across his brow. The hair was dark blond, and he was as tanned as a construction worker. His eyes were azure-blue.
He was dressed casually, almost insolently so for someone on a legal errand. His jeans were faded. The cotton shirt, too, was washed out, laundered so often the fabric was thin.
Yes, she thought, slightly awed, he looked like someone who lived on a sun-drenched island, who swam in the ocean every day, who was a different breed of man altogether from the land-bound cattlemen she knew.
The only thing that seemed out of place was that he had on cowboy boots, well-worn black ones, scuffed and down at the heels. In his left hand he carried a battered duffel bag.
A giddy, fluttery sensation filled her with bewilderment. He was a striking man, but handsome men didn’t have this effect on her—ever.
The expression on her face must have gone odd. He looked at her more closely and frowned. “This is Carolyn Trent’s place?”
Mickey, embarrassed by her reaction, tried to seize control of herself. She’d been carrying her reading glasses, and thrust them on as if donning a protective mask. The lenses blurred her vision. This helped her regain control of herself. Dimmed and out of focus, he was not as disturbing.
“Yes,” she said in her crispest tone. “I’m Mrs. Trent’s secretary. She said you’d be here. Come in.”
He took a step closer then paused. The sea-blue eyes had a critical glint as he looked her up and down. “And your name is…?” he prompted.
Her smile felt stiff, forced. “Miss Nightingale. Michele Nightingale. Er, Mickey.”
“Miss Nightingale,” he repeated with an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
“Yes,” she said, opening the door more widely. “Please, come in.”
She stood well back so that his body wouldn’t brush hers as he stepped inside. He stopped in the middle of the foyer and looked about. The living room was gracious, yet homey.
“Nice place,” he said, but he had that same edge in his voice.
“I imagine you had a long trip,” Mickey said, primly as an old-fashioned schoolmarm. “May I get you something to drink? We have coffee, soft drinks, sweet tea, juice, beer, wine—the wine’s local. Made just down the road, in fact. Or water, if you’d prefer.”
“Water’s fine,” Adam said. His eyes drifted to a painting over the fireplace and lingered there. Mickey stole a glimpse at him over the top of her glasses. Most men, seeing that painting for the first time, were bewitched.
Adam Duran also seemed struck by it, but his expression was critical.
“That’s Beverly, Mrs. Trent’s daughter,” Mickey said, keeping her teacherlike tone. “She lives in Denver now.”
He said nothing, just kept staring at the portrait. Beverly looked stunning; she was the sort of woman men could fall in love with at first sight—even if their first sight of her was only a picture.
Mickey turned away sadly from the image, for it made her wonder how Beverly and Sonny were, and if Caro and Vern had reached Denver yet. How was Caro holding up? If anything happened to this baby, Carolyn would be shattered, destroyed—Mickey could not bear to think of it.
Trying to push the fears from her mind, she went to the kitchen and poured a glass of ice water. Her job right now was to tend to Adam Duran. He should be told as soon as possible that Carolyn wasn’t there.
Carolyn had invited him to stay at the ranch, but with her gone, there was no need for him to stay. Mickey hoped he’d have the good grace to know it. Who cared about the technicalities of the stupid lease land at a time like this?
She carried the glass back to the living room and handed it to Adam, who still gazed up at Beverly’s likeness. “She looks like the sort that entered beauty contests,” he said. “And ended up marrying a doctor.”
Mickey didn’t like his tone. “She was,” she said coldly. “And she did.”
He smiled, as if smug about his own power of observation. Resentment tore through Mickey’s frayed nerves. Who was he to walk into Carolyn’s home and make a snide remark about her suffering child?
She no longer needed defenses against such a man. And she forgot that Carolyn would want her to be cordial. Almost defiantly, she laid her reading glasses aside and gestured at the couch.
“Sit,” she said, as much an order as an invitation. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
He raised a brow questioningly. But he sat. He didn’t sink back against the couch. He stayed on its edge, his posture alert, gazing at Mickey with narrowed eyes. “Okay. Bad news. What?”
She sat down in the chair opposite him. She crossed her ankles and clasped her hands in her lap. “Mrs. Trent and her husband were called away this afternoon. It’s a family emergency. I don’t know when they’ll be back. It may be a few days. It may be longer.”
He straightened his back and frowned. “I have to talk to her. As soon as possible. I can’t hang around here waiting. I’ve got tickets back home for Friday—”
“Nobody foresaw this, Mr. Duran,” she said. “It’s unfortunate for everyone concerned.”
He gave her a piercing look, almost intimidating. “You’ve got no idea how unfortunate. How can I get in touch with her?”
“I don’t know. She’s probably still en route.”
He gritted his teeth and cast an angry glance toward the ceiling, as if demanding that heaven give him patience.
Mickey said, “She invited you to be a guest here, and she’s not a woman to go back on her word. If you can’t change your ticket to go back sooner, you’re welcome to stay on until Friday or—”
“I can’t go back sooner,” he retorted. “The fare would be higher. I tried to get here as cheaply as I could.”
Well, Mickey thought, that was almost a point in his favor. At least he didn’t want to squander the estate money on travel expenses. But, still, his interest was only in himself. He hadn’t even asked about Caro’s troubles.
But then, though he still looked unhappy, he said, “What’s the family emergency? If I can ask.”
Mickey clasped her hands together more tightly. “Her daughter’s just had her first child. A little girl. The baby has a serious heart condition. They’re going to have to operate tomorrow.”
He looked at her, frowning as if such a thing could not be, should not be.
“A serious condition? You mean the baby could…”
Die. He didn’t say it, but the word hung in the air like a curse: The baby could die.
“Yes,” she said, her throat tightening.
“That’s lousy,” he said. “That’s terrible. I—I’m sorry.” The sarcastic tinge had vanished from his voice.
Her
