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  A scowl of dislike replaced the slightly dazed frown. "I wanted to get away from you," Molly answered.

  "You nearly accomplished that in a very permanent fashion," Jonas nodded. "You're lucky that truck didn't hit you."

  "Satin?" Molly breathed in alarm.

  "She's fine," Bridget smiled, a fine mist of tears brightening her hazel eyes. "Like you, she has a few cuts and probably some bruises."

  "I want to see her." Molly tried to sit up, but Jonas pushed her back.

  "Not yet. First we have to get you cleaned up, then you can worry about your horse." Standing, he glanced at Bridget. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

  It was an unnecessary order. Bridget had no intention of leaving Molly's side. She moved closer, her smile slightly weak and tremulous.

  "Are you sure you're all right, honey?" she murmured.

  "I think so." Molly began to shake a little. "I was so scared, mom."

  "So was I," Bridget laughed softly. "Whatever made you do that?"

  "I don't know," Molly shivered. "I just didn't think about there being any traffic."

  Jonas returned and Bridget shifted to the side. "The blouse is pretty well ruined. I'm going to cut the sleeve away. Is that all right?" He glanced briefly at Bridget.

  "Of course."

  "What's he going to do?" Molly eyed him warily.

  "I'm going to clean those scrapes on your arm and leg. You have gravel and dirt in them," answered Jonas.

  "I don't want you to do it." Molly drew back against the sofa, mutiny darkening her eyes as she glared at him with dislike.

  "He's a doctor, Molly," Bridget offered, hoping to placate her daughter.

  "I don't care. I don't want him to touch me," Molly declared.

  "She does take after you in that, doesn't she, Bridget?" Jonas muttered cynically.

  Bridget flushed. The resentment glittering in her eyes echoed that in her daughter's, but Jonas didn't glance her way to see it.

  "You don't have any choice in the matter, Molly," he continued, "because I'm going to clean them." He took hold of the torn sleeve of her blouse and began snipping away to expose the scraped flesh on her arm. Molly tried to twist away. "And you'd better hold still. These scissors are sharp and you could end up with a nasty cut," he warned.

  "You're a bully," Molly accused sullenly.

  "So I've been told," Jonas responded dryly and began cleaning the abrasion that ran almost the length of her arm.

  At the touch of the antiseptic against her skin, Molly flinched and Bridget winced sympathetically, knowing it had to burn.

  "That hurts," Molly protested.

  A corner of his mouth quirked upward without humor, his gaze not straying from his task. "Did you think it would tickle?"

  "You're not much of a doctor," Molly said, clenching her teeth.

  "You aren't much of a rider," Jonas retorted.

  "I am, too."

  "On that flea bitten nag?" he scoffed.

  "Satin is not a nag!" Molly defended with outrage. "She is a registered Morgan and a lot better horse than yours, whatever it is."

  "What do you know about Morgan horses?" He flashed the little girl a mocking look.

  Bridget bridled at the way he was deliberately baiting Molly. She was no match for his sharp tongue. It wasn't fair of him to pick on the child and antagonize her further.

  "A lot," Molly declared. "Justin Morgan lived right here in Randolph—the man, not the horse."

  "Where did the horse live?"

  "The horse lived here, too, but his name wasn't Justin Morgan."

  "You just said it was," Jonas mocked.

  "No, the man's name was Justin Morgan and the horse was called Figure. Later on, when he got to be famous, they started to call him Morgan's horse," Molly explained sharply, despite his attempt to confuse her.

  "Why was he famous? What made him so special?"

  "Jonas, what are you trying to prove?" Bridget interrupted angrily, unable to remain silent any longer.

  "Stay out of it," he ordered smoothly. "This discussion is between Molly and myself. Unless she doesn't know the answer to my question." The last challenging remark was directed to Molly.

  "Of course I know." She snapped up the invisible glove immediately. "The Morgan horse was special because he could do everything. He could work in the woods all day hauling logs, sometimes pulling logs that other, bigger draft horses couldn't and he could run faster than anything around."

