MIDNIGHT CINDERELLA Read online

He gave her an irritated glance. "What canyon?"

  "The lady who sat beside me on the bus said there's a canyon on one side of town, with a creek in it. She said that's how Bitter Creek got its name."

  "It's an arroyo, not a canyon, and the creek's been mostly dry for the last fifty years."

  She wasn't sure what an arroyo was, but damn if she'd ask the man beside her. "I guess you'd know about that. Your family has lived in the area a long time, I understand."

  "Yeah." He drove the way he moved, like a man who was at home in his body and used to having it do what he told it to do. She'd seen that sort of casual physical command before, in people who earned their living with their bodies—athletes and dancers, cowboys and carpenters, a waitress at a truckstop—and it always fascinated her. Though she was nowhere near as self-conscious as she had been as a teenager, she hadn't felt entirely comfortable with her body since puberty hit her right between the breasts.

  They pulled to a stop at the lone traffic light the little town boasted. It was quiet as only a small town late at night can be quiet, with no small sounds to disturb the hush. Hannah decided to wait and let him break the silence.

  He wasn't exactly a chatterbox. They had passed the rundown motel on the edge of town with the blinking Va'ancy sign, and were headed out into the darkness of the countryside before he spoke again. "Harry spoke highly of you."

  She smiled. "Harry and Livvy are something else, aren't they?" She'd enjoyed working for them when she took care of Harry's aunt last year after the old woman's hip surgery. They'd kept in touch after Hannah moved on to other towns, other patients.

  "I assume Harry told you about me."

  She glanced at him, puzzled. The glow from the dash lights was too dim to give her a clue to his expression. "He said you needed someone to take care of your little brother, who'd been in a motorcycle accident."

  "Is that all?"

  "Well … he said your family has been in the area a long time. And that I could trust you. You were the one who warned me your brother was a bit irritable." About as irritable as a grizzly woken early from his winter's nap, from what she could tell. The first two aides he'd hired had quit.

  "Dammit," he muttered. "He didn't say anything else?"

  "No, why?"

  "He was supposed to."

  Now her curiosity was itching. "Are you on a special diet or something? I'm a good cook, but I'm not a nutritionist. You'll need to give me instructions if that's the case."

  "A diet?" He was grimly amused. "No. I guess it doesn't matter. You won't be staying, anyway."

  "Yes, I will."

  He gave her one of those cool, level looks he'd given the three thugs. Hannah ignored it. She was too busy noticing the sensation in the pit of her stomach, an electric tug as unmistakable as it was unwelcome. Good heavens. She had goose bumps on her arms, too! What a peculiar way to react to his voice. She frowned into the darkness. It was a good thing he disliked her. She needed to focus on her goals, not on a man—especially not a man like this one. Nathan Jones obviously didn't have a tender, caring bone in his body. And heartache was such a distracting emotion.

  Not that she thought he could actually break her heart, but he could probably deliver a bad bruise. She was going to be living with him for the next two months, after all. Oh, he might not think she'd stick, but she needed the job too much to let him growl her out of it. Besides, she was good at what she did, and his brother needed her. So did her sister, for a very different reason.

  Fortunately, Nathan Jones was blessed with plenty of unpleasant qualities, and that should put an end to this ridiculous attraction. No doubt exposure to him would help her unexpected lust to die a natural death. She couldn't imagine continuing to want a man who disliked her.

  They rode in silence for several miles. It was inky-dark away from town. The land was as wrinkled as unpressed linen, but basically level and treeless. It was obvious their headlights were the only ones for miles around, yet Nathan Jones used his turn signal when he slowed for the turnoff. The road they turned onto wasn't paved, but it was well-graded and graveled, giving a ride almost as smooth as on the highway. A light flickered up ahead.

