Love Thine Enemy (2 page)

Sam reined in his terrified horse. It had been a close call—too close. The thought of his daughters losing another parent sent a chill up his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Thank You, dear Lord, for sparing me.

With his heart still hammering wildly, Sam dismounted and stared at the car in the ditch.
Please, let everyone be okay.

He left his horse at the edge of the road and made his way down the steep slope to the wrecked car. His boots slipped in the wet snow, and he skidded the last few feet to the bottom. He saw the driver’s door was crushed against a cedar tree, so Sam made his way to the opposite side. What kind of idiot drove at such breakneck speed in this weather, anyway? He yanked open the passenger door and the dome light came on.

The idiot was a woman. Her blond head rested against the high seat back with her pale face half turned toward him. A thin line of blood trickled from her left temple,
slipped down the slender column of her throat and disappeared beneath the scooped neckline of her red sweater.

Was she dead?
The grim thought sent a curl of dread through him. He jerked off his gloves and leaned in to check for a pulse. He found one, strong and steady beneath his fingers. Relieved, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Her eyes fluttered opened, and she blinked in the light.

“Lady, are you okay?” he asked, trying to sound calm.

She lifted a shaky hand to her head. “I don’t think so.”

Bitter-cold air swept around Sam and into the car as he held the door open. Her trembling was probably due to shock and not the freezing temperature, but he wasn’t helping. Easing onto the slanting front seat, he closed the door. The interior light shut off, and the only illumination came from the headlights reflecting off the snow outside. He began to unknot the bandanna at his throat. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m going to be so late,” she muttered and closed her eyes.

Fright and cold made his fingers clumsy. With a jerk, the bandanna finally came loose. He pressed it to her bleeding temple. “Late for your own funeral, maybe. You’re crazy to be driving so fast in this weather.”

She pushed his hand away and turned a fierce scowl in his direction. “I’m not the crazy one here! You were riding a horse in the middle of a highway—at night—in a snowstorm! Do you have a death wish?” she shouted, then winced.

“Lady, I wasn’t in the middle of the highway. I was on the shoulder when you came barreling at me. The
road curves here, but I guess you didn’t notice. You were over the center line and speeding toward the ditch. I just happened to be in your way.”

She stared at him a long moment. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh!”

“Well, I missed you, didn’t I?”

The last of his tension evaporated. “You did. You and the good Lord have my sincere thanks for that.”

“I don’t think He did me any favors.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. If you’d gone off the other side of this curve at the speed you were traveling you might be dead now. There’s a steep drop and a stone wall on that side.”

He offered the bandanna again. “Are you hurt anywhere besides that cut on your forehead?”

“I’m not sure.” Taking the cloth from him, she held it to her head and gave a hiss of pain. After a second, she focused on him again. Sudden tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Are you sure you’re okay? Is your horse all right?”

“Dusty and I are fine, honest.”

“It all happened so fast. I almost killed you.” A sob escaped as a tear slipped down her pale cheek.

“Almost doesn’t count except in horseshoes and hand grenades. Hey, yelling I can take, but tears—don’t even go there,” he warned.

She managed a trembling half smile. “I’ll try.”

Sam shot a quick look at the windshield. The wipers had stopped with the engine, and snow already covered the glass.

“We need to get out of this weather, and this car isn’t going anywhere. My ranch isn’t far, but we should get going before this storm gets any worse. Can you move?”

“I think so.” She shifted in the seat, then gave a sharp cry as she grabbed her left thigh with both hands.

“What’s wrong?”

“My foot is caught,” she answered through clenched teeth.

He saw a tremor race through her body. The temperature inside the car was dropping rapidly. He needed to get her someplace warm and soon.

“Here, take my coat while I have a look.” He shrugged out of his sheepskin jacket and tucked it around her shoulders. They felt slender and fragile under his large, work-hardened hands. Her hair swept across the back of his wrist in a soft whisper stirring an unexpected awareness of her as a woman. He forced the thought to the back of his mind. He needed to concentrate on getting her out of here.

She bit her lip as she tried again to move. “My foot’s wedged under something. I can’t move it, and it hurts when I try.”

Reaching over the steering column, he turned on the interior light. “Hold still while I check it out.” Leaning down, he peered under the dash. “I’m Sam Hardin, by the way.”