  "He probably was a bad-tempered brute," Jonas observed.

  "He was as gentle as a kitten. And he was the first American breed of horse," Molly declared.

  "I guess that's something," Jonas acknowledged with a mild little shrug and shifted his attention to her leg, cutting a slit up the pants leg.

  "That isn't all." Molly sat up slightly. Now that she was beginning to impress him with her knowledge, she wanted to enlarge on it. "The other American breeds like the American saddle horse, the Standardbred and the Tennessee walking horse—all of them can be traced back to show a Morgan cross in their beginnings."

  "And you think your horse is as special, do you?"

  "Satin can do anything," Molly defended stoutly.

  "Jonas, will you quit picking on her?" Bridget demanded in a low voice and received an indifferent look for an answer.

  "If your horse is as smart as you say it is, it wouldn't have jumped the fence into the road without first checking, to see if there was any traffic approaching," he pointed out.

  "Satin didn't notice the road," Molly offered lamely, scowling at the fault he had found with her treasured mare.

  "She should have looked where she was going," Jonas suggested dryly.

  "Yes, but she was really super clearing the fence, then managing to leap the ditch almost right after," she enthused.

  "Right in front of a truck," he commented with an absent frown. "Your knee is going to have to be bandaged. You have a fairly deep gash there. I'll get some gauze and adhesive and be right back."

  As he straightened from the couch, Bridget hesitated only a second. Touching Molly's hand lightly, she said, "Lie still," and followed Jonas into an adjoining room.

  Jonas barely glanced at her as he opened a metal cabinet. His aloofness was another irritant to her already fraying temper, the fire of it sparkling in her eyes. With hands on her hips, she thrust her chin forward to a challenging angle.

  "What did you think you were doing in there, baiting Molly that way?" Bridget kept her voice low so Molly couldn't overhear, but it was no less angry because it lacked volume.

  Jonas smiled coolly, without amusement. "You don't care for my 'bedside manner?'"

  "I found it appalling," she hissed. "I know you don't like Molly, but did you have to make it so obvious? She's a sensitive child and I won't have you ridiculing her. Isn't it enough that she was hurt because she was running from you? Or are you using her to get back at me because I don't want to become involved with you again?"

  "My methods may be questionable, Bridget," he replied in a level voice, "but they had the desired results. Your daughter doesn't show the signs of a concussion, her abrasions have been treated and the cut is about to be bandaged—" he raised his hand to indicate the adhesive tape and gauze he held "—without any temper tantrums over whether I was going to take care of her or not. If you want to read something more into my behavior, that's your affair."

  He walked briskly past Bridget to return to the living room of the old farmhouse, leaving her to wonder if she had been overimaginative. One thing was clear: Jonas hadn't denied that he resented Molly. Sighing, Bridget felt trapped as she walked back to join them.

  "How does the head feel?" Jonas asked, applying the last strip of adhesive.

  "How do you think it feels? It tickles," Molly retorted with a sarcasm Bridget hadn't know her daughter possessed.

  The grooves deepened near his mouth although he didn't smile. "It will tickle a lot more. Do you want to try to walk to the car and I'll drive you and your
mother home?"

  Molly nodded gamely, wincing as she accepted his assistance off the couch. She was decidedly unsteady on her feet, a stiffness having already set in to add its discomfort to her bruised body.

  Fiercely independent, she shrugged away Bridget's attempt to help her as if she had something to prove to Jonas. Watching Molly closely, his compelling, male features wearing an expression of clinical indifference, he followed them to his station wagon parked in front of the garage.

  Gritting her teeth, Molly made it all the way. Bridget heard the painful sigh of relief her daughter made when she relaxed against her in the front seat. Jonas made no comment as he slid behind the wheel and started the car.

  There was only silence as they began the drive back until they reached the Y in the road. A left turn would take them to the chalet, and a right would lead them to town. Jonas slowed the station wagon nearly to a stop.

  He glanced at Bridget. "Would you like me to take you in so your own doctor can examine her?"

