Book 2 of the Western Men are Made for Lovin' Series.
Trouble is something hard-edged rancher, Brede Kristensen, knows all about: his rambunctious daughter's trying to get herself expelled from school, his cook's run off, and then in the midst of a violent storm, he finds an injured woman. But protecting the beautiful mystery woman from harm isn't easy for the single father. Her warmth and laughter fills his home and the lonely corners of his heart. And even though Brede tells himself he has no plans to remarry, he can't deny that she would make someone a perfect wife... Someone wants her dead! Even though dark nightmares plagued with shadows of her past haunt her, Cheyenne accepts Brede's offer. But she didn't count on the sexy rancher, with his good-looks and sizzling kisses, making her want to call his ranch home! And now that the killer has returned for Cheyenne, he won't let anyone get in his way...
Cheyenne Maddox had no memory of the accident, or who she is. But she knows that someone tried to kill her.
Prologue
CHEYENNE ELIZABETH MADDOX heard her own soft cry, but the pain exploding inside her head made everything else surreal, distanced somehow by the realization that someone had made a mistake--a terrible mistake.
The man caught her wrists, pinning them behind her and shoved her, face first, against the van. "Goddamn it, bitch, nobody double crosses J.B. Nobody!"
"I don't know any J.B.," she whimpered. She wanted to scream the words, but her head pounded. Tears of pain stung her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
His attack was so unexpected that Cheyenne hadn't seen his face. His voice didn't sound familiar, yet she delved into the depths of her subconscious, trying to pin a name to the voice.
Terror hammered in her chest and she sucked in a fortifying breath. She didn't know who her attacker was or what he wanted, but her ignorance wouldn't act in her favor. She jerked and heaved against his grip, trying to gain her freedom. He laughed. The hateful sound mocked her growing horror. She knew her pitiful struggles only increased his cruelty.
"Thought you could go back on the bargain, did you? We've been watching your place, too. That big brother of yours, ain't gonna come save you, neither. And your friend--"
"Annie? What did you--"
He shoved her face against the door. "She didn't cooperate. Stupid bitch. All I wanted was the photos."
The man's hot, rancid breath assaulted her senses as he grabbed her by the shoulders to still her struggles. "Now, you're a smart little piece," he hissed. "Don't cause me any more trouble and maybe I'll let you go. Where'd you stash the photos?"
"Photos? I don't know what you're talking about!" She wept with rage and renewed her struggles until she jerked one hand free.
"Don't lie to me. I know you have them!"
The coarse fabric of his denim shirt rasped against her silk blouse and bile burned Cheyenne's throat. She jerked her face away from him and tried to focus her thoughts. The warehouse district was deserted this time of night. Cheyenne knew she had to keep her wits about her if she wanted to escape.
"Let me go," she pleaded, her heart battering against her ribcage. "I won't tell anyone what you did."
He laughed again--a sick, hollow sound.
Using her free hand, she struggled to turn around and face her attacker.
A heavy, knitted ski mask covered his features, but Cheyenne could see his smile. That's when she knew he'd killed Annie.
And he was going to kill her, too.
Desperation added strength to her efforts. Whirling around at the same moment he stepped back to open the door to the gray van, she grabbed at the ski mask and raked her fingernails across his neck.
"Goddamn bitch!"
He lunged for her. She kicked him in the shin, and smashed her booted foot against his kneecap. He cried out.
She turned to run, but he grabbed a handful of her hair and thrust her into the van. Before she could recover, he jumped inside, shoving her to the metal floor. He slammed the door shut and was on top of her before she could scramble away.
She screamed.
She screamed while he bound her.
She screamed while he backhanded her.
She screamed and screamed until he knocked her unconscious.
* * * *
Chapter One
THUNDER RUMBLED ACROSS the remote New Mexico sky as an unforgiving wind shoved somber gray clouds against a craggy mountaintop. Brede Kristensen tugged the brim of his Stetson lower on his forehead. The threat of a storm didn't faze him; nothing fazed him anymore. The worst had already happened.
