Sweet Nothings

by Catherine Anderson

  “I know helping her out isn’t the smartest decision I’ve ever made,” Jake admitted, “but it was the only thing I could think to do at the time. She was about to leave, and damned if I could just stand there and let her go.”

  Hank’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he studied the stallion. “You know what they say about wise men making it into heaven. It may not be a smart decision, but no matter what happens, it’s probably the right one.”

  Someone screamed. Molly jolted awake and listened. The sound didn’t come again, and she decided she had been dreaming. She started to roll over but was so stiff her joints felt frozen. She blinked, tried to see. There was only blackness. Where was she? She felt like a hunk of frozen meat at the bottom of a freezer. She hugged her arms, rubbed her sleeves. She was so chilled that her flesh felt numb.

  Another high-pitched scream rent the air. Startled by the sound, she swung off the bed, tripped over her shoes, and landed in a sprawl on what felt like a dusty wood floor. Her chin smacked a plank, and bright spots exploded before her eyes. For a moment, she just lay there, too stunned to move.

  When her head cleared a bit, she ran a palm over the floor, trying to place where she was. The awful scream came again, reverberating in the darkness. It came back to her then. The cabin. Jake Coulter. It was Sunset who was screaming.

  Something had to be horribly wrong to make the horse scream that way. She needed to go check on him. Her joints protesting with every movement, she pushed to her feet. How long had she been sleeping? Judging by the darkness, the sun had gone down some time ago, which meant she must have been out for hours.

  Waving both hands, she groped her way across the bedroom and spilled gracelessly into the living area. Faint but very welcome moonlight shone through the open front door, creating a pale beacon to guide her.

  Once outside on the covered front porch, Molly rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted through the feeble moonlight, trying to see Sunset. As if on cue, the stallion shrieked again, the sound laced with terror and panic. She was about to move off the porch when a huge, black shape loomed in front of her. Her heart leaped, and she fell back a step.

  “Sorry,” a deep voice said. “I didn’t mean to give you a start.”

  The breath rushed from her lungs. “Mr. Coulter?” She strained to see, her eyes burning with the effort. “Is that you?”

  “Jake,” he corrected.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, so relieved she didn’t care that her voice sounded shrill. “I thought you were a bear.”

  He chuckled, the sound raspy but warm. “I get as cranky as a bear sometimes. Will that work?”

  He moved, and his silhouette vanished. Molly narrowed her eyes, trying to find him in the darkness. “Mr. Coulter?”

  “Right here,” a deep voice, laced with amusement, said near her ear.

  She jumped and clamped a hand over her heart. “Good grief.”

  He laughed softly. “Can’t you see?”

  Molly missed the city, where thousands of lights illuminated the night sky. “Of course I can’t see. It’s black as pitch out here.”

  “It seems bright as day to me.”

  “I’m happy for you.” Realizing she sounded waspish, she tried to lighten her tone. “It’s a good thing one of us can see. Something’s terribly wrong with Sunset. Didn’t you hear him shrieking?”

  “He’s fine. As fine as can be, anyway. He ate a little grain earlier, and for the most part, he’s settled down. He just got spooked when I walked by his pen.”

  “Oh. So there’s nothing wrong with him?”

  “Nothing that time, patience, and a gentle hand won’t cure.”

  She heard paper rustle. Then a clanking sound reached her ears. The next thing she knew, he grasped her by the elbow. “I’ll be your eyes until we get some lights turned on.” Firming his grip, he set himself to the task of guiding her through the darkness to the doorway. She could have sworn she felt heat radiating from him. “Damn, honey, you feel ice cold,” he said, running his thumb lightly over the chilled skin of her arm.

  “I got a little cool while I was sleeping.”

  Once inside the house, he released her to flip on the wall switch. The old floor lamp that stood next to the easy chair by the front window burst to life, bathing the small living area with golden light through its fluted glass globe. Molly blinked, momentarily as blinded by the illumination as she’d been by the darkness.

