THE NANNY'S SECRET Read online

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  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

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  Prologue

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  Freezing rain pelted the shattered windshield like a spray of bullets amid the horn's persistent blare. Inside the car, the acrid smell of smoke wafted through the vents.

  Gingerly the woman in the driver's seat covered her nose and mouth and lifted her head from the steering wheel.

  The baby!

  The jagged edge of fear sliced through her foggy brain. She craned her neck and peered into the back seat.

  Empty!

  No baby. No car seat. Nothing.

  Terror gripped her by the throat and rattled her teeth. In a blind panic, she fumbled for the door handle.

  Where was the baby? What had happened? Something crinkled in her hand. Paper. Directions. Triple H Ranch, Wister, Wyoming.

  The baby! She had to get to him!

  She yanked the lever and threw her weight against the door. Gusts of wind roared past like a speeding locomotive. The handle tore from her grasp. Ice-cold rain spewed inside, stinging her face. She lifted a hand to shield herself and went to climb out. She couldn't. Something held her. Wouldn't let go. She glanced down.

  The seat belt.

  Clawing past a crumpled map in her lap, she unbuckled herself and wrenched free of the vehicle. She stumbled into the pouring rain and doubled over, gripping her knees as she pulled cold, clean air into her lungs. Shards of ice nailed her from every direction. The deserted four-lane highway, barely visible, glistened like a newly scraped skating rink.

  Hunching, she pulled her navy pea coat tighter around her and focused on the ground at her feet. Frozen rain pellets crackled with every step. Twice she nearly lost her balance but managed to keep upright. Rain drenched her hair and seeped through her clothes, but she didn't stop walking.

  Around the sharp bend where the car had crashed into the embankment. Down a sloping hill.

  She didn't know how far she'd gone when up ahead in the distance, she saw a red neon light.

  Teeth chattering, she broke into a dead run.

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  Chapter 1

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  The sun had vanished over the Bighorn Mountains when Brooks Hart vaulted up three flagstone steps to his back porch and halted in his tracks. They rarely bothered with locks on the remote ranch, but maybe it was time to start.

  The door was open, and he hadn't forgotten to close it all the way. Nor would the others. Not in the middle of a snow storm. And not with their baby nephew crawling around. Which left only one possibility…

  More mourners.

  With a resigned sigh, Brooks stepped into the mudroom and kicked the door shut. The latch clicked into place, and the wind shrieked like a woman scorned, banging to get back in. Snow had blown inside and scattered across the floor—wet snow, the kind that spelled trouble for calves. It was going to be another long night. With mechanical motions, he hung his coat and Stetson on the deer antlers mounted on the wall, shucked his boots and braced for their latest "guests."

  Call him an ingrate, but Brooks wasn't keen on every neighbor within a hundred-mile radius stopping by to pay respects. After two solid weeks, the constant reminders of his loss felt like a steady stream of salt pouring into a wound that would never heal at this rate.

  It didn't help to hear gross exaggerations of what a fine young man his older brother had been. Brooks didn't have the patience for small talk, and he damn sure didn't want to discuss his feelings.

  A Vegas lawman, his prodigal brother had come home for the first time in eighteen years. Then two weeks later, he was dead.

  Just how the hell was Brooks supposed to feel?

  He pushed open the kitchen door and nearly tripped over something in his path. Dumfounded, he stared down at a pair of red, high-heeled shoes. "What the…?" The large country kitchen was empty, but someone "extra" was obviously in the house. He ran down a mental list of women, combed his mind for possible owners and came up empty. Though the calendar said Spring, he didn't know anyone foolish enough to wear high heels in late March in Wister, Wyoming.

  Which left the acquaintances of Mitch and Dean.

  He rubbed a weary had over his face. Which little brother and what kind of trouble had he brought home now?

  "Hello?" He shoved the shoes aside with the outside of his foot. "Who's here?"

  No answer.

  He hadn't seen any vehicles out front, didn't hear voices in the house. He stared again at the red, "sleep-with-me" shoes. All right, so he would have used another expression for "sleep-with-me" in the past. All that had changed with his guardianship of their littlest cowboy.

