"Do all old maid nannies sleep with their legs crossed?"
Count to ten. One, two, three, four, five...
"Come on, it's time to get dressed," Ruth said, ignoring Annie's brazen question, though she was fairly sure Annie had no idea what she was talking about. Still, it was an inappropriate conversation to be having with a six-year-old. "Breakfast will be served soon."
"Do all old maid nannies sleep with their legs crossed?" Annie pressed.
"Enough! Get up this instant and get dressed!" Ruth snapped.
Annie stuck out her bottom lip. "You can't make me."
Be calm, be patient. Be creative...
"If you don't do as I say this instant," Ruth clipped, "I'll pop all the heads off your Ken dolls and replace them with Barbie heads, and all your precious cowboys will grow boobs!"
Eyeing Ruth dubiously, Annie edged her way off the bed and stood still while Ruth tugged off the tie-dyed tee shirt and mini-sweats and replaced them with the kitten tee shirt and purple jeans—the only jeans in the dresser that were not faded, threadbare, tattered, or all three. But shortly after Ruth returned to her room, Annie rushed past the open doorway wearing her tie-dyed tee shirt and sweats, shrieking for her father at the top of her lungs.
Ruth shut herself in her bedroom, determined to let Matt handle the intractable child. On passing the wardrobe, however, she looked into the full-length mirror. What she saw was a pathetically plain woman in a shapeless robe, a woman she barely recognized. Slowly she approached the mirror and peered into it. When had the corners of her mouth begun to droop? When had the lines of tension appeared around her eyes? When had her face become haggard?
When had she stopped caring?
In the early days after Beth's kidnapping she'd been caught in a vicious circle, breaking into desperate fits of crying, pulling herself together, patching up her makeup because she had to keep busy, had to strive for some semblance of normalcy, had to do something. But somewhere along the way she'd stopped looking in the mirror because it didn't matter. She didn't matter. Life didn't matter. All that mattered was finding Beth.
Now, as she tried to absorb the image of the unfamiliar woman in the mirror, she saw what Matt had seen. A flat chested old maid who probably slept with her legs crossed. If she didn't look so pitiful, with her unmade face and homely owl glasses, she might laugh because his assessment was so accurate. Turning sideways she sucked in her breath, expanding her chest. She wasn't stacked, but she definitely wasn't flat chested. But who could tell. All she wore were shapeless, clothes. And her hair. Who but an old maid would wear it pulled up in a knot on top of her head? There had been a time when she'd brushed her hair till it shone with rich highlights, and soft curls framed her face.
Reaching up, she pulled out the slender wooden stick holding the knot, and the rope of hair she'd twisted into submission unraveled and fell around shoulders. She didn't know if it was Matt's crass assessment of her, or because she may have at last found Beth, or maybe because it was time to put behind a tragic, unalterable past, but for the first time in years she wanted to look pretty. But she'd packed no makeup, not even a lipstick. But in the bathroom she'd noticed an array of cosmetics, which she assumed belonged to the last nanny, along with a pair of scissors. Maybe she'd cut her hair. And the ugly round glasses would go. She'd brought along contacts, which she rarely wore because they were too much bother.
Feeling a long-forgotten sense of exhilaration, and a new determination to make Matt Kincaid eat his words, she headed for the bathroom. Flat chested old maid indeed!
CHAPTER 2
Matt looked with disgust at the tabloid Edith brought from town the day before, his eyes focusing on the front page spread with its color photograph of Jody leaning into her husband, her huge breasts brimming over her star-studded, western-style gown. The word that came to mind as he eyed the woman he'd been married to for twelve years was slut. Her body was designed to catch a man's eye. It sure as hell caught his a half-a-lifetime ago. He'd been a sixteen-year-old at the time with one thought on his mind. Jody was a master at making that thought a reality, smothering him with her breasts, awakening his body with a range of sexual practices she'd been hitting on the boys of Pine Grove with since puberty. And three years later, when she agreed to marry him, he felt like the town stud to be the one to finally catch her.
Shifting his attention to the article, he reread the parts he'd circled in red: "My ex-husband has custody of our daughter, but Wayne and I will be filing for joint custody..." and further down "...now that Wayne and I are married, my daughter will be living with us half the time. We have a bedroom suite prepared for her..." and on down... "I've missed my daughter terribly over the past three years, but that's about to change. It will be a blessing having her with us..."