  As her vision adjusted, she saw that he was carrying a quart-sized bowl covered with plastic wrap, a package of what appeared to be Ritz crackers, and a steel thermos tucked under one arm.

  “Your supper,” he explained. “Can’t have you sleeping through meals and losing your strength, not if I mean to work you until you drop.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Molly wanted to kick herself for sounding so humorless and prim. He was kidding around with her, and she should respond in kind. Unfortunately, she never had a clear head when she first woke up, a life-long condition presently worsened by a tumble off the bed and nerves that felt as if they’d been abraded with sandpaper. “And here I thought you were just being thoughtful.”

  “That, too,” he admitted with dry amusement. “Now that I’ve landed a cook and housekeeper, I don’t want her quitting on me.” He brandished the chili bowl. “If I never eat another meal out of a can, it’ll be too soon.”

  Standing there in his rancher garb, he looked even more dangerously attractive than he had earlier. His hat was cocked forward to shade his compelling blue eyes, giving her an opportunity to better appreciate the rest of his face. His firm, narrow lips shimmered in the lamplight like wet silk. Shadows delineated his chiseled features, enhancing their masculine ruggedness. He had a slight cleft in his chin, an angular jaw, and a sharply bridged nose thrusting out from between his thick, sable brows like a blade. Along one side, she saw a slight bump, evidence of an old break.

  Her gaze dropped to the collar of his wash-worn shirt, the blue chambray faded nearly to white and forming a stark contrast to the burnished umber of his neck. She’d never met anyone like Jake Coulter. Most of the men in her acquaintance wore tailored suits, her beloved late father included. In the business world, successful men dressed the part.

  Oddly, though, despite his humble attire, Jake emanated an air of importance and authority. It was in the way he carried himself, she decided, and in the relaxed, self-confident way he interacted with others. He was the kind of man who would always command respect, no matter what he wore.

  She tried to picture him in a suit. Somehow the image just didn’t gel. He belonged here, in everyday communion with the land and the wilderness at his back door.

  When she met his gaze again, she was dismayed to find that he was studying her as intently as she was studying him.

  “I didn’t realize you were so tall,” she blurted stupidly.

  He flashed her a slow grin. “And I didn’t realize you were so short. The heels, I guess. They must tack on a few inches.”

  “I’m only a little shorter than average.”

  His grin broadened. “If you stretch? What are you, about five two?”

  “Three.” Heat gathered in her cheeks. She’d been teased unmercifully in high school about being short, and it had been a sore point with her ever since. She folded her arms at her waist. “If there’s a height requirement for the job, Mr. Coulter, just say so, and I’ll gather my things.”

  “No height requirement.” He gave her a long look that made her toes curl. “I never take anyone’s measure in inches. Your legs reach from your ass to the ground, same as mine. I reckon that’ll do.”

  Once again she had the feeling that he was looking too deeply into her eyes, that there was nothing she could hide from this man. She wanted to break the visual contact but couldn’t. Finally he shifted his attention to her mouth, his irises turning a molten blue gray. She glanced nervously away, feeling uncertain and confused. He was looking at her mouth as if—

  She cut the thought
short. Handsome men like Jake Coulter were never attracted to women like her. It was silly to even entertain the notion. She probably just looked a fright, with her hair all mussed and her eyes bleary with sleep.

  “Thanks for bringing me dinner. It was very thought-ful.”

  She held out her hands to accept the bowl. He smiled and moved past her. After reaching around the wall to turn on the overhead kitchen light, he proceeded to set the food on the round wooden table in the adjoining eating area. “I’ll keep you company while you eat. I need to talk with you.”

  Molly’s stomach knotted. What did he need to talk to her about? His tone brooked no argument, but she decided to give it her best shot, anyway. “I’m not at my sharpest when I first wake up. Maybe we should save it for later.”

  “It’s bad for the digestion to eat alone.”

