into trouble. I can remember knowing how to call a bail bondsman at the age of thirteen. I never dated, I never took friends home with me. When I was eighteen, I ran away from home. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, and I don’t care.”
“That’s one problem Elliot won’t ever have,” he replied quietly. “Tough girl, aren’t you?” he added, and his black eyes were frankly curious.
She hadn’t meant to tell him so much. It embarrassed her, so she gave him her most belligerent glare. “Tough enough, thanks,” she said. She got out of the chair. “If you’re well enough to argue, you ought to be able to take care of yourself. But if that fever goes up again, you’ll need to see the doctor.”
“I’ll decide that,” he said tersely. “Go home.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that little thing.” She got her coat and put it on without taking time to button it. She pushed her hair up under the stocking cap, aware of his eyes on her the whole time.
“You don’t fit the image of a typical hanger-on,” he said unexpectedly.
She glanced at him, blinking with surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“A hanger-on,” he repeated. He lifted his chin and studied her with mocking thoroughness. “You’re Durning’s latest lover, I gather. Well, if it’s money you’re after, he’s the perfect choice. A pretty little tramp could go far with him…Damn!”
She stood over him with the remains of his cup of hot chocolate all over his chest, shivering with rage.
“I’m sorry,” she said curtly. “That was a despicable thing to do to a sick man, but what you said to me was inexcusable.”
She turned and went to the door, ignoring his muffled curses as he threw off the cover and sat up.
“I’d cuss, too,” she said agreeably as she glanced back at him one last time, her eyes running helplessly over the broad expanse of hair-roughened skin. “All that sticky hot chocolate in that thicket on your chest,” she mused. “It will probably take steam cleaning to remove it. Too bad you can’t attract a ‘hanger-on’ to help you bathe it out. But, then, you aren’t as rich as Mr. Durning, are you?” And she walked out, her nose in the air. As she went toward the stairs, she imagined that she heard laughter. But of course, that couldn’t have been possible.
Amanda regretted the hot-chocolate incident once she was back in the cabin, even though Quinn Sutton had deserved every drop of it. How dare he call her such a name!
Amanda was old-fashioned in her ideas. A real country girl from Mississippi who’d had no example to follow except a liberated aunt and an alcoholic parent, and she was like neither of them. She hardly even dated these days. Her working gear wasn’t the kind of clothing that told men how conventional her ideals were. They saw the glitter and sexy outfit and figured that Amanda, or just “Mandy” as she was known onstage, lived like her alter ego looked. There were times when she rued the day she’d ever signed on with Desperado, but she was too famous and making too much money to quit now.
She put her hair in its usual braid and kept it there for the rest of the week, wondering from time to time about Quinn Sutton and whether or not he’d survived his illness. Not that she cared, she kept telling herself. It didn’t matter to her if he turned up his toes.
There was no phone in the cabin, and no piano. She couldn’t play solitaire, she didn’t have a television. There was only the radio and the cassette player for company, and Mr. Durning’s taste in music was really extreme. He liked opera and nothing else. She’d have died for some soft rock, or just an instrument to practice on. She could play drums as well as the synthesizer and piano, and she wound up in the kitchen banging on the counter with two stainless-steel knives out of sheer boredom.
When the electricity went haywire in the wake of two inches of freezing rain on Sunday night, it was almost a relief. She sat in the darkness laughing. She was trapped in a house without heat, without light, and the only thing she knew about fireplaces was that they required wood. The logs that were cut outside were frozen solid under the sleet and there were none in the house. There wasn’t even a pack of matches.
She wrapped up in her coat and shivered, hating the solitude and the weather and feeling the nightmares coming back in the icy night. She didn’t want to think about the reason her voice had quit on her, but if she spent enough time alone, she was surely going to go crazy reliving that night onstage.
Lost in thought, in nightmarish memories of screams and her own loss of consciousness, she didn’t hear the first knock on the door until it came again.
“Miss Corrie!” a familiar angry voice shouted above the wind.
She got up, feeling her way to the door. “Keep your shirt on,” she muttered as she threw it open.
Quinn Sutton glared down at her. “Get whatever you’ll need for a couple of days and come on. The power’s out. If you stay here you’ll freeze to death. It’s going below zero tonight. My ranch has an extra generator, so we’ve still got the power going.”
She glared back. “I’d rather freeze to death than go anywhere with you, thanks just the same.”
He took a slow breath. “Look, your morals are your own business. I just thought—”
She slammed the door in his face and turned, just in time to have him kick in the door and come after her.
“I said you’re coming with me, lady,” he said shortly. He bent and picked her up bodily and started out the door. “And to hell with what you’ll need for a couple of days.”
“Mr….Sutton!” she gasped, stunned by the unexpected contact with his hard, fit body as he carried her easily out the door and closed it behind them.
“Hold on,” he said tautly and without looking at her. “The snow’s pretty heavy right through this drift.”
In fact, it was almost waist deep. She hadn’t been outside in two days, so she hadn’t noticed how high it had gotten. Her hands clung to the old sheepskin coat he was wearing. It smelled of leather and tobacco and whatever soap he used, and the furry collar was warm against her cold cheek. He made her feel small and helpless, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
“I don’t like your tactics,” she said through her teeth as the wind howled around them and sleet bit into her face like tiny nails.
“They get results. Hop on.” He put her up on the sled, climbed beside her, grasped the reins and turned the horse back toward the mountain.
She wanted to protest, to tell him to take his offer and go to hell. But it was bitterly cold and she was shivering too badly to argue. He was right, and that was the hell of it. She could freeze to death in that cabin easily enough, and nobody would have found her until spring came or until her aunt persuaded Mr. Durning to come and see about her.
“I don’t want to impose,” she said curtly.
“We’re past that now,” he replied. “It’s either this or bury you.”
“I’m
