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  "So you're a friend of Jason's," he said casually

  A sick feeling of intuition crept over her. Jason claimed he'd told Ethan about her, that Ethan had agreed to hire her on a trial basis. She'd wanted to work on a ranch again—any ranch—so badly, she'd ignored the thought that getting this job had seemed too easy. Now she understood why: Ethan Kincaid didn't know the whole story.

  "I was a client of his," Maggie said quietly. "He represented me in court a couple of years ago."

  "Did he win the case?" Ethan's voice had gone rougher.

  "No," she choked out. "I served two years."

  His face hardened. "For what?"

  It crossed Maggie's mind to insist that she was innocent of the charges. But one of the things she'd learned in prison was that after a jury found you guilty, no one believed you, even if you were telling the truth.

  "Livestock theft."

  Dear Reader,

  The next time you watch a rodeo or catch a Garth Brooks video, pay particular attention to the hat and boots. Picture that cowboy hatless and barefoot—or worse, picture him in a baseball cap and running shoes. From my point of view, the boots alone transform a man, but when you slap a Stetson on the average Joe, you've got a whole new breed of male.

  There's just something special about a man in Western garb, something that suggests the kind of heroes I like most: sexy, tough-minded, capable, a little rough around the edges, good-hearted, plainspoken, strong enough to be tender and, best of all, a little in awe of the fairer sex. These are heroes I love to read and write about, so I hope you enjoy Ethan and Maggie's story.

  I'd like to dedicate it to those of us who were raised on John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and Sam Elliot; who can't get enough of Clint Black and Garth Brooks; who wait too long for Alex McArthur to make another Desperado movie; and who have a secret desire to see Mel Gibson go cowboy. Harlequin has some very special stories ahead, just for us. Join me, won't you, and we'll all head Back to the Ranch.

  Happy Trails!

  Susan Fox

  ISBN 0-373-03268-4

  Harlequin Romance first edition June 1993

  THE BAD PENNY

  Copyright © 1993 by Susan Fox. All rights reserved. Except for use In any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work In whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, Including xerography, photocopying and recording, a in any Information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Milts, Ontario, Canada MSB 3X9.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and ad incidents are pure invention.

  ® are Trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

  Printed in USA

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  The long bus ride to the Kincaid Ranch five miles east of Red Horse, Wyoming, had been nerve-racking. Ex­cept for two brief stops to take on more passengers, Maggie Deaton had been confined in the closed space for almost four hours.

  She dug out her late father's pocket watch and checked it again, hating the hour hand that never seemed to move fast enough. Impatiently she put it away, chafing her palms on her jeans as she again glanced about the half- filled coach.

  How would she ever make it on the outside if she could no longer tolerate being in an enclosed place?

  Maggie closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. Her heart was pounding, and the queasy feeling of motion sickness was becoming more acute. They'd driven through Red Horse a few minutes ago. The ranch couldn't be more than a mile farther.

  The relief she should have felt when she caught sight of the scrolled iron arch didn't come. Her nerves were strung too tightly. As the bus slowed, pulling to the side of the highway, she shrugged into her lined denim jacket, then picked up her black Stetson and reached for the strap of her overnight bag.

  The bus was barely stopped before she got to her feet and clamped her hat over her dark hair, which fell in a thick braid to the center of her back. Partway down the aisle to the door, she hoisted the strap of the overnight bag to her shoulder, her eyes intent on the exit she couldn't reach fast enough.

  Once outside, she felt the chill bite of Wyoming air and took in a deep breath of springtime and freedom. Free­dom. Maybe she would feel it again here. Maybe she would remember what it was like to feel calm and re­laxed, to lie down in peace, to come and go as she pleased, to regain the simple dignity that had been so brutally stripped from her. And privacy. What a rare treat that had become, as rare and as longed for as the other basic needs that were a part of freedom.

  She waited while the driver removed her duffel bag and suitcase from the baggage compartment. The sight of the long graveled drive that started beneath her booted feet and disappeared over the roll of land in front of her should have given some sense of relief. That it didn't was testament to her diminished confidence.

  "There they are, young lady," the driver said as he nodded toward her luggage and lowered the compart­ment door. He glanced up the ranch road. "Looks like you've got quite a walk, and there's a bad storm comin'. Were they expectin' you?"

  The question grated, but she managed a polite, though untrue, answer. "Someone will be along in a minute."

  "All right, then." With that, the driver climbed into the bus and closed the door.

  Maggie listened to the roar of the bus lumbering onto the highway, the thick diesel cloud in its wake enveloping her briefly before a gust of wind blew it away. She was fi­nally alone, and the exhilaration that tumbled over her in a sudden wave made her knees weak.

  She didn't move to gather her things as she waited for the rumble of the bus engine to ebb into stillness. When it did, the only sound left was that of the wind blowing gray storm clouds across the sky.

  Tears that would never show stung her eyes. Slowly she turned, letting her gaze scan the long, rolling hills that were devoid of any landmark beyond an occasional windmill and the four-strand barbed wire that paralleled the highway. There was no sign of human habitation, not even a horse or a single head of cattle.

