Gift of Fortune

by Ilsa Mayr

  "Twenty-eight."

  Martha used her fingers to count. Then she nodded. "That fits."

  "What fits?"

  "About twenty-nine years ago, a group of migrant workers stopped here on their way back from harvesting wheat in Canada. Jack hired them to do some work around the place."

  "How come you remember that so clearly?" Aileen asked.

  "Because one of the families had a beautiful, young daughter. All the men gawked at her, including Bob. Heck, all men gawk at pretty girls, so I didn't think too much of it when I caught Jack talking to her a few times." She paused, then confessed, her expression sheepish. "I made it my business to know exactly where Bob spent his time, but I should have been more watchful of Jack as well. Not that I could have done anything about him being interested in her."

  "So you think Dad was the type to cheat on his wife?"

  "Honey, he was a man, wasn't he?"

  "You think Mom knew?"

  "That's a tough question. If she did, she kept it to herself. She was a lady. She wouldn't have thrown stuff and yelled and hollered."

  "Was she happy back then?"

  Martha shrugged. "That I don't know. She wasn't one to mope around and complain. I can tell you one thing, though. She sure was happy when she got you. You were the light of her life. There's no question about that. She couldn't have children, the doctors told her, so she convinced Jack to adopt. She once told me that adopting you was the best thing she ever did."

  "She was the best mother I could have wished for." Aileen swallowed, willing herself not to allow the unshed tears to reach her eyes. "I hope she was spared knowing about her husband's indiscretion."

  "Even if she knew, she wasn't the type who'd give up on a marriage at the first sign of trouble."

  Aileen shook her head. "I don't know that I could be that generous and forgiving if a man cheated on me. I'm afraid I'd be tempted to heave every single plate in the house at him and call him every rude name in the book."

  A slight noise alerted her to Quint's presence. She hadn't heard him open the door. Uneasily she wondered how much he'd heard of her conversation with Martha.

  "Did you get Sweepstake taken care of?" Aileen asked.

  "Yeah. He's in the back stall in the small stable. We thought it best to keep him separated from the other horses till they get used to each other. You have a bunch of greatlooking horses out there."

  "My d...Jack loved horses. After he got sick..." Aileen paused briefly, a frown of concentration on her face.

  "Actually, even before he was diagnosed, he sort of lost interest in cattle. I'd say that for the past two years the only thing that captured and held his attention were horses. Am I right about that, Martha?"

  "He always did favor horses," Martha agreed, "but never more so than after he got to feeling poorly. My husband took over the care of the cattle as best he could." She glanced at her watch. "Well, I better get back to my kitchen. Bob likes supper on the table promptly at fivethirty. See you all in the morning."

  "Good night, Martha."

  Quint wished her a good night too. As soon as the door closed after her, he turned to Aileen. "Could I have another cup of coffee before dinner? It's been a long day."

  Aileen stared at him for a moment. It hadn't occurred to her that he expected to share her meal. She felt like smacking herself on the forehead for being so thoughtless and so dense. She should have invited him. Her social skills were slipping badly. The only excuse she had was that she was still reeling from the events of the afternoon and was, therefore, mentally slow and uncharacteristically disorganized.

  "Of course, you may have coffee. Help yourself," she said.

  What was she going to fix for dinner? She couldn't remember what she had planned for herself. Opening the refrigerator, she assessed its contents. The ham looked good. But what about side dishes? Both scalloped potatoes and macaroni and cheese from scratch took too long. For herself, she'd slice some vegetables and stir-fry them, but for a healthy young man, that wouldn't be enough. She discovered some sweet potatoes in the vegetable bin. If she nuked them first and then put them in the oven next to the ham, they should both be ready at about the same time.

  While Aileen washed her hands, she stole a quick look at Quint. He stood, one slim hip propped against the kitchen counter, studying the wall calendar above the phone on which she kept track of appointments and tasks to be done.

  "Looks like you keep busy," he commented.

  "Yes. I rarely get home before five, so forget about having dinner at five-thirty. On school days it'll be more like six-thirty or seven before we eat," she warned.

  "That's okay." He studied the calendar some more. "What's the A.C. you've written down for every Tuesday?"

  "Authors' Club. It's for students who like to write. We meet after school and critique what we've written," she explained.

  "And Y.B. on Thursdays?"

  "Yearbook. I'm the sponsor."

  "On Monday and Wednesday you've written a-e-r something. I can't make it out."

  "Aerobics."

