MARA HAD TRIED EVERY OTHER ALTERNATIVE, and there was only
one left. She had to swallow her pride and approach Falcon
Whitelaw for the help he had once offered. Although, she
couldn't imagine him even giving her a chance to open her
mouth before he shut the door in her face. Mara shuddered
when she remembered the awful things she had said to him,
even if they were true.
But Susannah was sick, very sick, and she needed treatment
that would cost thousands of dollars. Mara had applied to
a number of agencies for help, and it was available, but
only if she and Susannah left home and traveled to another
state. Life was grim enough these days without leaving
behind everything that was familiar.
On Grant's death, Mara had used most of his life insurance
to buy a home for herself and Susannah. She had vowed
never to move again. If there was any way to stay in
Dallas, where they had finally grown roots — shallow ones,
but roots, nevertheless — Mara intended to pursue it. She
had exhausted every other road to achieve her goal. There
was only one left. She had to approach Falcon Whitelaw and
ask him for money to help with Susannah's medical expenses.
Begging left a bitter taste in her mouth. But Mara was
willing to humble herself in any way that was necessary to
make sure Susannah got the treatment she needed. It was
galling to have to approach the one man in the world she
blamed for her current predicament. If Grant hadn't died
in that accident, they would have had the health insurance
he usually received as a part of his compensation. But
Grant had been between jobs, so there was nothing. Instead
Mara had been caught in every mother's nightmare. She had
a sick child and no insurance to pay for medical bills.
Health insurance had been the last thing on her mind when
Grant had left her widowed, and she found herself
unemployed with a meager amount of life insurance and a
child to raise. She had used the balance of the life
insurance left after she bought the house to pay college
tuition, believing that an education was the best
investment for their future. It was a wise move, but had
left the two of them exposed to the disaster that had
occurred.
Mara hadn't even realized, at first, that Susannah was
sick. In the months following Grant's death, her daughter
had been tired and listless and seemed uninterested in
doing the things she normally did. Mara had thought
Susannah was merely grieving in her own way. Until one day
Susannah didn't get out of bed at all. She had a high
fever, and nothing Mara did could bring it down.
She took Susannah to the emergency room of the hospital
and experienced the horror of watching her small, helpless
child be hooked up to dozens of tubes and monitors. The
diagnosis of Susannah's illness had come as a shock. Mara
had sat stunned in the chair before Dr. Sortino's
cluttered desk and listened with disbelief.
Acute lymphocytic leukemia. "Children die of that," Mara
had managed to gasp.
A pair of sympathetic brown eyes had looked out from Dr.
Sortino's gaunt face. "Not as many as in the past. Nearly
three-quarters of all children diagnosed with this disease
today live."
"What about the rest?" Mara asked. "What about Susannah?"
"Our cure rate with chemotherapy is ninety percent. If
that doesn't work, there's always a bone-marrow transplant
to consider."
Mara had stared at him with unseeing eyes. Chemotherapy.
She had never known anyone personally who had taken
chemotherapy. But she had read enough, and seen enough on
television, to know that chemo-therapy made you vomit, and
that your hair fell out. The thought of that happening to
her precious daughter, the thought of all Susannah's long
black hair falling out, made her feel faint.
"Mrs. Ainsworth? Are you all right?"
Dr. Sortino was on one knee beside her, keeping her from
sliding out of the chair. She felt the sting of tears in
her nose and eyes. "No, I'm not all right!" She fixed a
blazing stare on the doctor who had been the messenger of
such ill tidings.
"I'm angry," she spat. "I'm furious, in fact! Why
Susannah? How did this happen? She's just a little girl.
She's only eight years old!"
Dr. Sortino's eyes were no longer sympathetic. A look of
pain and resignation had glazed his eyes after her
vituperative attack. He rose and returned to his place
behind the desk, putting a physical barrier between them
that did little to protect him from her anger and despair.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Ainsworth," he said. "There are as many
as a dozen factors that may have been responsible for
Susannah contracting the disease. We haven't done enough
tests yet to make a guess on the precise reasons for her
illness. But we can cure it...in most cases. You're lucky.
Susannah has a tremendous chance of survival. With other
diseases..."
He left her to contemplate her good fortune. But Mara
didn't feel lucky. Leukemia was a serious disease. Her
precious, wonderful daughter might die. "When do you start
treatment?" she asked. "Will Susan-nah have to stay in the
hospital? How will we know if it works?"
That was when kindly Dr. Sortino had started asking
questions about insurance. That was when she had realized
the enormity of the cost of treatment, and the hospital's
inability to absorb another patient of this kind without a
payment from some source.
