The Bad Penny Read online

  Hating that she had to betray how cold she really was, she held out her hands toward the hot jets of air coming from the dashboard. She flexed her fingers in hopes of warming them more quickly, then instinctively grabbed the armrest when the pickup started to skid.

  Ethan growled as the back end of the truck swung around. The downward incline caused the vehicle to pick up speed. Since using the brakes would have made things worse, he had no choice but to steer into the skid to keep the big vehicle on the highway.

  It was a lost cause in a matter of seconds as the pickup went totally out of control. The skid Ethan couldn't cor­rect sent them into a spin toward the deep, wide ditch on Maggie's side of the highway. She could only grip the armrest as the big vehicle whirled around to tumble backward and sideways over the shoulder of the high­way.

  Maggie was pitched violently toward Ethan's side of the truck cab, cracking her head against the steering wheel as the pickup came to a bone-jarring halt.

  Ethan stared down at the pale, wind-burned face illu­minated by the lights of the dashboard. Maggie lay limp as a wet rag doll across his lap, and he muttered a string of curses when he realized she was unconscious. His cursing stopped midstream as he felt the involuntary tremors that shook her body. She must have been half- frozen.

  A rush of protectiveness swept through him. Tenderly he brought his hand up to cup her cold cheek and turn her face more fully toward him. A contusion above her tem­ple at the hairline seeped a trickle of blood and was al­ready beginning to swell.

  The abrupt jerk of the truck as it slipped a few inches farther down the side of the ditch distracted him. He peered out the windshield and swiftly took stock of the situation.

  With luck, he might be able to steer the pickup to the bottom of the ditch without rolling it. From there, it should be possible to drive until the bottom of the ditch rose close enough to the level of the highway for him to drive out.

  Then, depending on how badly off Maggie was, he'd decide whether to take her back home until the roads were safer or hazard taking her directly to the doctor in town.

  Much as he'd like to blame Maggie for this, he knew the fault was his own. If he'd had the chains on the tires in the first place, or stopped to put them on, they might not be sitting in a ditch in the middle of an ice storm.

  He looked down into Maggie's still face with concern. If he'd noticed she'd not had her seat belt buckled and done it himself, she wouldn't be lying across his lap, out cold, probably with a concussion.

  "And I wouldn't be feeling so damned responsible for this." His voice softened to a rough whisper as he gazed down at her. "I thought cattle rustlers and ex-cons were tough." His fingers lightly caressed her cool cheek, lin­gering on its softness in a gesture that was part apology, part impulse. "It'd be easier on both of us if you were."

  Seeing no sign that Maggie was hurt in any other way, he gently slid his hands beneath her and lifted until she was leaning against his right side. Clenching his jaw, he restarted the truck and slipped it into gear to angle it deeper into the ditch.

  Maggie came to as Ethan got the truck leveled out at the bottom. Stunned and disoriented, she stirred and tried to sit up straighter, realizing she'd been leaning heavily against Ethan's side.

  "You all right?"

  Maggie shook her head slightly to clear it, flinching at the shock of pain that pierced her temple at the move­ment. She tried to lean away from Ethan, but breaking contact with the solid warmth of his side sent a fresh chill through her.

  "Maggie?" The concern in Ethan's voice caused her to look at him directly. The chiseled angles of his face looked less formidable now, and his dark eyes were intent on her.

  Unnerved by the change in him, she looked away and inched farther toward her side of the wide bench seat. "I'm fine." She reached up to gingerly touch the area of swelling above her temple. "Just a little bump."

  Ethan's arm brushed hers as he reached behind the seat. He pulled out a coarse blanket and handed it to her. "Go ahead and wrap yourself in this while I try to get the chains on."

  When she seemed slow to respond, he unfolded the blanket, then draped it around her. She made a small sound of protest when he smoothed the blanket across her lap and tucked the edges around her thighs. The sound caught his attention for a moment and he paused.