  During her marriage, Molly had taken most of her meals alone. Rodney had been far too busy with his many girlfriends to spend much time with his wife. “I’m used to it.”

  “Is that so?” He set the thermos beside the bowl, then glanced over his shoulder at her. “A pretty lady like you shouldn’t be.”

  Pretty? Her face went hot again. She hated it when men gave her compliments. She knew they didn’t sincerely mean them, and that had the perverse effect of making her feel worse about herself instead of better.

  She looked at her watch. It was almost eight o’clock.

  When he noticed her checking the time, he said, “You won’t turn into a pumpkin. Come sit down and eat your supper. This way, I can take the dirty dishes back with me and throw them in the machine.”

  He turned from the table to catch her shivering and rubbing her arms. His gaze shot past her to the open front door. “While you dig in, I’ll start a fire. The night air in this country has quite a bite when you’re not used to it.”

  Molly started toward the kitchen, only to collide with him as he moved toward the door. She came up hard against his chest and was almost knocked off her feet. He caught her by the shoulders.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him, trying to step away.

  “I’d forgotten how small this place is.” He maintained his grip on her upper arms. “You can’t cuss a cat without getting hair between your teeth. Hank and I were always mowing each other down when we stayed here.”

  He hadn’t mowed her down, exactly, but if he didn’t turn her loose, she couldn’t say how long her legs would hold her up. Her skin felt electrified where his hands touched, the feeling radiating out to sensitize nerve endings she’d forgotten she had.

  “What’s this?” he asked, lifting one hand to cup her chin. “Did you take a fall?”

  Molly was about to say no when his thumb grazed a tender spot, calling to mind her headlong plunge to the floor. “I, um—yes, sort of. Nothing serious. I didn’t realize I’d hurt myself.”

  He lightly traced the spot again. “It’s only a small scrape, but it may leave a bruise.” He moved his thumb up to her mouth. The slight drag on her sensitive flesh made her breath hitch. “Your bottom lip is a little swollen as well.”

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Even after he lowered his hand back to her shoulder, his gaze lingered on her mouth as if he were thinking about kissing her. She was afraid she might faint if he did.

  Chapter Five

  Jake Coulter was a man who knew his business with the ladies. Molly could tell that just by looking at him. When he kissed a woman, he’d take control. No clumsy groping, no hesitance, just masterful hands and lips, taking possession. She balled her hands into fists, appalled by her thoughts. Even worse, what if he saw them in her eyes? This wasn’t like her. She barely knew him.

  She shivered again, only this time not from the cold. His grip on her upper arms tightened, the strength in his hands compressing her shoulders slightly. He felt capable of lifting her clear off her feet. Molly fleetingly wondered how that might feel.

  On her wedding night, Rodney had carried her over the threshold, but that had been ten years and thirty pounds ago, and she could barely remember it now. He’d bumped her head on the doorframe. She did recall that much. And he’d put her down the instant they got inside, more interested in drinking champagne than in making love with his bride.

  The memory brought a pang of nearly forgotten hurt. Her honeymoon had ended quickly, mere hours after her wedding. She’d looked forward to an incredible evening—romance, soft music, and passionate lovemaking. Instead, she’d surrendered her virginity to a fumbling drunk who’d collapsed on top of her afterward and snored in her ear. Her marriage had gone downhill from there.

  And therein lay her problem with Coulter, she decided. So many good years were gone, stolen by a man who’d never loved her or even wanted her. Deep down, in a purely feminine corner of her heart, she felt cheated.

  She was almost thirty, and though that was still fairly young by many people’s standards, she couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out.

  What was it like to receive a magical kiss in the moonlight?

  How would it feel to be swept off her feet?

  She could go to her grave without ever experiencing passion. She could do without the love poems and being serenaded at her bedroom window. If nobody ever climbed the trellis to profess his undying devotion, she could live with that as well.

