Читать книгу: «His Girl From Nowhere»

His Girl From Nowhere

Tina Beckett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dedication

To my three children. Each of your births marked a new beginning. I love you very much.

Praise for Tina Beckett:

‘… a tension-filled emotional story with just the right amount of drama. The author’s vivid description of the Brazilian jungle and its people make this story something special.’

—RT Book Reviews on DOCTOR’S GUIDE TO DATING IN THE JUNGLE

‘Medical Romance™ lovers will definitely like NYC ANGELS: FLIRTING WITH DANGER

by Tina Beckett—for who doesn’t like a good forbidden romance?’ —HarlequinJunkie.com

Contents

Cover

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

Praise

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SOMEONE WAS IN her barn.

At least, according to her horse’s soft nicker there was. Balancing the bay gelding’s right rear hoof on her thigh, Trisha Bolton paused, the curved metal pick in her hand coming to a halt as she listened. Great. It had taken a couple of firm nudges to get Brutus to lift that last leg so she could finish scraping the debris from the bottoms of his hooves. She didn’t want to signal she was done until she actually was. Because she doubted he’d co-operate a second time—even for a chunk of carrot.

Brutus snuffed, a huge exhalation of sound, and shifted his weight. Maybe he was just impatient to be let out to graze with the other horses.

“Steady, boy.” She readjusted her grip so his hoof didn’t slide down her thigh and drop onto her foot. “We’re almost done.”

“Hello?” she called out, just in case. “I’m over in the cross ties.”

No one responded.

She frowned as she caught the soft sound of footsteps at the far end of the concrete aisle between the stalls, heading her way. So there was someone here. The shoes were quiet, making little sound, each step planted carefully. Not rubber-soled quiet like a tennis shoe, but not the defined click of a riding boot either.

Five miles south of Dusty Hills, Nevada, her little chunk of land lay at the very end of a quarter-mile dirt track. Not the kind of place someone just happened upon. If you found her operation, it was because you came looking for it. And she didn’t have a client at all today, which meant...

Oh, Lord. Roger?

She swallowed hard, then forced herself to relax. No, he’d been moved to Virginia. Would be there for a very long time, according to the courts.

Today was their third anniversary, though. It would be just like him to reach out and remind her that he was still a part of her world, no matter how many miles separated them.

Brutus would be able to see whoever was here from his position at the front of the stall. Trisha, however, still hunched over his back hoof, had her choice of two lovely views: the slatted back wall of the grooming area or her horse’s muscular backside. She could take her pick.

She tried again. “Who’s there? Larry?”

Her barn helper wasn’t scheduled to muck out the stalls again until tomorrow morning. And Penny was out at a supply fair, hoping to score a new bareback pad for those of their patients who had better control over their motor skills. And, besides, both of her workers knew enough to make their presence known when they came through those barn doors. As did all of her clients. There was even a cheerful sign to that effect over the entry beam: Feel free to say hello!

Fear of what could be out there still governed so many of her decisions. Most days she was okay, but today wasn’t one of them.

There was still no answer to her greeting. And the footsteps were closer now. Still quiet. Stealthy, almost.

Brutus tossed his head, the clips attached to either side of his halter jingling in a way that didn’t help her nerves. Her fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the hoof pick. She could always use the tool as a weapon, if need be, although the thought of cutting someone with it made her feel physically ill—reminded her too much of past events.

The agents had sworn her new identity was secure. That assurance, along with the many miles between her and her past, was supposed to ensure her safety. But she’d seen enough to know there were no guarantees—of anything—in this life.

Giving up on finishing her task, she took a step back and allowed Brutus’s hoof to settle heavily on the ground. He shifted his weight onto it and tried to glance back at her, probably wondering what the heck was going on. Then his ears pricked forward, and he looked at something off to the right. She flattened her hand on his haunch, so he’d know where she was as she swiveled toward the front, keeping her body close to that of her horse. The earthy smells of fresh manure and warm animal faded away as she struggled to keep track of the sounds.

