Her Hero in Hiding Read online

  He was Kay’s worst nightmare, even if he pretended to be her savior.

  “You should be very afraid of me.”

  Her voice was hesitant. “Why?”

  “Because I’m a monster.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a trained killing machine. That it was my job is no excuse.”

  “Stop doing this to yourself,” she said. “The world is full of people who’ve been pushed into the same situation. That doesn’t make any of you monsters.”

  “No? Then what the hell does it make us?”

  “People,” she said flatly. “Ordinary people.”

  “Don’t trust me,” he said. “Don’t ever, ever trust me.”

  “I already trust you.”

  He swore and jumped up from his chair, unable to hold still another minute. Finally he came to a halt as far as he could get from her in the room. He hoped letting it out had scared her good. For her own protection.

  Then he felt a touch on his forearm.

  “Clint,” she said softly.

  Damn, it was too late. Turning, he wrapped her in his arms and pulled her tightly to him, crushing her mouth beneath his.

  Because, heaven help him, he needed the human touch. The human warmth. The feeling that he was still, at heart, good enough for someone.

  Dear Reader,

  It is so sad to me that a subject I first picked up in Lost Warriors years ago is once again relevant, and probably more so than ever. The struggles our soldiers face when they return home are enormous. Some may never be able to find peace. And, of course, domestic abuse continues as a plague.

  I write to tell a good story, not to preach. Part of that storytelling for me must involve the exploration of the human heart. It is how we find each other, thus finding shelter amid life’s storms, that endlessly fascinates me. How do two people cross a long, uncertain bridge to the point of trust where love can blossom?

  Each of us finds his or her own way to that place, and the paths are varied. The journey to the oasis we call love is endlessly fascinating, endlessly touching.

  Most of us have sorrow or pain in our past. Finding comfort and love is probably one of the most important journeys we take. For only a heart filled with love has love to give. I hope you enjoy this tale of two devastatingly wounded hearts as they strive for peace and happiness.

  Hugs,

  Rachel

  RACHEL LEE

  Her Hero in Hiding

  Books by Rachel Lee

  Silhouette Romantic Suspense

  An Officer and a Gentleman #370

  Serious Risks #394

  Defying Gravity #430

  *Exile’s End #449

  *Cherokee Thunder #463

  *Miss Emmaline and the Archangel #482

  *Ironheart #494

  *Lost Warriors #535

  *Point of No Return #566

  *A Question of Justice #613

  *Nighthawk #781

  *Cowboy Comes Home #865

  *Involuntary Daddy #955

  Holiday Heroes #1487

  **A Soldier’s Homecoming #1519

  **Protector of One #1555

  **The Unexpected Hero #1567

  **The Man from Nowhere #1595

  **Her Hero in Hiding #1611

  Silhouette Shadows

  Imminent Thunder #10

  *Thunder Mountain #37

  Silhouette Books

  *A Conard County Reckoning

  *Conard County

  The Heart’s Command

  “Dream Marine”

  Montana Mavericks

  Cowboy Cop #12

  World’s Most Eligible Bachelors

  *The Catch of Conard County

  RACHEL LEE

  was hooked on writing by the age of twelve, and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full time.

  Her bestselling Conard County miniseries (see www.conardcounty.com) has won the hearts of readers worldwide, and it’s no wonder, given her own approach to life and love. As she says, “Life is the biggest romantic adventure of all—and if you’re open and aware, the most marvelous things are just waiting to be discovered.”

  To all the heroes in hiding from pasts they struggle to make peace with.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 1

  Snow flurries began to blow before Clint Ardmore left Conard City with his truckload of supplies. By the time he reached the county road leading to his ranch, it became apparent that winter was arriving. Big flakes whipped about in the wind, threatening a whiteout later when the temperatures dropped enough to make the snow nearly as fine as sand. As it was, the flakes reflected his low beams sufficiently to make the already dark afternoon seem darker.

  Winter pleased him. He liked the cold, the snow, the isolation it brought to his ranch. Not even the most determined salesman or missionary would try to make it up the road to his house, and the neighbors to whom he leased his land for their own stock were undoubtedly pulling the last of them in. Soon his ranch would become exactly what he wanted it to be—a hermitage he left only out of necessity.

  At least that was his cheerful expectation until he caught sight of a gray figure staggering alongside the road.

  Hell, no one ought to be out here on foot. Cussing under his breath, he jammed on his brakes and pulled over. The snow was only just beginning to stick, so he didn’t skid. Some drunk, no doubt, lost in the middle of nowhere. But whatever this person was doing out here, there was no way he could be left to wander alone in this weather. From here to the nearest ranch—his—it was another ten miles.

  Clint climbed out and slammed the truck door. The wind had taken on a nasty bite, presaging a deadly night for unprotected humans.

  Still cussing—he possessed quite an amazing vocabulary of cuss words in several languages—he stomped back toward the staggering figure in gray. The snow continued to swirl, thick enough to be almost fog-like. He really needed this, he thought. Now he would have to drive back to town in this damn storm to make sure this idiot didn’t freeze to death out here.

