Chapter One

THUNDER RUMBLED ACROSS the remote New Mexico sky as an unforgiving wind shoved somber gray clouds against a craggy mountaintop. Brede Kristensen tugged the brim of his Stetson lower on his forehead. The threat of a storm didn't faze him; nothing fazed him anymore. The worst had already happened.

He thought of the austere chapel on the northeast side of town. It had rained that day, too. The day they'd held the memorial service for his wife and infant son. He steeled himself against the lance of pain that remembering brought.

It had been three years since the car crash. Three years of trying to run a ranch and raise a daughter on his own. When was he going to stop feeling as if each step forward cost him two steps back?

Lightning forked across the sky and thunder rolled again, closer and louder. Brede yanked the poncho tighter around his throat as he walked to his truck, his boot heels cutting sharp impressions in the rich soil. Three generations of Kristensen men had worked this land and passed it on to their sons. Brede loved this fertile green valley, but wondered what the future held. Would the dreams for the ranch end with him?

He didn't have time to ponder that disheartening thought for long because two of his Queensland Heelers raced toward him, barking. He held out his hands palms-forward, signaling them to calm down, but they continued to bark, racing back and forth from the base of the dirt road to the gully and back again.

He jumped into the cab of his battered pick-up truck and followed the dogs. Rain spilled from the sky in an icy cascade as he climbed from the cab and shined a flashlight into the darkness.

What he spied at the bottom of the gully hit his midsection like an iron fist and sent him sliding down the steep gully wall. He was almost certain that the muddy form curled in the fetal position was human

He knelt on the ground and felt for a pulse. It was then he realized he'd found a woman. She was still alive. He yanked off his poncho and wrapped it around her. He cradled her against his chest and he climbed out of the gully. She gave a faint moan when he deposited her on the front seat. He hoped that wasn't a sign that she had internal injuries.

He ordered the dogs into the bed of the pick-up.

"Don't go and die on me now," he said as he drove along the gutted ground leading to the dirt road.

The truck's headlights picked out a water-crossing ahead of them where the muddy water swirled and churned. He ignored the slide of his tires against the slick, muddy ground. He gritted his teeth, shifted gears in anticipation of the swift current that swayed the truck and plunged through the crossing. Under ideal circumstances he'd take the woman to the clinic in town, but these weren't ideal circumstances. The bridge was washed out and the roads were flooded. That left Brede with only one place to go.

"Hang on, it's not much farther."

Her face was white and her lips nearly purple when he fishtailed to a stop in front of the ranch house. He had no way of knowing if she had internal injuries, but death from shock and cold was a likely possibility. He needed to bring up her body temperature.

He scooped her into his arms and hurried into the house. He took her into the bathroom, and turned on the faucets to the claw-footed tub, filling it with tepid water. Tugging the boots and socks from her feet, he tossed them to the floor.

"It's time to get you warm, young lady."

She moaned.

Brede peeled off her torn green shirt and black slacks, leaving her clothed in her bra and panties. He gazed at her body with a clinical eye, searching for obvious injuries, or broken bones, before placing her into the tub.

Once he was certain she wouldn't drown if he released his hold on her, Brede let out an uneven breath. He felt as if the marrow of his bones was encased in dry ice and he'd only been outside for a couple of hours. He yanked off his shirt and tossed it on top of her wet clothing on the tile floor before kneeling beside the tub.

Her hair wasn't the dark, muddy brown he'd imagined, but a rich, shimmering shade of auburn. He ran a hand through the strands removing clumps of twigs and dirt. He probed the area near her hairline where he found a gash. Once he was certain the gash was closed, he cleaned the caked blood away with a washcloth and focused his attention on the swelling above her brow line.

Brede swallowed, trying to ignore the thick, tight feeling wedged in his throat. He didn't welcome the onslaught of emotion that filled his chest and caused him to stroke her jaw with an unsteady fingertip. He reminded himself that he didn't need to be involved in her problems; he had enough of his own. As soon as the roads were passable he'd get her to a doctor and the police could take care of the rest.

Copyright © 2005 Connie Vines.