Thunder rumbled from the west and lightning ripped the darkened sky. The storm was worsening, especially the one inside Harlow.
The momentary flash of light displayed the hazy shape of a two-story house and a smatter of outbuildings. Home, at last. Home and warmth.
And a family who would be shocked out of their heads.
She glanced over one shoulder. Nash and his horse were barely visible in the downpour even though she held the black’s reins and he was only a few feet away from Burr’s tail. She snugged him closer, drawing him alongside Burr as she urged her mount toward the front gate.
Leaning down, she flipped up the latch, grateful it didn’t stick this time, and rode across the soggy yard and onto the low-slung wooden porch. Although the rain ceased beneath the porch roof, and should have been a relief, the pounding on the tin structure increased Harlow’s anxiety about the cattle she had not been able to find.
The calf would likely drown in this deluge. She hoped the cow didn’t.
If God was watching, she wondered if He’d give her credit for saving Nash Corbin’s worthless carcass and, in reward, protect the cow-calf pair. The animals were a lot more valuable to the Matheson family than this troublesome lump of humanity.
Dismounting, she raked the sopping hat from her head and tossed it onto one of the Adirondack chairs lining the long front porch. Water fell like Niagara from the roof, creating a curtain of rain that splashed onto the porch and ran in streams between the plywood boards.
Her sick neighbor, for she wouldn’t call him a friend, remained silent and still, though a quick touch of his neck and that telltale keloid scar let her know he was alive. Passed out, she supposed, from whatever malady assailed him.
What had possessed him to be riding through her pasture in this rainstorm anyway? Had he been seeking help because he was sick? Why was he back in the area in the first place? He’d never come home before.
With an annoyed grunt, Harlow squeezed as much water from her clothes and hair as she could and tried to focus on the main problem.
Nash’s reasons for doing anything were not her concern. He’d made that clear four years ago.
Getting him on his feet and back where he belonged before he caused more disaster for her family was all that mattered.
She shoved open the front door.
Ollie, the family collie, jumped to her feet and yipped her usual greeting.
“Monroe. Poppy!” Harlow leaned into the house without entering and shouted over the dog. She dripped puddles onto the tile entryway. “I need help.”
The dog trotted around Harlow and out onto the porch to sniff the strange horse and the man’s dangling legs. Thunder boomed and she darted back inside. Ollie was a good cow dog but, unlike her owner, she refused to work in a thunderstorm.
Harlow couldn’t blame her.
Leaning heavily on his cane, Poppy hobbled around the opening that led from the living area into the kitchen. His speed was impaired by knees that needed replacing and hips that probably did too. Another ongoing concern for which Harlow had neither answer nor money. God would provide. That’s what Poppy always said. Harlow sure wished the Almighty would hurry.
“What’s wrong?” Her grandpa’s weathered face showed alarm, his snowy eyebrows arched high on his forehead.
Harlow was not one to panic. She rarely asked for help. The fact that she sounded breathless and upset would scare the whole family. But she couldn’t help it. Nash raised all sorts of fears inside her.
To her left, Monroe thumped down the stairs on crutches at breakneck speed with the same troubled expression on her face. A frown pulled at the facial scars she tried to hide behind long, luxurious blond hair.
“Are you hurt? What is it?” Monroe demanded in that no-nonsense staccato of hers.
Affection filled Harlow’s chest, pushing out some of the anxiety from discovering Nash Corbin half-dead on her property.
These two, a wounded-warrior sister and a crippled, aging grandfather, both in pain, would fight a bear for her, damaged legs and all.
She felt the same. Which was exactly why Nash’s presence disturbed her so much.
He’d hurt them, every single one of them, and had never had enough character to even apologize, much less fix the problem.
Not that she wanted anything from him now.
“I’m okay. Just soaked to the bone,” she said. “But there’s a sick man on the front porch.”
“A man?” Monroe’s lips curled in distaste, as if she’d sucked a sour lemon. Men, other than Poppy and Davis, were not her favorite species.
