by Laura Moore
There’d been a time when Ethan would have beat every passenger on board in that particular race. He was a gold medalist at disembarking from planes and navigating airports at top speed, his carry-on hefted over his shoulder, his stride eating up the carpeted corridors as the promotional posters welcoming him to whatever city or country he’d landed in passed in a blur. Now he remained seated as the plane emptied until only he and the crew standing by the door were left. A minute later, one of the female attendants hurried down the aisle, sympathy in her eyes.
“Are you all right, sir? If you’d like, we’d be happy to call for a wheelchair.”
“No, thanks.” He’d managed to get on the airplane. He’d damn well walk off it, too. Steeling himself against the dizziness he knew would come, he grabbed hold of the seat in front of him and hauled his body up, willing his legs to unfold. He stood and a fresh river of sweat snaked down his body. Swallowing his nausea and ignoring the flight attendant’s outstretched arm, he stepped into the aisle.
—
In the end, Quinn had no trouble recognizing Ethan Saunders. What was difficult was hiding her shock. He was so…gray. His skin ashen, the sockets of his sunken dull pewter eyes smudged, his gaze cloaked in heavy shadows, his short-cropped hair a liberal mix of salt with the pepper. Even the sweat on his face seemed gray, as though his body were oozing toxins. Were it not for the sling holding his folded arm securely about his middle, she’d have pegged the tall, gaunt man as a junkie battling the shakes. He walked with the brittle care of someone three times his age. A few feet behind him, a porter in a red cap pushed a loaded trolley.
“Ethan Saunders?” A part of her hoped she was mistaken. The other, wiser and sadder part knew she wasn’t.
He stopped and looked at her, then released the lips he’d been pressing in a thin line. “Yeah.” A second passed. “Who are you?”
“I’m Quinn. Quinn Knowles,” she added when his expression remained blank.
“The daughter.” He made the connection in a low, gravelly voice that sounded as if it hadn’t been used in months.
“The one and only.”
He looked far from impressed, didn’t even bother to give her a once-over, which was interesting since men invariably checked her out and then started grinning like monkeys within seconds of meeting her. Their reaction was off-putting at best, creepy at worst. So Ethan Saunders was either smarter than most of his kind or—
Quinn was presented with the correct explanation when Ethan abruptly lurched to the side and began heaving the contents of his stomach into the base of an artificial ficus tree. He was too sick to notice whether she resembled Miss Universe or Chewbacca.
A few seconds later, Ethan straightened, looking just as gray as before. Because there was no use pretending otherwise, she said, “You’re a real mess, aren’t you?”
This earned her a grunt. “I’ll live.”
“I hope so. I like funerals even less than weddings.”
His brows snapped together in surprise. Or maybe annoyance. He probably hadn’t expected her to joke about death.
Well, it was too late to reform her warped sense of humor. And somehow she sensed he’d appreciate her pity even less.
“Like I said, I’ll live.”
“Okay, then, we have an almost-three-hour drive ahead of us, so we’d better get a move on. My truck’s parked in a nearby lot. I’ll go get it and pull up outside in five minutes. There are benches.” Turning to the porter, she said, “I’ll tip you double if you wait until I return with the car.”
—
The minute they reached the curb, Ethan dragged his wallet from the rear pocket of his jeans, which now hung loosely on his bony frame, and paid off the redcap—with that double tip. He didn’t need a babysitter, damn it. Alone, he leaned against a metal sign in order not to do a face-plant into the sidewalk. The autumn air felt raw as a slap but good. He’d made it. Now he just had to keep what little remained in his stomach inside it until he reached Silver Creek Ranch, where he hoped to be left in blessed peace until he figured out what to do with the rest of his life.
A dusty red truck pulled up alongside him. The girl jumped out of it. He still couldn’t think of Quinn Knowles as anything but a little girl. Of his memories of Silver Creek Ranch, the ones of her as a pigtailed kid stood out.
She’d been kind of cute, with a cowboy hat that was a couple of sizes too big for her. It used to slip forward, covering her face, and he would tip it back up just to see how long it took before it slid down again. Each time he adjusted it, she’d give him a gap-toothed grin. She’d been one happy kid on the back of that shaggy Shetland.
Because his parents had drilled home the fact that he was extremely lucky to be riding out with the Knowleses and learning how to cut cattle from the herd and rope them, he was okay with leading her around—it gave him a chance to study the horses in the corrals and pastures. He’d lift her onto the saddle, guide her pink cowboy boots into the stirrups, and walk by her pony’s side while she chattered to the pony as if he were her best friend. No matter how long they walked, she never wanted to get off that pony. What had she called it again?
He hated that his memory, like his body, kept failing him.
He frowned as he tried to retrieve the name. He’d been able to identify all the horses on the guest ranch—they’d been his gold standard against which every horse he’d ridden since was measured.
No matter how spotty his memory, it was hard to reconcile the pipsqueak that she’d been with the Quinn Knowles of today. With her coltish legs, she stood nearly as tall as he. She must be in her twenties…so, not a girl. Yet she nevertheless struck him as impossibly young. Not surprising when he felt as old as death.