He thought of the austere chapel on the northeast side of town. It had rained that day, too. The day they'd held the memorial service for his wife and infant son. He steeled himself against the lance of pain that remembering brought.
It had been three years since the car crash. Three years of trying to run a ranch and raise a daughter on his own. When was he going to stop feeling as if each step forward cost him two steps back?
Lightning forked across the sky and thunder rolled again, closer and louder. Brede yanked the poncho tighter around his throat as he walked to his truck, his boot heels cutting sharp impressions in the rich soil. Three generations of Kristensen men had worked this land and passed it on to their sons. Brede loved this fertile green valley, but wondered what the future held. Would the dreams for the ranch end with him?
He didn't have time to ponder that disheartening thought for long because two of his Queensland Heelers raced toward him, barking. He held out his hands palms-forward, signaling them to calm down, but they continued to bark, racing back and forth from the base of the dirt road to the gully and back again.
He jumped into the cab of his battered pick-up truck and followed the dogs. Rain spilled from the sky in an icy cascade as he climbed from the cab and shined a flashlight into the darkness.
What he spied at the bottom of the gully hit his midsection like an iron fist and sent him sliding down the steep gully wall. He was almost certain that the muddy form curled in the fetal position was human
He knelt on the ground and felt for a pulse. It was then he realized he'd found a woman. She was still alive. He yanked off his poncho and wrapped it around her. He cradled her against his chest and he climbed out of the gully. She gave a faint moan when he deposited her on the front seat. He hoped that wasn't a sign that she had internal injuries.
He ordered the dogs into the bed of the pick-up.
"Don't go and die on me now," he said as he drove along the gutted ground leading to the dirt road.
The truck's headlights picked out a water-crossing ahead of them where the muddy water swirled and churned. He ignored the slide of his tires against the slick, muddy ground. He gritted his teeth, shifted gears in anticipation of the swift current that swayed the truck and plunged through the crossing. Under ideal circumstances he'd take the woman to the clinic in town, but these weren't ideal circumstances. The bridge was washed out and the roads were flooded. That left Brede with only one place to go.
"Hang on, it's not much farther."
Her face was white and her lips nearly purple when he fishtailed to a stop in front of the ranch house. He had no way of knowing if she had internal injuries, but death from shock and cold was a likely possibility. He needed to bring up her body temperature.
He scooped her into his arms and hurried into the house. He took her into the bathroom, and turned on the faucets to the claw-footed tub, filling it with tepid water. Tugging the boots and socks from her feet, he tossed them to the floor.
"It's time to get you warm, young lady."
She moaned.
Brede peeled off her torn green shirt and black slacks, leaving her clothed in her bra and panties. He gazed at her body with a clinical eye, searching for obvious injuries, or broken bones, before placing her into the tub.
Once he was certain she wouldn't drown if he released his hold on her, Brede let out an uneven breath. He felt as if the marrow of his bones was encased in dry ice and he'd only been outside for a couple of hours. He yanked off his shirt and tossed it on top of her wet clothing on the tile floor before kneeling beside the tub.
Her hair wasn't the dark, muddy brown he'd imagined, but a rich, shimmering shade of auburn. He ran a hand through the strands removing clumps of twigs and dirt. He probed the area near her hairline where he found a gash. Once he was certain the gash was closed, he cleaned the caked blood away with a washcloth and focused his attention on the swelling above her brow line.
Brede swallowed, trying to ignore the thick, tight feeling wedged in his throat. He didn't welcome the onslaught of emotion that filled his chest and caused him to stroke her jaw with an unsteady fingertip. He reminded himself that he didn't need to be involved in her problems; he had enough of his own. As soon as the roads were passable he'd get her to a doctor and the police could take care of the rest.
Still, no matter how hard he tried to remove himself from the situation, he kept remembering how fragile she'd seemed when he held her in his arms. He felt as if he'd carried a sparrow, all feathers and tiny bones, out of that gully.
