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Those would be the last words that Lucas McCloud would ever say to his daughter...yet the guilt heaped on Sam’s slender shoulders that night would last a lifetime.
One
Austin, Texas
1998
Sam frowned at the scribbled directions she held, trying her darndest to decipher her nephew’s scrawled handwriting. When she got back to the Double-Cross, she promised herself, she was going to make arrangements to have a separate phone line installed for her veterinary practice and invest in a good answering machine. And this time she meant it! Unraveling the messages taken by whoever happened to pick up the phone at the main house on the Double-Cross Heart Ranch was a royal pain in the butt.
She glanced up, peering through her truck’s bug-splattered windshield at empty pastures duck with overgrown weeds and cedar saplings. Snapped barbed wire coiled crazily along the fence line like a home perm gone bad, while sparrows splashed in a rusted water trough. Above the crumbling limestone pillars flanking the gate, a faded sign swung.
“Rivers Ranch,” she said aloud. Since the name matched that on the message her nephew Jaime had taken, she figured she must have the right place.
And if this is how Nash Rivers takes care of what’s his, she added mentally, it’s no wonder he’s got a sick horse.
But his abilities as a rancher weren’t her concern, Sam reminded herself. Only his livestock were. Still, having been raised on a ranch, the sight of so much neglect was a hard thing for her to abide.
Setting her jaw against her client’s poor management of his land, Sam turned onto the pitted road beneath the warped and faded sign and headed for the barn she could see in the distance.
An S-600 Mercedes sedan was parked at an odd angle to the barn, its silver-and-chrome body catching the sunlight and shooting it back, nearly blinding Sam. As she drew nearer, she saw a man pacing between the car and the barn. At the sound of her truck, he stopped and turned, watching her approach from behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Dressed in a gray pinstriped suit, he seemed at odds with the rustic setting around him...but well matched to the sleek, expensive car parked in front of him.
The dark scowl he wore sent a shiver down Sam’s spine. She quickly shoved back the dread of having to deal with him, and forced herself to focus instead on the animal that needed her care. Anxious to get to her patient, she parked and hopped down from the cab of her truck, pausing to grab her vet bag from the toolbox in back. “Nash Rivers?” she asked as she approached him.
He continued to scowl at her. “Yes?”
“I’m here to see about your horse.”
Nash slipped his sunglasses to the end of his nose and peered down at her. “You’re the vet?”
He wasn’t the first client shocked to discover that Dr. Sam McCloud was a woman, but his skeptical tone made Sam tense defensively. “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
Problem? Nash took his gaze on a slow journey from the top of her sweat-stained gimme cap, over her faded T-shirt and ragged jeans, down to the scuffed toes of her manure-caked boots. Yeah, he had a problem, all right, but it wasn’t with her choice of profession. It was with her.
She dressed like a down-on-his-luck cowboy and carried a chip on her shoulder the size of a Texas armadillo. She was gruff, mannish and about as charming as a coiled rattler. If a man could get past all that, Nash supposed he might notice the long brown ponytail that poked through the back opening of her cap, and a pair of piercing brown eyes that screamed a silent warning: “One step closer, buster, and I’ll jerk your heart out of your chest with my bare hands.” And if the look wasn’t enough to scare a man off, Nash supposed a fellow might wonder about the figure concealed beneath that oversize T-shirt and baggy jeans.
But not Nash. He wasn’t interested in women. Especially one who took such pains to hide her femininity.
“Not as long as you can do your job,” he replied tersely, shoving the sunglasses back into place on his nose.
But not before Sam saw the disapproval in his gray eyes. She glared at his back as he turned to lead the way into the barn, tempted to climb right back in her truck and let him find another vet willing to make a call to his pathetic ranch. But she couldn’t. Not when an animal needed her care.
Damping down her anger, she followed him, glancing right and left, taking in the empty stalls, the smell of mildew and wood rot that hung in the air. Though the floor of the alley was raked clean, everything else about the place screamed neglect.