  Three men and a baby. A sitcom in the making.

  Brooks shook his head and started through the kitchen. He made it as far as the doorway to the great room. Curled up on the couch, was a young brunette, fast asleep.

  Jackpot.

  Brooks's gaze widened, then narrowed. He frowned as he stepped into the room. He might have found their unexpected visitor, but for the life of him, he had no idea who she was.

  Sleeping Beauty wore a knee-length denim dress, black tights and a red-and-black checkered blouse. Did he know her? He couldn't tell with the angle of her head, light brown hair tumbling around her face, small hands folded under her chin.

  He cleared his throat. "Ma'am?"

  She started in her sleep, mumbling something he couldn't make out. She was a tiny little thing—not short but slight. Needed to put some meat on her bones.

  "Hey?" Brooks deliberately spoke louder. "Don't mean to be rude, but, uh, I was just wondering… Who are you?" He waited a full ten seconds then scratched the stubble on his chin.

  Something wasn't right.

  He leaned down and brushed her hair back from her face. He'd never seen her before, knew for certain if he had, he wouldn't have forgotten. Though her face was streaked with dirt, he could tell underneath, she was pretty as a picture.

  She had wide-set eyes with thick, long lashes, a small button nose and perfect, pink lips. She reminded him of a sacked-out kitten. He almost hated to wake her. Almost.

  "Ma'am?" He tried again, poking her shoulder. This time, she moaned—the dejected sound of a wounded animal. His senses kicked into high alert. "Uh-oh. What's wrong?" He dropped to his knees beside her, his gaze clinical now, combing over her, taking inventory, searching for answers. "Talk to me, honey."

  "Head…" Her voice came thick, raspy. Her fingers shook as she lifted them to her temple. "Hurts…"

  A crumpled paper fell from her hand, but Brooks's gaze zeroed in on her forehead and the goose egg he saw there. "Ah, hell." He grimaced, getting up. "Stay put. I'll get ice." On his way to the kitchen, he took the cordless phone from the side table and pressed the button labeled Josephine.

  In times like this, it paid to have a doctor in the family. Even though Jo was thirty-one, only two years younger than he was, and despite the fact she had M.D. behind her name, Brooks still thought of her as his little sister.

  Jo picked up on the forth ring. "Hey, Brooks. Can you hang on a sec? Mandy's in the middle of a diaper change, and— Zach, honey, don't play with the answering machine. You're going to erase the mess…" Deep sigh. "Never mind. I'm sure they'll call back if it's life-or-death. Brooks?"

  "Say no more. Do what you gotta do."

  "Be right back." The phone clattered to the ground.

  Brooks grinned and shook his head, understanding only too well the challenge of performing once-simple tasks with a baby underfoot. And he only had one to worry about.

  Tucking the phone under his ear, he filled a plastic bag with ice, sealed it and wrapped it in a dis
hcloth. He returned to the great room as Jo came back on the line.

  "Brooks? You still there?"

  "Yeah, I'm here." He opened his mouth and searched in vain for words to explain the presence of a mysterious woman passed out on his couch. "I just found her here" might have worked with the stray critters he'd taken in over the years, but in this case, it sounded pretty lame.

  Before he could think of anything better, Jo rattled on, "Great. I'm glad you're home. I was just on my way over with Timmy. Mitch told you I took him for a checkup, right? Anyway, all's well and good news—your new nanny's starting this week. Or so she says. I told her we were desperate, and the sooner the better, but she couldn't nail down a day, so expect her anytime. I gave her directions. Oh, and I told her you'd leave the back door unlocked if you were out. Don't reach for your shotgun if you find a strange woman in the house, okay?"

  She laughed.

  He didn't.

  "The nanny…" Brooks stared down at Mystery Woman. Applying the ice pack to her head, he bent to retrieve the crumpled paper from the floor. Triple H Ranch.

  Directions from Casper.