  But, damn it, before her ovaries became atrophied, she wanted someone besides her father to tell her she was beautiful and to give her flowers. Just once. Was that so much to ask?

  “I guess it depends on what you’re asking.”

  Molly blinked. Jake’s face was cast into shadow by the glow of light from the kitchen. “Pardon?” she asked, praying that she hadn’t been thinking out loud.

  “Is what too much to ask?” he repeated.

  She blinked again, clamped her mouth closed. She had mush for brains. “Nothing. My mind must have wandered. I told you, I’m not very clearheaded when I first wake up.”

  He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Let me get that fire started.”

  He had already started one and just didn’t know it.

  Molly gulped. Oh, boy. This was not good. How could she work for a man when she remembered him without a shirt every time she looked at him?

  As if Jake Coulter would ever even give her the time of day. What on earth was she thinking? She had pasty white skin, saggy boobs, a thick waist, cottage-cheese thighs, and so many dimples on her buttocks, they resembled oversize golf balls.

  She made her way to the table. Enough. She was finished with men. Absolutely, totally, forever finished. When she regained control of her money, she’d buy her own darned flowers, thank you very much. A whole bathtubful, if she wanted. The male of her species could take a flying leap.

  She sank gratefully onto a battered old chair, her heart racing as she tried to focus on the chili. She was acutely conscious of the sounds Jake made across the room, the clunk of firewood, the crinkle of newspaper. Within seconds, he had a fire laid.

  He took a kitchen match from the box on the mantle, and with one quick snap of his wrist, struck it on the side seam of his Wranglers. Molly had never seen anyone light a match on his pants. She tried to picture herself doing it that way and decided she’d either freeze to death for want of heat or set herself on fire.

  Fascinated, she observed him while he worked, admiring the way he crouched so comfortably in front of the hearth. Everything about the man, every movement he made, was deliciously masculine.

  Deliciously? The word hung in her brain. She was more exhausted than she realized, she decided. Her body was awake, but her brain was still in a partial dream state.

  As if he sensed her eyes on him, Jake glanced her way. Molly turned her gaze back to the chili. With trembling hands, she peeled away the plastic wrap. The sharp, hot scent of the spicy beans and ground beef wafted to her nostrils.

  At the best of times, she wasn’t overly fond of chili. Canned or homemade, it was usually
greasy, and fatty foods didn’t sit well with her stomach. Neither did she care much for meat. Her mind always conjured images of the poor animals that had died to supply her with sustenance.

  Somehow she didn’t think that sentiment would be met with enthusiasm on the Lazy J. Raising and selling beeves was a part of Jake Coulter’s livelihood.

  “Is something wrong with the food?”

  Molly threw him a startled look. He was still crouched before the fire. Amber light flickered over his face, limning the hard planes and chiseled sharpness of his features. His eyes gleamed in the dancing illumination like sun-washed silver. In that moment, she decided he had the visage of a wicked angel. She would do well to remember it.

  “No, no, nothing’s wrong with it.” She wadded the plastic wrap in her fist and dug in hard with her fingers. “I’m just not quite awake yet.”

  He chuckled and nodded at the thermos. “There’s milk, fresh from the Guernsey this morning and chilled to a turn. Maybe that’ll open your eyes.”

  Oh, it would open her eyes, all right. She’d drunk 2-percent as a child, then switched to skim as an adult because of her weight problem. She’d never tasted raw milk in her life. She doubted she’d like it very well. The pasteurized whole milk she’d sampled in restaurants always left a waxy film in her mouth.

  But Jake Coulter was watching, and Molly had learned that it was always best to go with the flow. People who made waves usually got swamped in their own wake.

  She unscrewed the little tin cup from the thermos. The light green lining was stained brown from countless servings of coffee. Not really dirty, she assured herself, just stained. She twisted off the stopper and poured some milk. Her stomach lurched. There were little floating particles on top. Cream, more than likely, but that didn’t ease her mind. She thought of the high fat content and had to force herself to take a sip.