by Diana Palmer
He saw the thoughts in her mind. “Jenny Wren,” he said softly, “do I look like a mad rapist?”
Hearing her name that way on his lips sent a surge of warmth through her. No one had called her by a pet name since the death of her parents.
“No,” she said quietly. “Of course you don’t. I’ll work for you, Mr. Culhane.”
He didn’t answer her. He only scanned her face and nodded. Then he started the truck, turned it around, and headed back to the Circle C Ranch.
Chapter Three
TWO HOURS later, Jennifer was well and truly in residence, to the evident amusement of Everett’s two ranch hands. They apparently knew better than to make any snide comments about her presence, but they did seem to find something fascinating about having a young woman around the place.
Jennifer had her own room, with peeling wallpaper, worn blue gingham curtains at the windows, and a faded quilt on the bed. Most of the house was like that. Even the rugs on the floor were faded and worn from use. She’d have given anything to be robust and healthy and have a free hand to redecorate the place. It had such wonderful potential with its long history and simple, uncluttered architecture.
The next morning she slept late, rising to bright sunlight and a strange sense that she belonged there. She hadn’t felt that way since her childhood, and couldn’t help wondering why. Everett had been polite, but not much more. He wasn’t really a welcoming kind of man. But, then, he’d just lost his brother. That must account for his taciturn aloofness.
He was long gone when she went downstairs. She fixed herself a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast and then went to the small room that doubled as his office. As he’d promised the day before, he’d laid out a stack of production records and budget information that needed typing. He’d even put her electric typewriter on a table and plugged it in. There was a stack of white paper beside it, and a note.
“Don’t feel obliged to work yourself into a coma the first day,” it read. And his bold signature was slashed under the terse sentence. She smiled at the flowing handwriting and the perfect spelling. He was a literate man, at least.
She sat down in her cool blue shirtwaist dress and got to work. Two hours later, she’d made great inroads into the paperwork and was starting a new sheet when Everett’s heavy footsteps resounded throughout the house. The door swung open and his dark eyebrows shot straight up.
“Aren’t you going to eat lunch?” he asked.
More to the point, wasn’t she going to feed him, she thought, and grinned.
“Something funny, Miss King?” he asked.
“Oh, no, boss,” she said, leaving the typewriter behind. He was expecting that she’d forgotten his noon meal, but she had a surprise in store for him.
She led him into the kitchen, where two places were set. He stood there staring at the table, scowling, while she put out bread, mayonnaise, some thick ham she’d found in the refrigerator, and a small salad she’d made with a bottled dressing.
“Coffee?” she asked, poised with the pot in her hand.
He nodded, sliding into the place at the head of the table.
She poured it into his thick white mug and then filled her own.
“How did you know I wanted coffee instead of tea?” he asked with a narrow gaze as she seated herself beside him.
“Because the coffee cannister was half empty and the tea had hardly been touched,” she replied with a smile.
He chuckled softly as he sipped the black liquid. “Not bad,” he murmured, glancing at her.
“I’m sorry about breakfast,” she said. “I usually wake up around six, but this morning I was kind of tired.”
“No problem,” he told her, reaching for bread. “I’m used to getting my own breakfast.”
“What do you have?”
“Coffee.”
She gaped at him. “Coffee?”
He shrugged. “Eggs bounce, bacon’s half raw, and the toast hides under some black stuff. Coffee’s better.”
Her eyes danced as he put some salad on her plate. “I guess so. I’ll try to wake up on time tomorrow.”
“Don’t rush it,” he said, glancing at her with a slight frown. “You look puny to me.”
“Most people would look puny compared to you,” she replied.
“Have you always been that thin?” he persisted.
“No. Not until I got pneumonia,” she said. “I just went straight downhill. I suppose I just kept pushing too hard. It caught up with me.”
“How’s the paperwork coming along?”
“Oh, I’m doing fine,” she said. “Your handwriting is very clear. I’ve had some correspondence to type for doctors that required translation.”
“Who did you get to translate?”
She grinned. “The nearest pharmacist. They have experience, you see.”
He smiled at her briefly before he bit into his sandwich. He made a second one, but she noticed that he ignored the salad.
“Don’t you want some of this?” she asked, indicating the salad bowl.
“I’m not a rabbit,” he informed her.
“It’s very good for you.”
“So is liver, I’m told, but I won’t eat that either.” He finished his sandwich and got up to pour himself another cup of coffee.”
“Then why do you keep lettuce and tomatoes?”
He glanced at her. “I like it on sandwiches.”
This was a great time to tell her, after she’d used it all up in the salad. Just like a man...
“You could have dug it out of here,” she said weakly.
He cocked an eyebrow. “With salad dressing all over it?”
“You could scrape it off...”
“I don’t like broccoli or cauliflower, and never fix creamed beef,” he added. “I’m more or less a meat and potatoes man.”
“I’ll sure remember that from now on, Mr. Culhane,” she promised. “I’ll be careful to use potatoes instead of apples in the pie I’m fixing for supper.”
He glared at her. “Funny girl. Why don’t you go on the stage?”