  It wasn’t until he was only a few steps away that he realized the idiot was a woman and, worse, a woman dressed only in a gray sweatshirt and pants. And when she lifted her head at his approach, he saw a shiner that would have looked appropriate on a boxer, not on a tiny woman with straggly blond hair and blue eyes the size of saucers.

  At least they became saucer-size when they saw him.

  Well, he could kind of understand that. He was a large man, well over six feet, and years in Special Ops had given him a need to stay in shape that wouldn’t quit even though he’d left the military well behind him. Then there was his face. The faces on Mt. Rushmore looked less stony. Too bad.

  “Hey, lady!” he called. “You’re going to freeze!”

  She staggered another step, then turned and started to run. Only she couldn’t quite run, because her feet didn’t seem to be cooperating, and moments later she tumbled facedown on the shoulder.

  At once he raced to her side and squatted. “Lady…”

  “Go away!” she cried. “Get away from me!”

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said, making his voice as gentle as when he talked to his horses. Not exactly second nature, but he knew how.

  “No! No! Get away from me.”

 
Another time, another place, he might have been happy to oblige. But not out here. Not even on a sunny day. Not when she had a black eye like that, which might mean a bad concussion.

  “Easy,” he said quietly. “Easy. I won’t hurt you, I swear. But you’ll freeze out here.”

  Then he reached out to help her up and realized he might as well have tried to lift an angry mountain lion. She started fighting the instant she felt his hands, kicking and swinging and trying to scratch him.

  Experience came to his aid. Keeping his hold as gentle as he could, keeping her back to his chest to minimize the damage to himself, he lifted her. “Shh,” he said soothingly near her ear. “Shh. I’m just going to take you to a doctor.”

  “No! No!” She wriggled wildly. “He’ll find me! He’ll find me!” There was no mistaking the terror and desperation in her voice.

  “All right, then,” he agreed gently, all the while wondering why he was making such an insane promise. “All right. But how about you come home with me and get warm? You’ll freeze out here.”

  “I don’t care! He’ll find me!”

  “Nobody’s going to find you at my place, I swear. I promise you’ll be safe….”

  He kept murmuring soothingly, taking care to keep his grip without hurting her. She fought a little longer, but she didn’t have a whole lot of strength left, and soon enough she began to sag.

  He shifted her a bit, so his hold was more comfortable, then swung her up and began carrying her toward his truck. A car drove by, slowing down, but he barely glanced at it before it sped up. He didn’t recognize it, so it didn’t belong to the only other rancher on this road before it dead-ended. He felt a fleeting suspicion, but dismissed it. If someone were following her in a car, he would certainly have caught her long since. Probably someone visiting. Not that he cared.

  “No doctor,” she said again, but her blue eyes had begun to look hazy.

  “No doctor,” he agreed. “Just a warm fire and some food.”

  Then she said something that tore at his heart. Her huge blue eyes focused on his face, and she said, “You’re not him.”

  Then she passed out.

  Kay Young returned to woozy consciousness to find she was lying on a soft sofa beneath a heap of quilts near a cheerfully burning fire. Dimly she realized it felt odd to be warm, because she had been cold for so long, so very long. But she no longer felt frozen to the bone.

  When she tried to move, however, everything hurt, from her head to her feet, and she groaned. The pounding in her head alone nauseated her, and the world around her spun.

  At once she heard a sound; then a stranger with a hard, harsh face was squatting beside her. “Shh,” he said softly. “You’re safe here. I promise. Shh. You might have a concussion.”

  “I have to go,” she said weakly, struggling against pain, a swimming world and the quilts. “He’ll find me. I can’t let him find me.” Run! The word shrieked in her brain, burned into every cell. Escape! Flee!

  “Easy, lady,” he said quietly. “Easy. You’re hurt. No one’s going to find you here. No one.”

  “He will,” she said desperately, terror clutching at her insides with bony, knifing fingers. “He always finds me.”

  “Easy,” he said again. “There’s a blizzard outside. No one’s getting here tonight, not even the doctor. I know because I tried.”

  “Doctor? I don’t need a doctor! I’ve got to get away.”

  “There’s nowhere to go tonight,” he said levelly. “Nowhere. And if I thought you could stand, I’d take you to a window and show you.”

  But even as she tried once more to push away the quilts, she remembered something else—this man had been gentle when he’d found her beside the road, even when she had kicked and clawed. He hadn’t hurt her. Not like her ex-boyfriend.

  Terror receded just a bit. She looked at him, really looked at him, and though his face might have been granite, she detected signs of true concern there. True kindness.

  The terror eased another notch, and she let her head sag on the pillow. “He always finds me,” she whispered.

  “Not here. Not tonight. That much I can guarantee.”

  And she believed him. Oh, God, she believed him. “Thank you,” she murmured finally.