  The silence was beginning to bother her. When he signaled again before turning into a driveway flanked by the vague black shapes of several large trees, she spoke. "So, are you a belt-and-suspenders type about everything, or just basically law-abiding?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Your driving habits. You use your turn signal even when there's no traffic for miles, and wait politely at red lights even when the entire town is in bed, asleep." She chuckled. "I'll bet you've never had a ticket."

  "Not in the past six years, at least."

  "What, were you a hell-raiser until then?" She didn't believe it. He was too self-contained, too controlled, for her to picture him as a rebel.

  "I don't think anyone would have put it quite that way."

  "How would they have put it?" The driveway was long by city standards, but she could see the dark bulk of a sprawling house ahead, along with a scattering of outbuildings.

  "You sure you want to know?" he asked.

  What an odd thing to say. "If it's too personal…"

  "It's nothing you shouldn't have already been told."

  "So tell me," she said, but most of her attention was fixed ahead of them, on the house that would be her home for the next two months. She couldn't see much. None of the windows were lit, so she couldn't get a clear idea of the actual size or shape of the place, but it seemed to be a big house. The wall she could see in the spill of porch light on the side of the house was stone. That semicircle of yellow light also showed her a slice of driveway, a small porch and an untrimmed straggle of shrubbery banked against the fitted-stone wall of the house.

  The driveway split into two just before they reached the house, one drive heading for a dark building that might be a garage, the other running alongside the house. Her new employer took the straightest road, pulling up near the side porch. She had just about decided that he wasn't going to answer her question when he looked over at her. None of the cheery yellow light from the porch reached his face when he spoke. "I'm careful about how I drive because I haven't been off probation long enough to feel casual about any of the rules."

  "Probation?" she said weakly.

  "Harry was supposed to tell you about that. Chances are, he could have saved you a bus ride—and me the cost of your ticket—if he had." He turned off the ignition without looking away from her.

  Mockery was one of the chilly threads she heard in his voice when he spoke again. Amusement, dark and bitter, was another. "Go ahead," he said. "Ask."

  She didn't want to. She hated being predictable as much as she hated being manipulated. That's what he was doing, too—manipulating her, making her respond with a hint of fear and an overwhelming curiosity.

  But she couldn't help it. She had to know. "Why were you on probation?"

  "Because, six years ago, I killed a man."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  «^»

  While Nathan Jones got her suitcase out of the back, Hannah sat motionless. He'd killed a man. How? In an accident, like a car crash? It must have been an accident, she told herself. He'd been put on probation instead of serving time. Surely he would have gone to prison if—

  Her door opened. She jumped.

  He smiled, but it wasn't a friendly expression, and his voice was as coldly courteous as that of the devil inviting a sinner into hell. "You may as well come inside, Hannah McBride. You're not going anywhere tonight."

  * * *

  The ranch house was an old building, particularly for this part of the country, where the white man's passion for walls, roofs and ownership hadn't triumphed until the end of the last century. From what little Hannah had seen of it so far, the central portion seemed to be a combination of brick and stone construction, and the walls were thick. Hannah sat on the wide ledge of the window in her bedroom and lean
ed her forehead against glass as cold and black as the winter sky outside. A double-zillion stars lit that exterior darkness, shining with a fervor that was always lost in the tangle of city lights. She'd forgotten how splendid the night sky could be in the country.

  But it was a cold splendor, wasn't it?

  At least she had a nice room. The furnishings were old but of good quality, especially the antique vanity standing against the wall that held the single tall window. Hannah sat on the ledge of that window in her blue-and-white flannel nightgown and hoped the splendor of stars and the feel of winter against her forehead would settle her thoughts.

  She sighed once, and wondered about her sister.

  Had anyone asked, she would have indignantly denied being worried. Leslie was a McBride, and very well able to take care of herself, thank you, in spite of her current troubles. But sitting here, alone with her thoughts and the pressure of weariness, Hannah would admit she was a bit … unsettled. She didn't like not knowing where her sister was. She was definitely unsettled about that.

