The Bad Penny Read online

  "Are you saying that my brother-in-law, who only handles criminal cases, had you for a client once?"

  Ethan's voice had become rougher, the harshness tell­ing her he hadn't been aware of her conviction, after all, but now had guessed.

  Her chin lifted the smallest fraction, and she forced her eyes to meet his squarely. "Yes."

  "Did he win the case?" Ethan's mouth twisted with faint insolence, and his brows lifted as he waited for her answer.

  Suddenly she found the room stifling. Ethan Kincaid would be the first person outside prison she would have to tell about her conviction, and it was harder to do than she'd imagined.

  "No." The word sounded just as choked and forced as it bad felt coming out. "I served two years."

  Ethan's face hardened. "For what?"

  The question was a mere formality—perhaps mixed with a little curiosity—before he turned her down for em­ployment. It crossed her mind to insist she was innocent of the charges, but few people gave credence to the claims of a convicted felon. It would be no different with Ethan Kincaid.

  "Livestock theft."

  The words hung in the air. A ruddy flush came to Ethan's winter-tanned face. Still, he didn't explode as she expected, but his words seemed to cut more when he spoke quietly than they would have if he'd shouted,

  "I've had a couple of unpleasant experiences with ex- cons before," he began, his dark expression growing more formidable by the moment. "That experience alone would make me turn you down for a job, but hiring an ex-con convicted of rustling would be just plain stupid on my part. With all the trouble I've been having here this past year, the only kind of rustler I want on ray land is one in handcuffs on his way to the county jail."

  "And what if you knew the details, Mr. Kincaid?" Maggie's calm question was as much a test of his sense of fairness as it was a last chance.

  The skeptical twist of his lips gave her his answer be­fore lie spoke. "The evidence against you must have been conclusive. Jace is too good at what he does to let an in­nocent client go to prison."

  Ethan pushed away from his desk and stood, his wide- shouldered, powerfully built six-foot-plus frame as in­timidating as any threat.

  "Then why do you suppose he'd recommend me to a member of his own family?" she tried again. "If he be­lieved I was guilty, wouldn't that be a little like sending a fox to guard the henhouse?"

  Her seasoning made no impact on him, "You're young. He might figure you learned your lesson. But I make my own judgment calls and do my own hiring. I'm not run­ning a halfway house."

  Maggie got to her feet, too, her eyes stubbornly slow to leave his as she stoically accepted his dismissal. She would never beg for a job, even if it meant going back into the prerelease program. Pride kept her from showing any trace of the disappointment she felt as she nodded her acknowledgment and turned to walk from the room.

  "I think you'll find the other ranchers in this area have the same attitude," he added once her back was turned.

  At least he'd given her fair warning. Though she knew he hadn't meant to be helpful, she appreciated the infor­mation. She had only so much money and so much time.

  Maggie was almost all the way down the hall to the liv­ing room and the front door, when a young girl with short blond pigtails came tearing around the corner from the kitchen. Startled, Maggie had no time to step out of the path of the child's headlong rush. The sudden impact of the small body against hers made them both lose balance for a moment, but Maggie's quick reflexes prevented them from falling as she caught the child's narrow shoulders.

  " 'Scuse me.'' The little girl, whom Maggie judged to be about seven or eight, was looking up at her with big brown eyes, her amber brows scrunched together with undisguised curiosity. "Who are you?"

  Taken aback by the little girl's forthrightness, Maggie hesitated as she gently set the child away from her. "Maggie."

  "Maggie who?" came the response the same moment Maggie heard a movement behind her in the hall.

  "Never mind, young lady." Ethan's voice rumbled with quiet authority. Maggie instantly let go of the child. She didn't have to see Ethan's face to know he was furious that she was even touching the girl, much less speaking to her.

  "Oh, Daddy, you always say that," the girl chided the big man who now loomed threateningly over them both. The exasperation in the high little voice might have struck Maggie as comical at any other time, but under the cir­cumstances, she felt only apprehension.