  At that moment, her eyelids fluttered open, and Brooks found himself staring into bottomless, milk-chocolate eyes with tiny flecks of gold. Sad eyes. Almost … haunted.

  He'd barely had the thought when those eyes went wide, like Goldilocks waking up to find the three bears hovering over her.

  Suddenly aware of his considerable height, he stepped back, his instincts to protect—even from himself—stirring to life.

  "Amelia Rigsby," Jo reminded him. "Best nanny in the agency. And the only one who'd even consider an assignment out here, so you'd better be on your best behavior. My gut tells me it's a borderline call. Won't be surprised if she backs out at the last minute."

  "Uh, Jo?" Brooks didn't even try to hide the urgency. "How soon can you get here?"

  "Why? What's wrong?"

  "It's Amelia. She's here."

  "Don't tell me she's changed her mind already."

  "I don't know about that, but something's definitely wrong. She must have hit her head. She's conscious but—"

  "Oh, geez. Why didn't you tell me? Here I am yammering on. Never mind, I'll be right there."

  "Should I be doing anything special? She's lying down, and I've got an ice pack for the swelling—"

  "Good. Perfect. Keep her awake until I get there."

  "Will do." He hung up and rubbed the back of his neck, shifting under the new nanny's intense, wary stare. "Hey." He inclined his head and took a seat on the coffee table in front of the couch, one had braced on his knee.

  Amelia Rigsby—who would have guessed?

  "H-hello." She was sizing him up, probably trying to figure out if she'd made the biggest mistake of her life.

  He shifted uneasily, hoping like hell they wouldn't have to wait another month for the next available nanny. "Uh, here." He reached over and took a pillow from the love seat. "Why don't we put this … right … under…"

  She tensed like she was holding her breath.

  He quickly slid the cushion under her head and scooted back on the coffee table. "Better?"

  "Yes. Thanks." She said the words slowly, gauging his reaction, as if he'd asked a loaded question. When he didn't say anything else, she glanced down at her outfit, blinked several times and frowned. The frown deepened as she looked around her, likely wondering what a girl like her was doing in a place like this. But then her gaze returned to him, and he noticed her eyes were bleary, her gaze vacant.

  "Where am I?" she asked in a raspy voice.

  "The great room." He mustered his most hospitable smile. "You must've crashed in here after knocking your head."

  "My head…" She winced. "It hurts."

  His gut tightened. There were few things he hated more than watching a person's suffering, to sit by and do nothing. "Don't worry," he said, the only words he could think to say. "Dr. Jo's on the way."

  She started to shake her head then winced again.

  "Might want to stay still."

  "I … don't want … a male doctor." Her voice cracked with strain.

  "You're in luck then. Jo's short for Josephine."

  Relief flashed in her eyes. Funny, he could have sworn Jo told her she was a doctor in the telephone interview. He eyed the ice pack, wondering if she had a concussion. They'd know soon enough.

  "Something to drink?" he offered.

  "Yes, please. Cold water?"

  "Coming up." He got her a tall glass, but her hands shook when she reached for it, and he didn't think she'd manage without help. "I'll hold it, all right?" At her tentative nod, he sat back down on the coffee table and brought the glass to her lips. "Tell me when."

  Instinct had made him ask permission before approaching her again, but she still tensed, and he felt as awkward as he had with Timmy in the beginning, giving him his first bottle.

  She took a small sip, followed by another—all the while keeping her gaze on him—until she drained the glass.

  "More?"

  "No, thanks." She had a faded scar and a tiny bump on the bridge of her nose, barely noticeable unless you were up real close, which he realized he still was and leaned back. As soon as he did, she relaxed somewhat. "Who … are you?"

  "Didn't I…?" Well, hell. No wonder she acted like he might be an escaped convict. "Sorry. Brooks Hart." He held out his hand.

  She hesitated, then took it, but only for an instant, like putting her hand in an alligator's mouth just once to prove she could. "Brooks," she said slowly, as if testing the sound of his name on her tongue.

  It sounded good to him. A little too good. He shifted and rubbed the back of his neck. "Nice to meet you, ma'am," he said, not only to show respect but to remind himself of their professional, working relationship.