Cheryl’s breath caught in a sharp gasp of surprise. He was one of the high-and-mighty Hardins. Her pulse began to pound. Feelings of shame and guilt rose like bile in the back of her throat. This couldn’t be happening. Not now, not after all this time.

She glanced fearfully at the man beside her. Did he know who she was? Had he seen her family’s pictures plastered across the local papers? Had he been at the trial that had sent her father and brother to prison? Did he know she had been her father’s accomplice and that she’d done time for her crime?

C
heryl drew a shaky breath and forced herself to calm down. Of course Sam Hardin didn’t know who she was. How could he? It had all happened nearly fifteen years ago. She wasn’t a child anymore; she was an adult now. Driving by the old ranch had dredged up painful feelings and the accident had unnerved her, that was all.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Hardin. My name is Cheryl Steele,” she said at last, watching his reaction. She’d changed her name when she was old enough, wanting to be rid of even that reminder of her childhood. Only a handful of people knew she had once been Cheryl Thatcher.

“Pleased to meet you, Cheryl Steele, and you can call me Sam. So where are you from? That’s an east-coast accent I hear, isn’t it?”

“Manhattan,” she confirmed, relaxing even more. It was true. The city had been her home for the past six years.

“You’re from Manhattan, Kansas?” he asked from under the dash.

“No, Manhattan, New York,” she said quickly. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. She tried but still couldn’t budge her foot. Fiery agony shot up her leg. “The pain’s getting worse.”

“Okay, hold still while I see if I can move this metal.”

“Hurry, please.”

“You’re a long way from home, New York. What are you doing way out here?”

“I thought I was taking a shortcut to Manhattan.”

“You were taking a shortcut to New York City on this road?” he asked, his amusement evident.

“Very funny,” she muttered in annoyance. “No, not a shortcut to
the
Manhattan. I’m trying to get
your
Manhattan. I need to be at the University Theater by seven at the latest. It’s very important.”

Her whole foot throbbed painfully now. She had to perform in less than an hour. She couldn’t be trapped out here.

He grunted with effort as he tried to move the crumpled metal. “It gave a little. Try now.”

Her foot wouldn’t budge. Panic swelled in her and she struggled against the confining metal. “Please, get me out of here!”

“I will. Take it easy.”

“I’m a ballet dancer,” she whispered. What if her injury was serious? What if she couldn’t dance? Didn’t he understand how frightened she was?

He sat up beside her. Softly, he cupped her cheek with one hand and wiped a tear away with his thumb. “You’ll be dancing again in no time, New York. Right now we have to keep our heads. Your foot is caught between the floor and the side wall where it’s caved in. I’ll get you out, but it may take a bit.”

She managed a nod. “Okay. I understand.”

“Thatta girl.”

Cheryl worked to regain control of her emotions. He was right. She had to keep her head. She needed to focus on something besides the fear and the pain. She had learned that trick early in life and used it often in her grueling career. She chose his face.

His rugged features softened when he smiled. It made the creases in his lean cheeks deepen and small crinkles appear at the corner of his eyes. His mouth lifted a little higher on one side, giving his smile a roguish charm.

Suddenly, she was grateful to have him in the dimness beside her. His hand was gentle when he’d touched her face. His voice was calm and steady. He inspired trust, and that thought surprised her. For most of her life she had considered ranchers to be the enemy—something else she had learned early on.

He said, “I need to find a way to pry this metal apart.”

“There should be a jack in the trunk,” she volunteered.

“Good thinking.” He flashed her a big, heart-stopping, crooked grin. “Kinda smart for a city girl, aren’t you?”

His teasing comment amused her even though she suspected he was simply trying to distract her from the seriousness of the situation. Well, she could play city-girl versus country-boy, too. After all, she was a rising star with the New York Theater Ballet. She had performed far more difficult roles.

“I don’t imagine you keep a jack in your saddlebags, cowboy. Or do you?” she quipped.

“No, ma’am, I don’t.” He slipped into an exaggerated drawl that would have done a Texan proud. “My ol’ hoss has gone lame, but he ain’t never gone flat.”

Cheryl tried not to smile at his poor joke.

Pulling the keys from the ignition, he grinned as he opened the car door. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

She nodded, but she had to fight another wave of panic as the door closed behind him, leaving her alone. She took several deep breaths until she felt in control of her emotions. A glance out the windshield told her what she already knew. She was going to miss tonight’s performance.