Should she call out again?

What if it was someone she didn’t know? Or, worse, someone she did?

Get a grip, Trish, and think.

If it came down to it, an intruder would have to duck under one of the nylon ties that secured Brutus’s head to either side of the grooming stall, giving her a few precious seconds to slip behind the animal and out the other side—preferably without getting kicked in the ribs in the process, if something startled her horse.

Like a gunshot?

“Easy, boy.” The soft quaver in her voice made Brutus’s moist coat twitch beneath her fingertips. He could sense her growing fear.

Why she’d decided to keep her rifle locked in a safe in the house was beyond her. No, it wasn’t. She’d rather risk her own safety than that of her young patients.

She slid her hand back a few inches, tangling her fingers in the long silky strands of Brutus’s tail. There were no true pain receptors in the hairs, so he wouldn’t feel a thing if she had to use it to give herself some momentum to swing behind him.

If they’d found her, they’d target her and not her horse. At least, that was her hope.

There! A man came into view on Brutus’s left, silently facing her from the other side of the aisle with dark narrowed eyes. His shoes were black. Shiny. Leather bottoms. A professional’s shoes. Thick dark hair was swept back from his face, and his hands were buried in the pockets of his gray slacks. If her heart hadn’t been thundering in her chest like that of a racehorse headed for the finish line, she might think the stranger was dangerously handsome.

As it was, he just looked dangerous. Hard carved lines made up his jawline. And a muscle tensed and released repeatedly in his cheek.

Terror swept over her as he withdrew a hand—empty, thank God—and motioned her out of the stall without a word.

She stayed put.

“C-can I help you?” The hand in Brutus’s tail tightened into a fist as she prepared to bolt. She held the pick slightly away from her body, hoping to draw the man’s attention to it and make him think twice about coming in after her. The memory of blood—too much blood—made bile rise in her throat. Could she really slash him with it?

Yes. She’d already proven she was capable of things she’d never dreamed possible.

He motioned to her again, his frown deepening as his eyes moved to the horse and then back to her.

Why didn’t he say something?

If you think I’m coming out of this stall, without knowing exactly—

Her horse had had enough of the thickening tension. He pinned his ears and shied to the right, hindquarters shimmying in an arc away from her. The abrupt movement caused her to lose her grip on his tail just as he let out a shrill whinny.

It was as if a bomb had gone off. Trisha found herself flying through the air, steel bands around either arm as she tumbled through space and landed in a heap on the hard concrete outside the stall.

Scratch that. It wasn’t concrete. It was a body. The steel bands: hands, which still gripped her upper arms. His breath whooshed against her ear in rhythmic gusts.

And the words coming out of his mouth... Well, those weren’t sweet nothings.

So he could talk.

She patted the ground in a panic, searching for her hoof pick. And then her heart stopped as she saw it. Five feet above the guy’s head. Too far to reach.

Her thighs were wedged between his, and she felt every hard muscle of his torso tensed and ready, but that wasn’t what she was worried about. As quick as a bunny she stroked both palms over the stranger’s sides, down his lean hips, and then dragged them back up the front of his thighs, feeling for any lump that wasn’t a body part. Roger had taught her exactly where to look. Had made her pat down her contact. Right before he’d aimed his gun and...

She reached the man’s pelvis, fingers probing, searching.

“What the hell?” The stranger flipped her over so that he was on top—weight resting on his bent elbows, strong thighs still bracketing her legs. Only now her hands were imprisoned by his on either side of her head. “Are you seriously doing this? Now? You could have been killed.”

Her brain hitched. She’d thought she was going to be killed. By him.

There was still one place she hadn’t checked. The back of his waistband. But she couldn’t move. And she was having second thoughts about who’d sent him. Especially since things were beginning to show some interest at the spot where they were joined together.

Breath still sawing in and out of her lungs, she stared up at him, trying to hold perfectly still. “Who are you? And why are you here?”