  A quick look at the iron set of Ethan's features con­firmed that Maggie had every reason to feel apprehen­sive. Cold fury snapped in his dark eyes as he reached out and pulled his daughter away from her.

  Maggie could only stare, stricken by the action that suggested Ethan considered her brief contact with his daughter contaminating. Would everyone react to her like this? Her answer was in the harshness of Ethan's face.

  She faltered a moment until pride stiffened her spine. She'd suffered too much the past two years to let the Ethan Kincaids of this world cow her or make her duck her head in shame.

  Shielding her thoughts behind a brittle facade, she turned and made a dignified exit through the living room to the front door where she let herself out.

  Outside in the cool air, she buttoned her coat and gathered her things from the end of the porch. A spring snowstorm was brewing; she could smell it in the air. The overcast sky was starting to turn a deeper gray, but Mag­gie was too riled to give much thought to whether she made it into town before the snow became too heavy.

  Ethan watched from the front windows as Maggie neared the crest of the hill that stood between his house and the highway. He'd never been deliberately cruel to anyone in his life—harsh, maybe, or stern. But as he watched her walk away, loaded down with what looked like all she owned in the world, he felt as if he'd kicked a stray dog for coming to his door for scraps.

  It was a hell of a way for him to feel, especially when he was right not to hire someone like her. A lady rustler. So fresh out of prison that the ink on her release papers wasn't dry.

  Nevertheless, the moment she was out the door, he'd put in a call to his brother-in-law's office. He'd not been eager to ask Jace about what she'd meant when she'd hinted that Jace didn't believe she was guilty, but he'd figured he could at least hear what Jace had to say about it. After he'd given him hell for sending her out here.

  But Jace was out of town at a change-of-venue trial until the end of the month. Ethan hadn't reckoned the call was important enough to have the secretary track him down.

  Which was all right with him, he told himself. His mind was already made up. By the time he had the opportunity to talk to Jace, he'd be lucky to remember Maggie Bea­ton's name.

  A gust of cold air rattled the windows in front of him. He watched the lone figure in the distance shift her load to reach up a bare hand and tug her hat lower against the wind. It was going to snow by nightfall—a real howler, if the weather reports were accurate. The boys would be bringing the heavy cows in closer to the calving sheds and someone should be getting the hay wagons loaded to take out to the feed grounds on the range by morning. Every animal with any sense would be looking for shelter.

  Ethan's conscience prodded him and made him more uncomfortable as Maggie disappeared over the crest of the hill. It hadn't occurred to him that she'd come here on foot. If he'd known, he would have offered her a ride to town. She was in for a long, cold walk back to Red Horse, and when she got there, the only place out of the weather would be a bar, Tillie's Cafe or the back seat of a county sheriff's car.

  He swore softly as a burst of wind-driven sleet hit the front windows. Though she could hitch a ride with some­one once she got to the highway, she wasn't dressed warmly enough to walk until some good Samaritan hap­pened along. And if the weather were deteriorating as rapidly as it looked to be, good Samaritans would be hard to come by. Ethan hesitated only a moment more. He had to go after her. Someone—and it looked as if it would have to be him—had to see to it that she
got safely to town, ex-con or not. But that was as much as he was will­ing to do. What became of her after he got her there was her problem.

  Ethan turned to start for the back porch to get his hat and parka when the phone rang. He entered the kitchen as Alva said quickly, "I'll tell him," and hung up the re­ceiver.

  "Reece wants to know if you've got a spare thermo­couple to fit the furnace down at the bunkhouse. He just got in and figures the heat's been off most of the after­noon, by the feel of it."

  Ethan released an impatient breath as he crossed to the pantry off the east side of the big kitchen. "It's a damned inconvenient time for that furnace to act up."

  "It'll be even more inconvenient if you don't have a spare part to fix it," Alva pointed out before she re­turned to her meal preparations.

  Ethan rummaged through the assortment of replace­ment parts he kept until he found what he was looking for. He'd just stepped into the kitchen when the lights flick­ered, dimmed, then came back on.

  "Looks like we might have to start up the generator," Alva commented.