The article went on to talk about their mansion on the outskirts of Nashville, and the half-million dollar motor home they toured the country in. Matt clenched his jaws. There was no way in hell he'd let Jody take Annie to that cesspool of drugs and sex and extramarital affairs and everything that made up Jody's world, not even for a day.
Although lately he'd made an effort to mend some of the bridges he'd burned years ago, when he stormed out of his parent's house against his father's will to strike out on his own, he hadn't asked his family for anything since. But it was time to put pride aside and do whatever it took to keep Jody out of Annie's life. During his recent visit to Salem, his brother, Bret, gloated that he'd never lost a custody case. His gloating seemed irrelevant at the time because Jody had made no effort to have contact with Annie, but now it was time to roll out the big gun.
Bret Kincaid.
Tossing the paper aside, he poured a mug of coffee and glanced out the window. Annie sat just outside with Digger, one of the ranch dogs, stroking the dozing mutt. After her outburst earlier she seemed remarkably content, unlike Ruth, he suspected. He was curious to hear Ruth's side of the story. What Annie related about her Ken dolls had been highly inventive, but didn't measure up with Ruth's straight-laced demeanor.
Hearing footsteps coming from the direction of the hallway, he turned...
And stared in stunned silence.
Ruth stood in the doorway, her western-cut shirt emphasizing full breasts and a tiny waist, and the new jeans molded to her slim frame, delineating gently tapering hips and long coltish legs. Her hair, released from its knot, framed her face in a casual disarray of brown waves. And the owl glasses were gone, her wide-eyed stare seeming to say to him, look at my eyes, see how beautiful they are...
His gaze swept over her, taking in the rosy blush of her cheeks, the pink gloss of her parted lips, the new light that flared in her eyes. In fact, her whole face glowed. He stared openly and with increasing fascination at the transformation, which seemed more a change in attitude than appearance. What little makeup she wore couldn't account for the change.
Ruth ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, leaving them moist, and said, "Where's Annie?"
"Outside." Matt arched a brow. "I take it you had to whip her into submission earlier."
Ruth's face flushed. "Is that what she told you?"
"No," Matt said, "but why else would she come hollering down the stairs like a wounded coyote?"
"I swear, I didn't lay a hand on her," Ruth said, in an anxious voice.
Seeing the worry on her face, Matt said, "Relax, sweetheart, I know you didn't. I'm familiar with the shriek of an intractable child. Coffee?"
"Oh... yes, please." She sat at the table, opposite him.
Matt poured a cup of steaming coffee then nudged the platter of eggs, hash browns and sausages in front of Ruth, followed by a basket of warm biscuits, a crock of fresh butter, and a jar of homemade peach jam. She stared at the coffee, brows gathered in deliberation, then looked at him, and said, "Do you have cream?" Her eyes captured his attention. Ranges of browns, flashing with golden highlights as she waited for his response...
Get a grip, Kincaid. She’s just the new nanny…
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"Cream. Right." He set a pitcher of fresh cream in front of her and watched as she poured half the contents into her coffee. Next she'd probably want to adulterate it with—
"Sugar?" She pinned him with those large luminous eyes and waited.
"Yeah, sure." He plunked a sugar bowl next to the cream pitcher. While she shoveled several teaspoons into her coffee, he said, "I forgot to tell you, Annie doesn't like being bossed." He took a slow sip of coffee. "Can't figure how she got that way though."
"Yes, that is kind of hard to figure," Ruth replied.
Matt looked up to see her staring directly at him, a wry smile touching her lips, and he realized, for the first time, that Miss Ruth Crawford might have a sense of humor. "Yeah, well, I suppose it's because she's around so many men," he said, "which suits her fine. Annie doesn't relate too well to women. They keep walking out of her life."
