by Dawn Atkins
In her tiny bedroom, she tore open the parcel that contained the sample waitress uniform she'd bought in Tucson a couple of days ago. She would wear it today to be sure it was comfortable to work in. Once she got to the café, she'd call in an ad for two minimum-wage helpers to get the storage area cleared, now that she'd lost Jasper to art and Ramón to the kitchen. The handyman was due tomorrow. Moving like a surgery patient trying not to stretch her stitches, Lacey dressed and headed for the café to call in the ads. But first, she'd fix herself the surefire hangover cure she'd learned in college.
The morning sunlight felt like an aerial assault bombing her with brightness, so she was relieved to reach the porch and push through the door. Jasper was nowhere in sight and she smelled something burning in the kitchen.
Cornbread, she discovered, removing it from the oven. An industrial-sized slow cooker sat on the cold stove, its lid open, revealing chopped vegetables and water. Jasper intended to make stew, she knew, but there was no sign of meat. She frowned. Jasper's cooking, such as it was, had suffered a definite downturn since he'd rediscovered sculpture.
She'd round him up after she fixed her cure. Now, how did that recipe go? Tomato juice … two raw eggs … a splash of Worcestershire, lemon juice … heavy salt … and, most important, hot sauce. Lots of hot sauce. Where was the hot sauce? She looked through the spice shelves, then the walk-in refrigerator. No luck. Hot sauce was critical. The burn and sweat cleared the system.
She was still searching when Jasper walked in, his attention focused on what he held in his hands – a metal colander with ice cream scoops of various colors extending like metallic rays from a copper sun.
"Morning, Uncle Jasper," she said. "Your cornbread burned and I think the stew's missing something."
"Oh, yeah," he said. "I forgot the meat." Then he looked up at her. "Oh, and I also forgot to tell you your handyman crapped out."
"What? No!" Thoughts of hot sauce flew from her mind, as did her hangover.
"Said he took another job in Tucson. More money. He was sorry."
"Not as sorry as I am. Now what am I going to do?"
"Don't worry about it," Jasper said, pulling a knife out of the drawer and poking at the colander, not looking at her. "Ramón and me'll do what you need. I told you that." He stopped tinkering and looked up at her. "I'm a little worried about Monty. He seems depressed and his costume's all bent. Did anything unusual happen to him the other day?"
"Uh, not really. We had some visitors." The snake was probably in shock from the Great Snake Escape, but she didn't want Jasper to lose confidence in her snake-sitting abilities. "Maybe he just missed you."
"Maybe. He's got a tender heart."
The door clanged, reminding Lacey how much her head still hurt, and she looked through the pass-through. It was Ramón carrying two grocery sacks. "My tools," he explained, as he unloaded fresh herbs, corn meal and tortilla flour, some links of an orange-brown sausage and a quart-sized earthenware jug.
"What's in the jug?" Lacey asked, removing the cork stopper to sniff the contents. An intense tomato and vinegar smell made her eyes water.
"Fresh chili. Careful. Muy caliente."
Perfect for her hangover cure. Before she could add it to her concoction, the door clanged. With a reluctant look at her unfinished elixir, she headed out to meet the first customer of the day. When she saw it was Max, her heart skipped a beat.
* * *
The only thing than having to get up at 5:00 a.m. after a sleepless night was having to get up in a bunkhouse at 5:00 a.m. after a sleepless night, Max realized, groaning as he rolled off the cot. Grumpily, he dragged on his jeans. No doubt about it – he was definitely miserable. And he had to ride the range.
For once, he almost didn't mind. Until yesterday, he'd only had to contend with cattle kicks and cactus spines in his butt. Now he had an impossibly sexy woman who wanted to jump his bones. If Lacey came on to him again – sober – he wasn't sure he'd have the self-discipline to resist her. At least on the range he'd be preoccupied with staying on the damn horse.
It was obvious that when it came to watching Lacey, he just wasn't the man for the job. He thought up various ways to explain that to Wade, but no matter how he put it, he'd sound like a quitter. And Max McLane was no quitter.
