Chapter One

      Arabella was drifting. She seemed to be floating along on a particularly fast cloud, high above the world. She murmured contentedly and sank into the fluffy nothingness, aware somewhere of a fleeting pain that began to grow with every passing second until it was a white-hot throb in one of her hands.

      “No!” she exclaimed, and her eyes flew open.

      She was lying on a cold table. Her dress, her beautiful gray dress, was covered with blood and she felt bruised and cut all over. A man in a white jacket was examining her eyes. She groaned.

      “Concussion,” the man murmured. “Abrasions, contusions. Compound fracture of the wrist, one ligament almost severed. Type and cross-match her blood, prep her for surgery, and get me an operating room.”

      “Yes, Doctor.”

      “Well?” The other voice was harsh, demanding. Very male and familiar, but not her father’s.

      “She’ll be all right,” the doctor said with resignation. “Now will you please go outside and sit down, Mr. Hardeman? While I can appreciate your concern—” and that was an understatement, the physician thought “—you can do her more good by letting us work.”

      Ethan! The voice was Ethan’s! She managed to turn her head, and yes, it was Ethan Hardeman. He looked as if they’d dragged him out of bed. His black hair was rumpled, apparently by his own fingers. His hard, lean face was drawn, his gray eyes so dark with worry that they looked black. His white shirt was half-unbuttoned, as if he’d thrown it on, and his dark jacket was open. He’d all but crushed the brim of the creamy Stetson in his hand.

      “Bella,” he breathed, when he saw her pale, damaged face.

      “Ethan,” she managed in a hoarse whisper. “Oh, Ethan, my hand!”

      His expression tautened as he moved closer to her, despite the doctor’s protests. He reached down and touched her poor, bruised cheek. “Baby, what a scare you gave me!” he whispered. His hand actually seemed to be trembling as he brushed back her disheveled long brown hair. Her green eyes were bright with pain and welcome, all mixed up together.

      “My father?” she asked with apprehension, because he’d been driving the car.

      “They flew him to Dallas. He had an ocular injury, and they’ve got some of the top men in the field there. He’s all right, otherwise. He couldn’t take care of you, so he had the hospital call me.” Ethan smiled coldly. “God knows, that was a gut-wrenching decision on his part.”

      She was in too much pain to pick up on the meaning behind the words. “But…my hand?” she asked.

      He stood up straight. “They’ll talk to you about that later. Mary and the rest will be here in the morning. I’ll stay until you’re out of surgery.”

      She caught at his arm with her good hand, feeling the hard muscle tighten. “Make them understand…how important my hand is, please,” she pleaded.

      “They understand. They’ll do what can be done.” He touched her cracked lips gently with his forefinger. “I won’t leave you,” he said quietly. “I’ll be here.”

      She grabbed his hand, holding it, feeling his strength, drawing on his strength for the first time in recent memory. “Ethan,” she whispered as the pain built, “remember the swimming hole…?”

      His expression closed up. He actually flinched as her face contorted. “My God, can’t you give her something?” he asked the doctor, as if the pain were his own.

      The doctor seemed to understand at last that it was more than bad temper driving the tall, angry man who’d stormed into the emergency room barely ten minutes ago. The look on those hard features as he’d held the woman’s hand had said everything.

      “I’ll give her something,” the doctor promised. “Are you a relative? Her husband, perhaps?”

      Ethan’s silver eyes cut at him. “No, I’m not a relative. She’s a concert pianist, very commercial these days. She lives with her father and she’s never been allowed to marry.”

      The doctor didn’t have time for discussion. He settled Ethan with a nurse and vanished gratefully into the emergency room.

      * * *

      Hours later, Arabella drifted in and out of the anesthesia in a private room. Ethan was there again, staring angrily out the window at the pastel colors of the sky at dawn, still in the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before. Arabella was in a floral hospital gown and she felt as she probably looked—weak and wrung out.

      “Ethan,” she called.

      He turned immediately, going to the bedside. He did look terrible, all right. His face was white with strain and bridled anger.

      “How are you?” he asked.

      “Tired and sore and groggy,” she murmured, trying to smile at him. He looked so fierce, just as he had when they were younger. She was almost twenty-three now, and Ethan was thirty, but he’d always been worlds ahead of her in maturity. With Ethan standing over her, it was hard to remember the anguish of the past four years. So many memories, she thought drowsily, watching that dear face. Ethan had been her heart four years ago, but he’d married Miriam. Ethan had forced Miriam into a separation only a little while after they married, but she’d fought Ethan’s divorce action tooth and nail for almost four years. Miriam had given up, at last, this year. Their divorce had only become final three months ago.

      Ethan was a past master at hiding his feelings, but the deep lines in his face spoke for themselves. Miriam had hurt him dreadfully. Arabella had tried to warn him, in her own shy way. They’d argued over Miriam