Fear bled into her pleading voice. The accent was clearly American and Southern. “I have no intention of hurting you. How did you get here?”
“I…I ran my car into a ditch. I saw the fence and hoped there was a house nearby where I could find shelter. The baby is cold.”
“There’s no highway out here.”
“There is a road,” she protested. “I just left it.”
“An old logging road, but no one drives on that in a car. It’s full of ruts and dangerous potholes.”
“I know that now. But it was dark when I turned onto it and I mistook it for a driveway.”
He slipped his jacket over her shoulders.
It practically swallowed her. He was six feet tall and broad shouldered. She was a good six or seven inches shorter and petite. The jacket would keep her and the baby both warm until he could get her out of the weather.
She winced as he tugged the jacket tighter. He looked down and spotted the crimson stain on her wrap.
“You’re injured.”
“It’s nothing, just a scratch.”
But it had bled too much to be a mere scratch. Her story of the ditched car sounded more suspect by the minute. “Are you sure someone didn’t dump you out here?”
“I told you, I lost control of my car and now it’s stuck in a muddy ditch. I must have caught my arm on the fence when I climbed through the strings of barbed wire.”
She turned away, clearly not wanting to say more. He wouldn’t push the issue yet.
“Here, let me help you onto the horse. You and the baby can ride. I’ll keep the reins and walk beside you. We don’t have far to go.”
“Where are you taking us?”
“To a roaring fire where you and the baby can get warm. What is it anyway, a boy or a girl?”
“A girl. Her name is Belle.” She looked around. “Where am I?”
“On Bent Pine Ranch.”
“In Dallas?”
“Actually, you’re in a tiny community known as Oak Grove, but Dallas is the closest city.”
“How far are we from the city limits?”
“About twenty miles as the crow flies. Thirty miles if you’re not flapping your wings. Where were you going anyway?”
“To visit my aunt, but I must have made a wrong turn somewhere.”
“Maybe several. Where does she live?”
“On the outskirts of Dallas.”
“That covers a lot of territory.”
He helped the woman into the saddle and then zipped the jacket with both her and the baby inside the cocoon of warmth. “My name’s Damien,” he said, once they started toward the ranch house.
“I’m Emma.”
“Do you have a last name?”
She hesitated a tad too long to be believable.
“Smith… Emma Smith.”
That beat Jane Doe, but not by much. The swaying rhythm of King’s walk seemed to calm the baby. In minutes, she stopped crying altogether.
Questions about his own past withdrew to the back corners of Damien’s mind as the focus of his attention shifted to the more immediate concern of aiding the mystery woman and child.
He didn’t fully buy the ditched-car story, though he couldn’t come up with any more logical reason for her to be out in his pasture on a night like this.
It didn’t matter at this point. The woman and the baby needed help. Even if she was lying, he had no choice but to take them home with him.
* * *
EMMA STUDIED THE COWBOY walking beside her. He was ruggedly handsome, with a chiseled jawline, a classic nose and hair that jutted out over his forehead from beneath a worn Western hat. Masculine. Virile.
Protective. She’d never appreciated that quality in a man more than she did right now.
Hopefully he wasn’t the overly inquisitive kind. If he did ask questions, she’d have no choice but to elaborate on her original lie. If she told the truth, he’d call the cops.
Not that she wouldn’t like to sic the law on Julio, but publicity of any kind would make it that much easier for Caudillo to find her.
“You picked a bad night for traveling,” Damien said. “The bridges and overpasses are all slick and icy.”
“I didn’t expect it to turn this bad when I left home.” That was the understatement of a lifetime. She’d left last March, expecting a week in paradise. She’d gotten ten months in hell.
“Where are you from?” Damien asked.
“Originally or now?”
“Now.”
“Victoria, Texas.” Another lie, but she’d heard someone in the trailer mention it and she knew it was south of Houston.
“Where are you from originally?”
“Nashville,” she said, this time answering truthfully. She hadn’t lived there since…since the last major upheaval in her life.
The smell of burning wood grew stronger. She hadn’t imagined it earlier. A few minutes later, she caught her first glimpse of smoke rising from three chimneys that accentuated the steep lines of a multi-gabled roof.
The house was two-storied and sprawled out in several directions, as if it had stretched over the open land like creeping phlox.
“Who owns the ranch?” she asked as they drew nearer.
“The Lamberts.”
He surely wasn’t a Lambert, not wearing the tattered leather jacket he’d lent her. More likely he was just a working cowboy. “Where do you live?”
“You’re looking at it.”
That surprised her. “Do you and your wife have children?”
“Nope. No children. No wife, either.”
“So, how many people live in the house?”
“Six when we’re all present and accounted for.”
“That sounds like a houseful.”
“Always room for one more.”