  "If we do and I don't get back right away, call down and get one of the men to start it for you," he said as he headed for the porch, the furnace part in hand.

  "I reckon it can wait till you get back."

  Ethan tossed the part onto a bench along the outside wall of the porch. "No telling how long I'll be, Alva. As soon as I get this down to Reece, I'm going to town."

  Alva's brows raised at that. "Looked outside lately?"

  "That's why I've got to go," he said briskly as he reached for his Stetson and parka. "The girl Jason sent must've walked all the way out here. Leastways, she was walking back last time I looked."

  "You didn't hire her?" Alva was clearly surprised.

  "Nope." Ethan's stern manner indicated he didn't care to elaborate. As he put on the parka and ran the zipper up to his chin, he caught sight of Alva's curious look, well aware she was capable of pestering him half to death for the details. Tugging his hat brim down to a determined angle over his eyes, he grumbled a low, "Forget about her, Alva. She'd be nothing but trouble."

  The housekeeper's eyes twinkled at that. "Trouble for the ranch . . . or trouble for the boss?"

  Ethan's lips thinned as he turned away, grabbed up the part and opened the door. "Same difference."

  Alva's chuckle followed him out into the storm.

  As he stepped away from the protection of the house, the first big gust of wind caught at his breath and pep­pered his face with bits of ice.

  Had someone come along and picked her up before the storm had turned this bad? The question nagged him and increased his sense of guilt as he reached up to pull the brim of his hat lower to shield his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to resist, he couldn't forget the sight of Maggie Deaton walking over the hill.

  He also couldn't forget the way she'd sat across the desk from him and let him know upfront that she was a lady with a past—the kind of past that would almost guaran­tee he wouldn't hire her. It had taken nerve and a fair amount of honesty to do that, but he didn't want to dwell on the thought that she might have some character. She had a criminal record, and though she couldn't be more than twenty-three or twenty-four at the outside, not to mention very attractive, he had trouble believing prison could truly rehabilitate anyone. Besides, weren't young criminals the worst kind?

  She'd come across as tough. But then, came the un­wanted thought, he'd also seen a spark of fear and vul­nerability in those blue eyes. And pain. He'd overreacted to her accidental meeting with Jamie in the hall. Though she'd quickly shuttered the hurt behind an aloof mask, he'd seen it clearly.

  Remembering that, he felt even more guilty—not for refusing to hire her, but for standing at the window and waiting to see how fast the weather would turn bad be­fore he made the decision to go after her and offer her a ride.

  Damn! His brother-in-law had gotten him into this. What the hell was J ace thinking of, anyway, sending him a convicted rustler? And now that Jamie was old enough to spend a lot of time down at the barns in the company of the hands, the last thing he wanted around was an ex- con.

  Ethan wrestled with his thoughts all the way to the bunkhouse and back. He passed through the barn near­est the house, then angled toward where he'd parked his truck. The ground was already dangerously slick, and he was forced to cover the remaining distance to the pickup truck with care. Was she still afoot, or was she someplace warm by now, he wondered as he opened the truck door and dug out an ice scraper to clear the windshield. The time and effort it took to chip away the ice only increased his sense of urgency. He'd never have any peace until he caught up with Maggie and drove her as far as Tillie's Cafe, or found she'd already made it safely to town.

  He was probably making a trip for nothing, he con­soled himself. If she hadn't hitched a ride with someone, surely she'd have had sense enough to come back to the ranch to seek shelter when the freezing rain started, wouldn't she? He stopped scraping a moment to glance down the driveway as he considered the possibility.

  "Hell, why would she?" he groused when he could see no sign of her in the icy twilight. He hadn't exactly given her reason to think she'd be welcome here, no matter what the circumstances.

  With a last angry swipe of the scraper, he finished with the windshield. If he hurried, he could be home in time to cozy up to a hot meal with his daughter and forget Mag­gie Deaton had ever crossed his path.