“All set?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He cast a look at the duffel bag and the black cases containing his equipment. Even though he knew he’d never take pictures again, the habits of more than a decade of traveling with his cameras and laptop were impossible to shake. Abruptly he realized his mistake in dismissing the porter. His gear was damned heavy and even his good arm had lost a lot of muscle.
He eyed the rear of the pickup truck, gritted his teeth, and stepped forward, only to freeze as Quinn swooped in. She grabbed the webbed straps of his large canvas duffel bag and hefted it over the back of the truck as if it weighed no more than a pillow.
Then she picked up one of his aluminum-framed camera cases.
He put out a hand, intending to issue a sharp warning, a “Careful with that!” only to swallow his words when the box landed as softly as if it contained three dozen Fabergé eggs. The second case was treated with matching care.
He had yet to unclench his jaw when Quinn leaned over the side of the truck. If he hadn’t felt like utter crap, if he hadn’t lost any interest in sex (a good thing, since he hadn’t gotten it up in months anyway), he might have appreciated the tempting wiggle of her ass as she rummaged in the depths of the pickup’s cargo area.
If he had, the pleasure would have been short-lived.
She straightened and, turning around, held up a black rubber bucket. “For you,” she said, handing it to him. “Compliments of the staff.”
She opened the passenger door while he stared at the bucket. “What’s this for?”
“In case you feel the need to puke again. I wouldn’t want you trashing my truck.”
His gaze swept over the interior. The dirt-stained upholstery seemed to be growing dog hair. Various collars, leashes, ropes, receipts, coffee mugs, and candy wrappers were strewn across the seats and floor. At the sight, something strange happened to him. The muscles in his face stretched his mouth into something that felt almost like a grin.
Few things had brought him close to real amusement in a long time.
The emotion lasted only as long as it took him to climb painfully into the truck. He hid a grimace as his shoulder brushed the back of the seat.
No sooner had he settled than she slammed his door shut, ran around to her side, an
d jumped in behind the wheel like a friggin’ gazelle.
The agility she displayed, the complete confidence she had in her body, was bad enough, filling him with envy. But then, without warning, she lunged sideways until her ear was pressed against his chest. Struck by a jolt of shock at the position of her head—a few inches lower and they’d be arrested—and the strange need that pierced him, he registered the splintering pain in his shoulder only distantly.
He sucked in a breath, then spoke through gritted teeth. “What the hell are you doing?”
She didn’t reply at first, only plastered herself more firmly against his ribs as she reached across with her arm. Straightening, she waved the seat belt at him before clicking it in place.
“Safety first.” With a damnably perky smile she scooted back behind the wheel.
He glared through the windshield, torn as to which angered him more: that he missed the pressure of her streaky blond head with its thick and somewhat snarled ponytail against his chest, or that she obviously viewed him as too pathetically weak to manage something as basic as buckling a seat belt.
The first only exposed his sad-sack needs. Forget sex. It seemed like an eternity since he’d been close enough to feel the warmth of a woman’s body or to catch her scent.
Quinn smelled of sunshine and pine needles.
The fragrance was implausibly sweet after the stale, antiseptic odors of the hospital or the rank stench of men’s bodies living in close quarters in a desert clime, the funk of the latrines, the acrid stench of gun and rocket blasts, or the reek of blood, fear, and death permeating the air. It pissed him off that with one careless gesture she’d made him think about all those things, when remembering what had happened in Afghanistan was what he’d come to California to avoid. He didn’t want to reflect, remember, need, or feel, goddamn it.
Still staring through the windshield, he spoke through a clenched jaw. “I’m injured. I’m not an invalid, and I’m not a fucking baby. Got it?”
He heard the hiss of indrawn breath as his words struck. He was pretty sure he’d wiped that chipper smile off her face.
Good. He didn’t want to be on the receiving end of any more of her sly wit or effortless charm. And while the Ethan Saunders of old would have gone out of his way to straighten out any SOB who spoke that way to a woman who’d merely, if misguidedly, been trying to assist him, that version of himself had disappeared months ago. The sooner she and everyone who came into contact with him understood that fact, the better.
—
What a jerk. Quinn was still fuming when she pulled onto the highway.
She wasn’t simply taken aback by Ethan’s snarky comment; she was embarrassed, too. After all, she’d only been trying to help. The guy had a sling strapped around his middle, and it was obvious from the way he used his left arm it wasn’t his dominant side.
Along with chagrin, resentment crept into the mix. Guys generally liked her—at least until they tried to sleep with her. It seemed that Ethan Saunders was the notable exception. Maybe he preferred hard-ass witches. Or maybe he liked women who sat around docilely and batted their fake eyelashes at him while he barked out orders. And why in God’s name was she even thinking about what kind of woman Ethan Saunders liked?
She glanced to her right. His expression was as stony as Mount Rushmore, but a lot grimmer. And to think she’d been looking forward to his company on the drive back home. Suddenly Acacia seemed far away.