“He needs help.” She didn’t mention who the man was. They’d know soon enough. “I spotted him riding across our land just about the time he started falling from his horse. He’s in a bad way.”
By now Poppy had reached the front door and pushed out onto the porch. Over one shoulder, he hollered, “Let’s get him in. He’ll catch epizooti out here in this sod-soaker.”
Epizooti was Poppy’s word for any illness he couldn’t name. Which was most of them.
“Who is he? What was he doing in our pasture?” Monroe demanded from midway across the small living room, as if she’d let the man drown unless he met with her approval.
Which he most definitely wouldn’t.
“I’m afraid to tell you. Just get a sheet or something we can use to drag him. When I found him, he was only half-conscious and groaning like a sick bull.” Harlow spun and headed back out the door, leaving explanations for later.
Nash, still lashed to the saddle like a side of bacon, hadn’t moved. Poppy’s white handlebar mustache worked up and down. He was gnawing on something, probably a thought.
“Horse looks familiar.” He nodded. Smacked his lips. “Yep. I know this horse.”
Of course he did. She should have recognized him, too. Every time she’d driven past Ike Crowder’s pasture, the horse was a reminder she didn’t want. She’d always wondered why Nash hadn’t sold him outright instead of boarding him with a neighboring ranch.
Harlow didn’t say any of this. Poppy and Monroe would both know soon enough that she’d brought the worst possible person in out of the rain. Poppy wouldn’t shoot him, but Monroe might. But then, her sister knew a lot more about Nash Corbin than Poppy did. And Poppy knew plenty.
As she untied Nash from the saddle, Harlow shivered, both from the wet chill and the worry about what might happen in the next few minutes. She had to get him on his feet and out of here as soon as possible. Like yesterday.
Why. Was. He. Here?
Monroe thumped out the door, a wadded sheet in hand. Leaning her underarms on her crutches, she used both hands to spread the sheet onto the porch. It was instantly soaked. But then, so was the man.
While Monroe held the big horse still, Harlow and Poppy eased the patient onto the sheet. He flopped onto his back and muttered incoherently.
Monroe gave a squeak, quickly squelched as her gaze flew to meet her sister’s. Harlow shook her head slightly, a warning to say nothing in front of Poppy.
“I declare, girls,” Poppy said, his breath puffing short from the exertion. “That’s the Corbin boy.”
“Call the cops,” Monroe grumbled.
“Now, little gal, that’s not a Christian thing to say. He needs help and we’ll give it. God forgives. So can we.”
Monroe’s face closed up like a miser’s purse strings, but she was too respectful to argue with the man who’d taken in three little girls when he didn’t have to.
But she flashed Harlow a warning glare anyway.
Harlow knew she was playing with fire by letting this man inside her home, but Poppy was right. Since becoming a Christian, she tried hard to follow the teachings of Jesus. He always helped those in need, even when others questioned His common sense.
She was definitely questioning hers right now.
Her nerves jittered as she and her hobble-legged family dragged a groaning, moaning Nash Corbin across the porch, over the bumpy threshold and into their living room.
Settling him on the rug nearest the furnace, the three stared down at his now inert body.
She’d forgotten how big he was.
“He needs out of those wet clothes,” Poppy said.
Monroe scoffed. “That’s not happening. I’ll get some blankets and towels.” She started forward then stopped to fire one more death-ray glare at Nash. “But I’d rather drag him back outside and let him drown.”
Poppy offered Monroe one of his warning glances, the kind he’d used on all three girls when they’d misbehaved as kids.
“Now, sis, look at the boy. He’s as pitiful as a motherless calf. Green around the gills, all fevered and puny.”
Poppy was a master at mixing metaphors, which usually made Harlow laugh. Except there was nothing humorous about having a sick, soaked Nash Corbin sprawled like a giant rag doll on their rug.
Harlow knelt beside the makeshift pallet. Quelling the apprehension building like a bonfire inside her, she placed a hand to Nash’s forehead.