  Was it only because she was so cold that his hands seemed to burn through the blanket to the wet denim plastered to her chilled skin? As he leaned across her to finish the task, their eyes clung together in the shadowy interior of the cab. She could feel his warm, mint-scented breath on her flushed cheeks; and the woodsy after-shave- and-leather smell of him surrounded her. His masculin­ity was smothering in the close confines, but instead of feeling alarmed at the sensation, she found it oddly reas­suring. She felt safe in a way she hadn't in years, while at the same time threatened by something she couldn't put words to.

  Ethan was the one who abruptly broke contact and moved away. She closed her eyes wearily and listened as he opened the truck door and rummaged on the floor be­hind the seat. She heard the heavy clink of the chains as he dragged them out and snapped the door closed.

  Putting the chains on took him longer than it would have on smoother ground in daylight, but at last he climbed back inside. Maggie's eyes popped open in sur­prise when he reached over to fasten her seat belt. He was so quick about it that he gave the impression she was just so much cargo that had to be secured before a rough ride.

  The drive along the bottom of the ditch was slow and bumpy, and her head pounded with every jolt. Several times it seemed as if the chains couldn't gain enough pur­chase on the ice-coated grass. Eventually the ditch be­came more shallow until it was almost level with the shoulder of the highway. Ethan abruptly steered toward the side of the ditch.

  With a roar of a big engine and a couple of jarring lurches, the truck was on the highway, half on the shoul­der and half on the pavement. Ethan shifted into neutral, set the brake, then looked at her. "How's the head?"

  With a sinking feeling of disappointment, Maggie knew he was all set to turn the big truck west and drive her to Red Horse. "Nothing a little aspirin won't cure," she an­swered, but he stared at her skeptically.

  "Feel dizzy or sick to your stomach?"

  "No, just cold. I'll be fine once we get to town."

  Maggie had to look away from his intent study of her face. The silence, broken only by the ceaseless pelt of sleet on the roof and the measured swish of the wiper blades, stretched out.

  "Honey, in case you hadn't noticed, the weather's pretty foul." Ethan's rough tone gave his sarcastic words an added sting. Maggie's eyes flew to meet the renewed hardness in his. "If you think I plan to risk my tail a sec­ond time for you tonight, think again."

  Maggie's shock switched to an anger that deepened the color in her cheeks and brought all her self-protective in­stincts to alert. For a few moments she'd been lured into thinking Ethan was genuinely concerned about her. His small bit of kindness had slipped past her defenses with humiliating ease, stirring a hunger for tenderness that shamed her now. She must have hit her head harder than she thought.

  "I didn't ask you to risk your tail in the first place," she pointed out. "I wouldn't expect you to risk it now if I didn't think you'd rather eat barbed wire than have me set foot on your ranch."

  For what seemed like an eternity, their gazes clashed, flashing warnings neither of them gave voice to. The ten­sion inside the truck grew unbearable before Ethan jammed the engine into gear.

  Maggie didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until he cranked the wheel to the left and turned the truck toward home. Exhaustion eased the stiffness from her body and blunted her anger as she faced forward to stare wearily out the windshield. It was a relief to know she had someplace to stay tonight, even if it were grudgingly of­fered. She wasn't certain Red Horse had a motel. The thought that she might have gone on into town soaking wet and half-frozen, then not been able to find a room, was one she hadn't wanted to consider.

  Maggie chanced a careful look at Ethan. Judging by the iron set of his jaw, nothing short of the severity of the storm could have persuaded him to come after her. She was too wet and too cold to care. She wouldn't even mind his harshness. She wasn't used to kindness, anyway, these days, and as she'd already learned, she was far too emo­tionally vulnerable to resist it. In the long run, he'd be doing her an enormous favor if he remained hostile.

  Maggie shrugged deeper into the blanket as Ethan carefully turned the pickup off the highway. The rhyth­mic ringing of the chains on the pavement was suddenly muffled as the tires rolled onto the gravel driveway of the ranch. The ride was less precarious from there. Maggie's eyelids drooped tiredly as the lights of the big ranch house came into sight.