One eyebrow crept up, and his frown eased. “Maybe you should have stopped to ask that before feeling me up.”

Feeling him...

“Excuse me?”

This was no killer. So who was he? She licked her lips, praying he wasn’t an estranged parent of one of her patients. If so, she’d definitely not made the best first impression. Then again, neither had he.

“Why didn’t you say something, instead of just standing there? You scared me to death. Not to mention dragging me out of the...” She closed her eyes for a second before reopening them and glaring. “You never make sudden movements around a horse. Especially not that horse. You could have gotten us both killed.”

The harsh dipping of something in his throat caught her attention. He stayed put for another second or two then rolled off her with a harsh oath and climbed to his feet. “Believe it or not, I was trying not to scare him into doing something crazy.”

He held a hand toward her, but she ignored it and scrambled to her feet under her own power, hoping she looked more in control of herself than she felt. “Well, consider that a fail.” She glanced at Brutus for proof, only to find him with his head hung low, lids half-shut. His nostrils flared as he huffed out a tired breath.

Really? Trisha rolled her eyes. Thanks for backing me up there, bud. You could at least look a little shaken up.

The stranger eyed the horse as well, looking more than a little wary. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to ask. Are you Patricia Bolton?”

She nodded. At least he hadn’t used her other name. A few more muscles came off high alert.

He continued, “Well, Ms. Bolton, despite our rather questionable introduction, it seems we share a mutual acquaintance.” One of his hands shifted to the small of his back. The one place she hadn’t checked.

Her brain skittered back toward panic, the blood draining from her head. “Is it Roger?” she whispered.

His gaze sharpened, and he lowered his hand, taking a step forward, only to stop when she jerked backwards. He shook his head, his eyes still focused on her face. “No, not Roger. Clara. Clara Trimble. Her mother said you were hoping to work with her. I’m Mike Dunning, the neurosurgeon who performed her operation.”

* * *

Mike had seen all kinds of expressions on a woman’s face as she lay beneath him—lust, need, affection, love. But never in his life had he inspired abject terror. He should have realized the hands sweeping over his body had had a quick furtive quality to them, not the slow, languorous touches he was used to. She’d been looking for something specific.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” He’d been a little panicked himself when that animal had given that high-pitched shriek. His nerves had already been stretched to breaking point the second he’d set foot in the barn, and each step had made the feeling that much worse. He hadn’t dared call out to her, had barely been able to push one foot in front of the other.

Mike and horses could no longer be considered friends. Not that they’d ever been particularly close. But four years and a whole lot of distance had changed nothing, it seemed. He still couldn’t stand to be near them.

The woman in question gave a rough exhalation of breath, drawing the back of her hand over her brow and leaving a smudge of some dark substance that made his lips curve.

He’d tackled her to the ground, what did he expect?

“Clara,” she said. “Of course. Doris said she was going to ask you to contact me. I expected a phone call, not a visit.”

His brows went up, more convinced than ever that putting his patient on the back of a thousand-pound animal was a bad idea. Both the horse—and its owner—seemed strong-headed, unpredictable. He’d seen first-hand what kind of devastation that combination could cause. He curled his left hand into a loose fist, the emptiness he found there mirroring the void within his chest. “I’m not about to prescribe something for a patient I can’t fully endorse.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip and backed up another pace or two before dropping onto a white plastic bucket against a nearby stall door. “If you had just called first...”

“I did try. I left a message on your machine a few hours ago. I had a break and decided to stop over in person, instead of waiting for you to return my call.” He turned to look at the animal behind him, expecting it to break free of its ties and grab hold of his shirt at any second. He gestured at it. “And if this is your idea of safe, then I’m afraid—”

She stood in a rush. “Brutus isn’t one of my therapy horses. I can assure you the horses I use with my patients are extremely gentle and love their job. Brutus is a...special case.”

Special. Yes, he could see that. About as special as its name.

He glanced around the rest of the barn, but it was empty. “So where are the other horses?”

