Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  "Actually, I'm looking for a job," he said.

  Her eyes widened. "Here?"

  "Why not?"

  "I told you there are only two hands and that’s because I can't afford to hire any more. I wish I could." She didn't say that even if she could afford to hire someone, it wouldn't be him. He had too much of everything—looks, confidence and know-how. "If you want to work, you could try the other ranches around here. You shouldn't have any trouble. You seem able-bodied enough." That was putting it mildly. Yes, he was able-bodied, and then some. She wished he'd take his able body and head down the road. She didn't need this kind of a distraction and neither did the other women who were her guests this week.

  "You've had experience?" she asked to fill the silence. Smooth, Abby. Did one ask Clint Eastwood if he'd had experience?

  "Some. Sure you couldn't use me here?"

  Her mouth fell open in disbelief. What did she have to do, spell it out for him? "I'm sorry," she said.

  Sorry? She couldn't be more sorry than he was. She didn't know it, but she was sitting on his land. It wasn't her fault. She'd bought it from his ex-wife free and clear, not knowing it wasn't hers to sell. Oh, Corinne had had power of attorney. He'd given it to her when they'd called up the reserves for the Gulf War and he'd had to go. He'd been standing there in the middle of the Sahara Desert, the sun

  beating down on his head and the sand stinging his eyes when he'd got the check and the divorce papers.

  "Well, thanks for the tour," he said. "I'll go say hello to Pop."

  "You'll find him in the shed over by the barn. That's all his now." She held the screen door open for him and he turned toward the barn. She watched him go, relief flowing through her body like warm honey. She hadn't realized how tense he made her until he disappeared around the corner of the old building. She hoped he understood why she didn't have enough money to hire more help. If he knew anything about ranching, he'd know how hard it was to make it pay.

  Her gaze drifted to the tall grass in the distance. Either people hated the prairie, thought its endless, tall, undulating grasses boring, or they read between the lines, finding beauty in the dense stands of bluestem, wild rye and prairie larkspur. She was in the latter group and she thought Quincy was, too. Fine, let him stay among the tall grass, but somewhere else, far enough so that she wouldn't run into him.

  She turned abruptly and went to the kitchen entrance, banging the door closed behind her, unable to shake the image of his broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs as he strode away from her. She had a ranch to run, guests to feed, and she couldn't afford a distraction.

  The kitchen committee was waiting for her, three new arrivals from Chicago, oohing and aahing over the huge, old, cast-iron stove and the walk-in freezer with sides of beef hanging from hooks. This was what he didn't understand, the cowboy who knew everything, that with volunteers-guests who'd come to get in touch with nature—she didn't need a cook and so many ranch hands. That was not to say, however, that the women would be content to stay in the kitchen for very long.

  "When do we learn to rope?" one of than asked, "and will it be from that big, tall hunk I saw outside?"

  "We don't actually do much roping here," Abby explained, handing out bunches of spinach to wash and drain. "We move cattle in different ways. I'll explain it to you after dinner." She cracked fresh brown eggs into a bowl. "It’s in my lecture on cow psychology."

  "What about breaking wild horses?" a fresh-faced young woman asked eagerly. "Is that what he teaches?"

  "No, he doesn't," Abby said firmly, cutting chunks of butter into the flour. "That man doesn't teach anything. Our horses have already been broken and they're ready to ride. Tomorrow we'll saddle up and round up the cattle for inoculations. But there are always regular chores to be done, too, like gathering eggs, putting out feed and mending fences. I'll pass out sign-up sheets later."

  Abby was glad to see they looked reasonably enthused by the lineup of activities she proposed. She'd never advertised breaking horses or roping cattle. She didn't know where they got those ideas, probably from the movies, or from men like Quincy McLoud who looked like he could do them all with his eyes closed. She fluted the crusts in the glass pans and preheated the ovens. Then she looked out the window above the sink and wondered if he'd left yet.

  Quincy rapped on the door to the shed and Pop yelled at him to come in. When the older man looked and saw who it was, he sprang from his cot in the corner with an exuberance that belied his age and his arthritis and pumped Quincy's hand enthusiastically.

  "By God, I had a feeling in my bones you'd turn up one of these days," he said, his grin showing the gold tooth in the middle of his mouth.

  "It's either your arthritis or ESP," Quincy said. "How are you doing?"

  Pop waved his hand around the shed at the whitewashed walls and a new, extra large TV in a cabinet on the far wall. "Can't complain," he said. "Where ya been all this time, anyway? I been looking for ya ever since the war's been over. Shortest damn war I ever seen."

  "Seemed long enough to me," Quincy remarked, taking his hat off. "I didn't exactly feel like coming back when it was over. Not after what happened. So I've been working for other people. Here and there. Until one day I couldn't take it anymore. Not until I at least saw the Bar Z again."

  http://www.amazon.com/Trouble-in-Paradise-ebook/dp/B0051AEHTE/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1326774144&sr=1-1

  Here’s an Excerpt from Mail-Order Millionaire

  Miranda was never sure how she got up the stairs to the one-room observation tower, but she knew she’d never been happier to be inside anywhere in her life. It was warm, it was bright and it was dry. She pulled her hat off and her hair tumbled to her shoulders. She stood in the middle of the room, panting from the climb up the ladder, and stared at the man across the room who was staring at her.