The sun pounded down until sweat slid down his chest, belly and back in rivulets, strengthening his resolve. He'd just lasso his libido, keep Lacey away from the booze and dissuade her from her plan. He'd have to earn her trust and that meant he'd have to spend more time with those breasts bobbing under his nose. Damn. He'd rather look for hoof rot twenty-four-seven. He'd just have to duct tape his parts. Ouch. There was a lot of hair there.
For a second, he saw her lying in the bed asking plaintively if he thought she was attractive.
Attractive? He thought she was a goddess. Damn.
Okay, so resistance would be tough. Maybe he could work on the other side of the equation – get her to stop wanting him. But how? If she knew he was an accountant instead of a cowboy that would fix it in a quick-hurry, but that would raise more questions than he wanted to answer and might make her suspect the truth.
He could tell her he was gay…
Nah. Lacy the Indomitable would just try to convert him. He could say he was married. But where was his ring? He could tell her he had a war injury and couldn't, um, function. But she'd figure that out in a heartbeat … duct tape or no.
No good. What else could he do to zero out her fantasy about him? She wanted to bag a cowboy, but she obviously hadn't a clue what real cowboys were like. Look how she'd cozied up to Rodeo Bob at the bar. Maybe if Max showed her the seamy side of ranching – the sweaty, uncouth, hoof-rotten part of the job. Yeah. He'd head over to the café smelling like dirt, horse and sweat and scare her right off.
They finished up at noon, and Max peeled his aching thighs off Seesaw, the easiest mare Buck had in the stable. He limped her into the paddock, talking to her as he went. "I hope it was good for you," he said, patting her neck, "because it was hell on me." She whinnied at his joke. He'd gotten kind of attached to her.
He checked himself out to see if he was real cowboy enough to give Lacey a reality check. He didn't smell too bad for having been riding and sweating all morning, but he had dirt and straw on his jeans, and his boots were muddy. He'd stopped short of stepping in cow dung. He wanted to chase her away, not make her sick.
For insurance, he reached down for some dust to dab on his cheeks.
Beyond the fence, Max saw Buck shake open his tobacco pouch and extract some shredded leaves. Not a bad addition to Max's act. "Hey, can I have some of that?"
"Since when do you chew?" Buck asked.
"I'm thinking of taking it up."
Buck shook his head and handed him a crinkled packet. "Start slow," he said. "Like the man said, just a pinch between the cheek and gum."
"Great." Not wanting Buck's eyes on him when he tried out the stuff, Max strolled away. Before he crossed the highway, he opened the packet and put a dump in his mouth. Nasty. It tasted like mint, dirt and coffee grounds and was the texture of hay. The bitterness made his eyes sting, his mouth start to water.
Yuck. He chewed as he walked, feeling his heart kick up – from the nicotine rush, he hoped, and not the anticipation of seeing Lacey again. He tried to wipe the grossed-out expression off his face before he pushed through the door of the café. His queasy smile became a full grin, though, the instant he saw Lacey busy at the counter. Just looking at her made his heart bang against his ribs, and he forgot all about the bitter wad of weed in his cheek.
"Hi," she said shyly, giving him that killer smile. She looked so good he almost forgot his mission. She wore a zebra-striped, scoop-necked leotard that clung to the curves of her breasts and outlined her nipples, a mid-thigh-length black skirt that hugged her hips and high-heeled black sandals. A black beret perched on the side of her head. The outfit wasn't deliberately sexy, but she looked even hotter than she had in tha
t come-and-get-me minidress the night before.
"Hi, yourself," he said, alarmed to hear a lusty undertone in his voice.
"I'm trying out the waitress costume to make sure it's comfortable," she said. "Does it look okay?" She turned around slowly to give him the full treatment. And it was a treatment, all right. The sandals made her calf muscles bunch into firm balls – like a dancer. He imagined her naked except for those heels … and maybe the beret … and his heart began to pound faster than it already was with the nicotine pumping in his veins.
"I got a great price on these leotards. Castoffs from a ballet troupe. They match the fabric I'm covering the bar stools with. The skirt's not too short, is it? I don't want the girls to feel ogled. What do you think?"
"What do I think?" I think I want to strip you down and jump you. "I think it looks nice," he said, gulping a bitter swallow of tobacco juice.