  Ethan wrenched open the door and climbed in, slam­ming it hard enough to send a small avalanche of ice clat­tering from the side window. He twisted the key, barely giving the engine a moment to catch before he eased the big vehicle down the driveway.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Maggie couldn't remember ever being so cold. The wind was coming full at her, driving icy rain that had her shivering with every harsh gust. Though the rain was falling intermittently, she wasn't dressed for a six-mile walk in this kind of weather, not even after she'd stopped to add a sweater to the shirt she already wore beneath her denim jacket. The scarf and work gloves she'd pulled out to protect her face and hands were still reasonably dry, but she knew the wet cold would soon penetrate them.

  The highway was so slick with ice that she'd chosen a more stable path on the gravel shoulder. Darkness was falling rapidly and so was her prospect of making it into town. Few would dare to venture out in such hazardous weather, so her hopes of catching a ride with someone on the way into Red Horse were practically nil.

  Pride kept her from turning back to seek shelter at the Kincaid Ranch. Ethan Kincaid hadn't been willing to give her a chance, not even on his brother-in-law's say-so. It wasn't as if she had no one to vouch for her, though even she had to admit that nowadays Jason Sawyer was prob­ably the only one who would. And the way Ethan had re­acted when he'd found her with his daughter warned her that she'd be foolish to expect him to allow her to wait out the storm in one of his barns, much less in his warm house. Perhaps the animosity she bore Ethan Kincaid had more to do with the old feelings of frustration and be­trayal he'd stirred up.

  She'd been shocked that the people back home who'd known her and her father had been so easily convinced she was capable of stealing from them to save her ranch. It was a good thing, she thought now, her father hadn't lived to see that. If his bad heart hadn't already given out three years before her conviction, it surely would have then.

  The next gust of wind caught her in midstep, and for a precarious moment she fought to regain her footing. She landed hard on the wet, icy gravel, grimacing as she felt the small rocks gouge into her left thigh and hip.

  Disentangling herself from the duffel bag and over­night case straps, she got carefully to her feet. In dismay she realized her jeans and gloves were soaked through from the fall, guaranteeing hypothermia and frostbite. Good sense dictated she swallow her pride and head back to the Kincaid Ranch. Though it stung, seeking shelter was now imperative.

  She'd started back the way she'd come when she saw the lights of a
truck moving slowly toward her over a shallow rise of highway. Hope surged, but she kept on several paces until the vehicle drew near. It was then that she stopped and made out the dark shadow of a black pickup inching its way along.

  She put out a gloved thumb and made a brief hitchhik­er's signal to the driver, then waited as the truck slid to a halt on the pavement. In the light of the headlamps she could see clearly that the highway had become a solid sheet of ice and that everything—the wire fence along the highway, the long strands of dormant grass that spiked up in the ditches—was heavily coated.

  The passenger door was thrust open, and she walked toward it, balancing her bags awkwardly as she negotiated the ice. She had taken the straps of her cases from her shoulders to toss into the back of the pickup when she recognized the man sitting beneath the dome light inside the cab.

  Surprise made her hesitate. Her reluctance to accept a ride from Ethan must have shown, because she saw one side of his mouth twist in annoyance. "Get in or walk. It's your choice."

  Maggie stiffened at his rough tone. His words implied indifference to the prospect of her freezing to death on the road. She would have liked to slam the door and reject his offer of a ride, but she was too cold and in too dangerous a predicament to turn him down.

  Without a word, she hefted her things into the truck bed and climbed in, shutting the passenger door. The hot dry air from the dash vents hit her, the abrupt temperature change sending her into shivering spasms that made her teeth chatter.

  "Better get that seat belt buckled. Won't be a Sunday drive," he muttered crossly.

  Ethan didn't spare her a glance as he put the truck into gear and slowly let out the clutch to start the vehicle off at a crawl. Relieved to be ignored, Maggie shakily un­wrapped the wet scarf and peeled her sodden work gloves from her hands. Her clothing was coated with ice, and she felt soaked to the bone as it started to melt. She fumbled for the seat belt, forced to give up when she couldn't get her fingers to cooperate enough to buckle it.