  To spite him, she nearly said yes. But the fact that he had relented slightly and her own faith that Jonas's opinion regarding Molly was right made her answer truthfully.

  "As you said, I don't think it's necessary," she murmured.

  "I offered." Jonas shrugged and took the left fork in the road.

  In the driveway of the chalet he walked around to the passenger side as Bridget helped Molly slide out of the car. Getting out was proving more painful than getting in, as her stiff and sore body was not coordinating properly.

  Impatiently Jonas shouldered Bridget aside. "I'll carry her in."

  "No!" Molly cried in protest, but she was swept into his arms before she could do anything to stop him.

  Bridget knew it was just as much rigid dislike as soreness that made Molly hold herself so stiffly. Jonas could have been carrying a mannequin for all the attention he paid to Molly.

  They hadn't reached the chalet steps when her mother's voice halted them. "Bridget! My God, what happened? What's wrong with Molly?"

  Turning, Bridget saw Margaret Harrison rushing across the road, running while still maintaining a ladylike air. Glancing at Molly, she realized her daughter looked a mess.

  There was a goose-egg-size lump on her forehead and a red graze on her cheek. The checked blouse was dirty, the cut sleeve hanging loosely to reveal the long, angry-looking abrasion. Her jeans were cut away from her leg, the white bandage around the knee showing plainly against the blue. Indeed she looked much more seriously hurt than she was.

  "Ah, here comes mother," Jonas murmured sarcastically beneath his breath, his lips barely moving. "Living right across the road, she can keep a close eye on you. Tell me, Bridget, does she still vet all you boyfriends to see if they're suitable for you?"

  "My mother may be overly possessive and nosy," she bristled, "but her ability to judge the true character of people is faultless."

  "You really believe that, don't you?" Although his mouth was twisted in sardonic humor, cold fires of anger blazed in his gray green eyes.

  "Yes." Bridget was unable to expand further on her reply as her mother came into their hearing.

  "Molly, baby, what happened?" Margaret Harrison demanded in alarm when she saw her granddaughter's tattered state.

  "She had a rather nasty fall from her horse," Jonas answered. "She has a few cuts, some abrasions and probably a lot of bruises, but no serious injuries."

  "You look terrible, Molly," she breathed—hardly a remark that would make the little girl feel better. "Will she be scarred?"

  "No, Mrs. Harrison," Jonas answered with veiled disgust. "They'll all fade in time." He slid a piercing look at Bridget. "If you'll open the door, I'll take your daughter inside."

  Quickly Bridget stepped forward to open the door and hold it for him. When she would have followed him inside, her mother caught at her arm.

  Whispering, Margaret Harrison accused, "You didn't let him treat Molly, did you?"

  "He is a doctor," Bridget defended her decision.

  "Yes, I know—" her mother began.

  "You could have told me he was," Bridget attacked briefly. "It might have saved me some embarrassment."

  "I presumed you knew," was the insistently innocent response.

  "It doesn't matter," Bridget declared, shaking her head in faint exasperation. Her previous ignorance had already done its damage. Turning, she walked into the house with her mother following.

  Margaret Harrison glanced around the empty living room. "Where has he taken her?"

  "I imagine to her bedroom," Bridget replied stiffly.

  "But how would he know where it is?"

  "I would guess Molly told him, wouldn't you?" she retorted and kept silent about his previous exploration of the house when no one was home.

  Jonas had to have noticed Molly's bedroom in the loft. It couldn't have been mistaken for hers, not when the walls were a patchwork of posters of whoever happened to be Molly's idol at the moment.

  "Yes, of course you're right," Her mother agreed with the plausible explanation.

  Bridget started toward the open stairwell leading to the solitary room in the loft. At that moment Jonas appeared at the top of the steps, hesitating for a fraction of a second as he looked at her before descending.

  "She's changing into some clean clothes," he stated.

  "She'll need some help. I'll go up," Margaret Harrison declared, hurrying quickly up the steps Jonas had just come down.

