The Heiress and the Sheriff. Stella Bagwell
don’t say very much, and when you do it’s always pessimistic. Are you always this way? Or am I the only one who sees this side of you?” she asked.
“I’m not pessimistic, Miss Carter. I’m realistic.”
Her lips pressed together. “You know, I don’t think it would hurt anything if you called me Gabrielle. ‘Miss Carter’ makes me sound like a dowager.”
“I only call my friends by their first name. And I don’t know you at all.”
Gabrielle felt as if he’d actually struck her across her face. She was alone and lost. Any sort of warmth from him would have been welcome, but it was very obvious he didn’t care about her feelings. To him, she was nothing but an unfinished job.
She quickly looked away from him and tried to swallow the hurt. The pain was oddly familiar, as though she were used to rejection. By her family? she wondered. Or a sweetheart? Or maybe, God forbid, she didn’t have anybody. No parents or siblings. No boyfriend or lover.
“No. I don’t guess you could know me. I don’t even know myself,” she said quietly.
He was being a bastard. Even he knew it. But something about this young woman was different. She made him itch in all the wrong places, and he couldn’t afford to let himself get friendly with her.
Still, the crushed look on her face left him feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just didn’t want her getting close.
“Look, Miss Carter, I—”
The massive door suddenly swung open and a short middle-aged Mexican woman peered across the threshold at the two of them.
“Good afternoon, Wyatt. I see you’ve brought our new guest.”
“Hello, Rosita. This is Gabrielle Carter. She’s just been released from the hospital. Maggie assured me you’d be expecting her.”
Except for one white streak at her temple, the plump woman had very dark hair that was pulled to the back of her head in a heavy bun. She had what looked to be a maid’s uniform on; so Gabrielle assumed she must be a housekeeper of some kind. She stepped up to Gabrielle and studied her with keen but kind eyes. “Yes. We’re expecting Ms. Carter,” she said to Wyatt, while continuing to regard her new houseguest. To Gabrielle she said, “I’m Rosita Perez. My daughter Maggie tells me you’ve lost any possessions you may have had, that everything was burned in the car. I’m very sorry to hear it.”
Gabrielle nodded down at the paper sack she was clutching in one hand. “All Sheriff Grayhawk found was my Bible. I think I’m just lucky to be alive.”
“I think you are lucky, too,” she said, then glanced at Wyatt. “I’ll show Gabrielle to her room. Did you want to see Ryan?”
Wyatt shook his head. “No. I won’t bother him now. I’ve got to get back to the office.” He glanced at Gabrielle, who looked even more pale and worn since he’d picked her up at the hospital. “I’ll be back later. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
Gabrielle nodded that she understood, and extended her hand to him. “Thank you, Sheriff Grayhawk, for bringing me out here.”
He hesitated only for a second, then reached to clasp her hand in his. Her fingers were small and soft and cool against his warm palm, and for one wild second, he wanted to draw her to him, nestle her cheek against his chest and assure her everything was going to be all right.
But that was the last thing he could allow himself to do. Gabrielle Carter might not be entirely innocent. And even if she was, he couldn’t let himself care. He’d been hurt too many times to chance another slap in the face by a woman.
“You’re welcome, Miss Carter,” he murmured, then glanced at Rosita. “If you need me, call me. Otherwise, I’ll let you know what the VIN number turns up.”
Wyatt turned and left through the door they had just entered. The housekeeper said to Gabrielle, “Come along and I’ll show you where you’ll be staying. Then you might want lunch.”
“Thank you,” Gabrielle told her, then followed her ample figure out of the entryway and into a large great room.
Without a memory, she had no way of knowing what sort of house or apartment she’d been living in before the car accident. But something told her it hadn’t been anything like the Double Crown ranch house. One whole wall was dominated by an open rock hearth. The ceiling was high and supported by rough oak beams. The walls were stucco and decorated with numerous paintings and prints, most of which depicted scenes of the Old West. The floor was polished tile, and covered here and there with woven rugs in Mexican and Native American patterns.
Across the room, directly in front of them, a pair of curved, wooden-framed glass doors opened out to a courtyard. Like the front entrance to the house, it was beautifully landscaped with blooming sage, tall clumps of ornamental grass and climbing rosebushes.
“My daughter told us you have amnesia. She feels very guilty about the accident. She wishes she had never gone riding yesterday. I warned her not to go. The night before I had dreamed of a striking serpent.” The older woman shrugged and lifted her palms in helpless acquiescence. “I am her mother, but she paid me no more heed than anyone else around here.”
Gabrielle wondered if the older woman considered herself some sort of psychic. Frankly, she didn’t think she believed in such things. But if the housekeeper had truly dreamed of a striking snake, it would be an awfully eerie coincidence.
Gabrielle followed the woman into a large kitchen. Something spicy and delicious smelling was simmering on a large gas range. Gabrielle’s stomach gnawed hungrily—the dry oatmeal and cold toast at the hospital had been too horrible to eat, and last night’s fare hadn’t been much better.
“Maggie is my youngest. She’s married to Dallas Fortune,” Rosita said, clearly in an effort to strike up a safe conversation.
“Is this their house?”
The housekeeper chuckled as she motioned for Gabrielle to follow her down a hall off to the left of the kitchen.
“No. Dallas and Maggie live in another house on the ranch. It’s a whole lot like this one, just not as big. This is Ryan Fortune’s home. He’s the father of Matthew, Zane, Dallas, Vanessa and Victoria. But I don’t expect you know any of them.” She made a tsking sound of regret. “Pobrecita, you don’t even know yourself.”
“Maybe if I have a chance to see some of these people, I might remember something,” Gabrielle said hopefully. “I had to be headed to this ranch for some reason. Sheriff Grayhawk thinks I was up to no good. But I don’t believe that. I don’t feel like a bad person inside—and I think I would if I were really bad. Does that make sense, Mrs. Perez?”
The woman opened another heavy wooden door carved deeply with Spanish designs, and gestured for Gabrielle to cross the threshold before her. The room was massive with more stucco walls and heavy beams supporting the ceilings. On one end was a bed, dresser and chest all made of yellow pine. At the opposite end was a sitting area furnished with a large couch and stuffed armchair covered in tan leather. Like the great room and kitchen, the floor was also tiled; the scattered woven rugs filled the room with deep, rich colors.
With a wag of her finger, the housekeeper said, “No. No. I’m not Mrs. Perez. I’m Rosita. And I’ll call you Gabrielle, okay?”
At least Rosita wasn’t going to be like Sheriff Grayhawk, Gabrielle thought, but then no one could be like that man.
She smiled warmly at the woman. “Yes. I’d like that.”
“Good. And I wouldn’t worry about Wyatt Grayhawk. He thinks all women are up to no good.”
“Why is that?”
Rosita shrugged and tapped her finger against her chin in contemplation. “He’s a half-breed. His Indian blood is always at war with the white part of him. He’s never happy. But he’s