“Out in the pasture. It’s their day off. Brutus was just about to join them.” She crossed over to her horse, murmuring something in a low voice before wrapping an arm under the creature’s neck and leaning her temple against it.

He swallowed back a ball of fear when the big animal shifted closer to her. “Could you come away from there, please?”

Instead of doing as he asked, she leaned sideways and grabbed a loop of leather off a peg on the wall and unclipped one of the ties holding the horse in place. She replaced it with a hook from the loop in her hand. Then she unsnapped the tie on the other side.

The creature was free, except for that thin cord she held.

As if knowing exactly what he was thinking, the horse snorted and bobbed its head.

“What are you doing?”

She eyed him, a slight pucker between her brows. “I told you. Brutus needs to be turned out.”

To his shock, she held the length of leather out to him. “Do you mind leading him while I take the wheelbarrow out to the compost heap?”

“I’d prefer it if you just put him in a stall.” He gestured to the row of empty boxes.

She bent over to pick up the curved metal instrument she’d been using when he’d arrived. For a second or two he’d wondered if she’d planned on gutting him with it, before dismissing the idea as ridiculous. She tossed the item into a wooden chest then shrugged. “Okay. I’ll lead him and you can take the wheelbarrow. The compost heap is on the way out to the pasture. We can talk on the way and you can see the other horses.” She gave a quick laugh, seeming to have recovered her composure. “You might want to watch your shoes, though. Wouldn’t want to ruin them.”

He glanced to the side and saw a wheelbarrow filled with a substance he recognized, and which looked suspiciously like the smudge on Ms. Bolton’s forehead. Despite the situation, he couldn’t stop a smile from forming. She thought he was afraid of a little horse manure? He would have set her straight, but she was already on the move, the horse swinging out of the stall and passing within two feet of where he stood. Its hooves made a familiar clop-clop as the pair moved toward the far doors.

He rolled his eyes. The things he did for his patients.

Okay, Mike. You’re a brain surgeon. You’ve seen a whole lot worse than this.

Yes, he had.

He curled his hands around the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted, finding the thing surprisingly heavy. Marcy had boarded her horses at another location, heading out there in the mornings and coming home in the evenings. He’d never had much to do with her profession. Until the night she hadn’t come home at all. And he’d been left to live with the aftermath.

An aftermath that still rose up to choke him at times.

Like now?

Hell. The sooner he got off Patricia Bolton’s property, the better.

He caught up to her within a minute, making sure to stay on her far side, away from the horse, which trudged forward like it hadn’t a care in the world. You’d never know it was the same animal who’d minutes ago caused him to charge into the pen, his only thought to drag Ms. Bolton out of harm’s way.

Apparently, she hadn’t needed his help after all.

“So, what set him off?” He wasn’t sure why he asked. Maybe to try to understand what had happened four years ago.

She glanced at him. “The way you motioned me out of the cross ties. He’s leery of arms that move in quick jerky motions. Especially if they’re flicked back and then brought down in a rush.”

That made him pause. “Why didn’t you say something the first time I did it?” She’d just stood there and let him repeat the gesture a second time without saying a word.

“I thought you were...” She shook her head. “It’s complicated. Just don’t do it again.”

Not much chance of that, since he’d probably never see Ms. Bolton—or Brutus—again after today. That included those deep green eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. And her cute blonde ponytail that was currently swishing back and forth with every step she took. And her extremely inviting derrière, which seemed custom made for gripping.

Tightening his fingers on the handles of the wheelbarrow and glad the metal object hid a certain wayward body part, he tried to shift his thoughts back to his patient. “So Doris Trimble thinks you can help Clara.”

“I think I can too.” She glanced sideways at him and then back ahead.

There was no hint of conceit or of trying to win him over to her position, just a matter-of-fact response. Did she actually expect him to take that at face value, without any substantive proof? Well, he’d just match her short response with one of his own.

“How?”

“There are studies. Testimonials—”

That word made him snort.

