Winning Heart. Laura Browning
She wanted to get the laundry done and leave before anyone became suspicious. When she had given up the room in Durham, she had used some of her precious store of cash to buy an old sleeping bag at the Goodwill. She secured it under a tarp in the back of the truck. Although a little cold at night, it had been dry, so she’d found an old farm road in the woods just down the road where she parked the truck and slept in the back of it. Wynter wanted to wash the sleeping bag too, and it might take a few minutes longer to dry. She didn’t bother separating any of the clothes. Everything she owned fit in the large capacity washer with room to spare. It was used to wash horse blankets, so it had to be big.
As the washer spun, she looked around the tack room. She was so hungry. Against the wall was the refrigerator where Thomas kept horse medications. She checked for something edible, but her stomach rumbled in protest when all she saw were vials of vaccine and boxes of horse wormer. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a crumpled potato chip bag sitting on top of the trash can. Wynter hesitated a fraction of a second to get herself past the gross-out factor before grabbing it and shaking it. Hallelujah! It had something in it. She almost cried with joy when she discovered someone tossed out half a bag of chips. Wynter slipped two fingers in and grabbed one, savoring the salty, starchy taste.
The washing machine beeped when it finished. Setting the bag of chips next to the papers from Duke, Wynter slipped into the laundry area and shifted the clothes and the sleeping bag from the washer into the dryer. The machine hummed as it started. Wynter settled back in a comfortably shabby overstuffed chair with the garbage can chips and the Duke paperwork. The chips were gone in pretty short order. It blunted the edge off her hunger.
She checked the dryer, took out the t-shirts, underwear and her oldest pair of jeans and restarted it. The rest of the jeans and the sleeping bag were still damp. While she waited for them to dry, Wynter tried to concentrate on the paperwork, but she was just too tired. In no time, she found herself drifting off.
* * * *
“Are you worried about the lass too, sir?” Thomas had asked Nelson that afternoon when he’d once again caught him staring after their newest stable hand, Wynter O’Reilly.
Nelson glanced behind him. “She looks thinner.”
“I’m afraid the job’s too much, sir, though she’s giving it her best. I won’t be responsible for her hurting herself or one of the horses.”
Nelson had watched the girl struggle to guide the wheelbarrow down the aisle and out to the manure pile. She was tall and slender, now bordering on thin. When she had returned and passed the two men, she had smiled tiredly at them. Nelson’s eyes had followed, resting on the dark auburn braid hanging from underneath the beat up baseball cap perched on her head. It swayed when she walked in the same easy side-to-side rhythm as her slender hips.
Nelson frowned. “Do what you think’s best. I trust your judgment.”
He had more things to worry about than the fate of one stable girl. But when he got ready to leave the office late that night to return to the house, he noticed her truck was still there. Wynter O’Reilly would not be dismissed, no matter what he might say. But now the question nagging at him was what she was doing in his barn so late? Still turning that over in his brain, he limped to the tack room in the barn. As soon as he had eased open the door, he spied her sleeping in a chair on the other side, one hand tucked beneath a cheek and her legs curled beneath her, as innocent-looking as a baby.
On her lap, resting beneath her other hand, was a sheaf of papers. Even from here he saw the Duke University logo. Now his curiosity sharpened. As a general rule, stable girls were drop-outs or runaways. Which are you, Wynter O’Reilly? He limped over quietly and was rewarded when she continued sleeping undisturbed.
He saw financial aid papers, a summer school application sticking out from them. Nelson looked at the dark circles under the half-moons of her sooty eyelashes. Was this why she worked so hard? Trying to get into Duke? He glanced at the full name on the application, and noted she had put Pheasant Run’s address under place of residence. He frowned again, sharp eyes taking in the still damp hair and the sound of the dryer from the laundry room.
There was a lot more to Wynter O’Reilly than had first appeared. While he whispered her name and shook a slender shoulder, Nelson wondered if the girl might be of use. She seemed to dislike the Southards. Perhaps he should find out more about her connection to that family.
Chapter 2
“Wynter.” Someone shook her shoulder. “Wynter O’Reilly.”
“Wythe?” she mumbled as she struggled awake.
“Nelson Anderson.”
Wynter’s eyes snapped open, and she struggled to focus on the man leaning over her. His scent teased her nostrils. Leather, horses, spice. She shook her head and stared into those midnight-blue eyes. Panic surged. “I—I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”
Anderson grunted and grimaced as he straightened.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Almost midnight. Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”
“Yeah. I was just drying some blankets,” she lied. “I’ll finish then be on my way.”
Anderson seemed content to wait while she went into the adjacent laundry room. Probably didn’t trust her, she thought. She grabbed the rest of the laundry and the sleeping bag. What on earth was she going to do now? She couldn’t very well walk back into the tack room with the stuff, so she looked around and found an empty cabinet next to the sink. It would have to do. She would sleep inside the truck tonight. Wynter stuffed everything in the cabinet and then smiled uneasily as she returned to the main tack room. Anderson watched her with intense blue eyes.
“I’ll walk you out to your truck.”
“You don’t need to,” Wynter assured him, eyes darting to the cane.
“My doctors tell me the exercise helps, so humor me.” His lean face twisted.
She swallowed and looked away, anywhere but right at him. “Yes, sir.”
Wynter gathered the papers together. She noticed him studying her, but he said nothing when she stood back up, holding the papers against her chest.
“Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
He stiffened for a moment but didn’t say a word while he limped toward the door. Wynter followed. He held the door open, and she felt herself blush. She ducked her head as she went past him. Wynter waited for him to turn off the lights before adjusting her pace to walk beside him. The silence stretched her nerves to the screaming point. When she reached the driver’s door of the small truck, she looked at him. Close up she had the feeling he wasn’t as old as he seemed, maybe somewhere around her mother’s age.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
His face relaxed. “It’s all right, Wynter.”
She nodded and climbed in the truck. To her horror, when she turned the key, the engine turned over again and again, but didn’t catch. He watched, and Wynter bit her lip. One glance at the gas gauge and she swallowed. Empty. It was what she feared.
“Anything wrong?” Anderson asked.
“I’m out of gas.” She smiled at the man looking in. “It’s okay. I’ll walk. It’s not far.
“Nonsense,” he stated. “It’s too late and too dark for you to walk along the road. I’ll take you home. My car’s in back of the office.” He started to turn away.
“No, really,” she insisted. “I…I like walking, and it’s not far…”
“Wynter,” Nelson Anderson warned, “you’re being ridiculous. I’ll take you home, and that’s the end of it.” He turned to limp toward the back of the office building.
Wynter