A Measure Of Love

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.