"Heels won't work, though," she said. "They'll need flats because of all the walking." She caught her bottom lip with her teeth in that riveting way she had. He fought a surge of blood. Damn, damn, damn it to hell.
He had to say something about last night, make it clear that it had been a mistake…
They both spoke at once. "About last night—"
They smiled at each other.
"Go ahead," she said.
"Ladies first."
"Okay. I wanted to apologize. I know I was a little, well, tipsy…"
"Tipsy?" He chuckled. "You were plastered."
"Okay, I was plastered. Let's not make a big deal of it."
He held up his hands to show he meant no harm. "You bet. Whiskey under the bridge."
"Good." She nibbled on her lip. God, he wished she'd quit that.
"I mean," she continued, "I don't normally act so … um, you know … I don't usually…"
"Come on like gangbusters?"
"Gangbusters?" She frowned. "I wasn't that bad."
He lifted an eyebrow at her. "’Let's quit talking and just do it?’"
"So I wasn't subtle. Next time I'll stick with white wine spritzers."
Next time. There would be no next time, Max vowed, if he had any say – or self-control – about it.
"Can I get you some coffee?" Lacey asked.
"That'd be great." Hopefully, it would take the taste of tobacco out of his mouth. The stuff had numbed his tongue, made him a little dizzy and his stomach wasn't too happy about the juice he'd swallowed. Intense. No wonder Buck was always spitting in the dirt or an empty can. "You got a paper cup handy?"
"Sure," she said. She poured his coffee and went to the far end of the counter for a foam cup.
Spitting snoose into a cup would be a perfect illustration of the unsavory side of cowboying. Plus, he needed to get rid of it fast. The smell of greasy food was adding to his nausea. He'd only had a piece of jerky and a fistful of smoked almonds this morning.
She handed him the cup. He spit the juice and most of the tobacco into the cup, then looked up at her and grinned. "Nasty habit, huh?"
"Kind of messy." She scrunched up her nose, and looked so cute he wanted to kiss her. Luckily his mouth was filled with mulch, so it was easy to resist the impulse.
She studied his face. "Looks like you've been really working hard today."
He remembered he'd rubbed dirt on himself. "Oh, yeah. That's the cowboy life. Smelly and dirty. I get so used to it I hardly notice it anymore." She'd noticed the grunge factor. Good. The only problem now was the threatening way his stomach roiled and cramped. Hurling was not out of the question. "Maybe I should leave?" He made as if to get up.
"Nonsense." She put a hand on his arm. "You're a working man. You're fine with me. Can I get you some lunch?"
"Nah. I'm not ready for lunch yet." His stomach was too unsettled to even consider food.
"Breakfast then? Jasper's AWOL, but I can make you some scrambled eggs."
"No, that's okay."
"I insist. It's on the house. As an apology for last night," she said, heading for the kitchen. She stopped at the swinging door and turned to him. "Bacon or sausage?"
The thought of either made him want to gag. "Just the eggs," he managed to choke out.
While she was gone, Max tried to wash down the tobacco taste with coffee, but that made his stomach even more upset. By the time Lacey slapped the plate under his nose, the smell of the eggs and the sight of the sausages she'd included – their grease still bubbling – made Max's stomach lurch upward. He shoved the plate to the side.
"They look that bad?" Lacey said miserably.
"No. It's fine. It's me. I'm a little queasy."
"Oh, of course, you're hungover!" Lacey said, sounding, of all things, delighted. "I've got just what you need."
A stretcher?
In a minute, she was back with a damp cloth and a glass of what looked like brown tomato juice. She set the glass down and began to wipe his cheeks and forehead with the wet rag. "Whew! You must have had to wrestle a cow to the ground judging from all this dirt."
She had the greenest eyes and she was so close and she was leaning forward, so her breasts surged out of the zebra stripes, screaming touch me, kiss me, take me home. This was torture, especially with his stomach still threatening to clean house.
"Drink up," she said, handing him the ominous-looking drink. "It's the best hangover cure. You need it more than me."
"But I'm not—" He started to tell her he wasn't hung-over, but he couldn't tell her he was a snoose virgin, so he just gave in and took the glass from her. How bad could it be?
