The Texan's Secret

Dane would be pleased to know that his girls were all happy, and living in High Cotton. Maddie had married Walker, the constable, and they had three kids. Cait and Judd had twin boys. Dane’s wild daughter, Sky, was expecting her second child. Dane was surely resting in peace.

Chance just wished…

The brutal wind tugged at the three-quarter-ton truck as if it were a play toy. Spring was knocking on winter’s door, but winter, Mother Nature’s stepchild, was set on claiming more time. She would soon tire, though. Calving season was around the corner at the ranch and Chance would be busy. He wouldn’t have time for a lot of thinking, especially about his brother’s offer.

But as he drove steadily homeward, he had to wonder how long he could continue to keep his secret.

Could a Hardin be that strong?

SHAY DUMONT GLANCED at the directions in her hand while keeping an eye on the road. Southern Cross couldn’t be much farther. Miles of ranch land with thick woods and swaying grasses flashed by. She chewed on a nail, then forced herself to stop the bad habit. But here she was, on this lonely road in the middle of nowhere. It was a little unnerving.

What she had planned was unnerving, too.

How much farther could it be? Then she saw the huge stone entrance and the wrought-iron arc with the name Southern Cross welded on it. Bingo! This was it. Her heart raced and her clammy hands gripped the steering wheel. She’d waited years for this day, and nerves weren’t going to get the best of her.

The Calhouns were going to get the shock of their lives. Her mother had told her to enjoy every minute of the confrontation, but she’d never enjoyed hurting anyone. That wasn’t Shay’s nature.

She passed the entrance. For the first time she realized how hard this was going to be. Taking a deep breath, she looked for a place to turn around. Pasture lands stretched on either side of her, enclosed with barbed wire fences. No Trespassing signs were attached to the wire every half mile or so.

Before she could maneuver the car to the side of the road, her cell phone buzzed. She reached in her purse for it and clicked On.

“Have you reached the ranch?”

“Yes.” Just what she needed—her mother giving her more instructions. Shay let out a long breath, made a U-turn and drove back, the wind giving her an extra push.

“You know what you have to do.”

“You don’t have to remind me.” Shay tried to hide the bite in her voice, but failed. “How’s Darcy?”

“She’s in the living room with Nettie. The quicker you get back here the better. That kid is getting on my nerves with her loud, squeaky voice. Why you took her in is still beyond me.”

Shay’s knuckles turned white from gripping the wheel. She was the legal guardian of eight-year-old Darcy Stevens. Shay and Darcy’s mother, Beth, had been very good friends. When Beth, a single mom, had asked her to be her daughter’s guardian if anything ever happened to her, Shay had agreed. In their twenties, neither had dreamed that tragedy might strike them so young, but it had. Beth was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and had died within months.

Darcy was filled with so much anger at her mother’s death that Shay was at a loss sometimes about how to deal with her. She sucked at being a mother.

“I’ll be back as quick as I can. She does fine with Nettie,” Shay replied. Her mother’s cousin, who lived next door, was a lifesaver.

“Avoid that Hardin boy who’s the foreman. He could be trouble.”

“I don’t plan on talking to any of the cowboys.” A Hardin was the last person she wanted to meet.

“Don’t you let me down.”

Shay clicked off with the words ringing in her ears. They epitomized her whole life. Her mother had probably started saying them to her in the crib. Where most kids had cereal for breakfast, Shay had been spoon-fed guilt. She did not have a Cosby kid’s childhood. It was more like a Hallmark afternoon special.

But today she was going to make up for a lot of that.

By doing exactly what her mother wanted.

What was she doing? Shay’s mind reeled with unsettling thoughts, and she misjudged the distance to her purse. Her cell phone fell to the floor. Reaching for it, she turned the wheel too far, and the car slid off the road. Quickly overcorrecting, she glanced up and saw a silver truck heading straight for her. She jerked the wheel and the car left the road and barreled across a bar ditch, through a fence, and kept going.

She screamed when a tree came out of nowhere. Frantically, she jammed her foot on the brake, and the car spun, her head hitting the wheel. A searing pain shot through her, followed by a soft white light and then darkness.

CHANCE PULLED OVER to the side of the road and jumped out, poking 911 into his cell. He gave his name, location and a few details. The wind tugged at his hat, so he threw it into the backseat.

The operator told him there was a bad wreck on US 290 and that all available ambulances were en route there. She said she’d send one as soon as she could. As they spoke, Chance paused briefly on the shoulder of the road and took in the situation. The car had crashed through a fence, grazed a tree and was resting in the creek.

“Can you see anything?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes. The car is in Crooked Creek.”

“I’ve notified the volunteer fire department in your area and the constable. Help is on the way. Check and see if anyone is injured.”

Clutching his phone, Chance ran down the slope and leaped over the ditch. Please, not another wreck on a dreary March day, was all he could think.

“A small Chevy is slowly taking in water,” he reported to the dispatcher. He stepped into the creek to take a closer look. “Only one person in the car—a woman. Her head is resting against the steering wheel.”

“Does she have on her seat belt?”

Chance peered inside. “Yes.”

“Air bag inflated?”

“No.”

“Do you see blood?”

“No. But there’s water on the floorboard and it’s rising.” His eyes shifted to the front of the car. “Steam is coming from under the hood, but I expect that’s from the hot motor hitting water.”

“Yes, probably. Can you open the door?”

“Just a sec.” Shoving his cell into his jeans pocket, he grabbed the handle and yanked on it. “No. It’s jammed and the water is holding it tight,” he said, anxious moments later. The wind whipped the water against his legs and tousled his hair. His efforts on the door made the car inch farther into the creek.

Damn!

Memories beat at him. His mother’s blonde hair covered in blood flashed through his mind. Chance hadn’t been able to save her. But he would save this woman.

“Do you hear a siren?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Try the other doors.”

He did as instructed, but none would open. “They won’t budge, and the water is rising. It’s up to her waist. Where in the hell is everyone?”

“An ambulance has been rerouted from US 290, but that’s twenty miles away. High Cotton is one of those remote communities we have problems with, but the fire department should be there.”

“They’re not.” Chance bent and gazed in at the unconscious woman again. Her blonde hair was long and the tips were now touching water. “This lady doesn’t have a lot of time.”