CHAPTER ONE

      SELENA KEITH had never been seriously injured before the wreck. She’d been waiting to make a left turn at an intersection when another car had run a red light and hit the driver’s side of her car just behind the door. Though she hadn’t broken any bones, her body had been soundly pummeled, as had her head. It felt at least six sizes too large, and the pain in it could go from dull to blinding in a punishing flash if she moved too suddenly or exerted herself at all.

      She’d been in the hospital since late afternoon the day before. Little more than a half hour ago that morning she’d managed, with help, to get out of bed and sit in a chair for twenty whole minutes. The difficulty she’d had doing that small thing was as frightening for Selena as it seemed pitiful.

      Where had her strength gone? Always vital and physically active, she was stunned at the helplessness she felt now. The stark realization of her own mortality had already laid her spirits as low as her battered body, but this weakness was truly alarming.

      Her surprising depression over it mixed toxically with the homesickness she’d kept at bay for two years, and it took most of her puny strength to keep both in check. An ocean of tears churned like bile in her chest, threatening to drown her, but as she’d discovered, giving in to them drained what little energy she had and sent her body and head into such spasms of agony that she’d resolved not to cry.

      If she’d sustained something more serious than a concussion, she might be able to accept a hospital stay with a bit more patience, but lying around so much over a knock on the head and a spectacular collection of bruises made her feel like a malingerer.

      Selena’s eyelids dropped heavily shut barely a moment before she heard the door to her private hospital room open. She’d already grown accustomed to the relentless intrusion of nurses and medical staff, and since it was early yet for visitors, she didn’t bother to open her eyes. Perhaps one of the two nurses who’d just settled her back in bed after her little adventure had returned for something, but she was too exhausted to care.

      It was the sound of boot heels on tile instead of the smart swick-swick of nurse’s shoes that alerted her. And then her heart registered the silent thunder of the one presence she’d never forget if she lived to be a hundred.

      The approaching boot steps halted at her bedside. The subtle scents of leather and sunshine and the remembered hint of musky aftershave reached for her and sent a wave of longing and dread through her heart. The ocean of tears swelled higher to send a few stinging drops upward in a geyser that made her eyes burn.

      “You look like hell.”

      The gruff words were as gravelly as they were blunt. Morgan Conroe wasn’t the sort of man who used soft platitudes or made tactful observations, at least not with her.

      That’s why she’d left Conroe Ranch. The fact that Morgan had never made a single effort to contact her since the day she’d driven away confirmed she’d made the right decision.

      He’d never change his mind about her and she’d never been able to change what she’d stupidly felt for him, so the only sane thing to do had been to clear out. She rallied to protect herself.

      “No one asked you to look,” she said, then forced her heavy eyelids to open. She knew she looked as weak and pitiful as she felt, so she needed to give some sign of strength to ward him off. “If you came to gloat, go ahead. Take a few jabs then go away.”

      She made herself get the bold words out before she let herself focus on him, and she was instantly glad she had because the sight of him gave her a disheartening jolt. If she hadn’t already been weak, seeing him again would have made her weak. For women like her, men like this one defined the very essence of masculinity.

      Hard-bitten and rugged, Morgan Conroe was the quintessential Westerner, a purebred Texan from the crown of his outlaw black Stetson to the bottoms of his underslung heels. Tough, masculine and arrogant, Morg was the kind of man who’d bleed Texas dirt or Lone Star crude if scratched. Part protector and defender of the weak, part vigilante, as autocratic as an old time cattle king, and far too