Yow! Liquid fire licked down his throat. "Oh … my … God," he gasped. He pounded the counter and rasped out, "Water." His eyes poured tears. His nose burned and the stuff blazed a magma trail to his already-burning stomach.
She poured him a quick glass of water and handed it to him. "That's the hot sauce you're feeling. The heat burns off the hangover." She watched him gulp down water, looking hopeful. "Is that better?"
He panted. "Sure. Better." Too soon to tell. His stomach was too stunned to react yet.
"Looks like I'm always having to fix you up," she said affectionately. "You're going to have to start calling me Nurse Lacey."
Nurse Lacey? More like Lacey de Sade. The hair on his arm might never grow back and now he wouldn't be able to taste anything for weeks. Hell, he wouldn't be able to swallow. His stomach had probably been burned completely away. "Thanks a lot," he choked out.
"My pleasure," she said, purring the word seductively. She leaned a little closer, giving him an appealing shot of cleavage.
Damn. Looked like his smelly, dirty, tobacco-spitting cowboy act had had no negative effect on Lacey. But it was killing him.
* * *
Could the man be any more sexy? Lacey asked herself of Max, as she watched him catch his breath from her hangover concoction. She might have put a little too much hot sauce in. He smelled of clean sweat and outdoors and his muscles were so taut and perfect. Those smears of dirt on his cheek had looked like war paint. She'd hated to wash them off. He looked so hot.
Just being this close to him made her feel shaky all over. But she wouldn't do anything or say anything. She'd let him come to her. It was tough though, when he stared at her like he had when he walked in – like he saw right through her clothes and itched to touch.
She had to be strong, stay feminine and demure, and pretty soon Max would make a move. Before long they'd be going for a roll in the hay – maybe literally. Though hay was probably pretty itchy and full of bugs. She'd just leave the decision in his hands – retaining veto rights, of course. Letting the man run the show only went so far…
Just then, she heard the roar of a large truck motor and looked out the window to see a huge rig pull up. The bed of the trailer held stacks of curved sheets of metal and big planks of plywood. She hurried outside to find Jasper hoisting himself onto the truck bed.
She called up to him, "Is this what I think it is?"
"Sure is. It's the Quonset hut."
&nb
sp; "But it's all in pieces."
"That's why it was cheap," he called down to her. "Can you brace this while I lower it." He lowered one of the curved pieces of metal.
"Walt a sec, Jasper. First, let's figure out where you're going to build the thing," she said.
But Jasper either hadn't heard, or was ignoring her because a hunk of curved metal was on its way down to her. She braced the metal as Jasper lowered it, backing up as she went. As it hit the ground, she bumped into something solid and warm – Max's chest.
"Can I help?" Max said, his voice deep and reassuring in her ear.
"Who's this?" Jasper asked, stopping his efforts to look at Max.
"Max McLane," Max said. "I'm working at the Rockin' W." He extended a hand.
"I'm Jasper Wellington," Jasper said, reaching down to shake. "Nice to meet you, young man. You feel up to lending some muscle here?"
"Glad to. If you'll hang on a minute, I think I can figure out something for you."
Jasper considered his words, then nodded and sat down on a pile of plywood in the truck bed to wait.
Max walked the length of the trailer bed counting. Then he stepped out in the yard and looked around, then up at the sun. Then he walked back to them. "Judging from what's here, this will be about five hundred feet long and fifty feet wide. You'll want it over there—" he pointed a few yards to the north of the café—"where the mesquites will shade the western face." He told the driver where to move the truck.
Lacey started to follow the truck with Max, but he stopped her. "I'll help Jasper. You can go back inside if you want," he said.
"This is my project. I'll do what has to be done."
"You sure? You'll get your, um, outfit, dirty." He glanced at her chest, then away, uncomfortable noticing her, she guessed.
"Of course. I'm on it. All of it – chasing snakes or unloading a do-it-yourself art studio. Besides, it'll take both of us to slow Jasper down before he gets heatstroke." She pointed to where her uncle was hopping across the truck bed, cheerfully flinging pieces of metal to the ground.