Her understudy would be able to dance the part, but Damon Sands, their director, was going to be furious. He’d already been unhappy about Cheryl’s plans to leave the company during their short break to travel to her sister’s wedding. Only her repeated assurances that she’d be back in plenty of time for the production had mollified him. Now, she’d be lucky if she didn’t lose her position after this fiasco. Damon had an unforgiving nature, especially when it came to his work.

She searched around for her cell phone but couldn’t find it. Moments before the wreck she had tried to use her phone only to see that it displayed No Signal. Chances were it wouldn’t work even if she had it in her hand. She was stuck with no way of letting Damon know where she was.

Stuck in the middle of nowhere, that’s where she was. No, worse. She was stuck in the middle of the Flint Hills. Until two months ago, nothing could have induced her to return here. Nothing, that was, until the call from Angie. Even as she’d listened to her sister’s deliriously happy voice begging her to come for the wedding, Cheryl had hesitated. She’d given in to her sister’s pleading only because the wedding would be in Wichita. A hundred miles seemed far enough away
from their old home to let her feel safe about a brief visit.

Yet, even with this catastrophe, Cheryl was glad she had come. She smiled as she remembered the beautiful ceremony in the tiny church decorated with ivy and deep yellow roses. The strains of a classical guitar floating down from the choir loft had filled the air with the sounds of love transformed into music.

A blast of cold air jerked her back to the present as Sam opened the car door and slipped in beside her. Working quickly, he positioned the jack and after several turns, the metal pinning her began to spread. He eased her foot loose and she bit her lip to keep from crying out at the pain.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said.

Unable to speak, she nodded. Her foot throbbed wildly.

“At least you’re free.” His bright tone made her want to hit him.

“Can you ride a horse, New York?”

Her gaze flew to his. “You’re kidding, right?” One look told her he wasn’t. She nearly groaned at the idea of hanging her leg over a horse.

“Of course I can ride,” she answered with more confidence than she felt. She hadn’t been near a horse in fifteen years.

“Good, I’d hate for this to be your first lesson. Do you have a coat or something to keep you warm? The wind is bitter outside.”

“It’s on the backseat.”

He retrieved it for her. After returning his coat, Cheryl slipped into her own, then located her purse on the floor. She gritted her teeth as she prepared to leave the relative safety of the car.

Sam stepped out and pulled on his coat, glad of its retained warmth. Thick snow swirled past his face. Glancing up, he saw Dusty standing at the edge of the road with his head down and his rump to the wind. A whistle brought the horse to him, and Sam turned to Cheryl. He grinned at the expression on her face as she stared at Dusty. “Don’t worry, New York, I won’t let you fall off.”

“I’m not worried about falling off, cowboy. I’m worried about freezing solid up there,” she shot back.

“Freeze on the horse, be home in thirty minutes and thaw out in a hot bath, or freeze in the car and wait for the next taxi to come by. It’s your choice.”

“When you put it that way…” She sent him a suspicious look. “A hot bath—you promise?”

“Yup. Cross my heart.”

He swung up into the saddle and offered her his hand. She jumped as he lifted her and swung her up behind him. To his surprise, she made the move with ease and grace. He glanced back at her face and saw her lips pressed into a hard, tight line, but she didn’t complain. Miss New York had guts, all right. She settled her hands at his hips, but he pulled her arms tight around his waist.

It felt good. It felt right. It had been a long time since a woman had held him.

He turned the horse toward home, glad he had two long snow-covered miles to remind himself she was an injured woman who needed his care, nothing more. She was only passing through.

The elegant dancer behind him might stir his senses, but he wasn’t foolish enough to act on that attraction. He certainly wasn’t looking to get involved with any
woman again. Not after Natalie. He would never give another woman the power to hurt him or his children the way his ex-wife had.

Cheryl clung to Sam and kept her face pressed to his back, but soon, even his large, powerful frame offered little comfort. Her head and her leg throbbed with every step the horse took. The wind chilled her to the bone, and there was nothing she could do except endure it. That was how she remembered this country. As something to be endured.

“How much farther?” she yelled over the wind. Her purse strap slipped off her shoulder and slid down her arm to bump against the horse’s side, but she didn’t loosen her grip to pull it up as she huddled behind Sam.