  The loneliness of the land reached deeply into her soul, soothing away the stifling feeling of being crowded and pressured. This was what she'd needed for so long- openness and fresh air, the feel of the wind on her face, gravel and dirt beneath her feet, unending sky. At that moment, she didn't care if she ever again had a roof over her head or walls around her. Even food and water were distant seconds to the craving she'd had just to stand again in the unbroken vastness of the outdoors as a free woman.

  Finally she turned back to the long ranch road. The job she'd been promised by her attorney, Jason Sawyer, was waiting somewhere over that slow-rising hill—if she could somehow gain the approval of the owner-rancher who had final say at the end of her two-week trial employment.

  Dreading the unavoidable awkwardness of this first face-to-face meeting with Ethan Kincaid, Maggie picked up her bags and started up the drive.

  Her first glimpse of the house and ranch buildings sit­uated in the wide valley beyond the crest of the hill stead­ied her.

  Though spread out in an almost random fashion, the buildings and corrals were in good
repair, most of them wearing a coat of paint that appeared little more than a season old. The two-story log and stone ranch house that stood this side of them looked for all the world like a watchful sentry carved from the landscape, as tough as the elements and just as permanent. The sight of it was one that surprised her with a feeling of coming home.

  Her family's main house had also been constructed of logs. Though the four extensions added through the gen­erations to the Deaton homestead had been of clap­board, this house had the same feel of warmth and family. Maggie's spirits lifted. She sensed instantly that if Ethan Kincaid were as fair minded as his brother-in-law, Jason, the Kincaid Ranch might be just the place she needed to heal from her ordeal and put her life back together again.

  The walk from there to the main ranch house wasn't overlong. Uncertain of the reception that awaited her, in spite of Jason's assurances, Maggie stowed her things at the end of the porch, then approached the front door and knocked.

  "Land sakes, where'd you come from?"

  The middle-aged woman who opened the door looked Maggie up and down, a tentative smile of welcome on her round face. "Didn't hear you drive in. The dogs must not've, either."

  The woman's gaze slid past her as if to look for a car, a frown creasing her forehead when she failed to see any sign of one. Wanting to spare herself an explanation, Maggie quickly said, "I'm Maggie Deaton. I'm here to see Mr. Kincaid about a job."

  Maggie relaxed a little at her success in distracting the woman.

  "Well, then, you must be the gal Jason said was com­ing the first of the month. My name's Alva Campbell." The woman's smile widened as she held out her hand to shake Maggie's. "I've been taking care of everybody up here at the house ever since Mrs. Kincaid passed on about six years ago."

  Maggie nodded, the forced smile she offered to echo the housekeeper's friendliness attracting a closer look from the woman.

  Anxiety pricked at Maggie's nerves. If the woman didn't already know, would she be able to tell by looking where Maggie had spent the past two years? She would carry the stigma for the rest of her life and was so self- conscious about it that she felt as if the shameful details were stamped in large red letters across her face.

  To her relief, the housekeeper ushered her inside and closed the door before she turned to lead Maggie through the house. Maggie was too preoccupied to concentrate fully on the woman's pleasant chatter. All she could manage was a polite response now and then as she unbut­toned her denim jacket with uncooperative fingers.

  The inside of the big house would have made her feel comfortable and secure once, with its heavy leather-and- wood furniture and American West decor. But now that she was indoors, out of the fresh air and openness, she began to feel a recurrence of the stifling pressure she'd felt on the bus. It was as if she'd suddenly lost the ability to tolerate being closed in ever again. The thought fright­ened her.

  The wide door to the den off the long hall the house­keeper led her down was standing open. Maggie stopped inside the doorway while the older woman announced her.

  "Ethan, Jason's friend is here."

  At the housekeeper's words, the big man sitting be­hind the desk looked up from his papers, the stern planes of his face anything but friendly.

  Maggie shivered inwardly. Ethan Kincaid's tempera­ment was nothing like his brother-in-law's, she sensed in­stantly. If the formidable contours of his winter-tanned face—from the dark brows over intimidating black eyes to his unyielding cut of male mouth and strong jawline— were any indication of the kind of man Ethan Kincaid was beneath his thick, overlong black hair, her time at the Kincaid Ranch would be limited to the two-week trial.

  A man whose face had such strongly defined features might also have strongly defined attitudes, she reasoned, a sinking feeling in her middle. And if she were reading his character right from this first impression, there was no reason for her to think that those strong attitudes would ever waver or bend in order to grant a favor to anyone— not to a relative, and certainly not to her.

  She couldn't help but be reminded that the fifty dol­lars in cut-loose money she'd been given that morning wouldn't take her very far if he changed his mind about hiring her. In fact, if she lost her chance at this job, there was a very real possibility she wouldn't get hired at any ranch in the area. And if she couldn't find employ­ment . . .

  "So you're a friend of Jason's."

