have to douse it with more gasoline and relight the fire or run over it with that shiny red SUV. Both options made Nash wince.
He decided to intervene before she proceeded to do either of those things. Emmett had asked him to check things out, so he’d do that. In the process he hoped to satisfy his curiosity, because this recliner-torching was the damnedest thing he’d ever seen and he wanted to know the reason behind it.
Climbing out of the truck, he tried not to breathe too deeply. No telling what toxic crap was in that smoke. She should smother the fire for environmental reasons, if nothing else.
At the metallic sound of the truck door closing, she looked at him again. This time she held his gaze as he walked toward her. She’d seemed pulled-together and neat at first, but the closer he came, the more that impression shifted.
She’d torn the left shoulder seam of her tailored beige jacket, and the front of her white blouse and short beige skirt were smudged with dirt. Her nylons were a mass of runs and her beige heels were scuffed beyond repair.
Apparently, despite being dressed for a day at the office, she’d dragged that chair outside before going for the gasoline and the butane lighter. Judging from her streaked makeup and the way her short dark hair was plastered to her forehead and neck, the job had made her sweat. Her mascara was smeared and she looked as if she’d been crying—either from anger or because of the foul smoke. Maybe both. His eyes stung, and he’d only been here a few minutes.
He paused when he was an arm’s length away from her. Her gray eyes might be pretty if they weren’t so red. When faced with a situation like this, where someone was obviously upset, Nash usually tried to lighten the mood a little. “On a redecorating kick?”
She stared at him as if he’d said something terminally stupid, which of course he had, but that was the idea. She didn’t seem inclined to joke around, though. Too bad.
Swiping at her eyes with the back of her free hand, she looked him up and down. “Who are you and why are you here?”
“The name’s Nash Bledsoe. I work at the Last Chance, and the foreman saw smoke and asked me to investigate. He thought trespassers might be causing a problem.”
“Oh.” She gazed up at the smoke spiraling into the blue sky as if only now realizing that it might be noticed by others. “Sorry about that. Everything’s fine. I’m not a trespasser. I own the place. Lucky me.”
She probably was the daughter, then. He could have left it at that and headed back to the Last Chance, but he decided not to. The smoke was a pollutant, and he still didn’t know why she’d set fire to the chair. “Look, it’s obvious that you want to get rid of this piece of furniture, but your method is spewing bad stuff into the air.”
“I didn’t think of that.” She glanced at the smoke and the blackened, shriveled leather. “I’ll bet there’s not a working fire extinguisher around this place, either.”
“I happen to have one in my truck. I’ll get it.”
She hesitated, as if reluctant to accept his help.
He gave her an encouraging smile. “That’s really the way to go. Once I’ve sprayed it with foam, we can figure out how to get it out of here and into the landfill where it belongs.”
“Maybe I’ll just dig a hole and bury it.”
“Would take a big hole.”
“That’s okay. Digging it would feel good.”
He looked into her bloodshot eyes and recognized the same kind of rage, grief and frustration he’d been trying to work off by mucking out stalls. He didn’t have to ask her any more questions, after all. She was mad at somebody, probably the person who’d spent time in this chair. Odds were that would have been her late father.
The combination of anger and sorrow could make people do strange things, and he certainly understood that. She seemed to recognize that she’d found a kindred spirit, because some of the defiance left her expression. As her gaze mellowed, she looked really nice, even with her mascara running and her hair all sweaty.
“I’ll get the extinguisher,” he said. “We can go from there.”
“Okay.” Her voice had grown softer, too. “Thanks.”
He felt a smile coming on as he hurried back to the truck. He hadn’t been any woman’s hero in a very long time, and he’d missed that.
After he slimed the chair, he’d see if she had a tarp. He didn’t want to load that gross thing into the back of the ranch truck without one, but if he could put it on something, he could drive straight to the landfill. She didn’t need to dig a hole and bury the chair. Surely there were other menial chores around this wreck of a place where she could work out her emotions.
He returned with the extinguisher. “You might want to stand back while I do this.”
She backed up several steps. Considering the uneven dirt in the front yard, she navigated well on those über-high heels. She must be used to them.
“I guess you think I’m a lunatic for trying to burn this recliner,” she said.
“No, actually, I don’t. I know something about being so furious that you have to find a good target for your anger.”
“That about sums up my little stunt, but now it seems pretty juvenile.”
“Not at all. I think it had flair.” He pointed the extinguisher at the recliner. Slowly circling it, he layered on the foam. At last he was satisfied. “That should do it.” He glanced over and noticed her tiny smile. She had a full, prettily shaped mouth. She’d probably clean up real good. “Feeling any better?”
“I am, actually.”
“Excellent.” He cleared his throat. “So you’re the daughter?”
She nodded.
“I thought so. But I’ve gone and forgotten your first name. I was a few years ahead of you in school.”
“You wouldn’t have remembered me, anyway. I was an awkward nerd back then. A certified late bloomer.” Her smile widened a little. “I remember you, though, Nash Bledsoe. You were quite the heartthrob.”
To his dismay, he felt heat rising from his collar. “I don’t know about that. Anyway, is your last name still Grace, or something else, now?” If she was married, he didn’t think much of a husband who’d send her off to deal with this situation by herself.
“My last name is still Grace.” She gazed at him thoughtfully. “I take it you haven’t heard anything about my career, then?”
“Sorry, I haven’t. Emmett just said you’d become a city girl.”
“Well, that’s humbling. But then, I lost touch with everyone back here, and my folks weren’t much for socializing, or bragging, for that matter.”
“About what?”
“I’m a bestselling author. My latest book hit number one on all the lists.”
His stomach clenched. But no, it couldn’t be. Coin-cidences like this didn’t happen in real life. “What do you write?”
“Motivational books. Self-help, is how most people refer to them.”
His throat went dry and his heart began to pound. “You’re Bethany Grace?” The name came out as a hoarse croak.
“So you have heard of me!” She looked pleased.
“Oh, yeah.” He felt light-headed. “I’ve heard of you. Your books made my life a living hell.”
2
BETHANY GASPED. SHE’D had many reactions to her books in the three years since she’d first hit the bestseller charts, but no one had ever said anything that awful. Nash