He cradled one of her hands in his as he watched her desperate attempt to cling to life. He prayed he knew what he was doing. He was a rancher, not a doctor. But he was her only hope.
Her long slender fingers brushed across his callused hands. Was she strong enough to fight off the cold and shock?
He was used to the harsh elements; his hands were those of a hardworking rancher, while hers belonged to a lady. Closing his hand around hers in a gentle grip, he willed some of his strength into her.
Too many things had died from harshness and neglect on this ranch--Brede promised himself that this woman wouldn't be another innocent victim.
* * * *
"MY HEAD HURTS," she whispered as she gazed at the man leaning over her. She'd never seen bluer eyes. They were dark-water blue with a touch of ice, a trace of winter dusk--and a lot of male attitude.
The warmth from the blankets seeped into her chilled body, but the sound of the pounding rain sent terror crawling through her. She bolted upright, her heart thumping so hard she couldn't catch her breath.
"Lie down," the man said with a cautious tone to his voice. "You've had some sort of accident."
She read concern in his eyes, and pressed an unsteady hand to her forehead. Her fear receded, but didn't go away completely. An accident explained the sharp, throbbing pain that was embedded in her left temple and radiated down the side of her jaw, but it didn't explain what she was doing here. Here being in the warm and comfortable bed of this good-looking stranger.
She brushed her fingertips against the tender area near her scalp, and tried to grasp a fleeting memory ... of what she wasn't certain.
All too quickly, the glimmer of recall was gone. A groan trembled against her dry lips, and the room spun around.
"Where am I?" she managed to ask.
"On my ranch," he replied. "I was searching for lost sheep at the north section of my spread, that's how I found you. How do you feel?"
How did she feel? She wanted to laugh at his question. Every place on her body hurt, but she didn't want to admit to the overwhelming discomfort. The man looked worried enough. She tried to swallow; her mouth felt as if someone had filled it with gravel.
"I have a headache," she confessed.
He frowned. "You probably have a concussion."
Confusion closed in on her. A concussion? That would explain the headache and the nausea twisting her stomach into knots, but how had she gotten a concussion?
She watched the man walk to the dresser and pull a quilt from the bottom drawer. He was tall, six-foot-three or more, and he was powerful looking. She could tell by his tanned face and sun-bleached hair that he spent long hours working in the elements.
"What do you remember?" he asked.
"Nothing. Everything seems surreal," she said as he placed the quilt across the foot of the bed. She glanced around the large bedroom. In the distance, she heard the rattle of thunder and tried not to cringe. "I remember the rain, and being cold, unbearably cold. I remember waking up and seeing you."
From the expectant way he stood over her he was waiting for her to provide him with more answers.
"What is your name?"
"My name?" Of course, she knew her name. Everyone did. She thought for a moment, waiting for it to pop into her head. It would come in a minute. All she had to do was settle down and relax. Instead, fear coiled in her chest as it dawned on her that she didn't have a clue. "I don't know," she admitted. "I can't remember."
Panic clawed through her. She couldn't recall a thing--not her name, how she got here, or even what she looked like. How could a person forget what she looked like?
She blinked back the hot tears gathering in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "You've been very kind to me and," her voice caught and broke on the last word. Her gaze locked with his and she knew her eyes mirrored her fear. "I don't remember anything," she whispered. "Not my name, not what happened. I can't remember."
The clouds vanquished what remained of the daylight, and he reached over and flicked on the bedside lamp. "Surely, you must remember something."
She caught the sympathy in his voice and clung to it. His words willed her with warmth and his eyes held such kindness that her breath lodged in her throat. The soft light made his features seem younger, gentler.
"No." She looked up at him, and sucked in a trembling breath. "How can that be possible? How can a person forget ... everything?"
He at looked her, as if weighing the truth of her statement. He was close enough for her to catch the scent of rain and wind in his hair. She hoped desperately that he believed her.
"Your memory will come back," he assured her.
"What if it doesn't?" she asked, alarm evident in her voice as she thought of the possible years of nothingness looming before her.