  She noticed. "What … do I call you? Mister—?"

  "No. No mister. Just Brooks."

  "No ma'am then. Just…" She stared at him, a crease forming between her brows. "Brooks?" The crease deepened. "Do you know who I am?"

  He grimaced. "Jo told me. I saw your shoes, but I didn't expect… I had no idea…" He expelled a breath. "Sorry I didn't make the connection right away. You sound different in person." Younger. Sweeter. "'Course, I was functioning on an hour's sleep when we spoke. Like I said, calving's our craziest season as it is, so the past month's been … particularly challenging."

  "Challenging…"

  "Yeah." He combed his fingers through his hair. "The height of calving's over now, so we're anxious to settle into a less frantic routine. Especially with your help."

  "I'm … here to help…"

  "And we're glad to have you. Believe me. Welcome."

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  She tried to smile. She wanted to say she was glad to be there, except her gaze darted around the room in mounting alarm at the unfamiliarity of everything. She had no idea where she was—and she didn't mean which room.

  Brooks Hart hadn't answered her question, as if the answer should have been obvious. Except nothing was obvious.

  Not to her.

  She swallowed thickly. Calm. She had to remain calm. "I just feel … awful. Like I've been run over by a truck."

  He adjusted the ice pack on her forehead, so it wouldn't fall. "You cracked yourself a good one. What happened?"

  "I … I'm not quite sure."

  "Whatever it was, Jo'll fix you up. She's a fine doctor." He said the words with such conviction, she wondered if the reassurances were more for him than for her.

  Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Far more than physical discomfort. Discord. The world was out of whack, and she was helpless to do anything about righting it.

  She stared at the man who seemed her only lifeline, afraid if she took her gaze from him, he might disappear. For the moment, she didn't know which unsettled her worse—his presence or his absence.

  He was a very big man—tall and broad. From what she could tell, solid muscle. His size and strength made her uncomfortable
despite the fact he'd been nothing but kind.

  She couldn't remember her own name, but she remembered a wariness of men in general and large ones in particular. She didn't know where she was, or how she got here, yet she could look into this stranger's rugged, handsome face and know with certainty his eyes were the same deep sapphire as a Alaskan lake, and his hair was as black as midnight without a moon.

  How could she know these things and not know something as simple as her own name?

  A door slammed, and Brooks rose from the table. "Don't move, Amelia."

  Amelia.

  The name rang in her ears, like a key on an out-of-tune piano.

  "No," she wanted to protest, only she couldn't because she didn't know what else to say. For some odd reason, her brain felt like cotton candy, and her mind was drifting.

  When she opened her groggy eyes, she tried to focus on the red-haired woman who introduced herself as Dr. Jo, then flashed a penlight in her eyes.

  "Follow my light," she instructed. "Good. So how'd you come across this prize-winning goose egg?"

  "I don't remember. It was there when I woke up."

  "How many fingers am I holding up?"

  "Three."

  "Mmm-hmm." The doctor proceeded to check her reflexes. "Can you tell me what day of the week it is?"

  She frowned, realizing she had no idea.

  "Okay, something easier. How about your full name?"

  "Amelia?" She repeated the name she'd heard earlier.

  "And your last name?"

  She drew a complete blank. She pursed her lips and tried to concentrate but to no avail. Finally she shook her head, feeling the bite of tears behind her eyelids.

  Something chased across the doctor's face—something that looked an awful lot like worry—but then, it was gone.

  "Hey, that's okay." Dr. Jo squeezed her hand. "Your vitals and responses are great. You have some confusion—retrograde amnesia. I suspect. It's pretty common with head injuries, but there's usually rapid recovery. We'll run you down to the hospital and take some X rays to play it safe."

  At the mention of a hospital, a bright, white light flashed in her mind's eye. Bigger and brighter it grew, obscuring blue uniforms … masked faces … sympathetic eyes. The smell of antiseptic filled her nostrils … choking, suffocating, drowning out questions. Endless questions.