The Texan's Secret. Linda Warren

      Finally clear, Chance braced her head on his chest and dragged her away, leaving a wet trail in the mud.

      He gently laid her on the grass. While supporting her neck, he managed to struggle out of his wet shirt and stuff it under her head. Then he hurried back for his phone.

      “What’s happening? Can you hear me?” he heard the dispatcher calling.

      “I have her out on the creek bank.” He knelt beside the unconscious woman. “She has a slight gash on her forehead.”

      “Is she bleeding?”

      “Not much.” He glanced toward the sky and saw the dark thunderclouds gaining force. “Where in the hell is that ambulance? It’s fixing to rain.”

      “Stay calm.”

      “Listen, this woman needs to get out of the weather.”

      “Check her arms and legs to see if anything is broken.”

      He ran his hands over her limbs. “Doesn’t seem to be and I can’t see any more blood.” He made a quick decision. “I’ll take her to the Southern Cross ranch a mile down the road. Route the ambulance there.”

      “They’re about ten minutes away.”

      Raindrops fell on his hand. “We don’t have ten minutes.”

      “Okay. Just be careful with her neck.”

      “I will.” Losing no time, Chance shoved his phone into his back pocket again and gingerly scooped her into his arms, making sure her head was braced against his shoulder. As he started toward his truck, he heard a swooshing sound and turned to see the car submerged in the water, with only the roof showing.

      Staggering in his wet boots and jeans, he climbed onto the road and hurried to the vehicle. After depositing her on the passenger side, he repositioned his shirt beneath her head, then tilted the seat back. Blood covered her forehead, but the gash had stopped bleeding. Her skin was pasty white and her hair seemed to be everywhere.

      He fished his phone out of his pocket. “Thanks for your help. We’re on the way to Southern Cross.”

      “The woman was lucky to have you around. Good luck. The ambulance should be there shortly.”

      As soon as he clicked off, the cell buzzed again. It was Walker, the constable. Finally.

      “Hey, Chance. I’ve been at the courthouse in Giddings and I just got the news about the wreck. How’s the driver?”

      Chance glanced at her. “She’s still out and I’m taking her to Southern Cross. The volunteer fire department sure didn’t help.”

      “Henry couldn’t get the truck started. It’s time the community did something about that or we’re going to have a major fire and the whole town is going to suffer.”

      “Yeah.” Chance snapped the woman’s seat belt into place and ran around the truck, his boots sloshing. He crawled into the driver’s seat, still talking to Walker. “Maybe this will encourage everyone in High Cotton to get behind the project.”

      “We can only hope. I’m on my way.”

      Within minutes Chance rolled into the driveway of the ranch. He called Renee, Judd’s mother, to announce his arrival with a casualty.

      Renee opened the door at once. “Oh, good heavens, come in,” she said as he carried the patient up the steps. Thunder rumbled in warning and heavy rain began to fall. He’d made it just in time.

      “My boots and jeans are wet and muddy, Renee,” Chance said apologetically.

      “Not a problem! I can clean up a little mud,” she said.

      Chance wiped his boots on the mat as best he could, then carried his load inside. Renee spread sheets on the sofa in the den and he gingerly laid the unconscious woman on them.

      “What happened?” Renee asked, glancing from one bedraggled figure to the other.

      “She ran off the road into Crooked Creek and I had to pull her out. I’ve already called 911 and Walker.”

      “Good heavens.”

      Chance pointed to the woman’s face. “She has a cut on her head.”

      “I’ll get some supplies.”

      As Renee hurried away, the woman stirred. “Oh, o-o-oh.”

      “Lie still,” Chance instructed. “You’ve been in an accident.”

      Renee came back and cleaned the cut with warm water and applied a bandage. “That should hold you until the paramedics arrive.”

      Their patient looked around and Chance noticed her eyes were green, a startlingly brilliant color. The kind of eyes that caught a man off guard with their intensity and beauty. She was pretty, too, with a pert nose, clear classic features and gorgeous blond hair streaked with a lighter color he was sure was artificially produced. Definitely not a country girl. She had a big city look about her, and he wondered what she was doing around here.

      “Where am I?” Shay blinked, feeing disoriented.

      Someone patted her arm. “Don’t you fret, sugar. You’re fine. The paramedics should be here soon.” It was a woman’s voice, sure and confident, with a Southern drawl.

      Paramedics?

      “You’re at the Southern Cross ranch,” a male voice said. Shay glanced up to see a handsome man with wet, disheveled hair staring down at her. His face was lean, his muscled body was showcased in a white T-shirt, tight jeans and cowboy boots. A cowboy? His eyes were like dark chocolate, tempting, sinful and good for her heart. Had she died and gone to heaven, and was he her reward for putting up with all the crap in her life? Oh, he was a very good reward. Now she felt giddy and…

      What did he say?

      Southern Cross?

      She tried to sit up, winced and lay back as pain ripped through her head. “What happened?”

      “You were in an accident, sugar,” the woman said.

      “You ran your car off the road into Crooked Creek,” the cowboy added.

      Bits and pieces fitted together in Shay’s head like one of Darcy’s puzzles. “A silver truck was headed straight for me. I tried…”

      “That was me, and I was on my side of the road.” His voice was deep and commanding, with a Texas accent much like Matthew McConaughey’s, but delivered with an edge of censure. That rankled, even if the sound set off unexpected waves of pleasure.

      Shay narrowed her eyes, then winced. “You ran me onto the shoulder.”

      “You did that all by yourself.”

      “Now let’s don’t quibble.” The woman intervened, as if used to dealing with cantankerous children. “I’m Renee Calhoun and this is Chance Hardin, the foreman of Southern Cross.”

      Renee Calhoun.

      Chance Hardin.

      Oh, no! This just wasn’t her day. The names settled in Shay’s stomach like sour milk. Now what should she do?

      The woman who had broken up her parents’ marriage was a couple of feet away. Shay squinted at her. She seemed perfectly normal, dressed in a cream linen blouse and pants. Her dyed blonde hair hung like a bell around an attractive face. From her mother’s description, Shay had expected Renee to have horns and a tail, next-of-kin to the devil.

      Maybe this was good luck, Shay thought. She had a foot inside the house, and soon, when she’d regained her equilibrium, she’d tell this hellish woman a thing or two.

      The cowboy looked down at her with those dark, dark eyes and she resisted the urge to wriggle. What was he thinking? It was hard to tell, since the blackness of his eyes seemed to block out his emotions as if he were wearing