  Quint turned around and subjected her to another thorough up-and-down look. Aileen felt herself grow warm all over. She doubted that she would ever get used to those intense, hot-eyed looks that swept over her like laser beams.

  "I approve. Everyone needs exercise."

  "What do you do?"

  "I chase cows, muck out stalls, load sacks of feed, toss bales of hay. Stuff like that."

  "So you have worked on a ranch before?"

  "Oh, once or twice," he said, his tone dry.

  "Since I don't know anything about you, that was not a dumb question," she protested.

  "I didn't say it was."

  "No, but your tone implied it."

  "Don't get huffy."

  "I never get huffy."

  "Yeah, right."

  "Well, I don't."

  "Then what do you call it when you lift that straight, aristocratic nose of yours into the air? And toss your hair like that? You're the English teacher. You tell me, darlin'."

  Quint called her darlin' to annoy her. She knew that. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting him see her annoyed, even if it meant grinding her teeth down to nubs in the process.

  "First of all, I do not toss my hair-"

  "Yes, you do. You just aren't aware of it. Reminds me of a spirited little roan filly I once owned. She tossed her mane in the same manner."

  Aileen gritted her teeth. When she could speak, she continued calmly, as if he hadn't interrupted her or compared her to a horse. "And second, I am not huffy, or irritable, or testy, or petulant, or any of the other synonyms that come to mind." Like heck she wasn't. The man could irritate the living daylights out of her, and judging by the grin on his face, he knew it. Worse, he enjoyed it. Aileen grabbed the chopping board, placed a zucchini on it, and proceeded to dice it with unnecessary force and speed.

  "Easy there," Quint said, moving quickly to stand beside her. "I've tended my share of wounded animals, but I've never tried sewing a finger back on."

  "Don't worry. I've done my share of chopping, and I still have all ten fingers. See?" She lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers before she grabbed the board and tossed the vegetables into a saute pan. The oil hissed.

  Quint took a step back and blinked. After a couple of seconds he said, "Well, if you're okay, I'll go out to my truck to get some things."

  Aileen shot him a long, telling look. "I'm perfectly safe in this kitchen." Especially with you out of it, she thought, as she watched him stroll out. He had that insolent, sauntering male strut down pat. And he had a nice back view. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips with just enough curves to fit a pair of jeans perfectly.

  Aileen groaned. She had to stop making these inappropriate observations about the man. Like his great back view, or his stunning eyes, or his sexy smile, or his voice which could dip into that low register that was at once caressing and honeyed, teasing and just a little mocking. None of these things mattered
. They couldn't matter. Not if they were to work together and make a go of the Triangle B.

  Quint paused on the porch. His eyes swept over the outbuildings, the corrals, the range beyond. Half of this was his. He had a home.

  Joy welled up in his chest. Looking at the sky, he laughed softly, gratefully, and just a tad triumphantly. For once, fortune had dealt him a winning hand. Then his customary skepticism took over. It hadn't been fate or fortune that had been good to him, but the guilty conscience of a man.

  Why couldn't Jack Bolton have had an attack of conscience a heck of a lot sooner? Say fourteen years ago when Quint's mother died? He sure could have used a helping hand then. Water over the dam. Quint shrugged philosophically, dismissing old regrets. Life had taught him not to look back or cry over spilled milk.

  With determined steps he walked toward the outbuildings, which, to him, represented the heart of the ranch. Time to look around, assess his inheritance, and decide what needed to be done first.

  He checked on Sweepstake. The stallion whinnied at Quint's approach. "Hey, old boy, how are you?" Quint ran his hand under the stallion's thick mane and stroked him. "I think you're going to like it here. Wait till you see the classy, good-looking mares on this ranch. And the classy lady that owns half of it." Quint winked at his horse and left the stable.

  Fifteen minutes later he stopped in the middle of the yard, looking thoughtful and slightly puzzled. All around him were signs that indicated the ranch hadn't been taken care of as it should have been. After a long winter, all barbed-wire fences needed mending. He understood that, having spent a good part of his life mending fences in a three-state radius. But on the Triangle B, even the whitepainted fences around the house looked like they hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in recent time.

  The barn doors squeaked, needing to be oiled. The gate to the nearest corral was held together with a rope. The tack room was filled with saddles, halters, and ropes needing cleaning, polishing, or some sort of repair. If he'd ever had any illusions that as half owner of the Triangle B he wouldn't have to work hard, they had just gone up in smoke.