  A wave of emotion stole over her as the golden glow of lighted windows brought back the feeling of coming home. How many nights of her life had she ridden to the house after a hard day and been greeted by such a wel­coming sight? A lump of homesickness formed in her throat. The ranch she'd grown up on was gone now. By the time her father died, hard times had driven the ranch into the red, and she'd had to struggle day and night to hold on to it. Later, the legal fees for her defense and the heavy fines the judge had imposed at her sentencing had forced it onto the auction block.

  Four generations of Deatons had run cattle on that northern Wyoming land, through boom times and bad, but she was the Deaton who'd finally lost it all. She felt no less guilty knowing the ranch's last decline had started long before she'd taken over, or that her stepbrother's shady dealings had finished it off.

  The abrupt silence of the big engine as Ethan switched it off brought her back to the present. She glanced his way, sensing by the stony set of his profile that he was about to say
something unpleasant. She thought in­stantly of his little daughter and how sorely his fatherly instinct to protect the child must be chafing him now.

  "You can relax, Mr. Kincaid. I was convicted of steal­ing livestock, not small children. If your cook could find me something to eat and a thermos of something hot, a dry spot in one of your heated barns would do fine."

  Ethan's head jerked around, the hardness in his eyes like charred steel.

  At his thunderous expression, one corner of her mouth lifted in a weary twist. "And I'm not a good enough thief to make off with too many cattle in this kind of weather."

  The blistering curse that assaulted her ears made her wince. Suddenly he reached for her. Panicked by his abrupt action, Maggie drew away in alarm. The hand she'd thrust from beneath the blanket in self-defense struck his sharply, and she gasped when he seized her wrist in his big fist. A battle ensued as she tried to free it from his unrelenting grip while he reached for her with his other hand. The click of her seat belt release and the roll and snap of its recoil startled her.

  "Just what in hell did you think I was going to do, hit you?" he demanded, his voice pounding her eardrums in the closed cab as his grip on her wrist brought her closer to him.

  The answer was in the shadowy depths of her fright­ened eyes and the pallor of her tense features as she braced her other hand against him. Ethan sensed if he let her go now, she'd run. The notion bothered him.

  "Dammit, Maggie, I'm a man who growls a lot and swears too much, but I've never hit a woman in my life." He paused as if realizing he was nearly roaring at her. Something barely perceptible flickered over his face, tell­ing Maggie that the small bit of personal information he'd volunteered about himself had been as unintentional as it had been spontaneous.

  In that instant Maggie sensed that an emotional line was being crossed, a line that was emphasized by the way they were touching each other. Their reluctant embrace con­nected strongly to something intense in them both. Blue eyes locked into black as a strange quickening surged be­tween them.

  It was Ethan who withdrew first, his expression turn­ing hard again, his dark eyes shielding everything from her but anger. He released her slowly and she pulled back.

  "Take that blanket and go on into the house. I'll get your things."

  Relieved he was no longer touching her, Maggie rallied and shoved the blanket in his direction. "I'll get them myself." Fumbling for her wet gloves and scarf, she wasted no time in getting her door open. Balancing pre­cariously on the slick running board of the truck, she reached into the back to begin lifting out her cases. Her head pounded as she leaned over the side to where the cases had shifted. To her surprise, her hand shook as she stretched out her arm to catch hold of the strap to the overnight case.

  She was about to drag the case toward her when Ethan reached from the driver's side and pulled the strap from her fingers. Just that quickly, he snatched up the handles to all three cases in one big hand, lifted them over the side and started for the house before she could voice a pro­test. Left hanging over the side of the pickup, her head aching, the wind and sleet still lashing at her, Maggie was secretly glad Ethan had ignored her stubborn declara­tion.

  She as much slipped off the running board as stepped off, the icy footing on the ground forcing her to cling to the side of the truck until she made her way past it to­ward the porch. She'd just reached it when the door swung open and Ethan leaned down to catch her elbow. His firm grip steadied her ascent of the slick steps more than she wanted him to know. The moment she was safely inside she pulled away, relieved to escape the odd flurry of emotion his touch had provoked.

  "Might as well take those boots off. Find a peg to hang your things. You can see to getting them dried later." Having already removed his boots and outer gear, Ethan turned and stepped through the inner door to the kitchen. Maggie made quick use of the bootjack and found enough empty pegs on the porch wall to hang her coat, hat and scarf. She draped her gloves across the top of the boots, which she'd set on the edge of a throw rug.