In a flash, Matt saw a series of fleeting emotions race across Ruth's face. Remorse, as if she held the weight of the world on her shoulders. Desperation, as if the ground beneath her was about to crumble. Vulnerability, as if she were holding back tears. Then the corners of her mouth lifted, erasing the forlorn droop, and she smiled. But it was a wistful smile, and the earlier light that shone in her eyes was gone. For whatever her reason, she'd crawled back into her protective armor. He studied her face. Strange, how he hadn't noticed before her nicely proportioned features—her straight slender nose, her delicate cheekbones, her well-defined lips. It wasn't a beautiful face, but it was a pleasing one, a face that could grow on a man.
"So, what was the problem with Annie?" he asked. "She told me her side, something about you threatening to decapitate the Kens." He cocked a brow. "Sounds intriguing."
A scowl touched Ruth's lips, as she replied, "I told her if she didn't do as I said I'd replace her Kens' heads with Barbie heads and her Kens would—" she stopped short.
"Grow boobs?"
Ruth nodded, her face turning a delicate shade of rose, its color heightened in her cheeks.
Matt smiled. "An interesting thought."
Ruth's flush deepened, and in the depths of her dark brown eyes he again saw the dancing flecks of gold. He hadn't realized how long her lashes were, or how deep their color, as if they'd been dipped in molasses. Maybe she'd hook a man yet, though as long as she was stuck at the Kincaid, her chances of getting hitched would be zilch. But then, she didn't seem to be a woman who’d be eager to warm a man's bed, so maybe she was happy enough with her lot. Which pleased him. Annie needed a woman to relate to, and he had a gut feeling Ruth could be that woman—
"Is something wrong?" Ruth stared at him, unblinking.
Matt snapped out of his musing. "Why do you ask?"
"The way you're looking at me," Ruth said. "You seem puzzled."
"Just trying to figure out what makes you tick," Matt replied. "I keep getting mixed messages."
Ruth bristled. "I'm not meaning to send you any messages at all. I'm here to look after Annie, pure and simple."
"Yeah, well, I wasn't meaning you were sending me messages," Matt said. "You just seem to switch moods midstream. It's damn baffling at times."
"Maybe that's because I'm not used to being studied like I was something in a curio shop," Ruth replied. "I know I'm out of my element here, but like I said, I'm a fast learner, so maybe it's time you stopped trying to figure me out and started showing me how to ride a horse."
"Right." Matt scooted his chair back and jammed his hat on his head, feeling like a school kid who'd just been put in his place by his teacher, and that didn't sit well with him, made him want to take Miss Crawford down a notch or two. Or kiss the hell out of her just to see her reaction. Now that was an idea worth considering.
***
Ruth peered up at her mount. Until now she'd had no idea how tall a horse actually was. Her only experience had been with a pony at the fair when she was eight. The thought of sitting atop this giant did nothing to calm her nerves. But she'd be damned if she'd let the boisterous bunch straddling the corral fence, or their little sidekick, know. She'd conquer the beast or die trying. "What's his name?" she asked the cowboy holding the reins.
"Dynamite."
A tremor of fear rushed through her. "Why is he named that?"
"Don't know, ma'am. I'm new around here and don't know all the horses yet."
"Are you sure this is the horse I'm supposed to ride?" Ruth asked.
"Yes ma'am."
"What about that one?" Ruth pointed to a dozing, sway-back horse tied to the hitching rail in front of the stables.
"You mean old Judd? You wouldn't want to ride him, ma'am. He's ornerier than a mule with a burr under his blanket."
Dynamite pawed the ground and bobbed his head. "Why is he doing that?" Ruth asked, growing increasingly apprehensive.
"I guess he's ready to go."
Snickers rustled among the onlookers. Ruth eyed Dynamite with mounting trepidation. Surely Matt wouldn't deliberately put her up on an unmanageable horse.
A muffled guffaw from one of the fence sitters, followed by sniggers from the rest, brought her head around. She pursed her lips. Maybe Matt wouldn't do it, but she didn't doubt for a moment the cocky bunch on the fence would. In fact, she suspected there was nothing they'd enjoy more than seeing the old maid nanny from the city lying sprawled on the ground. She vowed she would not give them that pleasure.
