Sarah's Legacy (Home on the Ranch)

by Brenda Mott

  “Good morning,” she said, blowing out a puff of air and sweeping her damp bangs out of her eyes with the back of one hand. She leaned against the posthole digger, and the morning sun silhouetted her every curve.

  Trent sucked in his breath. “’Morning,” he said gruffly. “You’re up awfully early.”

  “I had to be,” Bailey said. “I’m building a fence. For him.” She nodded toward the dog. “The one around the front yard won’t hold him. He jumps it.”

  “I see.” Trent fought a smile. “Do you have any idea how much work that entails?”

  Bailey quirked one corner of her mouth. “I’m beginning to see,” she admitted. She scowled at the posthole digger. “The man who sold this to me didn’t mention that it’s harder to use than it looks. But I’ll get it. Just might take me a while.”

  To say the least. Trent eyed the hole Bailey had dug. It was no more than four inches deep. At this rate, the dog would die of old age before Bailey could fence in the yard.

  “Why don’t you hire someone to do the job for you?”

  “Oh, no.” She waved the thought aside. “I can do it.”

  Why don’t you offer to do it for her? The inner voice that prodded him was perfectly logical, he told himself. After all, the woman was obviously too stubborn to hire someone, though he had to admire her determination. And what could it hurt to be nice? Besides, he didn’t need the dog running his horses through the fence again.

  “I can’t take a chance on him chasing your horses,” Bailey said as though reading his mind. “And you can see he’s terrified of that rope. Poor thing. I’m sure someone has beaten him.”

  “More than likely,” Trent agreed. “I’ll tell you what. Since you’re going to help me restring my fence, why don’t you let me return the favor and help you dig the holes for yours.” He knew she’d be too proud to accept his help if it sounded like charity.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” he interrupted. “Like you said, you can’t leave him on the rope, and I sure don’t want him going after my horses. The sooner the holes are dug, the sooner you can put the fence up and turn him out in the yard. It would be in his best interest.”

  “Well, I suppose you’ve got a point there.” She shrugged. “All right. I’ll dig one hole—you dig the next.”

  He had his doubts she could finish the one she’d started. “Okay.” Enjoying himself, Trent leaned against the tree the dog was tied to and watched. Bailey gave it a hell of a shot, he’d grant her that. But the ground was hard, and operating a posthole digger took a lot of muscle—more muscle than Bailey had, though there was nothing wrong with the shape she was in. Nothing wrong at all.

  He couldn’t help but let his gaze travel her curves as she worked. Her breasts jiggled beneath the sports bra she wore under her tank top, and he felt the blood stir in his veins—and someplace else. Swallowing, Trent shifted his gaze elsewhere.

  Bailey’s arms were firm, her long legs trim beneath her cutoffs.

  This wasn’t getting him anywhere.

  “Let me see that thing.” He pushed away from the porch and reached for the posthole digger.

  “But I’m not finished,” Bailey protested as he pulled it out of her hands.

  “At the rate you’re going, it’ll be dark out before you get so much as one hole dug.” He realized he sounded rude, but he didn’t care. Irritation filled him: he knew he was attracted to Bailey. He’d help her dig her blessed holes, but that was all.

  “I didn’t ask for your help,” she reminded him.

  He glanced up long enough to wish he hadn’t. Anger rode high on her cheekbones in a soft blush that did everything to complement her complexion and nothing to help his frame of mind. On top of that, the flash of fire he saw in those violet eyes began to give him a picture of the formidable figure she must make at the bank; a glimpse of the woman who turned down farmers’ loans and wreaked havoc on small-town tradition with her big-city ideas. Bailey obviously wasn’t a woman to tangle with.

  The challenge drew him like a bug to a zapper.

  “And I never asked for yours, either, but didn’t you say that’s what neighbors do? Help one another?” He returned his attention to digging but stole a glance at Bailey from the corner of his eye.

  She bristled anew at his words, and he nearly smiled as he scored himself one point.