“He’s burning with fever and unconscious. I think we should call an ambulance.” Get him out of here fast.
She started to rise to do exactly that.
Powerfully strong fingers shot out and gripped her wrist.
“No. No one knows I’m here. No publicity.”
Disgust curdled in Harlow’s chest.
Nash was awake. And thinking about publicity.
She rolled her eyes. Big-shot superstar was afraid his fans would chase him down and see him in less than superstar condition. Or maybe he was worried about some woman he’d jilted coming after him.
She didn’t like thinking those things, but there they were. He was still the best-looking man she’d ever known. Naturally, his successful football career had made those looks popular with lots of females. The last time she’d checked, he had over a million followers on social media.
Yes, foolish as it was, she’d looked.
But she had not followed him. She hadn’t gone after him four years ago, and she sure wouldn’t now.
She’d stood by her decision not to ever contact him, not to ask him for anything, though he owed her plenty.
If he’d cared, if she’d mattered, he would have contacted her beyond the two measly phone calls he’d made the week after he left for the big time.
He hadn’t. He’d sent his creep of an agent instead, and look how that turned out.
“You’re sick, Nash. You should go to the emergency room.”
He struggled to sit up, but failed, wincing with every movement while cradling his right arm.
The effort left him breathless and grunting in pain. But at least he was awake and able to move. She sure didn’t want him dying in her living room.
“Something I ate. Be okay in a minute.” He grunted on every word.
Expression tight with obvious distress, he curved his body inward and stopped attempting to rise.
“Don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”
“I got that part,” Harlow said, her tone a tad testy. “We all did.”
A sound on the stairs jerked her attention upward. Her heart stopped.
No. No. No.
“Mommy?”
Her gaze shot from the little boy peering through the railing to her sister who looked as deer-in-the-headlights as Harlow felt.
Why, why, why, did Davis have to wake up from his nap now?
Help me, Jesus.
She swallowed a lump of terror, trying to think what to do and praying Nash was too sick to notice a small child on the steps.
As if her sister could read her mind, Monroe sprang into action, as fast as a woman on crutches and in an enormous leg cast could spring.
“What is it, baby?” Monroe thumped toward the bottom of the staircase and looked up at Davis. “Do you want a snack?”
Rubbing his eyes, the three-year-old nodded. “I hungy.”
“Isn’t he supposed to be napping?” Harlow asked from her spot kneeling beside the sick football player. His eyes were closed. Hopefully, he’d passed out again.
Monroe picked up on the desperate cue.
“Go back to your room, Davis, honey, and I’ll bring you some juice. Okay?”
“And amanal cwackers?” he asked, apparently more interested in a snack than in the stranger moaning on the living room rug.
But then, a calf in the living room wasn’t that unusual. To a three-year-old, she supposed a man wasn’t that much different.
“You got it, buddy.” Monroe made a shooing motion with one crutch. “Now, scoot.”
With the giggle that inevitably filled Harlow’s chest with pleasure, Davis hunched his little shoulders and returned the way he’d come.
Monroe was savvy enough not to look at Harlow as she and her crutches thudded toward the kitchen to collect the promised snack.
Harlow slowly released her breath, though her pulse ricocheted all over the place. Nash was apparently too sick to notice the boy. He’d never even opened his eyes.
Disaster averted.
For now.
But if Nash stuck around her living room floor much longer, Davis would finish his snack and find his way back downstairs.
The man. Had. To. Go. Now.
“Nash.” She gently shook his shoulder. “Nash.”
He winced, curled away from her hand and made a mumbling noise that said he was listening. Sort of.
“You can’t stay here, Nash. You need more help than we can give. You need a doctor.”
How did she sound so calm when her heart raced and her mouth was drier than cotton?
Suddenly, Nash’s eyes flew open. He bolted upright and leaned forward, panting. “I’m going to be sick.”
“He’s green as frog soup,” Poppy yelped. “Get him up.”