"You've had quite a bump to your head."
"And it killed some of my brain cells?"
He gave her a slow, tantalizingly male smile. "From what I can tell your brain cells are doing just fine."
She smiled back, her mood lifting. Maybe she wasn't in danger of dying. If she were, her hormones would not be dancing around in her body. The air in the room seemed short on oxygen and the temperature hovered near to the melting point.
Whoa, now was the time for a reality check!
She was injured and this good-looking rancher had rescued her and cared for her. She suspected she was under the Florence Nightingale spell, in reverse--or at the very least, delusional from the concussion. Either one being the case, it did not give her the okay to have the hots for this stranger.
Jiminy, for all she knew the man was married.
Only, he didn't look married. He didn't even look as if he were taken.
Images of this man plucking her from the clutches of the unforgiving ravine entered her mind. She remembered vividly how safe she'd felt in his arms, the solid feel of his body against hers, the softness of his voice, the whisper of his breath against her cheek when he'd murmured gentle words to ease her terror.
"You saved my life," she said, reaching out to him, silently imploring him to come closer. "Thank you."
He raised a hand to her hair and stroked its softness.
"Do you realize how close you came to dying?"
"No," she whispered. But she did know how close she'd come to death--she saw the truth in the stark expression on his face.
She'd felt his strength, his determination. He'd been the one who'd pulled her back from the edge of death and willed her to survive.
"How long have I been asleep?"
"Fourteen hours."
"Fourteen hours?" She swallowed, realizing the passage of time was difficult for her to fathom. Oh, dear God, what had happened to her?
His expression changed, and she got the impression he was about to give her some bad news.
"The roads will be passable in a couple of days. I expect the phones to be working by tomorrow so I can get a call to the hospital. When the doctor says it's safe for you to travel, I'll take you to town."
She nodded. "I understand." Even though she was sore and felt terrible, she knew her life wasn't in immediate danger. She didn't want to risk being out on a flooded road in order to get to a hospital.
"I found something in the pocket of your slacks I thought might be important." He reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out a silver key, and handed it to her.
She cupped it in the palm of her hand, as if she was expecting it to unlock her memory. Only it didn't. There was no flash of recall, no clue as to what the key unlocked, or what secret was hidden away.
"Ring any bells?"
"No." The lance of disappointment had her dragging in a painful breath. She wanted to remember; she needed to remember, but her mind was blank.
"Did I have any identification on me? A wallet?"
He shook his head. "No wallet. Just the clothes you were wearing. I'm sorry."
Her mind raced in circles. She looked at him, knowing her emotions were visible on her face. She wanted desperately to remember something.
"It's been a long day," he told her. "I think we both need to eat."
"I am hungry," she said, knowing he was trying to put her mind at ease.
"That's good because I'm not much of a cook. How about a bowl of soup?"
"I'd like that." She shifted on the bed, intent on getting up.
"Stay in bed and rest. Everything will be all right."
She looked into the startling blue of his eyes, and she almost believed him. She wasn't sure why, but this man made her feel safe.
"I'll leave the door open. Call if you need anything."
Her first instinct was to argue. The last thing she wanted was to be alone, but then she realized he was right. She needed to rest.
"You haven't told me your name."
"It's Brede. Brede Kristensen."
"Breed?"
He paused in the doorway. "It's Norwegian."
She rose up on one elbow and glanced at him. "Oh?"
"Aren't you going to ask me what it means?"
She felt devilment bubble to the surface. "No."
"No?" Surprised flashed across his face, quickly replaced by what must be his version of a "Norwegian poker face."
Everyone he was introduced to must have questioned him about his name, but she wasn't going to ask. He might think she was being contrary, or flirting with him, though neither was the case. She didn't want to know what his name meant. Its Norwegian meaning probably translated to: manly, purposeful, or sexiest of all the Viking chiefs. None of which were impressions she needed parading around in her brain at this moment. She wanted to focus on recalling what happened to her, not dwelling on the undeniably handsome man who was nursing her back to health.
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