  “I suppose I did.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But that doesn’t mean you need to dig all the holes for me.”

  Pausing, Trent leaned on the posthole digger. “Do you have any idea how many holes you’ll need to fence in a yard this size?” He gestured at the huge backyard.

  Bailey chewed her bottom lip. “Quite a few.”

  “Exactly. What type of fence are you planning to put up?”

  “Chain-link.”

  “You’ll have to set the posts in cement if you want to make it sturdy.”

  “I realize that,” Bailey said. “I just thought I might as well get the holes dug first.” She let her breath out on a sigh. “Fine. Dig them all, then, but if you’re going to go to so much trouble, I insist on paying you for your time.”

  “Tell you what,” Trent said. “If you want to pay me, do it by fixing me some breakfast. I’ll have to have some fuel to run on if I plan to be out here building fence all morning.”

  Bailey eyed him as though he’d just suggested she put on a hula skirt and dance for him. “Breakfast? You want me to cook for you?”

  “Yeah. You do know how, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.” The spark was back in her eyes.

  “Good.” He jabbed the posthole digger into the ground and left it there. “I’ll go feed my animals and get my gloves, then be right back.” He turned away, hiding a smile.

  “I have to run to the store first,” Bailey called after him. “To buy a few things.”

  “Fine. See you in a bit.” Without looking back, he waved over his shoulder, then chuckled.

  Bailey Chancellor was obviously a smart woman and a real go-getter, but she was a terrible liar.

  From the look on her face, he’d safely bet his best horse she couldn’t boil water.

  BAILEY DROVE to town mumbling curses all the way. How had she managed to get herself into this? She couldn’t cook. She didn’t have time to bother with it, and the fact that she lived alone made learning seem like a waste of time. Frozen dinners and takeout were her staples, as were cereal, fruit and yogurt. Why she hadn’t just admitted that to Trent, she had no idea, but for some stupid reason she couldn’t bring herself to.

  Not that there was anything wrong with being overly domestic. She had a desire for home and hearth, but she’d centered most of her life on her career. It wasn’t a crime. Men did it all the time. She wondered if Trent could cook a decent meal. Probably not. It was likely the reason he’d turned down money in lieu of food. She’d bet he hadn’t eaten a decent bite of home cooking since his wife left him, and Jenny had said he kept to himself, didn’t date, didn’t seem to care about anything except his horses. Odd that he was suddenly spending time with her.

  Of course, the way things had happened, it wasn’t as if he’d planned it. His being at her house wasn’t anything personal. He was helping with the fence just as he’d said—to be neighborly and to keep the dog in and the horses safe.

  Ignoring the voice that told her he could just as easily have left her to deal with her own problems, Bailey focused on her dilemma. What the hell could she cook that she wouldn’t ruin? She could simply purchase a variety of fruits and arrange them attractively on a platter, but she doubted Trent was the sort of man who’d call that breakfast. He seemed more like a bacon, eggs and hash browns type of guy. Visions of scorched scrambled eggs and bacon blackened beyond crisp tormented her.

  She needed help. If anyone could rescue her from the corner she’d painted herself into, Camille could.

  When she’d first arrived in Ferguson and spotted Bea’s Bed-a
nd-Breakfast, the name had automatically brought to mind a picture of Aunt Bee from The Andy Griffith Show. So she’d half expected a plump, grandmotherly woman to answer her knock at the door. She had been more than a little surprised when a young African-American woman greeted her with a welcoming smile.

  Bailey hit it off with Camille right away. With her almond-colored, almond-shaped eyes, tiny waist and hair that flowed in soft waves past the belt loops of her Levi’s, Camille was like a porcelain doll. Yet she was anything but fragile. She’d lost her husband, who’d been a bullfighting clown, to a rodeo accident two years ago. They’d been newlyweds. A lot of women would have curled in around themselves and let grief consume them, but not Camille. She’d worked two jobs until she’d saved enough money to buy the bed-and-breakfast, determined to get on with her life, unwilling to let her sorrow interfere with her dreams. She’d named the place Bea’s in honor of her grandmother, the strong-willed woman who had raised her.