  “I heated up some broth. Let’s see if you can hold a little bit of it down. Do you feel sick to your stomach?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe a couple of crackers first, then. After that we can try broth. I’ll be right back.”

  She watched him straighten, amazed at his sheer size. Everything about him looked as if it might have been carved out of the nearby mountains. As he walked away from her, other things began to penetrate. She was in a warm room, a cozy room, with walls that looked like a log cabin. The furnishings were sparse but colorful, and they looked comfortable. The fire blazed merrily in a stone fireplace. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about this place seemed in any way related to her tormentor or her experience since…since when? She didn’t even know how long she had been in hell, how long ago she had begun to fear men. All men. Everything in her head was a jumble.

  Oh God. She allowed her eyes to close, let her aching body relax at last. Oh God. Maybe she had truly escaped. Maybe.

  “Crackers?”

  Her savior had returned with a small plate holding a dozen soda crackers. Only then did she realize, nauseated or not, that she was famished. Moving gingerly, she pushed herself up against the arm of the couch. He didn’t try to touch her, not even to help. That seemed like a good sign.

  She held the plate on her lap and nibbled at a cracker.

  “I’m Clint Ardmore,” he said.

  “Kay Young,” she answered, surprised at how weak she sounded. “May I have some water?”

  “I can’t believe I forgot that.” He hopped up immediately from the roughly hewn coffee table on which he’d been sitting. “Would you prefer something carbonated? Maybe ginger ale or club soda?”

  “Ginger ale, please.”

  He vanished once again, returning a minute later with a tall glass of soda. “I didn’t put ice in it,” he said. “I figured you need to warm up, and this is already chilled from the fridge.”

  “That’s great. Thanks.” She sipped it with relief, feeling it wet her mouth and burn a little. Her stomach liked it, and soon she was eating another cracker.

  “Is it settling?”

  “Very well.” More ginger ale, another cracker. Somehow he no longer seemed frightening. But how could she be frightened of a man who was practically hovering in concern, a man who had given her his name without asking hers?

  “You have one hell of a shiner,” he said.

  She looked at him. Again that granite face reflected genuine concern.

  “He hit me,” she said simply. Hard. Multiple times. But she didn’t add all that.

  “I could have guessed that,” he said. “I should call the sheriff.”

  “No!” Panic erupted again, and he grabbed the soda from her hand right before she spilled it. “No! He’ll kill me if he finds me!”

  “Easy. Easy. Okay. No sheriff for now. Nothing tonight. Nobody can move in this storm anyway. You just rest. We can talk about everything tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she dared to believe there would be one. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, staring at the crackers that still rested in her lap.

  “No need. I can tell you’ve been through hell. Just take it easy. You’re safe now.”

  And she believed him. For now, anyway. She looked at him gratefully as her panic subsided, then resumed eating.

  “I’m still dizzy,” she remarked. “On and off.”

  “That sounds like a concussion. You might be dizzy for a while.”

  It was then she noticed that her sweatshirt had turned dark green. Another shiver of panic. “What happened to my clothes?” Her gaze darted to his face, and for a moment the world turned into a carousel before settling again.

  H
e frowned. “You don’t remember?”

  “Remember what?”

  “Your clothes were wet from the snow. I helped you change into one of my sweat suits. You said it was okay.”

  Something far from pleasant started dancing along nerves that were already on the edge of shrieking from pain and terror. “I don’t remember.”

  He swore. “Well, that settles it. You’re seeing a doctor tomorrow. If you won’t go to him, I’ll get him to come to you. This sounds like a really bad concussion.”

  “He might find me,” she said again, plunging back into the nightmare. “He said he was going to kill me!”

  “No one will find you. I’ll figure out something.”

  “Oh God, oh God…” And then she started to cry.

  A fine freaking kettle of fish, Clint thought as he banged around in his kitchen, slamming pots a little harder than necessary as he tried to decide what the hell he was going to cook for himself, because he hadn’t eaten all day. A terrified, injured woman in his living room, crying her eyes out, looking for all the world as if she’d been beaten and maybe tortured, who couldn’t even remember letting him help her into dry clothes, who wouldn’t let him take her to a doctor, not that he could anyway in the midst of this blizzard….

  And all he wanted was his peace and solitude. He had a book to write, a deadline to meet, and he’d had enough of the real world to last him a lifetime. Enough so that it had stuck firmly in his craw and simply wouldn’t be dislodged. And now the real world had landed on his doorstep, invaded his solitude and brought all its problems with it.

  But what the hell was he supposed to do? A day, he promised himself. Two at most. He would convince her to talk to the sheriff, to see the doctor, and he would send her safely on her way to wherever she was from, where she would have family and friends and others who were far better suited to helping her through this than a crusty hermit like himself.

  Finally he gave up all thought of creating some culinary masterpiece, his one indulgence, and settled instead on cocoa and some cinnamon rolls he’d bought earlier. He made enough for two in case she thought she could eat.