A Measure Of Love

“Nonsense. You have five hundred ranchers that you take care of in connection with the mustangs. You’ve had contact with these men and their families for five years, plus you assign our agents all over the country. No one’s more familiar with the intricacy of investigating than yourself.”

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the chair. “Well, yes, sir, that’s true in one sense. But I’ve only done this over the phone and through the mail; I’ve never actually set foot on a ranch.”

He gave a negligent wave of his hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jessie rose, her eyes wide. “I’ve never been west of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I know nothing about the West.”

“You’ve got more knowledge about the mustangs, the land they live on and wander across, and the ranchers than anyone else in this office.”

Panic was setting in, and Jessie began to pace, using her hands to punctuate her words. “But, sir, I’m an office manager! A paper pusher! I’ve never seen a horse except in a parade along Pennsylvania Avenue. My knowledge is through the books and reports I read. I only know the ranchers through minimal phone contact or letters.” She compressed her full lips, wondering if they were trying to fire her.

Humphries rose, scowling. “You have your orders, Ms. Scott. We feel your diplomacy and ability to humor Kincaid will do the trick.”

Humor? Sure, people had always commented on her ability to see humor in every situation. And some of her friends even called her Sunny. That was all fine and dandy, but she still didn’t see how she could persuade someone like Rafe Kincaid to cooperate with the BLM.

Jessie stood there as Humphries opened the door and disappeared. Her hands were damp and cold, and she rubbed them on the sides of her tailored wool skirt. This couldn’t be happening! Were they trying to get rid of her? She couldn’t stand still a moment longer and headed down the hall with swift strides.

“Nick!” she stage-whispered, sticking her head inside her immediate superior’s office door.

Nick Van der Meer looked up and smiled, then motioned for her to come in. “I see you’ve talked with Mr. Humphries, Jessie.”

Jessie closed the door and pressed her back up against it. “Get me off the hook, Nick. I’m not cut out for this assignment. I’m strictly office material.”

Nick smiled from beneath his full gray mustache, and set down his pen on a stack of papers in front of him. “No, you’re not. I’ve been saying for years that you’d be good out in the field.”

“This is crazy, Nick.” Her voice quavered, and Jessie waited for a moment, gathering her fortitude before she went on. “I’m no more a field rep than that mouse that lives in my office!”

“You still feeding him every day?”

“Of course I am. Nick, I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Come on, sit down. You look like you’re ready to explode, and really, there’s no reason for your panic.”

Jessie sat, with her hands gripped in her lap and her jaw set in a stubborn line. “You did this, didn’t you? You put Mr. Humphries up to this.”

“Yes, I did,” he admitted slowly, leaning back in his expensive leather chair. “I felt it was about time you started seeing something of the world, Jessie, instead of spending your life back in that dark little office you fondly call your second home.” He held up his hand. “I know you love your job. That’s obvious from the long hours and care you put into it. But there is life outside these walls.”

Her nostrils flared, and she avoided his gaze. Nick had been her boss for the five years she had been with the BLM; he was like the father she had never had and always dreamed of having. But right now she wasn’t feeling particularly like a daughter toward him or his attitude that he knew what was best for her. “I happen to like my office, my mouse, my job, my little apartment and Washington, D.C.”

“No question about it.” Nick sighed, becoming serious. “Look, we’re both in a spot. Joe Allen is fairly new at being a rep, and sometimes he gets a little too eager. Even you have to admit that. I know you’ve dealt with Sam Kincaid and you’re familiar with the Triple K, its resources and the mustang reserve that borders it. Rafe Kincaid, the son, is now the owner. I find it hard to believe that he would cold-bloodedly kill mustangs when he was raised by a father who respected the land and wild animals.”

Jessie frowned. “From the way Joe talked, he didn’t exactly level with the rancher, and it’s obvious he should have. Why not just send him back and have him explain the whole thing?”