  Bailey strode up the walkway to the back door of the B&B. A group of cats had gathered on the back stoop, some sitting, some sprawled contentedly. A yellow one got up, greeted her with a meow and laced itself around her ankles. Like Bailey, Camille had a soft spot for animals, cats in particular. Every stray in the neighborhood seemed to find its way to Camille’s back door. She fed them, loved them and spent her money to get them neutered. Many got homes; the rest just stayed at Camille’s.

  Bailey paused to give the cats a little attention, then went inside. Camille was in the kitchen.

  “Hey, stranger.” A smile lit her face. “How goes the move?”

  “Not bad, but I’m in a jam.”

  “Already?” Camille shot a faux glance at her watch. “And here I’d allowed you at least a few more hours before you got yourself into trouble. Whose loan did you turn down this time?”

  Bailey laughed. “No one’s. I need some cooking tips.”

  Camille stared at her as though she’d just announced she’d like to run naked across the town square. “What—did the grocery store run out of frozen dinners?”

  Bailey explained her dilemma. “I should’ve just admitted I can’t cook, but damn it, Trent was looking at me so smugly. There’s got to be something I can make that’s not too difficult.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Camille nodded. “Something like cold cereal.”

  “Cute.” Bailey graced her with a mock scowl. “Come on, Camille, I’m desperate.”

  “In that case, you’re in luck.” Camille pointed one perfectly shaped nail at her. “But this is going to cost you. I may want to refinance my loan sometime.”

  “No problem,” Bailey said.

  “Trent Murdock, huh?” She pursed her lips and made an appreciative noise as she moved toward the kitchen counter. “He’s a tasty dish himself. Did you say you were having him for breakfast, or over for breakfast?”

  “Camille!”

  “Just asking.” She held up one hand in a gesture of peace and with the other flipped a dish towel away from a huge cutting board to reveal what was underneath. Two dozen, made-from-scratch, perfectly formed, raw-dough cinnamon rolls lay curled there. “Will these work? Trent doesn’t have to know you didn’t make them.”

  Bailey groaned. “You know I love your cinnamon rolls. But I’m not so sure I’d feel right telling him I baked them myself.”

  Camille shrugged. “You will be baking them yourself. Don’t lie. Just don’t tell him I made the dough.”

  Bailey quirked her mouth. “That’s treading the line of truth a little on the thin side.”

  “Suit yourself. You can always fry him a couple of eggs.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What if I burn the rolls?”

  “You won’t. All you have to do is set the oven temperature and keep an eye on them. Nothing to it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  BAILEY DROVE to the grocery store while Camille prepared her homemade rolls for travel. She couldn’t very well claim to have bought groceries if she didn’t have any bags to carry in from the car. She purchased orange and grape juice, milk and instant coffee, not sure what Trent liked to drink with his breakfast. She also bought a few other items, including more sandwich fixings in case he decided to stay for lunch. The way he’d talked, building a fence could take a while.

  The thought of spending the day with Trent gave her shivers. He was far too appealing. It would be easy to get herself into trouble with a man like that, but as long as she was aware of the potential for disaster, surely she could avoid it. She wanted no part of any man who preferred being a loner. The man she hoped to find would have to be outgoing, with a strong desire for a family. A lone wolf like Trent Murdock hardly fit that bill.

  After thanking Camille profusely for the cinnamon rolls and placing them carefully inside a paper grocery sack, Bailey headed home. Trent did little more than glance up and wave as she pulled into the driveway and made her way into the house. He looked hot—in more ways than one. He’d taken off his shirt, and his muscles bulged as he worked the posthole digger. Bailey tore her eyes from him and told herself the roiling in her stomach came from having had only a cup of yogurt before working on the fence this morning.

  In the kitchen, she placed the half-dozen cinnamon rolls on a baking sheet Camille had loaned her and slid them into the oven. Now, if she could only manage not to burn them. She put away her meager groceries while the rolls baked, and to her delight, they had turned a perfect golden brown by the time she pulled them from the oven. So what was that smell?