“Because you’d starve to death and weigh heavily on my conscience,” she promised. “Some man named Brickmayer called and asked did you have a farrier’s hammer he could borrow.” She glanced up. “What’s a farrier?”
He burst out laughing. “A farrier is a man who shoes horses.”
“I’d like a horse,” she sighed. “I’d put him in saddle oxfords.”
“Go back to work. But slowly,” he added from the doorway. “I don’t want you knocking yourself into a sickbed on my account.”
“You can count on me, sir,” she promised, with a wry glance. “I’m much too afraid of your cooking to ever be at the mercy of it.”
He started to say something, turned, and went out the door.
Jennifer spent the rest of the day finishing up the typing. Then she swept and dusted and made supper—a ham-and-egg casserole, biscuits, and cabbage. Supper sat on the table, however, and began to congeal. Eventually, she warmed up a little of it for herself, ate it, put the rest in the refrigerator, and went to bed. She had a feeling it was an omen for the future. He’d mentioned something that first day about rarely being home before bedtime. But couldn’t he have warned her at lunch?
She woke up on time her second morning at the ranch. By 6:15 she was moving gracefully around the spacious kitchen in jeans and a green T-shirt. Apparently, Everett didn’t mind what she wore, so she might as well be comfortable. She cooked a huge breakfast of fresh sausage, eggs, and biscuits, and made a pot of coffee.
Everything was piping hot and on the table when Everett came into the kitchen in nothing but his undershorts. Barefooted and bare-chested, he was enough to hold any woman’s eyes. Jennifer, who’d seen her share of alm
ost-bare men on the beaches, stood against the counter and stared like a starstruck girl. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on that big body and he was covered with thick black hair—all over his chest, his flat stomach, his broad thighs. He was as sensuously male as any leading man on television, and she couldn’t drag her fascinated eyes away.
He cocked an eyebrow at her, his eyes faintly amused at what he recognized as shocked fascination. “I thought I heard something moving around down here. It’s just as well I took time to climb into my shorts.” And he turned away to leave her standing there, gaping after him.
A minute later he was back, whipping a belt around the faded blue denims he’d stepped into. He was still barefooted and bare-chested as he sat down at the table across from her.
“I thought I told you to stay in bed,” he said as he reached for a biscuit.
“I was afraid you’d keel over out on the plains and your horse wouldn’t be able to toss you onto his back and bring you home.” She grinned at his puzzled expression. “Well, that’s what Texas horses do in western movies.”
He chuckled. “Not my horse. He’s barely smart enough to find the barn when he’s hungry.” He buttered the biscuit. “My aunt used to cook like this,” he remarked. “Biscuits as light as air.”
“Sometimes they bounce,” she warned him. “I got lucky.”
He gave her a wary glance. “If these biscuits are any indication, so did I,” he murmured.
“I saw a henhouse out back. Do I gather the eggs every day?”
“Yes, but watch where you put your hand,” he cautioned. “Snakes have been known to get in there.”
She shuddered delicately, nodding.
They ate in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. “You’re a good cook, Jenny.”
She grinned. “My mother taught me. She was terrific.”
“Are your parents still alive?”
She shook her head, feeling a twinge of nostalgia. “No. They died several months ago, in a plane crash.”
“I’m sorry. Were you close?”
“Very.” She glanced at him. “Are your parents dead?”
His face closed up. “Yes,” he said curtly, and in a tone that didn’t encourage further questions.
She looked up again, her eyes involuntarily lingering on his bare chest. She felt his gaze, and abruptly averted her own eyes back to her empty plate.
He got up after a minute and went back to his bedroom. When he came out, he was tucking in a buttoned khaki shirt, and wearing boots as well. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said. “Now, how about taking it easy for the rest of the day? I want to be sure you’re up to housework before you pitch in with both hands.”
“I won’t do anything I’m not able to do,” she promised.
“I’ve got some rope in the barn,” he said with soft menace, while his eyes measured her for it.
She stared at him thoughtfully. “I’ll be sure to carry a pair of scissors on me.”
He was trying not to grin. “My God, you’re stubborn.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“I’ve had lots of practice working cattle,” he replied. He picked up his coffee cup and drained it. “From now on, I’ll come to the table dressed. Even at six o’clock in the morning.”
She looked up, smiling. “You’re a nice man, Mr. Culhane,” she said. “I’m not a prude, honestly I’m not. It’s just that I’m not accustomed to sitting down to breakfast with men. Dressed or undressed.”
His dark eyes studied her. “Not liberated, Miss King?” he asked.
She sensed a deeper intent behind that question, but she took it at face value. “I was never unliberated. I’m just old-fashioned.”
“So am I, honey. You stick to your guns.” He reached for his hat and walked off, whistling.
She was never sure quite how to take what he said. As the days went by, he puzzled her more and more. She noticed him watching her occasionally, when he was in the house and not working with his cattle. But it wasn’t a leering kind of look. It was faintly curious and a little protective. She had the odd feeling that he didn’t think of her as a woman at all. Not that she found the thought surprising. Her mirror gave her inescapable proof that she had little to attract a man’s eyes these days. She was still frail and washed out.
