Her Secret Son
Autore
Linda Goodnight
Letto da
16,5K
Capitoli
19
HarlequinChapter One
Cold, wet and weary, Harlow Matheson slouched low in the saddle and let Burr have his tawny equine head across the south pasture of Matheson Ranch. Days like this she wondered why she fought so hard to keep the two hundred acres of dirt and grass afloat.
If she didn’t miss her guess, the sun was up there somewhere, scurrying toward the horizon to escape the downpour. She wouldn’t be able see it even if she looked. The prongs of icy rain from bruised, swollen skies battered her, her horse, the earth.
Somewhere a mama cow, number twenty-eight, was giving birth. Finding her and her hapless offspring in this monsoon meant finding a pile of money Harlow couldn’t afford to lose.
If her sister Monroe wasn’t laid up with a broken leg, there would be another rider to search the timberline and creek banks. Poppy couldn’t. Not in this weather. Not anymore. Matheson Ranch was Harlow’s responsibility now. So was her family. All of them. Even the one who’d run away. Maybe her more than the ones who’d stayed.
Harlow sighed into the howling rain.
Could a twenty-four-year-old run away?
Technically, no, but Taylor’s leaving felt like running away to her sisters.
Harlow was the eldest, the one who’d practically raised Taylor. How could the girl just leave?
The ache that was her baby sister lingered, although the immediacy of the weather and a cow and calf in trouble demanded Harlow’s full attention.
Rain fell in sheets now, a toad-strangler, Poppy would say. Or maybe a gully-washer. Her grandpa had a saying for everything.
Using only her legs to guide Burr, she angled him toward the east and the acres of tangled woods, green briars and belly-high brush. She couldn’t see the trees for the heavy rain, but she knew where they were. She and Burr detested searching the dense, brushy, thorn-invested area, but it was the most likely place for a cow to shelter while in labor—as long as the creek didn’t rise and drown both mama cow and baby.
“Heifers always wait until the worst weather.” Another of Poppy’s maxims. “Then they go off and hide from you.”
He was right. Poppy was always right about critters. It was people who fooled him.
Harlow shivered, chilled to the bone, rain sluicing down her face. She’d braided her hair in defense against the onslaught of rain and whipping wind. Water dripped from the dark red tips, a waist-length stream of hair as ruddy as the North Canadian River. Her Stetson over hoodie provided meager protection, the brim forming a waterfall that obscured her vision.
It was because of this rain blindness that she almost missed him, the lone rider a hundred yards away coming down the rise. He was bent low over the saddle, his nose bobbing dangerously close to the saddle horn.
Harlow slashed a hand across her soaked face and squinted, but the pounding rain came right back at her. She shook her head, heard the slosh and slap of braids against the sides of her face.
Something about the way the rider sat the horse warned her. Something was wrong.
Nash Corbin figured he was about to die. He couldn’t hold on much longer. Truth be told, the dark, soggy ground looked almost welcoming. He was that exhausted. The pain was getting worse. And his arms grew weaker with each stride his horse took.
He could let go of the saddle horn. His body wouldn’t hold him up any longer and he’d tumble to the earth. Maybe he would. Just let go. Be done with it.
He desperately needed to lie down.
In a day or two when the rains eased, some random soul would find him, facedown in the mud. Didn’t most legends end that way? Dead and alone in some unsavory circumstance?
Not that he’d reached legend status, but news of his death would make the papers and all the sports talk shows.
He should have told someone where he was headed, but no, in his anger and hurt, he’d gone rogue, tossed his cell phone in a drawer, jumped in his Corvette and rocketed to the Oklahoma ranch no one in his current life knew existed except him. Not even his agent. Especially his agent.
The sharp pain tore into him again. He had no energy left to fight the agonized groan. Normally, he’d have held in the sound, but not this time. He let the cry rip from deep in his chest, a shout of pain and despair. No one would hear him anyway.
The deluge, coming down in sideways sheets, filled his opened mouth. He shut it. Shivered. Wondered where he was. He couldn’t be far from his ranch house. Unless he’d chosen the wrong direction. Which wouldn’t surprise him in the least.
He’d chosen the wrong direction a lot lately, in more ways than one.
Even Drifter seemed confused about their location. The dependable black horse plodded, head down, as tired and depressed as his rider.
Neither of them could see in this downpour.
How far had he ridden, wild and furious and trying to figure out how he’d let his life get so out of control? He had no idea.
And as if God really wanted to punish him, while roaming the woods and fields, his head in a very bad place, rain increasing by the moment, Nash was suddenly attacked with the worse belly pain in memory.
His coach would croak if he had the slightest inkling that his star receiver and Super Bowl MVP was about to fall from a horse, bust up his other shoulder and die in the mud. The cash cow was in bad enough shape as it was.
Nash’s forehead bobbed against the saddle horn. Once, twice. He tried to sit up straight but the pain struck again, a rip, a tear. Worse than the torn rotator cuff. Bad enough to make a lesser man cry. But big, tough pros didn’t cry. They played hurt. They played sick. They played, no matter the rain or snow or bitter cold.
Nash Corbin had played until his body couldn’t take it anymore.
He heard the roar of the Sunday crowd, the sound of money, the fame and the sheer thrill of victory, and remembered his mother’s admonition to attend church before every game.
He hadn’t. He’d been having too much fun being rich and famous.
“Sorry, Mom,” he moaned.
Her face appeared before him, the familiar dimple at the very top of her left cheekbone, her green eyes worried.
