Winning Heart. Laura Browning

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       WINNING HEART

      LAURA BROWNING

      LYRICAL PRESS

       http://lyricalpress.com/

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

       To Jacob—who’s shown me over the years that winning isn’t always about blue ribbons or crossing the finish line first. Thank you, son.

       Prologue

      Sweat dripped down the man’s lean cheeks, mingling with tears of pain as he labored through physical therapy. His dark hair was wet from the effort to propel himself along parallel bars, and his arms shook with fatigue.

      One good step, and then slowly, painfully, he forced the other leg forward, arms and strong leg bearing much of the weight.

      “I think that’s enough today,” the therapist interrupted.

      “No!” he barked, his tone darkened not only with pain but simmering with anger and bitterness just below the surface.

      “Mr. Anderson,” she began in that voice he’d heard her use to warn other patients it was time they listen, “if you keep pushing yourself like this, you will do more harm than good.”

      “I will not be wheeled inside that courtroom.”

      “You’ll arrive in a coffin if you don’t quit!” she snapped back. “Don’t forget, you have suffered more injuries than just your leg. You’re also missing a few feet of intestines. Recovery takes a while. You can’t keep pushing this hard.”

      Nelson sagged, and the therapist pushed the wheelchair under his shaking legs. His broad shoulders hunched, and he ran trembling fingers through wet hair.

      “Don’t you have other patients to harass?”

      She sighed. “I do. You have a pool in that great big house of yours, don’t you?”

      “Yes, whatever good that does me. I can’t get up and down the stairs.”

      She laughed, making him glare.

      “For heaven’s sake! You’re one of the wealthiest men in the state—maybe in the country. Put in a damn elevator.”

      “That’s like admitting I’ll be like this,” he waved a hand at his atrophied right leg, “for good.”

      The therapist went down on her haunches. “No, it’s giving you access to an outstanding therapeutic tool. Water will help support your weight and add resistance to rebuild muscles in your leg. It will do more in half the time than grunting through exercises in here.”

      He glared at her. “Hand me my cellphone,” he ordered in a voice accustomed to being obeyed.

      “Yes, sir.” The therapist found the cellphone in the pocket of his jacket and handed it to him with a slight smile.

      Five minutes later, he snapped it shut with a satisfied smirk. “The elevator will be in by the end of the week when I return home.”

      “God, it must be nice to be filthy rich,” the therapist sighed.

      Nelson grimaced. “It is until you find out money can’t buy everything.”

       Chapter 1

      Three hundred dollars would stretch a long way, but pinching pennies wasn’t anything new for Wynter. She and her mom had done it their whole lives. The problem was, she was down to her last little bit of cash, and as she stared at the help wanted ads, finding a job still seemed far away.

      She was either over-qualified or under-qualified. With no address since she gave up the room she’d rented, some employers tuned her out right away. Wynter also had no references and no expectations the Southards would provide them. They were the only people for whom she’d ever worked.

      Her mouth tightened. She stared out the windshield at a farm across the road. She wasn’t ready to give up her dream. She would get into Duke. She would make her mother proud. But damn it, she needed a job.

      Hell, she’d already squared everything with the high school so she could graduate, but if she didn’t get a job soon, she would have to go home and admit defeat. Her options were running out.

      Horses grazed in the pasture across the street, and she watched them wistfully. Wynter understood horses. She always had. It was what had landed her a job on Southard Farm. All she needed was another shot, and this time she wouldn’t screw up.

      She’d driven north of Durham that morning to get out of the city and weigh the choices. Right. Who was she kidding? She rationed out the last cigarettes a week before. Now she was on her last tank of gas, had just a couple of dollars left and still no job. She thought if she left town it would clear her head, so she could make a decision. Gamble one more time finding a job or go back.

      She thought about her mother, how hurt and disappointed she would be. Wynter loved her, but she couldn’t go back. Irene had struggled her whole life to give her daughter opportunities, and Wynter had repaid her by getting in trouble and losing a scholarship that might have changed both their lives.

      Somehow, she must make it right. She would not call it quits. There must be something someone would hire her to do. She looked over at the horses once again.

      On a whim, Wynter cranked the ignition and the old truck rumbled and coughed. After checking both ways along the narrow state highway, she drove across the road and down a long, neatly-manicured drive toward the barns in the distance. Bradford pears lined the smooth asphalt, mulch in neat mounds around the base and the grass mowed and trimmed. The whole farm was a showplace that screamed money.

       So what are you doin’ on it, trailer trash?

      Stomach rumbling, she pulled into a parking area in front of what looked like a business office. Nerves or hunger? Did it matter anymore?

      She stepped from the truck and slammed its door. After a quick check to make sure her hair was still in a neat braid, Wynter smoothed her palms over her jeans. They were worn, but at least this pair didn’t have any tears. It was still cool, so she pulled on the sweater Mama had knitted. It was the best thing she owned.

      Her knock was hesitant. Nervousness tingled and tickled the pit of her stomach. Hunger, not nerves, was making her belly as jumpy as a hoppy toad.

      “Door’s unlocked. Come on in.”

      The words were tinged with an accent she couldn’t quite identify. Wynter turned the knob and pushed open the door. It was much darker inside and took a moment before her eyes adjusted. Two men sat in the room, but she directed her attention to the one sitting at the desk right in front. He was older. Besides, the other man worked on a computer toward the back and didn’t even glance up when she came through the door. All she saw of him was gray-streaked hair and broad shoulders. Probably some techno-geek working on the system.

      “What can I do for you, miss?” the older man asked. Wynter shifted her gaze. Her lips trembled and curved into a smile as she identified the accent as Scots. His face was round, with light blue eyes and receding gray hair. On the desk, a tweed driving cap lay as though it had just been tossed there.

      “I was wondering if you might have any jobs available.”

      The Scotsman assessed her from the tips of her sneakers to her slender arms and legs. “Have you worked around horses, lass?”

      “Yes, sir,” Wynter confirmed. “I worked for a family, grooming and exercising their field hunters. I took care of the barn too, feeding and mucking out stalls.”

      “We