“Because, Jessie, he’s done too much damage already. And somehow I don’t doubt Rafe Kincaid’s coming out with a rifle. We need you to repair the damage he’s done. The Kincaids have been long-time friends of the BLM, and we want to smooth over the waters with them. Joe should have leveled with him. My personal feeling is that Rafe Kincaid isn’t shooting mustangs.” He gave Jessie the fatherly smile that always got to her. “There isn’t a rancher under your jurisdiction that doesn’t have something good to say about you, Jessie. Right now, I need your gift of human relations to heal this rift with the Kincaids. This’ll give you a chance to broaden your experience with the ranchers, see some mustangs and travel, all at the same time.”

Worriedly Jessie stared down at her interlaced fingers, which were bunched in her lap. Her fingers were as cold as the drizzle of freezing rain that fell outside the window behind her boss. “I thought maybe you were trying to get rid of me, Nick.”

His laughter was rich and he sat up, resting his elbows on the heavy walnut desk. “Not a chance, Jessie. Take your time on this assignment. You know from handling the reports that this kind of thing can take from a week to a month to solve. If you need help, I’m always here. Just call.” He smiled warmly. “Knowing you, however, I think you’ll do just fine, you always have. Stay in touch. And enjoy the experience. It won’t be all that bad.”

* * *

All that bad, Jessie thought. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep on the plane. The entire day had been a blur. She had managed to catch her next-door neighbor, a college professor, at home. Susan Prigozen had agreed to water her many plants while she was away. Other than racing through the motions of packing items she thought she might need, there had been little else to do. Jessie felt alone. And scared. Right now, all she wanted to do was ask the captain to turn around and head back to D.C.

She opened her eyes and stared pensively out the window into the blackness. She could see lights of small towns far below them. They looked like jeweled pendants twinkling on the velvet setting of the earth. It was a beautiful sight.

There had been so many firsts that day: first airplane ride, first time to leave her hometown, first assignment. Why had Nick chosen her? He knew she lived a cloistered existence that ranged from her apartment to her job with the BLM. But so what? She was happy.

You’re a mouse, Jessie. Just like the one that lives in your office and you feed. Mice are frightened little creatures. They scamper away at the first sign of danger. Her mouth went dry, and she took a long drink of the white wine she had ordered from the flight attendant. And where you’re going, there’s a great big lion who eats up little mice like you. She scrunched down in the seat. Her life had just been uprooted. A tornado couldn’t have done a better job. She was a walking disaster, and Nick and Mr. Humphries expected her to be successful with Rafe Kincaid.

Jessie shut her eyes tightly. In another hour they would land in Denver. She would get a hotel room for the night and in the morning rent a car and drive out to the Triple K. As she pried open one eye, she noticed the luminescent full moon in the sky. Wonderful. Dracula and the vampire came out with the full moon. What effect would it have on Rafe Kincaid?

* * *

Rain was pouring out of a slit in the gray underbelly of the sky that hovered over the valley. Rafe’s black brows were dipped ominously beneath his felt cowboy hat of the same color, and his narrowed blue eyes were barely visible beneath the brim. He pulled his gunmetal-gray Arabian gelding to a halt on the muddy road, motioning with one gloved hand at his cowhands to start bringing the cattle across. His mouth compressed as he sat on the horse. The black rain slicker he wore was shiny with water and draped over his body like a huge tent. The cattle moved slowly; they didn’t want to leave the lowlands and begin their trek up through the valley to the high pastures that were still dotted with snow. Grass was easier to forage where there was no snow. Cattle were basically a lazy lot, Rafe thought.

He watched his four men, on sturdy, small Arabians, going about the business of moving the hundred balky, bawling steers across the ranch road that was now little more than a brown ribbon of quagmire. As he sat on his restive mount, Rafe fumed. If he had had extra money, he would have bought the necessary gravel to lay on the road earlier, before the late April rains had come. But he hadn’t, and so four-wheel drive was the only type of vehicle that could negotiate the ten-mile stretch between the Triple K and the asphalt highway.

