The Restless Virgin. Peggy Moreland

down like I asked you, we could have avoided this emotional scene.”

      Though Sam disagreed—and was tempted to get while the getting was good—something kept her in place. Maybe it was because she saw in Colby a bit of herself at the child’s age. Maybe it was because she’d also gone up against her own father—and lost more battles than she cared to remember. Or maybe it was simply because she was afraid that if she left, Nash would find another vet to do his dirty work for him. Whatever the reason, Sam dug in her boot heels. “You’ll break her heart if you dispose of her horse.”

      Nash raked his fingers through his hair, turning the neatly combed style into dark spikes as he looked down the alleyway in the direction Colby had disappeared. “Yeah, but I’d rather break her heart than see her hurt by that beast.”

      Sam lifted a shoulder. “Accidents happen. She could injure herself just as easily stepping off a curb as she could riding her horse.”

      He turned to frown at her. “Thanks for the comforting words,” he replied dryly.

      “I’m not trying to offer comfort. I’m stating facts. I’ve been riding horses since I was old enough to walk, and I can tell you right now I’ve hurt myself a lot more often walking than I ever have riding.”

      “Doesn’t say much for your coordination, does it?”

      Sam refused to let the barb penetrate. “She needs to have that cut on her head cleaned.”

      Nash snorted. “I tried. She won’t let me touch her.”

      “That’s certainly understandable.”

      Nash snapped his head around, his eyes like flint as they scraped against Sam. She shrugged, refusing to let him intimidate her. “She’s more worried about her horse’s welfare than her own. As long as she feels she has to protect him from you, she isn’t going to let you near him or her.”

      “So what do you suggest I do? Wait for her to collapse before I seek medical attention for her?”

      In spite of his sarcasm, Sam saw the worry in the deep lines plowed between his brows, the concern for his daughter in his tightly compressed lips, in the depths of his gray eyes. That he loved Colby was obvious, that he was overreacting to an accident even more so.

      But Sam figured if that cut on the kid’s head was going to get tended to, it would be up to her. She heaved a resigned sigh. “Stay here and I’ll see what I can do.” She strode down the alleyway and stopped in front of Whiskey’s stall. Propping her foot on the lowest rung, she draped her arms along the top of the gate. Colby stood inside the stall at the horse’s head, stroking Whiskey’s nose.

      “Go away,” she grumbled. “Whiskey and me don’t need you.”

      “I think you do,” Sam replied softly. When Colby whipped her head around to glare at her, Sam added, “I’ve already told you that your horse is safe with me. I would never put down a healthy animal.”

      The battle waged within was obvious on the child’s face as she struggled to decide whether or not she should trust Sam. She narrowed an eye. “Swear?”

      Sam quickly swiped a finger across her heart, just as Colby had done earlier. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

      “Then why are you still here?”

      “I thought you might need my services.”

      Colby wrinkled her nose. “For what?”

      “Well, Whiskey doesn’t need any doctoring, but you sure do.”

      Colby touched a small finger to the cut on her forehead, frowning. “Daddy wanted to take me to the hospital.”

      Sam stretched her neck over the gate, pretending to study the cut. “Doesn’t look that bad to me. A little cleaning, some antibiotic ointment, a bandage and you ought to be just fine.”

      Colby peered at Sam suspiciously. “I thought vets just doctored animals.”

      “Normally they do. But I’ve doctored some humans, too. In fact, one of my most frequent patients is my nephew, Jaime. He’s always getting bummed up in one way or another.”

      Colby took a step closer. “This isn’t a trick, is it, so you can drug me, then kill my horse?”

      Sam had to fight back a laugh at the extent of the child’s wild imagination, but she solemnly held up her hand, thumb tucked into palm. “On my honor.”

      Colby scuffed the rest of the way to the gate. “Okay, but Daddy has to go, too, or no deal. I don’t trust him for a minute.”

      This time Sam couldn’t stop the laugh. She didn’t trust Nash Rivers either. She swung the gate wide and Colby stepped through.

      “This isn’t going to hurt, is it?” Colby asked, peering up at Sam, her fear obvious.

      Sam closed the gate, her smile softening. “It’ll sting a little, but that’s all. I promise.”

      “What’s going on?” Nash asked impatiently as he joined them.

      Colby eased closer to Sam’s side, slipping her hand into Sam’s. The trust in the gesture touched Sam’s soul, but it was the stubborn thrust of Colby’s chin when she looked up at her father that rubbed a raw spot on Sam’s heart, reminding her of times when she’d stood up against her own father in just such a manner.

      “Sam’s going to doctor my cuts and you have to go with us.”

      Nash quickly shifted his gaze to Sam, his surprise obvious. “She is?” At Sam’s nod, he let out a sigh, one more of relief than frustration this time. “There’s a first-aid kit at the house. If you’ll come with me.”

      Unlike the barn, the house Nash led them to was in good repair. Built of native limestone, the structure looked as if it had stood a century or more and could probably weather another one or two. A covered porch extended across the front of the house and down one side. Wisteria climbed the posts and twined around the railings, its branches dripping with fragrant pink blooms. Behind the veil of leaves, Sam could see two wooden rockers swaying in the afternoon breeze.

      She tried to picture Nash sitting there in the evening, slowly rocking, maybe even whittling, while watching the sun set. But the image just wouldn’t form. It was easier to imagine him in a boardroom, his feet propped on his desk, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, while a flock of secretaries darted about at his bidding. With a shake of her head, she climbed the steps after him and followed him into the house.

      The country-style kitchen they entered reminded Sam a bit of the one in her own family’s home, though the McClouds’ was more spacious and had more modern conveniences. Still, it was warm and inviting, with a round oak table scarred from years of use. Sam stooped to pick Colby up and set her on the counter by a chipped porcelain sink while Nash dug through cabinets, looking for the first-aid kit.

      Tearing off a strip of paper towel, Sam wet it, then dabbed at the cut, cleaning away the dried blood and dirt. To her relief, she saw that the wound was only superficial, as she’d first thought. “This isn’t very deep,” she assured Colby with a pat on her knee. “You won’t feel much of a sting at all.”

      Dubiously, Colby watched as Sam opened the first-aid kit Nash had laid out and selected the items she’d need. Nash eased closer to her side, watching, too. Uncomfortably aware of his presence and wishing Colby hadn’t insisted on her father being there, Sam gave Nash’s shoulder an impatient bump. “Give me some room,” she grumbled.

      Obediently, Nash stepped back while Sam poured hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball, but he closed the distance right back up when Sam touched the cotton to Colby’s forehead. When Colby cried out, shrinking away, Nash grabbed Sam’s hand. “You’re hurting her,” he growled.

      Sam froze as his fingers closed painfully over hers, her breath locked up in her lungs. Images pushed at her from the past, ugly and debilitating. Breathe, she ordered herself sternly, as the familiar