  Eager to reach the warmth inside, she hurried into the kitchen and closed the door. The heat in the big room provoked more chill tremors and she gritted her teeth till her jaws hurt to keep them from chattering.

  Ethan was crouched next to her luggage, using the blanket he'd carried in from the truck to wipe the cases dry.

  "Good Lord, girl, you must be half-frozen!" Alva ex­claimed as she bustled into the kitchen and caught sight of Maggie. "We'd better get you out of those wet clothes and into a hot bath."

  "I'll take care of it." Ethan's voice cut across Alva's concern, drawing a surprised look from the woman. He rose to his full height and tossed the wet blanket in the general direction of a chair. "You see Jamie gets to bed."

  Alva bristled at Ethan's brusque tone but said nothing as she turned to leave the room.

  Ethan glanced Maggie's way, letting his dark eyes sweep over her once before he crossed to the coffee percolator on the counter. In short order, he'd pulled two big mugs out of the cupboard and filled them close to the brim, then he held one out for her.

  Maggie stepped forward and took the mug. Unfortu­nately the tremors she couldn't suppress made her hands shake. Before he'd completely released the cup, her un­steady grip sent some of the scalding liquid spilling onto his fingers.

  "I'm sorry." Maggie's hasty apology and quick look up into Ethan's harsh features was received with a curt "No harm done" before he stepped past her with his coffee and gathered up her bags. He carried them from the room, leaving Maggie to follow.

  Carefully holding the mug with both hands, Maggie trailed behind, hesitating for a cautious sip of coffee be­fore she stepped into the hall. Savoring the taste of the strong brew and the heat that seeped down her throat to warm her insides, Maggie got a firmer grip on the mug and continued on. She was little more than halfway down the dim hall when the sensation of being closed in hit.

  Restlessness churned in her stomach, affecting her as forcefully as it had on the bus. The ride in the pickup hadn't provoked any hint of this crowded, stifling feel­ing, so she'd all but forgotten it. Until now.

  Anxiety swelled in her chest, blossoming in every di­rection and sending a new kind of tremor through her. Desperate to fight it, Maggie tried to concentrate on any­thing that would relieve the awful sensation.

  Ahead of her, much farther down the hall that now seemed unnaturally narrow, Ethan strode, his wide- shouldered body easily clearing both walls. Though he carried a coffee mug in one hand and gripped the awk­ward bulk of her luggage in the other, he had more than enough space to maneuver. That he could do something as simple as walk down a hall with such ease and uncon­cern increased her sense of panic. What was happening to her?

  "You coming?" Ethan had disappeared from the hall and had called out from one of the doors near its end. As ashamed of her irrational cowardice as she was confused by it, Maggie hurried along, relieved when she reached the room Ethan was waiting in.

  Miraculously, once she stepped into the softly lit guest room, her panic began to ease. The annoyance stamped so plainly on Ethan's stern features brought her a tiny niggle of anger that, oddly, seemed to blunt the panic even more.

  "You can sleep here tonight. My room's across the hall." He nodded in that direction, his reason for letting her know as clear as an outright admission of mistrust. "Better get that hot bath. We'll eat in the living room later." With that, he stepped past her and closed the door on his way out.

  But the moment the door clicked shut, something dark and frightening was triggered in Maggie. Without hesita­tion, she turned toward the door, grabbing wildly at the knob to jerk it open. Somehow, instead of flinging the door wide as fear demanded, she managed to regain con­trol and to pull it open only a few inches. Relief swamped her and she rested her forehead against the smooth, stained wood, waiting for her racing heart to slow.

  At last the panic settled, but left in its wake a bewilder­ing sense of dread.

  Maggie leaned back in the steamy water of her bath, at a loss to understand what was wrong with her. Rarely did anything truly frighten her. Yet as she glanced toward the open door of the guest-room bath, she was uncomfort­ably aware that closed doors and small spaces had the power to send her into unreasonable panic.