No, it couldn’t be Mom. Mom was overseas. Dad was gone. No one was left in this entire country but him and Drifter and a pack of hangers-on who’d leave the moment they discovered he was broke. Social media would go berserk. Probably already had after he’d disappeared without a word, but he was too out of touch to know.
Despair slammed him with the next pain, and even if he’d wanted to, he could hold on no longer.
Nash Corbin, the iron man who’d never passed out during a game no matter the injury, let the darkness overtake him.
With wind tearing at the tails of her slicker and threatening to dislodge her hat, Harlow dipped her chin and rode hard, urging Burr to a dangerous speed in this slush and mush. The sturdy cow pony responded with courage. His hooves made sucking noises in the mud.
As she approached the other rider, the man—for she was pretty sure by his size that he was male—slipped sideways in the saddle. Splayed hands holding nothing but air, he started down. It was a long way to the ground, and a hard fall, no matter how soft the mud below.
If he went down, she wouldn’t be able to get him back on the horse without help.
And he didn’t look capable of helping with anything.
Quickly sidling Burr alongside the muscular black horse, Harlow reached out to brace the other rider’s near shoulder. She gave a hefty shove.
A deep, agonized groan slid through the man’s rain-drenched lips. Harlow pushed anyway, her slight form barely able to hold him steady. She was strong for her size, had to be. She regularly wrestled calves into chutes and forced bawling cows to their feet. But, like his horse, this man was tall, wide, just plain big.
“Hey!” she shouted against the rain. “Are you okay?”
Silly question. He was as limp as a hot noodle, and the agonized cry had to mean something. “What’s wrong? Can you talk?”
His answer, above the deafening downpour, was silence.
Harlow closed her eyes for the briefest of moments. The calf she sought could drown, and if the cow was down, she could die too. Saving them both meant money in the bank. She desperately needed that money.
Her conscience pecked, and the decision was made. A human in jeopardy trumped money any day of the week.
“Help me, Lord,” she murmured, tasting the cold rain with every movement. “Okay, big guy, we gotta get you out of this weather. I’m gonna tie you on the saddle. Don’t fight me.”
As if he could.
With the well-trained Burr instinctively knowing when to remain still, Harlow jerked the lariat rope from her saddle horn and tossed it around the man before sliding to the boggy earth. Her boots sank to the ankle. She’d worked with enough struggling calves to be quick, and she tied the big man to both horse and saddle, his face down against the saddle horn. At least, he wouldn’t drown.
Something about him seemed familiar—too familiar—and the skin crawled on the back of her neck. But he couldn’t be Nash. No matter how wide his shoulders or how tall he was. If it was Nash, she’d leave him here, let him hit the ground and drown himself.
Her conscience tweaked louder, that pesky thing. Ever since giving her life to Jesus three years ago, she’d been determined to do the right thing even if it cost her.
If this guy was Nash Corbin, it likely would. He’d already cost her plenty.
“Sorry,” she whispered against the rain.
The Lord had forgiven her for a lot of mistakes. She didn’t want to let Him down anymore, even if it meant seeing Nash Corbin again.
In a useless gesture, she slung the rain from her hat, then clapped it back in place. The sick man was bareheaded, his hair so wet she couldn’t determine the color.
Nash’s hair was a rich chestnut brown. He had the kind of hair and face and physique that attracted women like bees to the hive. Back in the day, he’d been mostly oblivious, too focused on football, his ticket out of Sundown Valley and the ranch life he despised.
Not that she wanted to remember anything about the man who’d once been her best buddy.
Some buddy he’d turned out to be.
Please, God, don’t let this be Nash.
She considered removing her slicker and covering him with it. The fool had ridden out into this mess in nothing but a windbreaker, which was soaked through. It did, however, have a hood, so she tugged it up and fished beneath his chin for the ties. Her hand froze. For there, on his thickly muscled neck, was a small, round, keloid scar. Exactly like the one Nash had.
His skin was warmth to her chill. She jerked her hand away.
Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. The words were a prayer.
It was him. Nash Corbin. The one man she never wanted to see again. Couldn’t bear to see.
What was he doing here on her land? And why? When he’d left, he’d sworn never to set foot on a ranch, or in this town, again.
He’d kept that promise. Until now.
He groaned again, and Harlow sprang into action. Nash or not, he needed help. He’d be sicker if she didn’t do something quick.
Hoping the man was secured enough to travel, Harlow gathered the black horse’s reins in one hand, hopped onto Burr and started the long trek back to the house.
What would her family say when they discovered she’d brought the enemy to their doorstep?
But she knew, at least about her grandpa. Poppy would do the right thing. He always did. Poppy’s code of ethics was soul deep and too full of Jesus to do anything less. It was Nash who didn’t know the meaning of right or honor or ethics. He’d wanted to be rich and hadn’t cared who he hurt to get there. The dirty, rotten, lowdown scoundrel.
Harlow set her teeth, stomach churning, and mind abuzz with questions and worries about things she didn’t want to think about or consider.
Nash. Why now? Nearly four years had passed and not once had he returned to his family home. The formerly vibrant Corbin Ranch sat sad and abandoned on eighty acres of what was now weeds and saplings. The lawn had gone unmowed, the hay uncut, the buildings left to the mice and birds and wasps.
Through newly formed streams and standing water, down ravines and up the other side Harlow rode, leading the black horse. All the while, she kept a watchful eye on the man bobbing loosely in the saddle like the dead.
Harlow shivered as much from the ugly thought as from the cold rain. She didn’t hate Nash Corbin. Didn’t wish him dead. She did, however, wish him gone.