She drew up short and her horse halted as well, heaving a huge breath and then blowing it out with a blubber of lips, like a child irritated at being kept from his recess.

“Look, if you’ve already made up your mind, why are you even here?”

Good question. He could have told Clara’s mother no. Or just signed off on the recommendation form that would allow insurance to cover the therapy. Or, like Patricia had said, he could have just called and had a brief conversation with her. He had tried, as he’d told her, but he couldn’t bring himself to put a child in harm’s way, no matter how uncomfortable coming out here might be for him. Still, she was right. He needed to extend her the same courtesy he expected to have afforded to him. He needed to hear her out.

“I want Clara to have the best treatment options, so I’m not ready to rule out anything.”

“And yet when you ask me for data, you make scoffing sounds before I’ve said ten words.”

“Fair enough. So convince me.” He let the wheelbarrow’s supports touch the ground and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

“Great.” She shook her head and started back down the path without a word, the horse again moving with her.

This woman was impossible. He grabbed the handles and followed her. It was really hard to carry on an intelligent conversation while hauling a load of manure.

She held up the tip of her rope and pointed off to the left. “Dump it over there behind that wooden barricade, if you don’t mind. You can leave the wheelbarrow there. Thanks.”

By the time he’d done as she asked, she’d released Demon Seed—a better name than Brutus, in his opinion—into a large fenced grassy area.

Mike arrived just in time to see four other horses making a beeline for the newcomer, tails flowing out behind them as they galloped toward the fence. There was a kind of strange powwow between the animals, accompanied by various sounds, then one of the horses wheeled around and raced away from the group. The others soon followed suit. None of them looked particularly tame.

“Those are your therapy horses?”

“Yes. Brutus is the only one not used in the program.”

“How do you keep them under control?”

She glanced out at the field. “They know when it’s time to work and when it’s time to play. I can assure you that they take their jobs as seriously as any other kind of service animal.”

Was she talking about seeing-eye dogs? “But not Brutus.”

“No. Not Brutus. I told you, he’s a special case. The other horses are teaching him what it means to be a...” She shrugged. “Well, a horse. Sometimes horses—and people—have to relearn what it means to be normal.”

That was one thing on which they could both agree. He hadn’t quite made it there yet. “So tell me about your program.”

She waited for a minute then smiled. “You say you want to know about it, but every time I start to talk you shut yourself off.”

“Sorry?”

Her fingers touched his left forearm, sending a jolt through him. “You cross your arms. Meaning you’re not going to accept what I have to say.”

He unfolded his limbs, mostly to dislodge her fingers. “Not true.”

“No?”

Okay, so she was right. But he wasn’t sure how to get past it. He could stand there with his arms hanging straight down, but it wouldn’t mean a thing. He’d still be skeptical, and he couldn’t think of anything she could do that would change the way he felt. Marcy had told him one thing and then gone and done another. How did he know Patricia wouldn’t bend the truth to suit her own purposes? “I guess we’re at an impasse, then.”

“Not quite. I think I might have a solution.”

He couldn’t think of one to save his life. “I’m listening.” This time he kept his arms loose at his sides, his innards knotting up instead.

“You have to experience what it’s like to be one of my patients.”

He thumbed through his mental schedule. “If you’ll give me a specific time, I’ll see if I can make it out to observe—”

“Oh, no. I don’t mean you can watch. I want you to ‘do.”’ She leaned a curvy hip against the rail of the wooden fence next to her.

“Do?” The muscles of his chest tightened, and he realized he’d crossed his arms again. This time he let them stay put.

“I want you to go through therapy as if you were one of my patients.”

“I don’t understand.” Actually, he did understand. He just didn’t want to. Already the gears in his head were beginning to whine like one of the bone saws he used in surgery.

Her smile grew, a genuine flashing of straight white teeth, her ponytail whisking back and forth as she shook her head. “You don’t have to understand, Dr. Dunning. Not yet. You just have to show up.”