Sam was so absorbed in the squalor of the barn’s interior, she nearly plowed into Nash’s backside when he stopped before a stall. Catching herself just short of physical contact, she took a hasty step backward and pulled her cap farther down on her forehead, shadowing her heat-reddened cheeks. Nervously wetting her lips, she avoided Nash’s gaze and turned toward the stall and the horse inside it. A bay, about fifteen hands high, peered back at her.
The horse did something for Sam that a man rarely could—he made her smile. “Hey there, boy,” she whispered, stretching out a slow hand in greeting. “What’s wrong with you, buddy?” A velvet nuzzle nudged at her hand and Sam’s smile broadened.
“Nothing that a twenty-gauge shotgun wouldn’t solve.”
Sam whipped her head around at the sarcastic comment, her brow furrowed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Nash pulled off his sunglasses and polished them on the lapel of his suit. “I want him put down.”
The vet bag slipped from Sam’s fingers and fell to the floor, shooting up a puff of dust. “Put down?” she echoed. “But why? What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing.” He slid the glasses into the inside pocket of his jacket, then rolled his wrist, glancing at his watch, his expression one of impatience. “How long will this take? I’ve got to get back to my office.”
Sam stared at him in disbelief, not at all sure she had heard him correctly. “Are you asking me to put down a healthy horse?”
He gave his sleeve a sharp snap, then lifted his hand to smooth it over hair as black as midnight. “That’s the idea. Now, again, how long will this take?”
Sam felt the blood drain from her face, then rise again as anger pulsed through her body. She stooped and snatched her bag from the floor. “A lifetime,” she muttered, straightening. “Specifically, his!” she added with a jerk of her head in the horse’s direction. She spun and headed for her truck.
The nerve of the man! she fumed silently. Calling her all the way out here for a job like this. Sam McCloud never put down an animal unless there was nothing medically left to offer, and only then if she felt she was saving the animal from more suffering. Grumbling under her breath about fools and murderers, Sam had almost made it to the barn door when a hand closed over her arm, jerking her back around.
Nash Rivers stood in front of her, his eyes narrowed dangerously. A sense of déjà vu swept over Sam as she remembered another time, another man who’d stopped her in just such a way. Fighting back the memory and the fear, she thrust out her chin. “Get your hands off me.”
Nash dropped his hold on her and took an impatient breath. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. I just want this taken care of as quickly as possible. I’ve already wasted several hours waiting for you to respond to my call. I don’t relish having to wait any longer while I try to find another vet willing to come all the way out here.”
“That’s too damn bad.”
Again Sam turned toward her truck.
Again Nash grabbed her arm.
Sam wheeled, her eyes shooting fire.
The look was warning enough. Nash dropped his hand. “Listen, lady,” he began, struggling for patience, “I want the horse put down. And I’m willing to pay whatever you ask. Just do it quickly, okay? So both of us can get back to work.”
“My work is saving horses,” Sam snapped. “Not killing them.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “That horse you’re so determined to save nearly killed my daughter. And I’ll be damned if I’ll give him a chance to try again. Now are you going to put him down, or do I have to call another vet to handle this for me?”
Before Sam could answer, a whirlwind of white-blond hair, clawing fingers and kicking feet came out of nowhere and attacked her. “You can’t kill my horse. I won’t let you!” the child screamed as she beat at Sam’s stomach and arms.
“Hey! Hold on there a minute.” Sam struggled frantically to get a grip on the little girl. Finally managing to close her hands on the child’s upper arms, she dropped to her knees in front of her, holding her in place. Though dried blood marked an ugly cut from hairline to eyebrow on the girl’s forehead, the injury didn’t seem to have affected her strength any. Her body remained rigid as she glared at Sam, her lips pressed tightly together, her cheeks red, her eyes puffy from crying.
In spite of her attack on Sam, the child’s concern for her horse placed her a notch or two above Nash Rivers in Sam’s estimation. “I’m not going to kill your horse, sweetheart, I promise.”
The girl continued to glare stubbornly at Sam. “What’s your name?” Sam asked, hoping to put the girl at ease.
“Colby.”
“Mine’s Sam.”
In spite of her resentment, the child sputtered a laugh. “Sam? That’s a boy’s name.”