  “You certainly aren’t Fred,” he said.

  “Miranda Morrison, from Green Mountain.”

  His eyes traveled the length of her black stretch pants to her lined boots and back up to her face. “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

  She felt the heat rise to her face. “I brought the boots. They’re in the tractor.”

  “Where’s Fred?”

  “He couldn’t make it. His wife’s having a baby.”

  “So he told you to drive up here by yourself?” Max was still staring at her as if she’d materialized out of the mist, although he was quite sure she was flesh and blood.

  “It was my idea,” she confessed. “You said you needed the boots. He said you needed food.”

  She looked as if she needed food herself, this woman who’d just driven a two-ton tractor up a mountain in the fog. She looked as if she were going to keel over if he didn’t do something fast.

  “Sit down.” He pointed to the daybed in the corner and he was glad he’d taken the time to drape it with the brown plaid cover it came with. She sat down gingerly, as if she were afraid it would collapse under her, and he saw her gaze sweep over his desk in the corner, scattered with papers, books and, in the middle, the Green Mountain catalog. She turned her head toward the window that faced east and regarded what would have been an awesome view of the White Mountains if it hadn’t been for the fog.

  He crossed the room and went to the built-in shelves above his desk, casually shoving the catalog under a stack of papers. “What can I get you, a brandy, some sherry? I usually have a drink before dinner. It’s a little early, but under the circumstances...”

  “Nothing, thanks,” she said, straightening her spine. “I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”

  With a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other, he paused. “No, you don’t. I thought I mentioned that you couldn’t leave. Not tonight. There’s fog out there so thick you could cut it with a knife.”

  “Oh, but I have to leave tonight. Right now, before it gets dark.”

  “Is someone expecting you, your husband?”

  “No.”

&n
bsp; “No, you don’t have a husband, or no, he isn’t expecting you?”

  “I don’t have a husband, but there are people who will worry if I don’t get back.”

  He poured two glasses of an old mellow sherry he’d been saving for some special occasion. “Who?”

  “My sister.”

  He handed her the glass of amber liquid. “You can call her. Tell her there’s zero visibility and that you’re safe.” He watched her eyes narrow as she looked him over. “You are safe,” he assured her, taking the swivel chair and straddling it. “I’m not a sex maniac or a serial killer.”

  A nervous smile played at the corner of her mouth. “How do I know that?”

  “I’ve got letters of recommendation from respectable scientists and even one from the president of the American Chess Association.”

  She pulled the zipper of her jacket up to her chin. “Some of the most devious people in the world are chess players.”

  “Are you?”

  “What, devious?”

  “No, a chess player.”

  “Yes, but I’m not very good at it.”

  He felt the sherry slide down the back of his throat. “We’ll see after dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “You didn’t think I’d let you starve, did you?” He stood up and handed her the phone. “Call your sister and I’ll go get the stuff.”

  “You have a service all the way up here?”

  “If not, we’ve got a shortwave radio for emergencies. All the comforts of home.”

  Miranda held the telephone in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Max’s dark blond head bending over to snap his boots on, his old worn rubber boots. She wanted to wait until he left to call, but she had nothing else to do, no reason to put it off except she didn’t want him listening in on her conversation.

  She punched in the numbers slowly. “Listen, Ariel, I’m stuck in some bad weather so I won’t be back till later.”

  “Morning,” Max said from across the room. “At least until morning.”

  “Where are you? Who’s that with you?”

  “I’m at the weather station and that’s the weatherman.”

  “If he’s the weatherman, how come he didn’t know about this bad weather?”

  “I’ll ask him that. And I’ll be back tomorrow.” Whatever happened she didn’t want Ariel to worry. She’d gotten herself into this mess and she’d get herself out.

  “You’re spending the night with the weatherman?” Ariel’s voice went up a notch. “You don’t even know him.”

  “That’s right, but I have no choice. I’m fogged in on top of Mount Henry.”

  “Well, is he really extra large?”

  Miranda’s gaze wandered to the tall man with the very broad shoulders who was putting his jacket on at the door. He was large all right. But she couldn’t tell her sister that. And if she ever found out he had money too she’d never quit. “Uh...I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye now.” She handed the phone back to Max. “Can I help bring in the boxes?”

  He shook his head. “Take off your jacket and boots. Turn up the heat and make yourself at home. When I get the food in here, we’ll talk about dinner.” A rush of cold wind blew in before he slammed the door after him.

  Miranda stood in the middle of the room, staring at the heavy storm door. She was stuck overnight in a forty-foot square room with huge windows on four sides, storage cabinets and a desk, but with no visible kitchen or bathroom. The man seemed harmless, but how could she tell? She had no instincts for judging men, that was Ariel’s specialty. What would they do here until dark, and more important, what would they do after dark? She gave a little shiver as the wind and fog swirled around the building. And braced herself for a long winter’s evening

  Buy this book at:

  http://www.amazon.com/Mail-Order-Millionaire-ebook/dp/B005RFI2MG/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1317510300&sr=1-1

  Table of Contents

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