Annoyed with both herself and him, she picked up her iPod from where it was wedged between an empty coffee cup and a crumpled ball of M&M’s wrappers, her favorite road candy—she liked to suck the colored coating off and then bite into the chocolate—and scrolled through her playlists. An impish impulse had her selecting the one she’d made for her mom for Valentine’s Day, because what better way to show her love than compile a playlist of the most treacly stuff on earth? The gift had been perfect. Her mom had adored it. And she would bet her bottom dollar that Ethan was going to hate it.
The Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love” came on in surround sound. Her truck might have over a hundred thousand miles on it and the suspension might be shot to hell, but the sound system rocked.
When a groan reached her, she bit the inside of her cheek to hide a smile and oh so casually turned up the volume.
Her brand of vengeance was sweet but unfortunately short-lived. A quick glance to her right revealed the tendons in his neck standing out in relief. His left hand gripped the bucket as if it were a lifeline. The sight killed her desire for petty revenge faster than air escaping a popped balloon.
She let her foot up on the accelerator and then flicked on the indicator, intending to ease into the breakdown lane.
His fierce growl put a stop to that. “Don’t you dare pull over, or I swear I’ll ditch this bucket and hurl all over your precious truck.”
But she’d learned her lesson. Sympathy didn’t work with this man. “Try it, buster, and you’ll be the one ditched. At the speed you walk, I’d estimate you’d make it to the ranch in about a month.” Ticked off as she was by his earlier rebuff, a part of her couldn’t believe she was talking this way to someone who couldn’t even arm-wrestle. But it seemed that, as medicine, rudeness went down a lot better than kindness.
Infuriated, he glared at her.
That was fine with her. She’d take his death stare over his emptying his guts any day.
“Who’d have thought you’d grow up to be a royal pain in the butt?” he asked.
“Who’d have thought you’d grow up to be a Neanderthal?” she countered. Giving him her sweetest smile, she began humming along to Neil Diamond’s “Song Sung Blue.”
WHEN QUINN OPENED her front door four hours later, she was greeted by a series of barks and leaps from Sooner, a figure-eight pass between her legs by Pirate, and eardrum-splitting squawks from Alfie, who was doubtless doing somersaults from one perch to the next in his oversized cage in the study.
Her friend Lorelei was the only sentient being under the roof who chose not to greet her acrobatically. She remained curled up in an armchair, reading. One of Sooner’s more ambitious leaps and spins must have entered her field of vision, for she looked up from her book. With a smile of greeting, she removed two bright orange earplugs. “You’re back.”
“Yeah. Brilliant idea,” she said with a nod at the foam plugs. Brushing past Sooner’s wriggling black-and-white body, she sank onto the drop-cloth-covered sofa with a groan of relief and patted the cushion next to her, so Sooner would know he had permission to join her.
Her cat didn’t need permission. Pirate jumped up and then took a stroll along the back of the sofa, brushing his body against Quinn’s head. From the study, Alfie began barking.
She grinned. “Boy, it’s good to be home. Got any more earplugs?”
Lorelei laughed. “No, but I can’t recommend them enough. They make all the difference. Francesco got them for me after our first takeout dinner here. He brought over these great burritos from this new Mexican place on Route 101, just south of Ukiah. The guac was to die for. He’s such a sweetie,” she said happily.
Francesco and Lorelei had been dating for almost a year now, and from what Quinn could tell, Francesco wasn’t just a sweetie; he also had intelligence and good taste. He was crazy about Lorelei.
“Yeah, you could do worse,” she said. “Like fall for the guy I just had to spend three-plus hours with. Luckily, he slept most of the drive.” The second Ethan had fallen asleep, his closely cropped head resting against the window and the tightness in his jaw relaxing somewhat, Quinn had eased up on the gas to smooth out the ride. Judging from the dark circles beneath his eyes, she had a feeling he hadn’t slept in a while.
“This is the guy you were picking up at the airport? The family friend?”
“His parents are friends. The jury’s out on Ethan.” She blew out a breath. “It’s possible he’s a prince.”
“From your tone I’d guess he was more toad than prince.”
Her parents had managed to hide their dismay, but Quinn knew them, knew what signs to look for before they were quickly erased. Even had they known theoretically what shape Ethan was in, the reality had clearly taken them aback.
It was strange, but despite their rocky start and Ethan’s less than charming attitude, she’d been reluctant to leave him. There was a part of her that felt possessive toward him, as if it were her responsibility to make his snapping, snarling self better. What was even odder was that when it became clear that there were at least one too many bodies in the cabin Mom had had readied and Quinn had offered a casual “See y’all later,” she’d felt the weight of Ethan’s dark gaze as she crossed the cabin to the door.
She’d been tempted to turn around, thinking, hoping, that his expression might hold something other than irritation or hostility.
She shook off the memory, telling herself not to be foolish. She was good with animals, not surly, injured men.
“So my beasts behaved?” she asked Lorelei as she shifted her hand to scratch Sooner behind his velvety ears.
“Oh, they were great. And once I got these babies,” Lorelei said, tossing the earplugs in the palm of her hand, “I could even hang with Alfie without rupturing my eardrums. You definitely want to invest in a pair.”