  Jonas watched her disappear, then turned. "It's a pity your mother's marriage can't offer her more fulfilment. Maybe then she wouldn't have to find it living through you," he commented cynically. "Either that or your father should have given her a whole brood of children so she wouldn't have time to meddle in your life."

  Bridget stiffened, slightly indignant that he should voice his opinion, however accurate it might be, about something that was none of his business. As far as she was concerned when he walked away ten years ago, he had forfeited any chance of making her personal and family life any of his business.

  "Children aren't always the answer." She started to walk past him to the stairs.

  "Molly's head might begin to ache." His tone was cool and professional. "If it does, give her a couple of aspirins. If that doesn't relieve it, call me. Or you can contact your own doctor."

  "Very well," not saying whom she would call, although she knew Jonas was closer if she needed him. Again she started up the steps.

  "I'll bring the horses over later this afternoon," he told her curtly.

  With one foot on the stairs, Bridget paused. "I haven't thanked you for all—" Grudgingly she began to express her appreciation, but as she turned, she discovered she was talking to no one but herself.

  The front door was closing behind Jonas. She trembled weakly. He seemed to have taken some of her strength with him when he left.

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  Chapter Six

  AFTER DINNER, near sundown, Bridget looked out the kitchen window and noticed the light shining in the window of the horse shed. She guessed that it had to be Jonas returning the horses. She hesitated at the sink, then quickly wiped her hands on a dish towel.

  There was the tack to be cleaned and put away and the horses to be fed. She couldn't let Jonas do that. She was already in his debt because of Molly. And that was another thing she wanted to clear up.

  Glancing over the breakfast bar into the living room, Bridget could see Molly lying on the sofa in front of the television. She was wearing a loose-fitting cotton robe of Bridget's to keep from irritating the abrasions on her arm and leg.

  "Molly, Jonas has brought the horses back. I'm going out to take care of them," she called to her daughter, but didn't receive an answer. She walked part way into the living room and saw that Molly had fallen asleep.

  Bridget debated whether or not to waken her, then decided against it. She would probably be back in the house before Molly woke to find her gone. Quietly she slipped out the back door of the
house and hurried to the stables. The golden shadows of sunset were coloring the green hills rising from the valley meadow.

  Unlatching the door, she swung it open and stepped inside. A breathy excitement gripped her lungs, a sensation she always experienced on meeting Jonas. She was greeted by the pungent odor of horse liniment burning her nose and the nicker of a horse.

  The sorrel mare, Flash, was in her stall, the well-formed head turned, ears pricked at Bridget's entrance. But it was the adjoining stall where the gleaming hindquarters of Molly's bay were visible that drew Bridge's gaze. She could hear the rustle of straw and the low, soft crooning of a masculine voice.

  Bridget walked to the end of the stall and stopped as Jonas straightened from his crouch beside the bay's front legs. In the shadowy glow of the overhead light bulb, his hair was rumpled and gold lights glistening in the brown thickness.

  He was tall and lean and ruggedly primitive, the way she remembered him, with a faded denim jacket hanging open, a worn cotton shirt opened at the throat and snug-fitting Levi's that molded the muscular length of his thighs and legs.

  There was a veiled intensity in the way his eyes returned her look. Temporarily Bridget forgot why she had come to the shed, her voice forgetting how to work.

  "How's Molly?" Jonas turned slightly, picking up the bottle of liniment from the manger to cap it.

  "Fine," she nodded jerkily.

  "I fed and watered the horses, cleaned the tack and put it away." He ran a stroking hand over the bay's flank, pushing the horse aside to walk from the stall.

  "There was no need for you to do that," Bridget protested. Her poise returned along with common sense that warned her not to let his sensual attraction take possession of her faculties. "I didn't expect it."

  His gaze briefly swept her figure, an unnervingly thorough study despite its swiftness. "It was no trouble," he shrugged indifferently and walked by her to replace the liniment in the metal cabinet on the far wall.

  "Perhaps not, but I—"

  Jonas interrupted as if he didn't care what else she had to say. "The mare's right fetlock is slightly swollen. You might have your father look at it or call a vet."