"Hey! Why are you boys hanging around here?" Matt yelled. "Get off your butts and get to work. Seth, get the auger mounted on the tractor so we can set the fence posts for the new corral. Tanner, there's fencing that needs mending over in the south pasture. Deke and Slade, get done cutting those young bulls or they’ll be mounting everything in sight." The men scattered, leaving Annie sitting alone on the fence. "You too, bucko. You've got a stall to muck out and hens to feed. And Skeeter's got more burrs in his coat than a dog's got fleas. Get on over there and brush him down or he'll get saddle sores. JT's waiting for you." Matt took the reins from the young cowboy. "I'll be taking over, Randy. Go help Slade with the auger." The young man strode off.
Matt turned to Ruth. "You ready?"
Ruth looked at him with a start. "You mean, I really am supposed get on this horse?"
"Unless you can think of another way to ride him."
Ruth glared at Matt. "I told you I was willing to learn to ride and that I'm not afraid of horses, but I'm not willing to risk breaking my neck just to prove a point."
Tiny lines gathered between Matt's brows. "You want to run that past me again?"
"Which part do you find confusing?"
"The whole damn thing. From what I make of it, you intend to master riding a horse without getting on."
Ruth stabbed a finger in the direction of Dynamite. "Without getting on that horse!"
Matt snatched his hat off his head, mumbled a string of expletives under his breath and said, "I've met illogical females in my time, but you beat everything. Mind telling me what you have against this horse, or is it too complicated to explain."
Ruth felt blood pumping through her veins. "For starters, his name!"
"Well excuse me," Matt said, "but I don't match horse and rider by name. I match them by disposition. Seems I might have misjudged things this time though. Maybe I should put you up on old Judd instead."
Ruth planted her hands on her hips and said in a low, impatient tone, "Is that what you think of me, that I'm ornerier than a mule with a burr under its blanket?"
"You said it, not I. But it fits."
Ruth refused to take insults from an irritating, hotshot cowboy. "And maybe you should look in the mirror!" Her statement seemed to amuse him, which only served to infuriate her. Feeling her temper rise, she sucked in a deep, mind-clearing breath to quell another outburst. She hadn't come this far only to get fired the first day. "Look," she said, "I don't know how we got so far off track, but there must be a logical reason why the horse is named Dynamite. I assume it's not because of his gentle nature."
A gleam came into Matt's eyes and the lines bracketing his mouth crinkled with his smile. "So that's what's got you worried."
"Well?"
Matt shrugged. "Because it takes about a keg of dynamite to get the lazy critter to move. He's also the horse Annie learned to ride on."
Ruth felt heat creep up her face. "I guess I jumped to conclusions," she admitted, "but your hired hands seemed overly amused, and with the name Dynamite..." She shrugged. "I figured they'd lined the fence to watch the show."
Matt looked at her soberly and said in a serious voice, "We don't play those kinds of games here, not with greenhorns, and not with seasoned riders."
Matt's heartfelt words stirred something inside Ruth, something elusive and indefinable—a longing she couldn’t quite grasp—and she found herself at a loss for words. And as she silently held his gaze, the wind tossed a shock of hair across her forehead. Matt brushed it aside and rested his hand on her shoulder. She stirred uneasily. She didn't like the warm feeling she got when Matt looked at her the way he was, as though he cared. She was living a lie for the sake of her daughter and she'd never felt more deceitful in her life.
Beware. Don't open your heart to him. If Annie is Beth, you'll have to take her away from him. If Annie isn't Beth, he'll be irrelevant...
"Lighten up, Ruth," Matt said. "I see that little frown between your brows again."
The spell broken, Ruth dipped her shoulder from his hand, and said, "We'd better get on with my riding lesson." She looked up at the horse then glanced around for something to stand on. Finding nothing, she braced her hands on her hips, and said, "There's no way I can get on this horse. He's too tall. I need something to stand on."
Matt jammed his hat on his head. "If you're out riding and your horse dumps you on your backside, you'll either get back on or have a long walk home. Now, grab the horn, get your foot in the stirrup and swing up. Even Annie can do that."
Ruth met his challenging gaze. Someday she'd tell him what she thought of the lot of them, that they were nothing more than overgrown boys who never stopped playing cowboys. But for now, she was determined to somehow get herself up on the horse, just to show the cocky cowboy she could. Reaching up high, she managed to clamp onto the saddle horn, but after she'd braced her foot in the stirrup, when she attempted to haul herself up, she seemed stuck midway.
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