Somehow, with Harlow’s help, Nash managed to struggle to his feet and then stumble toward the bathroom.
She was amazed he remembered where it was. He’d forgotten everything else about this town and his friends when he’d hit the big time.
“I’ll bring the truck around,” Poppy said, already clapping the floppy, flat-brimmed felt on top of his white head. “That boy needs to see a doctor, and I’m taking him whether he likes it or not.” He huffed, “Pshaw. Publicity.”
“I’ll bring the truck around, Poppy,” Harlow said. “I’m already drenched.”
“I said I’ll get the truck and I aim to. Rain’s letting up.” He gave her that belligerent look that said he suspected she was coddling him. “I’m old but I’m not helpless. You go get those clothes changed before you catch your death. I’ll handle this fella.”
When he talked like that she didn’t argue. Lately, she walked a tightrope to balance Poppy’s pride against his well-being. A little rain wouldn’t hurt him. Hopefully.
She sure didn’t want him catching epizooti.
After Poppy left the house, Monroe, standing at the foot of the stairs with Davis’s snack in hand, glanced toward the bathroom before hissing, “What are you going to do? You can’t let that lowlife, no-good, cheating, lying buzzard anywhere near Davis. Or us, for that matter.”
She already had.
“I know that, Monroe,” she whispered back. “I don’t like him any more than you do, but what choice do I have? He’s here. He’s sick. As much as our family despises what he did to do us, I’m not adding any more heartache to Poppy by telling him the rest of Nash’s betrayal. He’d be devastated. Again.”
“And he’d go after Nash with a shotgun, insisting he man up and marry you.”
“Trust me. I remember when he first learned I was pregnant. He promised to make the guilty party act like a man and do right by me. All I had to do was name the guy.”
“Which you refused to do.”
“You know why. Nash and I were never a couple. No matter that I’d been in love with him all my life, he considered me as only a friend. He’d just accomplished the dream of a lifetime. He would have despised me if I’d ruined that for him.”
“Maybe. But maybe he’d have stepped up and taken care of you and Davis.”
“I didn’t want him to ‘step up.’” She put the words in air quotes. “I wanted him to—”
Monroe put a hand on her shoulder. “You wanted love and romance and all that nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense to want to be loved, even now that I’ve given up hope of that ever happening.”
Sad-eyed, Monroe shook her head. “Love hurts more than it feels good. I never want to feel that kind of grief again, and I don’t want that for you either.”
Harlow hugged her sister’s shoulders. Monroe had fallen hard for a military man, had followed him into the navy. But her Prince Charming had turned out to be a frog.
So had Nash, though he’d never known Harlow was in love with him. Monroe’s man had known, and he’d shattered her heart, her confidence and her career.
“This conversation isn’t about me and my bad choices.” Monroe pointed one of her crutches toward the closed bathroom door. “What are you going to do about him?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“If you don’t want Nash discovering the truth about Davis and making demands that his money can buy and ours can’t fight, you’d better think fast.”
“He wouldn’t take Davis. He never wanted him.”
“You don’t know that.”
True.
But he hadn’t wanted her. Why would he want their child?
Her conscience tugged for the first time in a long time. The old Nash, the boy she’d fallen for in high school who’d never considered her anything more than a friend, was a good guy. He’d been honest with her about his intentions. He’d even called to ask if she was okay and to apologize for what had happened.
She hadn’t known then that she was pregnant, but Nash’s apology still lingered, bittersweet, in her heart.
He’d been sorry. He’d had big plans. And they had not included her or a baby.
She could have forgiven him for that.
But this guy wasn’t that sweet old Nash. This was the scoundrel who’d cheated them all without so much as a flinch. He was Mr. Superstar with a million fans and even more money. A superstar who avoided publicity.
Double ugh.
Harlow put a hand to her forehead. Her brain hurt. Nash Corbin had broken her heart and driven her family to the edge of bankruptcy.
But he’d also given her the greatest gift of her life. He’d given her Davis.