  Of course, Leslie would be in touch soon. She'd needed to make a fresh start, to get away from the ex-husband who'd been threatening her. That's why Hannah had loaned her the contents of her savings account. Of course, Leslie hadn't asked Hannah to send all her money. Hannah supposed she might have gone a little overboard there, but she'd known she had this job to come to, and it was bad enough knowing her sister was going through hell without worrying about whether she had enough money.

  Really, there was very little to worry about, Hannah assured herself as she turned her head to press her cheek against the cold glass. All she had to do was stay where her sister could reach her. Hannah had given Leslie this phone number and address; therefore, Hannah couldn't quit. Or allow her boss to fire her.

  Her grouchy, silent, oversize boss. Who had killed a man. After dropping his bombshell, he'd escorted her politely into the house. The side entrance was through the laundry room and on into the kitchen, which had given Hannah a hint of how hard she was going to work over the next few days getting this house back in shape while caring for an invalid. Dishes were piled in the sink and on the counter, and she'd walked across something sticky on her way to the hall.

  Her bedroom was in the west wing, next to her patient's room. She didn't know where Nathan Jones slept.

  Hannah shivered. She rubbed at the chill bumps on her arms, then surprised herself by yawning. It was too late, too cold, and she was too tired to get everything straight in her mind tonight. Time for bed.

  The only light in the room came from a wall lamp with a hobnail glass globe. She turned that off and stood on the rag rug by the bed, listening.

  Hannah had slept beneath so many roofs that she had her own ritual for her first night in a new place. First she set out her special things—the photographs in the hinged frame, the little wooden horse her father had carved, her books. Then, before climbing in bed, she listened. Every building had its own set of creaks and groans, so she stood there in the dark, accustoming herself to the sounds this particular house made late on a winter night. As gradually and inevitably as snow drifts down from overburdened winter clouds, her thoughts drifted once more to Nathan Jones.

  What had he meant when he said he'd killed a man? Maybe he meant that he'd caused a man's death. That would be a terrible thing to live with, she thought—the knowledge that his carelessness had caused someone's death.

  But that wasn't what he'd said, was it?

  He expected her to leave now that he'd told her. And maybe, she admitted, hugging her arms close to her body, leaving would be the smart thing to do.

  But Nathan Jones expected her to leave.

  Obviously, he was trying to make her as eager to leave as he was to have her gone. She hated being manipulated. He didn't think he had to offer any explanations, any other facts about himself, to make her hightail it out of there. He assumed she would jump to conclusions about him as fast as he'd jumped to them about her.

  Hannah sneered at the idea as she turned down the covers on the bed. There was the flatness of her wallet to think about, too. She contemplated it. She hadn't been this broke since Barry walked out on her the day before she turned seventeen. Not that she regretted loaning Leslie the money—not for a second—but if she left this job sooner than she'd planned, she would have to ask for help. And she did have friends who would help if she asked, but…

  But she was a McBride, and she hated the idea.

  No point in worrying things to death. The sheets she slid between were cold, but the blankets and quilts were piled comfortingly high. She'd be warm again soon enough.

  Tomorrow, she decided, she would meet her patient and decide for sure about the job. On the whole, though, she thought she would stick it out here. Two months at the wages offered by Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Scary Jones would get her back on her feet financially. She'd be able to enroll at Tech for the summer semester. Or she might work this summer and start back in the fall. She wasn't giving up on her dreams, she assured herself. Maybe she'd had to postpone them a bit, but the university wasn't going anywhere. It would still be there when she had the money again.

  The two bed pillows were thin. She bunched them up together into a comfortable shape. The mattress was firm, the sheets clean. All in all, she thought, letting her eyes drift shut, she could have done a lot worse for herself. She'd be fine as long as she stayed away from Nathan Jones, with his tricky ways and dangerous past, not to mention his mismatched eyebrows and that cold, wicked voice.