"There are other facilities that can serve your needs
better if you can't pay at least a portion of the costs up
front," the doctor had said.
But those facilities were in another state.
Mara had tried buying insurance, but Susannah's illness
was a preexisting condition and could not be covered.
"But I don't need insurance for anything else!" she had
argued. After the insurance companies turned a deaf ear,
Mara tried the various foundations that provided
assistance for children. And got the same answer. Help was
available only if she was willing to go somewhere else to
get it.
Mara knew she was foolish for clinging to the familiar,
but she wasn't sure she could survive weeks, and maybe
months, of living in a Ronald McDonald House in a strange
city, all alone with only Susannah and her fears to keep
her company. She needed a place that was home. She needed
the support of the few friends she had made. And Susannah
needed the normalcy of school and friends around her
during her recuperation.
Her daughter was going to be one of the lucky seventy-
three percent who were cured of the disease. Mara refused
to consider any other outcome to Susannah's treatment.
But she needed money and needed it fast. Borrowing was out
of the question. She had just finished her first year of
college, working part-time as a cook in one of the college
hangouts. She didn't qualify for the sizable loan she
needed without some security, and she hadn't enough equity
in the house to do the job.
On the other hand, Grant had told her before he'd gone to
the bar that Falcon Whitelaw was as rich as Croesus, that
he had inherited a fortune from his maternal grandfather,
including the B-Bar Ranch on the outskirts of Dallas.
Falcon wouldn't even miss the thousands of dollars it was
going to cost for Susannah's care. Besides, she was going
to offer him something in return.
Mara had grown up at her mother's side and knew everything
there was to know about keeping house for a rancher. She
planned to trade her services as housekeeper to Falcon in
exchange for his financial assistance in paying Susannah's
medical bills. She feared she would end up indentured to
him for a long time. Just the initial treatment was going
to cost nearly 25,000.
Which reasoning all led her to the front doorstep of
Falcon White-law's B-Bar Ranch. She had to admit the ranch
wasn't what she had expected. The terrain was flat and
grassy, but long ago someone had planted live oaks around
the house. It had the look of a Spanish hacienda, with its
red tile roof and thick, whitewashed adobe walls.
Her hand was poised to knock, her heart in her throat. She
swallowed both heart and pride and rapped her knuckles on
the arched, heavy oak panel.
No one answered.
She knocked harder, longer and louder. At last, the door
opened.
FALCON HAD BEEN OUT LATE CAROUSING, and he had just
dragged on a
pair of jeans to answer the door, not even bothering to
button them all the way up. They hung down on his hipbones
and revealed his white briefs in the vee at the top. He
scratched his belly and put one bare foot atop the other.
He squinted, his eyes unable to focus in the harsh
sunlight that was streaming in through the crack he had
opened in the door. He thought better of trying to see and
put a hand over his eyes, pressing his temples with
forefinger and thumb in an attempt to stop the pounding
inside his head.
"Who's there?" he muttered.
Mara stared in disbelief at the bleary-eyed, tousle-
headed, unshaved face that had appeared at the door. "It's
eleven o'clock," she said with asperity. "Are you just
getting up?"
"Good God," Falcon said with a moan. He would never forget
that condemning voice, not in a million years. Of all the
days for her to show up at the B-Bar, she had to come now.
He slowly lowered his hand and squinted painfully into the
sunlight until his eyes had adjusted enough to confirm
what his ears had told him.
It was Mara Ainsworth, all right. She was wearing that
same derisive, accusing look she had worn at Grant's
funeral.
Falcon considered shutting the door in her face. He didn't
owe her anything. He had offered her his help a year ago,
and she had refused it in no uncertain terms.
So what is she doing here now?
From the look on her face she had come to play Puritan
temperance woman. He just wasn't up for the game.
Mara's belief that Falcon was an irresponsible care-for-
nobody was reaffirmed as she eyed him from head to
barefoot toes. Her nose wrinkled in disgust when the smell
of beer assaulted her nostrils. He was drunk! Or rather,
had been. He looked hung over at the moment.
"Are you going to invite me inside?" she demanded.
Falcon was a second late responding, and Mara invited
herself in, since he was obviously in no condition to do
it. She pushed past Falcon and walked through the arched
doorway right into the living room, leaving him standing
at the open door.
The house was dark and cool. The furniture was leather and
wood, large and heavy, the sort of thing the conquistadors
must have brought with them from Spain. Navajo rugs were
thrown on the red brick floor, and Mara found herself
facing shelves full of Hopi Indian decorations. Arches
inset along the walls held ornamental vases, adding to the
Spanish flavor of the room. It was beautiful. It felt like
a home. Which was odd, she thought, considering a bachelor
lived here.