Water followed the hard line of his jaw, gathering on his stubborn chin before dripping off. His thin deerskin gloves were soaked. Water was leaking down the back of his neck, soaking into his cotton shirt, making his skin itch. But he wouldn’t have traded any of the minimal discomforts for the world as he looked toward the small valley below him. The valley was a favorite of his sister Dal. It was ringed with ponderosa pine, blue spruce, fir and tamarack, all darkly green, silver or blue, depending on the species silhouetted against the lead-colored sky. Buffalo grass grew thick and tall on the valley floor, providing a rich, vibrant background for the more somber trees.

Rafe gazed appreciatively over his land.

Then his blue eyes clouded. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the past, if he had been more alert to the changes in the fluctuating stock market, the ranch might be in better shape than it was presently. He shifted position in the saddle, and the leather creaked pleasantly. The past was dead and gone. Let it go. Let it go….

His alert gelding heard it first. The rain had intensified, sending sheets of torrential water down from the sky, nearly obliterating visibility. Suddenly, a small red car burst over the crest of the steep hill as if it had been shot out of a cannon. It was aimed directly at him. The engine was screaming, the wheels spun, and mud flew in every direction. A shout rose in Rafe’s throat and time seemed to slow down to single frames of a movie. He saw the car land with a thunderous clunk on the rutted road, then slew sideways to avoid hitting him, his horse and the milling cattle.

To his horror, he watched helplessly as the car swerved over the edge of the soft earthen bank and slid down the hillside. With a shout, he sank his spurs into the gelding. The horse lunged forward in a few strides and went over the edge. Rafe rode the sliding, slipping animal down the precarious bank. It was a hundred-foot incline to a wall of pine below. He twisted and turned in rhythm with the animal and bolted to attention as he saw the car crunch into the densely packed trees.

With a curse, Rafe brought his horse to a halt and leapt out of the saddle. Steam was rising from beneath the hood of the car. Miraculously, there seemed to be little damage, except for dents on the passenger’s side, where the car had come to rest, lodged up against some bushes and the stand of pine. He slipped in the sucking mud and cursed again as he made his way toward the driver’s door. He’d better have worn a seat belt, was Rafe’s only thought. Rafe heard the steers bawling far above him and a shout from Pinto Pete, the old man who was in charge of the drive. Clutching the handle, Rafe pulled on the car door. It wouldn’t give. Then, with a more powerful yank, he wrenched it open.

His eyes widened. The “he” was a “she.” And she hadn’t worn a seat belt. A kaleidoscope of impressions assailed Rafe as he stared at her unconscious figure lying prone before him. She looked to be in her early-twenties, and as Rafe leaned over the steering wheel to see the extent of her injuries, the delicate scent of her perfume surrounded him. A heady, almost spicy fragrance… Rafe shook his head, muttering to himself.

The poncho he was wearing smattered water all over the interior of the car as he reached forward to lay his hand on her camel-colored wool blazer. It was impossible to get to the other side of the car since the door was barricaded with a huge pine tree trunk. As gently as he could, Rafe brought her into a slumped sitting position, pressing her gently back against the seat. Her blond hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck; a neat and severe look that was marred by the crimson line trailing down her temple.

He heard another horse and rider approaching, and pulled out of the car. Pinto Pete, with his grizzled gray mustache and beard, sat astride his bay mare.

“You need help?” the old man called, his voice drowned out in the thunderous downpour.

“Yeah, get on the walkie-talkie and see if you can locate Mel. He’s got the four-wheel drive. There’s a woman hurt in here. While you’re at it, raise Millie at the ranch and have her call the doctor.”

Pete nodded, pulling the plastic-encased walkie-talkie from the safety of his saddlebag.

Rafe glanced back over his shoulder, the adrenaline pumping through him making him a bit shaky. The damn woman. Who the hell was she? Didn’t she know any better than to drive like a kamikaze pilot down a dirt road like that? He grudgingly admitted that at least she had had the presence of mind to veer away from him.

“Hey, Boss,” Pete called.

Rafe lifted his head, rain slashing at his face. “Yeah?”

“Mel’s clear up by the first line shack. That’s fifteen miles away.”