can’t take me home.”
“Excuse me?” he asked as if unaccustomed to someone telling him what he could or could not do.
Wynter stared at him with defiance. “I don’t have a home.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have a home,” she repeated, chin jutting. She didn’t like his tone. She was already embarrassed and humiliated.
He hobbled back. “Just where have you been living the past three days?” Those eyes again. Even in the dark his gaze shot sparks of blue fire.
She glanced at the truck.
“In your truck?” His tone was incredulous. “You’ve been sleeping in your truck since you started working here?”
Heat flooded her cheeks. What right did he have to take an attitude? Shoulders squared, she stared back.
“Yes. I have. Not all of us are as privileged as you or your clients.” She glared at him. “I can assure you, it hasn’t affected my work, so it’s none of your business where I sleep.”
He’d reached her side by this time. She turned to walk down the drive, but Anderson grabbed her wrist. A sudden vision of other hands grabbing, touching and bruising flashed through her head. She gasped and jerked away, but this time she wasn’t the one to fall. Anderson’s cane clattered when it hit the driveway. A grunt of pain followed when he struck the side of the truck. It was a moment in which time slowed to a crawl. In the glow from the security light mounted on the front of the barn, his face twisted with pain and he clutched at the side of the small truck.
“Damn it!” he swore while he struggled back up.
Wynter moved as though she had just unfrozen, scrambling to pick up the cane and rushing back to his side.
“Mr. Anderson?” she asked. She shook almost as much as he did. “I’m sorry!” She hated the frantic note of panic in her voice. She wasn’t sure if she was more concerned he might be hurt or he might fire her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she rushed on. “Are you okay? Can I help you?”
“Wynter.”
“Here’s your cane. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll help you to your car. Then I’ll go. I—I’ll have to come back to get my truck in the morning.”
“Wynter.” His tone commanded. “Stop. What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m fired, aren’t I?” she demanded.
His face softened, and blue eyes searched her face. “No, I’m not firing you. I know it was an accident, although I must say your reaction seemed a little extreme.” His expression questioned, and around him hung an air that said if she had something to share, he was a man who didn’t repeat confidences. She stared into that searching blue gaze and swallowed.
“I’m a bit jumpy. I’m sorry. It was something that happened, before I came here.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where you worked?”
“Their son, Payton.” When she said it, she noticed Anderson went still.
“What did he do?”
“It was following a hunt. I’d gone out to my truck to change out of my coveralls. All of a sudden he was there.” She stopped and swallowed.
“Go on.”
“He touched me…offered me money to…anyway, when I started to punch him, he grabbed hold of my wrist and twisted. I guess I kind of flashed back.”
“Did he hurt you?” Anderson’s voice was quiet.
She shook her head. “No. Not really. Wythe got there and took a hunt whip to him.”
“Wythe?”
“Oh. He whips in for Southard, but he’s friends with my mom and me.”
Anderson nodded. “Is that why you got fired?”
“Uh, no. Mr. Southard had already fired me. I laid a drag before the hunt that ended in his son’s brand new Mustang convertible. I gave them a great couple of miles before the scent ended at Payton’s car. Well, there were a lot of refusals at the hedge next to the house. And that was so funny because Payton’s girlfriend looked like a raccoon! And then, the top was down on the Mustang, and those hounds so trashed that car. They were all over the white leather upholstery like flies on sh...”
Wynter’s eyes snapped up when she heard a cough and she caught what looked like the faintest smile flashing across Anderson’s face.
“Shit,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear this.”
Wynter turned away, a hand to her face. Jeez, could she look like any more of a kid?
“Have you eaten anything today?” The question caught her off guard. She looked up to find his gaze focused on the empty juice bottles and nabs wrappers on the passenger side. He turned those dark intense eyes on her. “And don’t lie.”
She shut her mouth.
“Well?” he asked again.
“I—I ate some chips.”
“You haven’t left here today, so where did you get those?”
“None of your…” She saw the sudden glare and continued, “Out of the trash.”
“Christ!” he exclaimed and waved his hand at the trash in the truck. “Nabs and juice, and chips you got from the damn trash? Is that all you’ve eaten since you started work here?”
Wynter bristled. “And if it is? What business is it of yours? You’re my boss, not my father. As long as I do my work, what’s the big deal?”
“I’ll tell you what the big deal is,” Anderson snapped. “You’re as thin as a rake. You have dark circles under your eyes. Yes, you work hard. Thomas and I have seen that, but you can’t keep this up, Wynter. You’ll make yourself sick, get hurt, or hurt a horse or another person because you can’t perform. Thomas was ready to send you packing tomorrow because he’d pretty much decided the job was too much.”
“No! Look, I can do it! Please give me a chance. Once I get paid tomorrow, I’ll be able to get some food an—and I’ve found a room not far from here.”
“That’s enough, Wynter.” He looked so forbidding.
“No. Really.” Panic made her voice shake. She couldn’t go back now, not when she had everything lined up. It would all work, but she needed this job. Without it, there was no way to pay her living expenses so she could attend Duke.
“I’ll work harder.” Wynter hated begging. Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away. “I can handle the job. Please!”
He grabbed her shoulder with his free hand and shook her. “Wynter. No one’s firing you. Do you hear me? You can stay.”
She sucked in a deep breath and felt her cheeks burn again. Never had she experienced so much embarrassment in such a short period of time. And still he watched. She struggled to calm down. When the panic receded, exhaustion took over. It was late. She needed sleep to be back at work before dawn.
“Help me to my car, Wynter,” Nelson ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. “I’m taking you to the house. You will eat something and then you can bed down on a couch tonight. We’ll figure something else out tomorrow.”
She was too tired to argue.
Wynter noticed the Rolls Royce came equipped with hand controls to accommodate his bad right leg. She swallowed. She’d assumed he had suffered a fall or something, not that he was crippled. She stared out the window while they made the short trip up the drive.
The house stood on a hill behind the barns. It was screened from both the