“And a girl’s. Short for Samantha. What’s your horse’s name?”
The smile melted from Colby’s face. “Whiskey, and I’m not letting you kill him.”
“I’m not going to hurt him. But your daddy tells me that he hurt you.”
“He didn’t mean to!” Colby cried, her voice rising in panic. “We were just out riding and something spooked him and he shied. It wasn’t his fault! Whiskey would never hurt me.” She made two quick swipes across her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
From behind Sam came a disbelieving snort, then Nash was dropping down beside them, pulling his daughter from Sam’s grasp and onto his knee. “So how do you explain the bruise on your back and the cut on your head?”
Colby tipped her face up to her father’s, her blue eyes brimming. “But, Daddy, I told you that wasn’t Whiskey’s fault. I fell! He didn’t throw me.”
Nash stood, placing his daughter firmly back on her feet. “The results are the same,” he said, unmoved by her tears. “Now go on back to the house and let Nina tend to your scrapes.”
Colby planted her fists on her hips. “No! And you can’t make me!” She darted away before Nash could stop her and ran down the alleyway to Whiskey’s stall. Hitching a boot onto the bottom rail, she quickly scaled the gate and dropped down on the other side.
“Damn!” Nash muttered under his breath. “Now look what you’ve done,” he said, turning his anger on Sam. “If you’d put the horse down like I asked you, we could have avoided this emotional scene.”
Though Sam disagreed—and was tempted to get while the getting was good—something kept her in place. Maybe it was because she saw in Colby a bit of herself at the child’s age. Maybe it was because she’d also gone up against her own father—and lost more battles than she cared to remember. Or maybe it was simply because she was afraid that if she left, Nash would find another vet to do his dirty work for him. Whatever the reason, Sam dug in her boot heels. “You’ll break her heart if you dispose of her horse.”
Nash raked his fingers through his hair, turning the neatly combed style into dark spikes as he looked down the alleyway in the direction Colby had disappeared. “Yeah, but I’d rather break her heart than see her hurt by that beast.”
Sam lifted a shoulder. “Accidents happen. She could injure herself just as easily stepping off a curb as she could riding her horse.”
He turned to frown at her. “Thanks for the comforting words,” he replied dryly.
“I’m not trying to offer comfort. I’m stating facts. I’ve been riding horses since I was old enough to walk, and I can tell you right now I’ve hurt myself a lot more often walking than I ever have riding.”
“Doesn’t say much for your coordination, does it?”
Sam refused to let the barb penetrate. “She needs to have that cut on her head cleaned.”
Nash snorted. “I tried. She won’t let me touch her.”
“That’s certainly understandable.”
Nash snapped his head around, his eyes like flint as they scraped against Sam. She shrugged, refusing to let him intimidate her. “She’s more worried about her horse’s welfare than her own. As long as she feels she has to protect him from you, she isn’t going to let you near him or her.”
“So what do you suggest I do? Wait for her to collapse before I seek medical attention for her?”
In spite of his sarcasm, Sam saw the worry in the deep lines plowed between his brows, the concern for his daughter in his tightly compressed lips, in the depths of his gray eyes. That he loved Colby was obvious, that he was overreacting to an accident even more so.
But Sam figured if that cut on the kid’s head was going to get tended to, it would be up to her. She heaved a resigned sigh. “Stay here and I’ll see what I can do.” She strode down the alleyway and stopped in front of Whiskey’s stall. Propping her foot on the lowest rung, she draped her arms along the top of the gate. Colby stood inside the stall at the horse’s head, stroking Whiskey’s nose.
“Go away,” she grumbled. “Whiskey and me don’t need you.”
“I think you do,” Sam replied softly. When Colby whipped her head around to glare at her, Sam added, “I’ve already told you that your horse is safe with me. I would never put down a healthy animal.”
The battle waged within was obvious on the child’s face as she struggled to decide whether or not she should trust Sam. She narrowed an eye. “Swear?”
Sam quickly swiped a finger across her heart, just as Colby had done earlier. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“I thought you might need my services.”
