The Rancher and the Girl Next Door

Claire pulled open the stubborn basement door and started down the stairs, descending into the earthy coolness, which felt good after the heat of the classroom. She had just heaved the box up on top of the lowest stack of rubber bins when she heard a heavy scraping noise, followed by a dull thud.

The door. Someone had closed the basement door.

Bertie must have come back, seen it open…

Claire trudged up the stairs and pushed. The door didn’t budge. She controlled a twinge of panic, twisted the handle and pushed again. Nothing. Someone had thrown the dead bolt. She began to pound with the heel of her hand.

“Bertie!”

No answer. Claire pounded until her hand was bruised, more in frustration than from any hope of being heard. It was pretty obvious she’d been locked in on purpose. Three guesses as to who had done it.

She sank down onto the top step and stared at the dangling light. About time for the bulb to burn out, the way things were going. She had a flash of inspiration and shot a glance over her shoulder at the door.

But the hinges were on the outer side. Drat.

The frog croaked and Claire’s shoulders slumped.

Could it be she was going to spend a night in the basement? Not if she could help it.

She rose to her feet and tromped down the stairs. The ventilation windows were covered with screens, and they were quite small. And high—probably seven feet off the floor. Claire glanced down at her hips, then back up at the window. What would be worse? Spending the night in the basement or spending the night stuck in a window?

It was a no-brainer. She was going for stuck-in-the-window.

Claire searched for some moderately safe way to get herself up there. With all the stored files and equipment, would it have been too much to ask that a ladder be among them? Apparently so. The only bits of furniture were rickety or broken. An old file cabinet wobbled when she tried to move it, so she started stacking rubber bins. The ones that were full enough to support her weight were also quite heavy. She managed to pile them three high and then climbed on top, grimacing as her hands pushed the damp, mossy wall when she steadied herself.

The window was now at shoulder level, and it wouldn’t open. It had no latch.

Claire said a word that was normally frowned upon in a school setting, then climbed off the stack of boxes to find something she could use to break the glass.

THE PHONE RANG just as Brett started working on his algebra assignment. He’d already done all the damage he could to his humanities lesson, and it was time to move on.

“Hi, Brett,” Regan said. “Have you seen Claire?”

“Uh, no. I left the bag of supplies inside her door. She wasn’t home.”

“She’s not answering her phone, and I’m getting concerned.”

“Maybe she’s in the shower.”

“For two hours?”

Actually, he could imagine that. Brett glanced out the window and saw the lights weren’t on in the trailer, shooting that theory to hell. “I’ll walk over to her house.”

“Thanks, Brett. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Maybe it was quilting night, Brett reasoned as he headed across the dark field, flashlight in hand. Or maybe she had a date. On a Thursday? Probably not. Maybe she was still working. That seemed the most reasonable answer, even if it was going on seven o’clock.

Claire pulled into her driveway just as Brett rounded the rear of her trailer. He turned off the flashlight and thought about disappearing when she got out of her car, but then noticed that she was looking…rough. Her white blouse and her face were smeared with a dark substance, which he hoped wasn’t blood. It was hard to tell in the fluorescent glow of the yard light. And her skirt was ripped up the side.

Alarmed, he stepped out of the darkness, his movement obviously startling her, and then he saw to his relief that the stains were not blood.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a remarkable amount of dignity, considering the fact that she was green.

“Regan called. She was worried about you.”

“Oh, that’s right. I was supposed to—” She broke off and frowned at Brett. “Well, thanks for checking on me. I’ll give her a call.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

She shook her head. “No. I think I’ll employ that we-need-to-keep-our-own-space rule you invented.”

“Suit yourself.” His mouth tightened as he fought with himself. She was vertical, obviously not hurt—physically, anyway. He’d love to know how she’d gotten smeared with green gunk, but it was none of his business. Still…“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?” She walked past him into her house, the tear in her skirt exposing a lot of leg as she disappeared. The door closed with a thump.

Brett stared at it for a moment, then turned his flashlight on again and started back across the field.

This was not going to be a restful school year.

CHAPTER FOUR

A GROAN ESCAPED Claire’s lips as she saw her reflection in the living-room mirror. She was green.

How had Brett kept from laughing? Or asking more questions?

She blew out a breath that lifted her short bangs, and headed toward the bathroom, where she cranked on the hot water and stripped off her ruined clothing.

Claire had made a career out of trying not to let problems bother her—instead, she let them bother Regan. Regan was a caretaker by nature, and Claire was more than happy to let her sister smooth out the wrinkles in her life. At least until that unhappy day when Regan had moved from Las Vegas to Wesley, and suddenly Claire had found herself dealing with her issues on her own. But to her amazement, after a few false starts and many long phone calls, she had done all right.

She wasn’t going to tell Regan about this escapade. Not just yet, anyway. She braced her hands on the sink and let her head droop as she waited for the water to warm up.

Reaction was setting in. Anger. Bewilderment. And a grudging appreciation for Ashley’s style of revenge. The kid was good. Now, Claire would have to be even better.

BRETT PACED THROUGH his house. He was supposed to be finishing his math, since it was due the next day, but he also had some work to do in his living room. He’d torn out the existing floor and was down to subfloor. There were bundles of interlocking hardwood flooring sitting there, and they weren’t going to lay themselves.

Algebra or flooring? He headed for his computer. When a guy felt like doing flooring, it probably meant he was avoiding something that needed his attention more.

Brett had figured it was going to take some work to bring himself up to speed in his studies, but he hadn’t realized just how much he’d forgotten, or at the very least, misplaced in his brain. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t used math throughout his adult life, calculating animal dosages, fencing footage, acreage, amounts of feed. But somehow, that came easier than solving for X.