Without turning to face Falcon she said, "I need to talk
to you." Mara surreptitiously rubbed her stomach where she
had brushed against him. Her belly was doing strange
things. He was an animal — that was why she felt this
animal magnetism toward him. She hated the man. It was
absolutely ridiculous to think she could be attracted to
him.
She turned to face him, willing herself not to feel
anything.
But she hadn't forgotten the powerful shudders that had
rippled through her when Falcon looked at her the first
time they had met. Something had definitely happened that
hot summer day on the street in Dallas. She despised
herself for what she had felt then. And it had happened
again just now.
Animal magnetism, she repeated to herself. That's all it
is.
Falcon shut the door with a quiet click and leaned back
against it. He folded his arms across his bare chest,
crossed one bare ankle over the other and stared at
her. "I didn't think you ever wanted to see me again."
She flushed. The color started at the edge of her square-
necked blouse and shot right up her throat to her cheeks,
where it sat in two bright pink spots. "I...I didn't."
His eyes narrowed. "But now you do?"
She swallowed hard and nodded once. "Well." He
paused. "Well." Falcon didn't know what else to say. This
was certainly an astounding turn of events. Just when he
had convinced himself he could live without her, the woman
of his dreams had shown up at his door. Of course, she
hadn't exactly picked a moment when he was at his best.
Falcon didn't ask her to sit. He didn't want her to be any
more comfortable than he was. And he was downright
miserable.
That didn't keep him from feeling the singular, consuming
attraction for her that had struck him the first moment he
saw her. And this time he knew he wasn't mistaken — she
was feeling it, too. His lips curved in a self-satisfied
smile. So, she was ready to admit the attraction she felt
and had come to apologize for all those horrible things
she had said to him.
Falcon gave free rein to the fierce sexual desire he felt
for Mara Ainsworth. His groin tightened, and his blood
began to hum. He refused to hide his arousal. Since she
had invited herself in, she could just put up with the
condition she found him in.
Mara was appalled at the blatant sensuality in Falcon's
heavy-lidded stare. There was no hiding the bulge that was
lovingly cupped by his butter-soft jeans. Even more
appalling was her body's reaction to the prickly situation
in which she found herself. She was dumbfounded by her gut
response to Falcon's maleness. Her breasts felt heavy, and
her belly tensed with expectation.
It was time to state her business and get out. "I've come
to get the help you offered a year ago. I need money. Lots
of it."
Mara saw the shock on Falcon's face and hurried to finish
before he could throw her out. "Susannah is very ill. She
could die." She swallowed over the lump of pain that
always arose when she said those words. "She has leukemia."
Falcon had dropped his lazy pose against the door and was
standing now on both feet with his hands balled at his
sides.
"When Grant died he was between jobs and we didn't have
any insurance and I don't have the money for chemotherapy
and I've tried to get it other places but they want us to
leave Dallas and Grant said you have lots of money so you
wouldn't miss it and I think it would be better for both
Susannah and me if we stayed where we are. So can you help
us?"
Falcon had taken several steps toward Mara during this
breathless speech. As he reached out to give her the
comfort she so obviously needed, she took a step back away
from him.
So. She wanted his money, but she didn't want him. That
was blatantly clear.
"I'll work for you," she choked out. "I'll keep house,
cook, clean, whatever you need. I know how to keep ranch
books. I'll pay you back in service for every penny, I
promise you that. I'm...I'm desperate. Please."
Falcon felt sick to his stomach. Mara, pretty Mara, had
been reduced to begging. And she wasn't even asking him to
give her the money. She was going to pay it all back. She
didn't want to be beholden to him. Because she despised
him.
It was there on her face every time she looked at him. She
still blamed him for Grant's death. She was never going to
forgive him.
So why should he give her the money?
Because there is a chance, just the slightest one, but a
chance, that you might be responsible in part for her
predicament. Falcon was shaken to the core by that
possibility.
And that poor kid. He remembered Susannah's hazel eyes
peeping out from behind Mara's skirt on the day he met her
and the childish giggle before she hid herself completely
from his sight. It was a shame for any kid to be sick, but
it caught him in the gut to imagine that engaging little
girl bedridden.
"Is Susannah...will she get well?" he asked.
"There's a good chance, a three-to-one chance, she'll be
cured by the chemotherapy. But the hospital won't start
treatments before I assure them I can pay. Can you...will
you help?"