  Oh, that voice…

  Desire danced along her skin—a quick, prickly charge that brought her eyes wide-open. She frowned, rolled onto her other side, bunched the pillows up beneath her head again and stared at the black rectangle of the window.

  Damn. It didn't seem fair, but she was going to have to avoid him even when he wasn't around.

  * * *

  Hannah possessed the knack, shared by interns and small children, of shutting down quickly and completely, then waking refreshed from even a relatively short sleep. So the next morning when someone started cussing in the room next to hers, she woke fast and clearheaded.

  The voice was male and furious. One or two words, loud enough for her to make them out in spite of the wall between her and the speaker, made her raise her eyebrows as she tossed back the covers. Certainly she had heard those words before, having been raised around cowboys who sometimes forgot themselves, but Patrick McBride had been a chauvinist of the old school. He would have knocked down anyone who he heard using that sort of language around his daughters.

  Suddenly the cussing stopped. It was followed by a loud yell. "Nate! Dammit, Nate, get your butt in here!"

  Hannah didn't take the time for robe or slippers. She left her room at a run and flung open the door to the room next to hers.

  The man in the hospital bed had dark hair and coppery skin. She could see quite a bit of that skin, since he was naked except for two white casts, one on the lower half of his right arm and one that covered his right leg from hip to heel. And he was gorgeous. Absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous, from his scowling face to the bare toes sticking out the end of the leg cast.

  He sure didn't look like anyone's little brother.

  "What the hell—" He made a quick, left-handed grab for the sheet twisted up between his legs, and managed to fig-leaf himself, then turned his scowling face on her.

  That face was several years younger than his brother's—about her own age, she thought—and damp with the sudden sweat of pain. He was trapped in a position that had to hurt like hell, his back a couple of inches above the bed and the cast on his right wrist stuck through the trapeze that hung from the scaffolding over the bed—stuck and caught, holding him miserably half-up, half-down.

  She hurried to him. "Tried to swing from the trapeze with the wrong arm, didn't you? Hold on." She pushed the button on the side of the bed, raising it enough to come up behind him and take his weight, easing the pressure on his broken arm.

&n
bsp; He grunted and tried to pull his arm back out of the trapeze. "I can't—"

  "I know. The ribs?" she asked sympathetically as she helped him get cast and arm out of the triangular device. Nathan Jones had described his brother's injuries when he hired her over the phone. The right femur—the long, weight-bearing bone in his right leg—was broken. So was his right wrist, so he couldn't use crutches to get around. With a couple of cracked ribs as well, he couldn't yet even use the trapeze to shift himself around in bed.

  "Yeah." He lay back against the nearly flat pillow with a small sigh of relief. His skin was clammy.

  She untangled the covers, which were in a heap near the foot of the bed. "You must weigh, what—about two hundred?"

  "So?" The "make me" expression on his face reminded her of a little boy caught in some mischief. The face itself was so perfect that it was startling. That stunning face was framed by hair as black as a raven's wing, worn long enough to tuck behind the ears. It was straight as a raven's wing, too.

  Gorgeous. She sighed, envying him his hair.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, moving fast. Her employer, no doubt, who must have been some distance away when he heard Mark's last bellow for help.

  "What the hell business is it of yours how much I weigh?" her patient growled.

  "Pity your language and temper aren't as pretty as the rest of you."

  Nathan's voice came from the doorway. "What's going on here?"

  She glanced over at him. "How many aides did you say his temper has driven off?"

  "Two." When Nathan came into the room, he seemed to bring a trace of the outdoors with him. The brim of his Stetson shadowed his eyes the way an overcast sky shadows the earth, and she fancied she could feel the cold clinging to his denim jacket through the two feet of air separating them. He directed his question at his brother. "What's wrong?"

  The skin on his cheek would be cold, Hannah thought, if she were to touch it. Not that she would, of course… Good grief, she was certainly not going to think about touching her boss's cheek.