himself a mental shake. He had to stop thinking about her like that. He got down on both knees and pushed his black felt hat back on his head. He was genuinely curious about her and her unusual combination of strength and warmth, and he also wanted to steer his mind to a safe topic. “Tell me about yourself,” he ordered.

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