Rancher at Risk. Barbara Daille White

he’d been forced to learn: “Being sorry won’t save your kid.”

      “I told you, it happened too fast.”

      He blinked, willing to swear he hadn’t spoken loudly enough for her to hear.

      Ignoring him, she turned to talk to the girl.

      With neither of them paying him any mind, he sagged against the sun-warmed metal of the truck and scrubbed his hand across his mouth, glad for the chance to pull himself together.

      He still couldn’t shake the images that had peppered his brain like buckshot the moment he’d seen the girl run into the street. He couldn’t stop the questions he had hoped to leave a thousand miles behind him.

      Had memories flooded Jan’s mind in the seconds before the crash? From his booster chair in the backseat, had Billy seen the end coming, too?

      From somewhere deep inside, he found the strength to slam a mental door shut on his thoughts. For now.

      Avoiding the pair on the sidewalk, he stared down the length of the street, taking in the general store, the pharmacy and a café. When he could breathe regularly again, he checked out the lawn alongside him. The town green, evidently, judging by the formal look of the hitching posts spaced all around the property and the horse troughs overflowing with flowers decorating the walkway. It almost seemed like home.

      Good thing he’d never been here before, because this would’ve been one hell of a homecoming.

      And good thing he didn’t intend to stay long. Didn’t matter what his boss said about “fresh starts” and “taking a breather.” No one here but Caleb’s wife, Tess, and daughter, Nate, knew him, anyway. But even that didn’t matter. He would do his job, make things right with the man who paid his wages and move on to...who the hell cared where.

      Trying to ignore the sudden stiffness in his shoulders, he focused on the building ahead of him. Tall columns held up the porch, though the structure looked sturdy enough to do without them. Beneath that sheltering roof stood a white-haired man impersonating an Elvis gone forty years past his prime.

      Great. If he’d had to ruin his grand entrance, couldn’t he have done it without an audience? The irony made his shoulders grow even more rigid. A year ago he’d hounded the sheriff’s office to come up with a single witness.

      Maybe the way the old man stood squinting and patting his shirt pocket meant he couldn’t see a thing without glasses.

      Naturally, all his good luck had run out. Elvis pulled a toothpick out of that pocket, stuck it in the corner of his mouth and crossed his arms over his chest. The old guy looked him up and down much the way Ryan himself inspected potential ranch stock.

      Yeah, just great.

      Distracted by movement, he looked toward the woman, who had turned to face him again.

      A heavy feeling started in his chest and only got worse when she stalked toward him. Slim legs in below-the-knee shorts flashed gracefully but with as much determination as a filly headed for the finish line. He barely had time to take in the rest of her racehorse-lean frame before she came to a stop a yard from him. Her cheeks flushed pink with anger and her blue eyes flamed.

      “I explained to Becky what happened,” she said, spacing her words, “and now I’ll explain some things to you.” She spread the fingers of one hand and ticked off each statement as she made it. “I am not drunk. I am not crazy. Becky is not my child.”

      He shifted his shoulders again. She had a heck of a lot of points to get across, all on his account.

      Beyond her he saw the little girl, as blond-haired as the woman in front of him. No wonder he’d taken them for mother and daughter. The child went onto one knee to pet the puppy.

      “Becky is my niece. And—” the woman tapped her final finger, then curled both hands into fists and slammed them down in front of her “—I can take care of her.”

      The sparks in her blue eyes made him fight not to wince. She had some justification for her anger. He wouldn’t deny that. He had good reason for getting upset, too.

      But he didn’t have enough damn fingers for his list of regrets.

      Yeah, at first fear had driven him. Once he saw the child was okay, relief had set in. But then, as with the drunken cowboy, he had let frustration take over.

      He couldn’t lose it with her again.

      “Look,” he said, “when I saw the girl, I thought—”

      “We’ve covered what you thought.”

      “Right. And you’ve said a mouthful about it. Or maybe a handful.” He gestured to her fists.

      She looked down. Again she made a visible effort to gain control, to unclench her fingers and let her hands hang naturally by her sides. He ought to take notes.

      When she met his eyes again, he gave her an unblinking stare.

      “I’ve already apologized.” She spoke softly, indistinctly again, making him strain to focus on her words. “I’ll say it one more time. I’m sorry Becky ran into the road and gave you such a scare. But she wasn’t anywhere near you. You just overreacted.”

      Another truth he couldn’t deny. No matter his unease about the woman, she was right. He had gone over the top with his reaction. The child had run into the road dozens of yards away from the truck, and he’d had plenty of time to come to a stop. Yet if he’d been closer to her, if he’d been distracted, if a car had come from the other direction... Too damned many ifs.

      “You should have called her back,” he said flatly.

      “She wouldn’t have heard me. She’s deaf.”

      “Deaf?” He shifted his shoulders, trying to shake off the extra guilt her statement had added to him. He’d really messed things up today. Earlier this week. In the past few months.

      Once, he’d listened to folks instead of jumping to snap decisions. It made him a better ranch foreman. A better man. Once. And now? He took a deep breath and let it out. “Look, I’m sorry—”

      “Because she’s deaf.”

      “No—”

      “Because you realize you shouldn’t have made assumptions about me.”

      “I wouldn’t do that.”

      “You already did, didn’t you? Why else would you have asked if I was drunk?” Her words now came through to him loud and clear. Her irritation practically rang in his head.

      So much for attempting to save the situation.

      Frustration clawed at him, yet guilt weighed him down. As fast as everything had happened, as incensed as he had been, he had jumped to conclusions about her. Keeping his tone as level as he could, he said, “You’re jumping to a few conclusions about what I’m trying to say, too.”

      When he pushed away from the side of the truck, bringing them closer, she tilted her head back, keeping their gazes locked. “If you hadn’t kept making your points and cutting me off, by now I’d have told you I’m sorry this whole thing happened.”

      She blinked and stared at him for a long moment. “Well,” she said finally, “in that case, I guess we’ve both said all we needed to say.”

      He watched her turn and motion to the girl, who fell into step, her hands moving, as they walked away.

      The dog sat on his haunches, wagged his tail and looked at him.

      A good part Labrador with some shepherd in his bloodline, the pup had a dark coat but a tan-colored face. Dark fur circled one eye as though he stood staring with an eyebrow raised in question.

      In answer, Ryan shrugged.

      The dog whined, his thoughts plain enough to read. Us guys ought to stick together. Tail drooping now, the pup turned and padded after the