  Frowning, Bailey gripped the tray with one oven-mitted hand and slid a spatula under one of the rolls. Terrific. In spite of the top looking fine, the bottom was scorched and appeared decidedly crispy. She’d watched Camille bake everything from rolls to pie to homemade bread, and she always made it seem so easy. What on earth had gone wrong?

  Bailey flicked on the ventilation fan over the stove and slid the rolls onto a platter. Okay, so she wasn’t Martha Stewart. She’d just have to slice the bottoms off and call it good. Maybe Trent wouldn’t notice.

  A short while later, the rolls were slightly cooled, frosted with the glaze Camille had put in a plastic container. Standing back, Bailey admired her handiwork. They looked pretty good, and the fan over the stove had done its job. The aroma of cinnamon prevailed over the odor of burned dough. She should be able to pass off the rolls just fine.

  Bailey nearly jumped at the rap on the door. Trent opened the screen and poked his head in. “What does a guy have to do to get a glass of water around here?” he asked. Then he inhaled deeply. “Mmm, something smells good.”

  “I’m sorry. Come in.” Bailey moved toward the refrigerator. “I meant to bring you a glass of water. You looked really hot when I drove up. I mean…”

  He cast her an amused glance as he pulled off his gloves and tucked them in his back pocket. “I know what you mean.”

  Bailey poured cold water from a pitcher over a tall glass of ice cubes. Trent raised the glass to his mouth. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, her gaze drifting over his tanned skin, slick with perspiration, across his broad smooth chest…and lower. A single drop of moisture slid down his washboard stomach and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

  She licked her lips just as Trent lowered the glass and met her eyes. He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek and gave her a look that said she was busted. Starting guiltily, Bailey moved toward the kitchen counter. “I hope you like cinnamon rolls,” she said, pulling two plates from the cupboard.

  “Sounds good,” he said, setting his empty glass in the sink. He helped himself to the bottle of dish soap on the counter and washed his hands. They were strong hands, with long fingers and wide palms. And she’d bet Trent knew just the right way to run them over a woman’s body.

  Bailey jerked her gaze away. “Would you like milk, juice or coffee? I don’t drink coffee, but I’ve got instant if that will do.”

  “Milk will be fine, thanks.” Seemingly unaware that
she’d been staring at him like some sex-starved maniac, Trent turned his back on her and dried his hands on a paper towel. She held her breath when he tossed it in the trash can, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blackened bottoms of the cinnamon rolls she’d thrown away. He didn’t, and mentally Bailey heaved a sigh of relief as she set the platter of rolls in the middle of the table.

  “Be right back.” Trent went outside and returned wearing his shirt once more. Though she appreciated his good manners, she couldn’t help but feel a tug of disappointment that he hadn’t come to her table bare-chested. Trent might be all wrong for her, but she’d still enjoyed the view.

  He sat down across from her and slid a cinnamon roll from the plate. “I love homemade rolls,” he said, looking at her.

  She looked right back and smiled. “I do, too, though I usually try to stick with something healthier.”

  “A little indulgence now and then never hurt anyone,” he said.

  She wasn’t so sure about that.

  Bailey reminded herself that fantasizing about Trent Murdock was not in her best interest. But her mind kept wandering back to Trent—shirtless. Come to think of it, there was absolutely nothing wrong with how he looked in his shirt, either. The faded denim fit snugly across his biceps, and the partially rolled sleeves revealed his tanned forearms.

  Bailey focused her attention on her cinnamon roll.

  Trent’s moan a second later had her toes curling. She jerked her focus back to him. He’d closed his eyes, savoring Camille’s homemade roll with obvious pleasure.

  “Man, this is great.” He opened his eyes, and she could’ve sworn she saw a twinkle in them. He tilted the cinnamon roll slightly to glance at the bottom but made no comment about her having cut anything away. “Do you bake very often?”