Peggy Moreland - The Restless Virgin

Unlike the barn, the house Nash led them to was in good repair. Built of native limestone, the structure looked as if it had stood a century or more and could probably weather another one or two. A covered porch extended across the front of the house and down one side. Wisteria climbed the posts and twined around the railings, its branches dripping with fragrant pink blooms. Behind the veil of leaves, Sam could see two wooden rockers swaying in the afternoon breeze.

She tried to picture Nash sitting there in the evening, slowly rocking, maybe even whittling, while watching the sun set. But the image just wouldn’t form. It was easier to imagine him in a boardroom, his feet propped on his desk, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, while a flock of secretaries darted about at his bidding. With a shake of her head, she climbed the steps after him and followed him into the house.

The country-style kitchen they entered reminded Sam a bit of the one in her own family’s home, though the McClouds’ was more spacious and had more modern conveniences. Still, it was warm and inviting, with a round oak table scarred from years of use. Sam stooped to pick Colby up and set her on the counter by a chipped porcelain sink while Nash dug through cabinets, looking for the first-aid kit.

Tearing off a strip of paper towel, Sam wet it, then dabbed at the cut, cleaning away the dried blood and dirt. To her relief, she saw that the wound was only superficial, as she’d first thought. “This isn’t very deep,” she assured Colby with a pat on her knee. “You won’t feel much of a sting at all.”

Dubiously, Colby watched as Sam opened the first-aid kit Nash had laid out and selected the items she’d need. Nash eased closer to her side, watching, too. Uncomfortably aware of his presence and wishing Colby hadn’t insisted on her father being there, Sam gave Nash’s shoulder an impatient bump. “Give me some room,” she grumbled.

Obediently, Nash stepped back while Sam poured hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball, but he closed the distance right back up when Sam touched the cotton to Colby’s forehead. When Colby cried out, shrinking away, Nash grabbed Sam’s hand. “You’re hurting her,” he growled.

Sam froze as his fingers closed painfully over hers, her breath locked up in her lungs. Images pushed at her from the past, ugly and debilitating. Breathe, she ordered herself sternly, as the familiar panic set in. In, out. In, out. Just breathe, for God’s sake!

Colby giggled, unaware of Sam’s level of distress. “She didn’t hurt me, Daddy. It was just cold.”

Nash slowly loosened his grip on Sam. “Oh,” he mumbled in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

Sam’s breath came out in a rush of air. She dropped the cotton ball, then flexed her fingers for a moment as if to rid them of the feel of him. Firming her lips to hide their trembling, she picked up the tube of ointment and squirted a dime-sized dollop onto the tip of her finger. She leaned closer, combing Colby’s hair out of the way, and gently traced the wound.

“The cut’s a little deeper at her hairline, so I’m going to put on a butterfly bandage to close it in order to prevent scarring.”

“Scarring?” Before Sam could stop him, Nash had wedged himself between her and Colby, his face going pale as he examined the wound.

His reaction confirmed Sam’s earlier opinion that Nash Rivers was an overprotective father who was overreacting to a simple accident.

“Nothing to worry about,” she assured him. “In a couple of weeks, you won’t even know it was there.” She waited until he moved out of her way, then she carefully stretched the bandage over the skin, closing the wound. “There!” She stepped back, briskly dusting her hands together. “All done.” She grinned at Colby. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

Colby smiled back shyly. “Not bad at all. You’ve got soft hands.”

Stunned, Sam opened her palms and looked down at them. Soft? Her hands went places Colby wouldn’t even want to think about and were as rough as cobs due to the number of washings they received each day.

“I think she means gentle,” Nash offered.

Sam whipped her head around to find him watching her. Quickly, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and took another step back, her face flaming as she turned her gaze on Colby. “Speaking of hands, you need to wash yours. We don’t want you spreading any germs if you happen to touch your bandage.”

“My hands aren’t dirty,” Colby argued. “I just—”

Nash caught her under the arms and. set her on the floor, interrupting her. “Wash them anyway. Doctor’s orders. And stop by Nina’s room and apologize for your behavior. You almost gave her a heart attack.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Colby whined, “Nina’s a worrywart. You know that.”

“She worries because she loves you. Now scoot,” he ordered firmly, giving her a light swat on the behind to get her moving.

Dragging her feet, Colby obeyed.

And Sam wished she could call her back, for now she was alone with Nash. Fishing for something to say to fill the silence, she asked, “How long’s Colby been riding?”

“Since she was three. She’s always been nuts about horses. After we moved to Austin, I found a stable where she could continue her lessons, but it’s a forty-five-minute drive from here, so we had to quit after a few months.”

“We?” Sam asked, cocking her head to look at him. “You took lessons, too?”

His eyebrows shot up at the question. “Me? Hell, no! But somebody had to drive her there.”

In other words, Colby’s lessons didn’t fit into Nash’s busy schedule, Sam concluded. “Would you mind if I saddled Whiskey and rode him around for a bit?”

His frown returned. “For what purpose?”

“Just to form an opinion. Then I’d like to see Colby ride him, to see how she handles him.”

Nash narrowed his eyes and stabbed a finger in the direction of Sam’s chest. “You can ride him all you want, but Colby stays on the ground. I won’t have my daughter on that horse’s back again.” He tightened his jaw as he turned to stare down the hallway Colby had disappeared into. The image of her lying on the ground, blood spurting from the wound on her head, formed in his mind and he had to swallow back the fear that rose with it. “She’s my baby,” he murmured, “and all I’ve got left. I can’t take a chance on losing her, too.”

Grateful that Nash had stayed behind at the house to make phone calls, Sam took the saddle Colby had offered her and tossed it onto the horse’s back. She settled it over the pad before dipping her knees to reach underneath for the girt. “Did you pick out this saddle yourself, Colby?”

Perched on top of the stall gate, watching, Colby shook her head. “No. Daddy bought it for me for my birthday.”

And money was obviously no object, judging by the quality of the leather and the tooled name of the saddle maker. “How old are you?”

“Six. My birthday was May first.”

“Really?” Sam tightened the cinch, then threaded the strap back through, making a loop, and tugged it into place. “Mine’s the tenth.”

“Did you have a party? I didn’t get to have one this year. Daddy said he didn’t have time to fool with it. But he said next year we’ll have a bi-i-ig blowout. Course I don’t know who I’ll invite. We’ll be gone by then.”

Sam angled her head, hearing the disappointment in the girl’s voice. “You’re moving?”

Dejected, Colby dropped her elbow to her knee and her chin onto her palm. “Into a condo, just as soon as Daddy gets the deal on the ranch. He’s turning it into a subdivision. You know, houses and shops and stuff. The works. I think he calls it a planned community.” She flapped a hand, scrunching her nose. “Or something like that.”