Forever Wife And Mother. Grace Green

And then he shut it again. This woman was in no condition to drive. It would be on his head if he let her go and she passed out again and ended up in the river.

      He heaved out an I can’t believe I’m doing this sigh and said, “You can stay here tonight.”

      Her gray eyes widened, and she stared at him as if she couldn’t believe it, either. Then she smiled, a smile that lit up her grimy face and made her look like an apprentice chimney sweep who’d been given the day off. “Really? Oh, I do appreciate your kindness.” She offered her right hand and said, somewhat shyly, “I’m Caprice Kincaid.”

      “Gabe Ryland.” Her fingers were fine-boned, the skin incredibly smooth. “At your service. So, Mrs. Kincaid, do you have an overnight bag?”

      “Yes, it’s in the—oh!” She stopped short, looking embarrassed. “I, um, no, I have a case—it’s in the trunk. I’ll go out for it—”

      “I’ll get it.”

      “Oh. Thanks. You’ll find my key in the ignition. Could you bring in my purse, too, please? I left it on the passenger seat.”

      “Will do.”

      When he came back, she was looking at his wall of framed photos adjacent to the bar—photographs he’d taken over the years, candid shots of his well-heeled guests on the mountains, on the river, in the wilderness.

      She turned to him. “What kind of resort do you run? It’s obviously not geared to couch potatoes!”

      “I run a ski school in winter, and in summer I take parties white-water rafting, rock climbing, that sort of thing. Outward Bound,” he added with a sardonic smile, “meets ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”’

      “So you’re in-between times at present?”

      “Yeah. We open again in May.” He led her out of the lounge and to the stairs, where he paused. Indicating a passage to his left, he said, “Our private quarters are through there, but I’ll put you on the first floor. All the guest rooms have en suite bathrooms. You should find everything you need. If you don’t—” he shrugged and looked at her over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs ahead of her “—you’ll have to make do.” He yawned. “I’m going to bed myself now.”

      At the top of the stairs he turned right and opened the door to the first room he came to. It was Spartan, as all the guests’ rooms were, except for the bed, which was luxuriously comfortable.

      He laid her case on the luggage rack. And then crossed to the window. He paused, his long fingers curled around the edge of the heavy cotton drapes, and looked over the valley. The night was dark, but he could see dots of light marking the houses and farms farther up the river.

      His gaze hardened as he fixed it on the spot where he knew the Lockhart place to be. There he could see nothing. No pinpoint, no spark of light. But any day now, as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow morning, the first of Malcolm Lockhart’s charity cases would be turning up at Holly Cottage. Some woman from the city, who would spend a couple of weeks recuperating from whatever trauma had brought her there. As soon as she left, another would arrive. And so it would go on, till after the autumn leaves had turned and winter came again to the valley.

      If his gaze was hard, his heart was even harder. The Lockhart place should, by rights, belong to him. Just as it should have belonged to his father, and his father’s father before him. His father’s hatred of Malcolm Lockhart was matched only by his own. And it was a hatred that would stay with him till his dying day.

      “Mr. Ryland?”

      He closed the drapes brusquely before turning. Mrs. Kincaid was looking at him with a concerned expression.

      “Are you all right?” she asked. “I said your name several times and you…didn’t seem to hear.”

      “My mind drifted for a moment.” He strode to the bathroom door and swung it open. Everything was as it should be—spick-and-span, with fresh white towels, a basket of basic toiletries, clean glasses, a bottle of Evian.

      “Breakfast’s at seven. Sharp!” He started toward the bedroom door. “I hope you’ll find the room comfortable.”

      “It’s lovely,” she said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Oh, one thing before you go…”

      He turned at the door, his eyebrows raised.

      “Will it disturb anyone if I have a shower? I’ve been traveling since dawn…. I’d really like to get cleaned up.”

      “No problem. You won’t disturb me, I sleep like a log. And as for Will—you could drop a bomb next to the bed and you wouldn’t wake her.”

      As he walked to the landing, he felt a pang of guilt. Seven o’clock was an early start for somebody as utterly exhausted as this young woman obviously was.

      But he staved off the guilty twinges by reminding himself that if he hadn’t taken her in, she’d still be on the road.

      And if she couldn’t manage to haul her skinny little body out of bed by seven, then she’d just have to go hungry!

      CHAPTER TWO

      CAPRICE woke next morning to the sound of a dog’s bark.

      The bedroom was in darkness. She reached for her watch, peered at the luminous hands and saw that it was six-thirty. Lying back, she let her mind drift over the events of last night and grimaced as she recalled her panicky flight from Holly Cottage, scared out of her wits by nothing more than a bird—a crow?—that had tumbled down the sitting-room chimney!

      She’d been appalled when she’d seen her reflection in the mirror. With her tangled hair and soot-smudged face, she’d looked like a street urchin. It was a wonder Gabe Ryland had let her through his doorway.

      Gabe Ryland.

      How different he was from the men in her social circle with their city suits and their GQ coiffures—men with pale smooth hands and smoother moves. Gabe Ryland was rugged and weather-beaten, with a hard, craggy face and black hair that hadn’t been cut in months. And in his sturdy jeans, hiking boots and no-nonsense plaid shirt, he’d been a walking ad for his Outward Bound business.

      His hands, she remembered, were rough.

      And his manners, she remembered, were rougher.

      “You should find everything you need,” he’d said, and added bluntly, “if you don’t…you’ll have to make do.” Talk about uncompromising! And then, “Breakfast’s at seven sharp,” the implication being that if she turned up at one minute past, she’d have to go hungry.

      And, she mused over a wide yawn, she was hungry.

      She got up and padded to the window.

      When she pulled back the drapes, she saw that dawn was just breaking. The eastern sky was bloodshot, and rosy light was creeping along the green valley and painting the unruffled surface of the river a glorious shade of pink.

      It was going to be a perfect day.

      And she just had time, she decided with a lilt of anticipation, to squeeze in a quick walk before breakfast.

      “Fang, come here!”

      Fang scrambled through a clump of ferns, and as he bumped against Will’s legs, she caught him by the collar. “Hush!” she whispered urgently. “Someone’s coming!”

      She held her breath as she peeked out from behind the trunk of the oak tree, which was just a few yards from the fence. Cripes, if it was her dad she’d be in deep trouble. She wasn’t supposed to be on Lockhart land; he’d kill her if he knew she’d set foot on it.

      He’d warned her never to cross the fence, warned her when she first became old enough to play outside alone.

      “Why, Dad?” she’d asked, as they stood