“Not much. Less than half a mile,” he shouted back.

In spite of his encouragement, it seemed like hours before the horse finally stopped. Lifting her aching head, Cheryl saw they stood in front of a small porch surrounded by a wooden railing already piled high with snow. Snow-laden cedars stood on either side of the porch hiding most of the pale, native limestone house from her view, but the warm glow of the porch light was as welcome as all the bright lights of Broadway.

She released her frozen grip on Sam. He swung his leg forward over the horse’s neck and slid down. Turning, he lifted her off the horse and lowered her gently to the ground. Balancing on one foot, she clung to his shoulders. Then, without a word, he swept her up into his arms.

She wrapped her hands around his neck, and her gaze moved to his face. She became aware of the strength in the arms that held her and the intensity of his gaze as he studied her in return. Suddenly, she felt warm and breathless.

An echo of that awareness flared in his eyes. Then, just as quickly, his gaze cooled. “Let’s get you inside.”

Sam forced his attention away from the sweet, soft curve of her lips. He quickly climbed the steps, wrestled one-handed with the door, then stepped inside. After setting his guest gently on the high-backed bench in the entry, he took in her battered appearance.

She was as pale as the snow outside. Streaks of dried blood ran from a bruised cut on her temple down the left side of her face and neck. Blond hair, slightly longer than shoulder length, framed her face in soft waves. Her eyes were a startling sapphire-blue surrounded by thick, dark blond lashes. But when she looked up at him, he saw pain and exhaustion filling them. The total sum of her fragile beauty stunned him like the kick of a horse.

“Are you okay?” he managed to ask.

She nodded. “I just need to warm up.”

“Rest here. I have to put Dusty away. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He started out the door, then turned. “Oh, watch out for the cat. He’s Bonkers.”

She glanced around, then closed her eyes with a grimace as she leaned her head back. “Crazy cowboy owns an insane cat. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Chuckling, Sam left the house and quickly led Dusty to the barn. He unsaddled the horse, fed him a measure of grain and gave him a fast rubdown.

“So, what do you think of her?” he asked. Dusty kept his nose buried in his oats. Sam paused in his brushing. “What, no comment? It’s not every day an ugly old cow pony gets to give a real ballerina a ride. Me—I think she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

Dusty snorted once. Sam grinned and resumed the
quick, short strokes of his brush. “You’re right, looks aren’t everything. For whatever reason, the good Lord has placed her in my care. I’ll put her up for the night, then get her out of here first thing tomorrow.” He gave the horse a final pat and left.

Pausing outside the barn door, Sam turned up the collar of his coat. The blowing snow piled in growing drifts around the barn. If this storm didn’t let up soon, he could be stuck with his unexpected guest for more than one night. The idea didn’t annoy him the way it should have. Instead, a strange feeling of anticipation grew as he started toward the house.

The sound of the door opening and a gust of frigid air announced Sam’s return. Cheryl eyed her rescuer closely as he paused inside the entry to hang up his coat and hat. As he raked a hand though his dark brown hair, curls flattened by his hat sprang back to life, and she noticed a touch of gray at his temples. He was older than she’d first thought. Perhaps somewhere in his early thirties.

As he turned toward her, she guessed he had to be six feet two at least. He towered over her, but he wasn’t intimidating. His eyes were warm and friendly. A rich hazel color, they were framed with thick, dark lashes any woman would envy. He didn’t have a classically handsome face, she thought, yet there was something appealing about it.

She gave herself a swift mental shake. What on earth was wrong with her? She had more sense than to be moonstruck by a handsome man with a pair of smiling eyes. Plus, he was a rancher.
And
a Hardin. She’d seen enough of that judgmental and unforgiving lot in her youth to last her two lifetimes. The chiming of a clock sent her thoughts back to her real problem.

“Thanks for the rescue, cowboy, but I can’t stay.”

“My granddad lives with me if you’re worried about your reputation.”

“It’s not that. I have to get to Manhattan.”

“You aren’t going anywhere tonight.”

“It’s important.”

“Unless you can change the weather or sprout wings and fly, you’re stuck.”

She sighed in defeat. “May I use a telephone? I lost my cell phone in the car. I have to let someone know what’s happened to me.”