Colby wrinkled her nose. “For what?”
“Well, Whiskey doesn’t need any doctoring, but you sure do.”
Colby touched a small finger to the cut on her forehead, frowning. “Daddy wanted to take me to the hospital.”
Sam stretched her neck over the gate, pretending to study the cut. “Doesn’t look that bad to me. A little cleaning, some antibiotic ointment, a bandage and you ought to be just fine.”
Colby peered at Sam suspiciously. “I thought vets just doctored animals.”
“Normally they do. But I’ve doctored some humans, too. In fact, one of my most frequent patients is my nephew, Jaime. He’s always getting bummed up in one way or another.”
Colby took a step closer. “This isn’t a trick, is it, so you can drug me, then kill my horse?”
Sam had to fight back a laugh at the extent of the child’s wild imagination, but she solemnly held up her hand, thumb tucked into palm. “On my honor.”
Colby scuffed the rest of the way to the gate. “Okay, but Daddy has to go, too, or no deal. I don’t trust him for a minute.”
This time Sam couldn’t stop the laugh. She didn’t trust Nash Rivers either. She swung the gate wide and Colby stepped through.
“This isn’t going to hurt, is it?” Colby asked, peering up at Sam, her fear obvious.
Sam closed the gate, her smile softening. “It’ll sting a little, but that’s all. I promise.”
“What’s going on?” Nash asked impatiently as he joined them.
Colby eased closer to Sam’s side, slipping her hand into Sam’s. The trust in the gesture touched Sam’s soul, but it was the stubborn thrust of Colby’s chin when she looked up at her father that rubbed a raw spot on Sam’s heart, reminding her of times when she’d stood up against her own father in just such a manner.
“Sam’s going to doctor my cuts and you have to go with us.”
Nash quickly shifted his gaze to Sam, his surprise obvious. “She is?” At Sam’s nod, he let out a sigh, one more of relief than frustration this time. “There’s a first-aid kit at the house. If you’ll come with me.”
Unlike the barn, the house Nash led them to was in good repair. Built of native limestone, the structure looked as if it had stood a century or more and could probably weather another one or two. A covered porch extended across the front of the house and down one side. Wisteria climbed the posts and twined around the railings, its branches dripping with fragrant pink blooms. Behind the veil of leaves, Sam could see two wooden rockers swaying in the afternoon breeze.
She tried to picture Nash sitting there in the evening, slowly rocking, maybe even whittling, while watching the sun set. But the image just wouldn’t form. It was easier to imagine him in a boardroom, his feet propped on his desk, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, while a flock of secretaries darted about at his bidding. With a shake of her head, she climbed the steps after him and followed him into the house.
The country-style kitchen they entered reminded Sam a bit of the one in her own family’s home, though the McClouds’ was more spacious and had more modern conveniences. Still, it was warm and inviting, with a round oak table scarred from years of use. Sam stooped to pick Colby up and set her on the counter by a chipped porcelain sink while Nash dug through cabinets, looking for the first-aid kit.
Tearing off a strip of paper towel, Sam wet it, then dabbed at the cut, cleaning away the dried blood and dirt. To her relief, she saw that the wound was only superficial, as she’d first thought. “This isn’t very deep,” she assured Colby with a pat on her knee. “You won’t feel much of a sting at all.”
Dubiously, Colby watched as Sam opened the first-aid kit Nash had laid out and selected the items she’d need. Nash eased closer to her side, watching, too. Uncomfortably aware of his presence and wishing Colby hadn’t insisted on her father being there, Sam gave Nash’s shoulder an impatient bump. “Give me some room,” she grumbled.
Obediently, Nash stepped back while Sam poured hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball, but he closed the distance right back up when Sam touched the cotton to Colby’s forehead. When Colby cried out, shrinking away, Nash grabbed Sam’s hand. “You’re hurting her,” he growled.
Sam froze as his fingers closed painfully over hers, her breath locked up in her lungs. Images pushed at her from the past, ugly and debilitating. Breathe, she ordered herself sternly, as the familiar panic set in. In, out. In, out. Just breathe, for God’s sake!