Eddie was the elder of the ranchhands, and Jenny liked him on sight. He was a lot like the boss. He hardly ever smiled, he worked like two men, and he almost never sat down. But Jenny coaxed him into the kitchen with a cold glass of tea at the end of the week, when he brought her the eggs before she could go looking for them.
“Thank you, ma’am. I can sure use this.” He sighed, and drained almost the whole glass in a few swallows. “Boss had me fixing fences. Nothing I hate worse than fixing fences,” he added with a hard stare.
She tried not to grin. With his jutting chin and short graying whiskers and half-bald head, he did look fierce.
“I appreciate your bringing in the eggs for me,” she replied. “I got busy mending curtains and forgot about them.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t much,” he murmured. He narrowed one eye as he studied her. “You ain’t the kind I’d expect the boss to hire.”
Her eyebrows arched and she did grin this time. “What would you expect?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, the boss being the way he is...an older lady with a mean temper.” He moved restlessly in the chair he was straddling. “Well, it takes a mean temper to deal with him. I know, I been doin’ it for nigh on twenty years.”
“Has he owned the Circle C for that long?” she asked.
“He ain’t old enough,” he reminded her. “I mean, I knowed him that long. He used to hang around here with his Uncle Ben when he was just a tadpole. His parents never had much use for him. His mama run off with some man when he was ten and his daddy drank hisself to death.”
It was like having the pins knocked out from under her. She could imagine Everett at ten, with no mother and an alcoholic father. Her eyes mirrored the horror she felt. “His brother must have been just a baby,” she burst out.
“He was. Old Ben and Miss Emma took him in. But Everett weren’t so lucky. He had to stay with his daddy.”
She studied him quietly, and filled the tea glass again. “Why doesn’t he like city women?”
“He got mixed up with some social-climbing lady from Houston,” he said curtly. “Anybody could have seen she wouldn’t fit in here, except Everett. He’d just inherited the place and had these big dreams of making a fortune in cattle. The fool woman listened to the dreams and came harking out here with him one summer.” He laughed bitterly. “Took her all of five minutes to give Everett back his ring and tell him what she thought of his plans. Everett got drunk that night, first time I ever knew him to take a drink of anything stronger than beer. And that was the last time he brought a woman here. Until you come along, at least.”
She sat back down, all too aware of the faded yellow shirt and casual jeans she was wearing. The shirt was Everett’s. She’d borrowed it while she washed her own in the ancient chugging washing machine. “Don’t look at me like a contender,” she laughed, tossing back her long dark-blond hair. “I’m just a hanger-on myself, not a chic city woman.”
“For a hanger-on,” he observed, indicating the scrubbed floors and clean, pressed curtains at the windows and the food cooking on the stove, “you do get through a power of work.”
“I like housework,” she told him. She sipped her own tea. “I used to fix up houses for a living, until it got too much for me. I got frail during the winter and I haven’t quite picked back up yet.”
“That accent of yours throws me,” he muttered. “Sounds like a lot of Southern mixed up with Yankee.”
She laughed again. “I’m from Georgia. Smart man, aren’t you?”
“Not so smart, lady, or I’d be rich, too,” he said with a rare grin. He got up. “Well, I better get back to work. The boss don’t hold with us lollygagging on his time, and Bib’s waiting for me to help him move cattle.”
“Thanks again for bringing my eggs,” she said.
He nodded. “No trouble.”
She watched him go, sipping her own tea. There were a lot of things about Everett Culhane that were beginning to make sense. She felt that she understood him a lot better now, right down to the black moods that made him walk around brooding sometimes in the evening.
It was just after dark when Everett came in, and Jenny put the cornbread in the oven to warm the minute she heard the old pickup coming up the driveway. She’d learned that Everett Culhane didn’t work banker’s hours. He went out at dawn and might not come home until bedtime. But he had yet to find himself without a meal. Jenny prided herself in keeping not only his office, but his home, in order.
He tugged off his hat as he came in the back door. He looked even more weary than usual, covered in dust, his eyes dark-shadowed, his face needing a shave.
She glanced up from the pot of chili she was just taking off the stove and smiled. “Hi, boss. How about some chili and Mexican cornbread?”
“I’m hungry enough to even eat one of those damned salads,” he said, glancing toward the stove. He was still wearing his chaps and the leather had a fine layer of dust over it. So did his arms and his dark face.
“If you’ll sit down, I’ll feed you.”
“I need a bath first, honey,” he remarked.
“You could rinse off your face and hands in the sink,” she suggested, gesturing toward it. “There’s a hand towel there, and some soap. You look like you might go to sleep in the shower.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I can just see you pulling me out.”
She turned away. “I’d call Eddie or Bib.”
“And if you couldn’t find them?” he persisted, shedding the chaps on the floor.
“In that case,” she said dryly, “I reckon you’d drown, tall man.”
“Sassy lady,” he accused. He moved behind her and suddenly caught her by the waist with his lean, dark hands. He held her in front of him while he bent over her shoulder to smell the chili. She tried to breathe normally and failed. He was warm and strong at her back, and he smelled of the whole outdoors. She wanted to reach up and kiss that hard, masculine face, and her heart leaped at the uncharacteristic longing.