locations.
Special thanks to my mother and stepfather for
providing me with a calm oasis in the midst of a hectic year.
Melanie Winslow placed her foot on the top step leading to the porch. It creaked as she put her weight on it. After all these years it still creaks. Maybe it was the eerie stillness of the night that made the noise seem so much louder than she remembered. Trepidation welled inside her, almost overwhelming the task she had set for herself. She fought the urge to turn and run.
It had been almost ten years since she last stepped foot on the porch of the house where she had lived for the first eighteen years of her life—almost ten years since the day of her mother’s funeral. She paused on the front porch and glanced back over her shoulder. The full moon shone brightly in the black sky, casting its silvery glow across the landscape. The crisp night air belied the fact that it was springtime. Melanie shivered inside her jacket, her Southern California clothes not suited to the colder clime.
The pristine whiteness of the fence lined both sides of the long driveway and the plaintive howl of a coyote broke the silence. From the main road the ranch looked more like one of the finest Kentucky Thoroughbred breeding farms than a working cattle ranch in the foothills of eastern Colorado.
She had driven nonstop from Los Angeles and was dead tired. Stifling a yawn, she stood on her toes and reached to the ledge above the front door. She was not sure exactly how she felt when her fingers closed around the key. She had half hoped that it would not be there, that she could turn around and leave, while convincing herself that she had made the effort. She suppressed another yawn. It had been more than thirty hours since she’d had any sleep, not counting a half-hour nap at a roadside rest somewhere in New Mexico when she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.
Mel inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The dead bolt clicked as it slid back. She placed her hand on the doorknob, then paused and gave another quick look back over her shoulder. Was it too late to turn around, get in her car and start driving back to Los Angeles? She took a calming breath, opened the front door and stepped into the living room.
A dark, shadowy figure lunged at Melanie, knocked the wind from her and shoved her to the floor. She shook her head, momentarily stunned by the force of the blow, then attempted to scramble to her feet. The large body on top of her pinned her to the carpeting. She instinctively struck out at her assailant, digging her fingernails into his bare chest. His strong arms prevented her from putting up much of a fight in her defense. The menacing voice rasped in her ear.
“Stay put unless you want your head bashed in.”
Melanie gasped for air, then gasped in terror as a rough hand grazed the side of her neck, brushed across her jacket, then settled over her breast. She knew her voice trembled with fear. It was all she could do to force out the words. “Please…don’t…”
“What the hell—” Shock did not even come close to describing Cody Chandler’s reaction to his accidental discovery. He jerked back his hand and jumped to his feet. Moving through the darkness, he flipped on the light switch by the front door.
The intruder lay sprawled on the floor. An oversize jacket covered a body that definitely belonged to a woman—there was no doubt about that fact. Her hazel eyes were wide with fear; her lips slightly parted; her short, dark hair in wild disarray; her legs encased in worn jeans. He felt some of the tension drain away as the adrenaline surge began to wear off.
Melanie gazed up at the large man who loomed over her like some fearful image dredged up from the bottom of her deepest fears. He was dressed in a pair of old jeans and nothing else. With the exception of the hard glint in his blue eyes, he looked as though he had just been roused from sleep. Her pounding heart and racing pulse slowed a bit as her fear subsided.
His tousled blond hair was matted on one side where he had been sleeping on it. She could see the pillow creases on the side of his face. His jeans had been pulled on but only half zipped, and the top snap was open. His hard chest was bare, as were his feet. A bit of calm settled over her as she took in more of his physical attributes.
The scratches she had inflicted on his chest stood out as ugly red marks on skin that showed the beginnings of a golden tan even though it was only April. Wisps of sandycolored chest hair converged into a narrow line that angled down his stomach and finally disappeared inside his jeans. His shoulders were broad and his arms well muscled. Other than the scar across his right shoulder and the barely discernible bump on his nose where it appeared to have been broken at one time, he was an incredibly handsome specimen of perfect manhood. She guessed his age to be late thirties.
He made no attempt to help her up from the floor.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”
He barked out his demands, making it clear exactly who was in charge.
The fear had passed and the anger set in. Mel scrambled to her feet, adjusting her disheveled clothing as she regained her balance. Now that she was upright, she realized just how tall he was, even compared with her five-feet-seveninch height. He topped six feet by at least one inch, maybe even two.
She glared at him defiantly while running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to untangle it. “How dare you attack me like that! You’re lucky I’m not calling the police right now.”
“You calling the police!” He unconsciously rubbed his fingers across the scratches she had inflicted, then folded his arms across his chest. “I’m perfectly within my rights to protect my home against intruders…and other undesirables.”
She inwardly bristled at his accusation. She was not sure which irritated her more, his referring to her as an undesirable intruder or his other claim. “Your home! No way is this your home. This house—in fact, this entire ranch and everything on it—belongs to Buck Winslow. I ought to know because I’m his daughter.”
Cody blinked a couple of times and shook his head in an attempt to clear the sleep. Had he heard correctly? This woman standing in front of him was Buck Winslow’s longabsent daughter? He never would have recognized her from the old high-school graduation picture Buck kept by his bed. Cody finally found his voice and blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “You’re Melanie Winslow? Where the hell have you been? And why have you bothered to show up after nearly ten years?”
Now it was Mel’s turn to be surprised. Just who was this man who seemed to know more about her than a stranger should? “Well, that takes care of who I am. Now, just who are you?”
“I’m Cody Chandler, Buck’s ranch foreman.”
“Oh, yeah?” Oh, great—brilliant retort, Mel, she said to herself. “No way, cowboy. The ranch foreman is Tom Collier, has been for years.”
“Not anymore. Arthritis. The doc suggested he might be more comfortable in a warmer, drier climate, so he went to Tucson a little over eight years ago.” He fixed her with a cold look. “But, then, you wouldn’t know that, would you?”
There was something about the sarcasm in his voice and his aggressive manner that set Melanie’s teeth on edge. He seemed just a little too possessive, just a little too much in charge. And where was her father? He had never been a particularly
