The Spy Wore Spurs. Dana Marton
would be nice. The kind of close neighbors you could run over to in a time of need. But the ranch was in an isolated spot, the farthest house from town.
“Here we go.” The old couch groaned under the man’s weight as she laid him down. “I’ll be back in a second.”
She dashed back to the truck for her rifle and the veterinary supply bag behind her seat. She locked the front door on her way back in, something her grandfather hadn’t done once in his life. They lived in good country, around good folks, he used to tell her.
She wondered what he would think about this. He’d have words to say. And not the kind of words you’d find in a church bulletin.
She wiped her face. No time to dry herself fully. Bag. Scissors. She cut off the man’s pants so she could do a better job at assessing and cleaning his injury. If being a field medic in the army had taught her anything, it was to be resourceful and find a way to use whatever she had at her disposal. The veterinary bag was a godsend.
“Wake up. Can you hear me?”
No response. He didn’t even flinch.
Clean the wound. Stop the bleeding. Dress the wound. Make him drink so he had enough fluids in him to get his blood pressure back up enough for him to permanently regain consciousness.
“You’re going to make it. That’s not a suggestion. That’s an order.” She snapped the same words at him as she had at soldiers on the battlefield.
She checked his limbs—everything moved, nothing felt broken. His heart beat slowly but steadily. His pupils were the same size, responding to light. His airways were open. He was in top combat shape, a big point in his favor. The patient’s physical condition always had a big impact on recovery.
Once she finished with the basics, she moved to the niceties. She washed his bloody hands, then wiped his face with a wet washcloth. She’d definitely never met him before. In the light of the lamp and without the smudges on his face, she could fully see him at last: tussled dirty blond hair, straight nose, a masculine jaw, sexy lips. The fact that he looked drawn failed to deduct from how ridiculously handsome he was.
“Ryder McKay,” she said his name out loud, then felt foolish when the cat padded in and gave her a curious look.
The scrawny feline assessed the situation while she licked her lips.
“That better not be cream on your whiskers,” Grace warned the cat, pretty much resigning herself to the fact that her Twinkie was history. “And you better not get sick from all that sugar. I’m not kidding.”
The cat flashed her a superior look then strolled away.
The man’s eyes blinked open slowly, the color of desert honey, then closed again.
“Ryder? You need to wake up. Can you hear me?”
He didn’t stir, not even when a loud banging shook the front door the next second.
Grace jumped to her feet, faced the door in a fight-ready stance, her heart lurching into a race before she caught herself. It’s not an attack. Someone’s just stopping by for a visit. Most likely.
Could be Dylan. She walked to the window, but could see only her own pickup in the driveway through the sheets of rain.
Looking sideways, she could just barely make out a shadow outside her door. Maybe Ryder McKay had a partner out there who was looking for shelter. She hurried to the door and put her hand on the key, but then hesitated. Whoever was outside could just as easily be the one who’d shot McKay.
She ran back to him and pulled the large afghan over his head, covering his entire body. The couch stood in line of sight from the front door. This way, at least he wouldn’t be immediately seen.
The late-night visitor knocked again, even louder and more forcefully.
She strode back to the door, reached for her grandfather’s rifle that she’d hung back up on the peg, then drew a deep breath. “Who is it?”
Chapter Two
The short, plump woman on the other side of the door stood soaked to the skin and poised to flee. She was unarmed and covered in mud—must have slipped a couple of times on her way here. She broke into rapid Spanish.
Grace put away the rifle and motioned her in. “Yo no habla Español. Lo siento.”
She’d forgotten ninety percent of the Spanish she’d learned in high school. And the woman spoke way too fast to even catch individual words, anyway.
But one didn’t have to be bilingual to understand that she was in trouble and ready to drop from exhaustion. Scratches covered her arms, dirt and leaves clung to her wet hair, dark circles rimmed her eyes. She rushed on with her torrent of unintelligible words.
Maybe her car had broken down somewhere. Nothing they could do about that until morning.
“Mañana, all right? We’ll figure this out tomorrow. How about you take a nice hot shower and get some sleep?”
Grace motioned her to the stairs and kept her body between her and the sofa to block the woman’s view of Ryder, barely covered by the afghan. Upstairs, she showed her to the bedroom she’d cleaned for herself earlier, pointing out the bathroom next door.
“Cómo te llamas?” She used one of the few expressions she remembered, as she pulled a dry T-shirt and sweatpants from the bag she’d brought and hadn’t unpacked yet.
The woman put a hand to her chest. “Esperanza.” Then she rushed on with plenty of things to say, unfortunately all in Spanish.
“Okay, Esperanza. Me llamo Grace. “She handed over the clothes. “Take it easy, get some rest.” She pointed to the bed. “You’re safe here.”
Esperanza, barely strong enough to stand, stopped talking and nodded. Her shoulders slumped, tears gathered in her eyes. She looked pitifully, heart-twistingly dejected, but seemed to accept at last that they weren’t going to understand each other. She moved to leave.
“No. You stay here. Mañana, we’ll take care of everything. You can’t go anywhere else tonight.” Grace pointed at the rain lashing the window. “Muy peligroso.” Very dangerous.
The woman paled, then nodded, the fight going out of her. She sank onto the bed.
“I’ll bring you something to eat, okay?” Grace grabbed her bag then left the woman and padded downstairs.
She made two sandwiches for Esperanza and grabbed a bottle of water to take to her. The woman accepted the nourishment, setting everything on the bedcover next to her.
“Good night. Buenas noches. Everything will be better in the morning. You’ll see. Mañana. “Grace gave a big thumbs-up.
But the woman didn’t cheer up in the least. She looked heartbroken beyond words.
Grace went back downstairs and mopped up the mud, exhaustion settling into her bones. She didn’t look forward to having to clean another bedroom before she could go to sleep. But by the time she changed into dry clothing and was ready to head back up the stairs, Ryder was blinking awake. She grabbed the chance and poured some orange juice into him.
“Are you with the team-building people?” In that case, she could call Dylan once her phone decided to work again, and he could get in touch with the rest of the guy’s team. They had to be looking for him.
But after clearing his throat, the man said, “border protection,” his voice hoarse and weak.
She winced, thinking of Esperanza upstairs who might or might not be from the local Hispanic community. Maybe she’d just sneaked across the border. Not something that normally happened on the ranch. The south side of the property was pretty inhospitable terrain, even discounting the impassable ravine. No shade, frequent brush fires, an endless walk and several