  Somehow she'd known before Ethan spoke that his voice would be low and rough, as if using a quiet tone wasn't something he did often. It was far easier to imag­ine that deep gravelly voice raised in anger or roaring out a command than to imagine what it would sound like in casual conversation.

  "Go ahead and have a seat," he said, gesturing toward the wing chair in front of his desk as the housekeeper went out and closed the door.

  Ethan watched Maggie raise a hand to remove her Stetson, revealing braided brown hair drawn away from a face with bone structure that could only be considered classic. A few curly wisps of hair had escaped confine­ment at her temples, making her look more like a girl than a young woman.

  But as his gaze slid downward over her open denim jacket and the flannel shirt beneath to her well-washed jeans and the scuffed brown leather of her boots, he de­cided he liked what he saw. She was the kind of woman who could make a feed sack look feminine, and what she did to common work clothes, with just the right amount of curve in all the right places, played on his imagination more than it should. Irritated with himself, he yanked his gaze back to her face. She was here to work for him, and he had no business taking note of anything beyond her qualifications to do the job.

  Maggie crossed to the chair Ethan indicated, unaware that he saw the way her eyes made a quick scan of the room as she did so. Normally, when he interviewed a prospective employee, there was a degree of nervousness, especially if the applicant was a green kid.

  But there was something different about Maggie Dea­ton. He couldn't pinpoint it immediately, but it was there in the loose-limbed, casual way she moved—a way that for some reason reminded him of a mare he'd owned a few years back. No matter how hard he'd tried to school it out of her, the mare had had a wild streak a yard wide. Though she could go for days and seem a perfect horse for working cattle, she'd had a real gift for being sedate one moment, then exploding into a fit of bucking the next when something small spooked her. In the end, he'd given up and sold the unpredictable animal; she'd been too dangerous to have around.

  Something about Maggie Deaton gave him the same feeling; something that went beyond a lovely face with delicate features and the glow of windblown roses in her cheeks.

  He could almost see what it was in the striking shade of her blue eyes with their thick sweep of black lashes. Al­most, but not quite. She'd caught him staring, and her gaze had fled from his. After those few moments, she hadn't met his eyes full on again. He was instantly suspi­cious.

  "So, how long have you known Jason?" Ethan was leaning back casually in his chair. Maggie managed to bring her full attention back to him, though she focused her gaze somewhere just over his right shoulder.

  "I've known him almost two and a half years," she re­plied, resting her elbows on the arms of the chair and linking her fingers together loosely, palms down.

  "Then you probably know my sister, Beth."

  It was an assumption that made her uneasy. "I've never met your sister."

  Her words clearly surprised him. A sick feeling of in­tuition stirred. Somehow she knew the rancher would never have mentioned his sister if he'd understood that Maggie's relationship with his brother-in-law had been strictly attorney-client.

  The thought jarred her. She'd thought that Ethan Kin­caid knew about her and had agreed to hire her on a trial basis.

  But now that she was face-to-face with him, instinct warned her that if he'd been told everything, he wouldn't give her the time of day, much less agree to hire her. Few respectable ranchers would. Why had Jason done this?

  She braced hers
elf for the worst, but caution made her go about her revelation slowly.

  "I was a client of his," she said quietly. "He repre­sented me in court a couple of years ago."

  Ethan's eyebrows lifted. "Jace usually handles crimi­nal cases."

  Maggie heard the unspoken question quite clearly and met his dark eyes for a brief moment. "He does."

  Ethan went still, giving in to the suspicion that was flaring stronger by the moment. When Jason called, they'd had trouble with a bad phone connection. It hap­pened occasionally on the rural line, but that time the static had been so bad they'd hung up and Jason had called him back. Though the connection had been little better on Ethan's end of the line, he'd been able to de­duce that Jason was asking to send a young woman to work on the ranch.

  Because Jason was his sister's husband and he felt he was doing Jace a favor, he'd agreed to hire this Maggie Deaton on a trial basis. He thought Jason had been try­ing to tell him about some problem she'd had a couple of years back, but the phone connection had grown steadily worse. It had been almost impossible to hear enough of the details to have any clear idea of what kind of problem it had been.

  Impatient with the phone line's annoying static and figuring the problem in Maggie Deaton's past was noth­ing he needed to concern himself with, he'd told Jason to send her to the ranch. He remembered thinking it odd for Jason to thank him for giving her a break, but he'd dis­missed the remark at the time. Now, as she sat before him, he wondered what Jason had been trying to tell him.

  There wasn't a lot he could discern from Maggie's closed features, but he could sense a coldness, an aloof­ness, almost a self-protective aura. There was a tough­ness about the way she held herself, a hint of defiance in the angle of her chin that mingled strangely with the ti­niest glimmer of unease in her eyes.

  He'd seen something of that look before—twice, to be exact. He hadn't liked seeing it then and he didn't like seeing it now. Experience had taught him a couple of hard lessons, ones he wasn't eager to repeat in spite of grant­ing a favor to his brother-in-law. If his instincts were cor­rect, he wanted no part of Maggie Deaton.