  What puzzled him most, though, was the absence of a bunk-house. Where did the hands live? A ranch this size couldn't be worked only or even primarily by the owner and the elderly foreman he had met. Looking around, Quint wondered where he would sleep. Briefly he considered the tack room. But it was unheated, and in early March it was still too cold to sleep there. He didn't mind pitching his tent and had often done so, but not when the night temperatures still dipped below freezing.

  Shivering, he stared at the house. It certainly appeared to be large enough to have several bedrooms. Convincing that freckle-faced, understatedly sexy schoolmarm that he should occupy one was another matter. Except he owned half the house and had every right to demand a bedroom. He didn't have a choice really, and neither did Aileen.

  Making her buy that should be interesting, to say the least. Quint suspected that his teasing banter and line of compliments that usually worked on women wouldn't charm Aileen. She had a way of fixing those lovely blue eyes on a guy that was guaranteed to freeze him in his tracks-if he was a high school student, that is. Since Quint was a decade beyond that stage with the experience to prove it, that schoolmarm trick wouldn't work on him. With a grin he grabbed his bedroll and his duffel bag and headed for the house.

  Inside, he dropped his things in the hall and proceeded to the kitchen. Aileen looked at him from the sink where she was rinsing lettuce.

  "Can I help you?" Quint asked.

  "Is that a polite offer which you hope I'll turn down?"

  "Nope. I'm not into polite offers, so don't expect any. I told you I'm handy in the kitchen. Besides, most of my life I was in a position where, if I wanted to eat, I had to work for it."

  "In that case, you can tear the lettuce into bite-sized pieces. Wash your hands first, please."

  "Yes, ma'am." He observed her freckled skin turning pink.

  "Sorry, that came out like an order rather than a request," Aileen said.

  "Must be a professional hazard. As I recall from my school years, teachers sounded more like they were giving orders than making requests."

  "Even if I would rather be amiable with students, it's better to be a bit of a drill sergeant. Then they won't try to get away with quite so much," she admitted with a slight smile.

  "I'd call that being a little devious."

  "And I call it wanting to survive. There's only one of me and a lot of them."

  Quint paused to look at her. "You're right. I had never thought of it like that." He dumped the lettuce into the salad bowl. "Anything else you want me to add?"

  "Whatever you find in the crisper. There are no tomatoes. This time of year, the ones in the store are so anemic looking and tasteless, not to mention expensive, that I can't bring myself to buy them."

  Aileen's reference to something being expensive caught Quint's attention. He watched her face, wondering if she was just frugal or if the ranch was in financial trouble. The signs of neglect could be due to lack of money as easily as to lack of manpower. The Cheyenne attorney hadn't had any information on the financial status of the Triangle B. He would have to find that out from the bank.

  Quint watched Aileen move competently between the stove and the table. If she had money trouble, it didn't show, and he knew all the signs of that particular problem. Fascinated, he observed the play of light on her hair. Sometimes it was more red than gold. Idly he wondered what color she called those bright tresses she had tried to tame with combs. He had never found freckled skin appealinguntil now. What rotten timing.

  For the first time in his life he had a chance to make something of himself, to become respected. He couldn't blow that by becoming involved with this woman. She was his partner. Anything beyond that might interfere with the smooth running of the ranch, might ruin everything. He couldn't risk that.

  "What would you like to drink?" Aileen asked. "There's milk, juice, soft drinks, and coffee. After Dad wasn't allowed to drink alcohol, we stopped keeping liquor in the house."

  "That's no problem. A glass of milk will be fine."

  Aileen filled two glasses and brought them to the table. "We're ready to eat."

  They passed the bowls politely and ate quickly.

  When they finished, Quint said, "That was a good meal. Thank you. I'll dry if you'll wash. You can tell me where the dishes go. That way I'll get to know where you keep everything. Okay?"

  Aileen agreed.

  "Some evenings if you're late, I can start dinner. I can't promise to do that often because I notice that quite a few things around here need fixing."

  "I know that, but-"

  "Hey, don't get defensive. I was just making an observation."

  Aileen filled the sink with water. "The man who fixed things around here got married and moved into town. Dad didn't feel up to doing much this past year-and-a-half, and Bob and the hands had more than enough work taking care of the cattle and the horses."

  "And you taught school. Did that include summers?"

  "No. Those I spent getting my master's degree. There's a considerable jump in salary if you have an advanced degree. It took me three summers, but I finished last August. Hallelujah."

  "Congratulations. You prefer teaching to working on the ranch?"

  "I don't really know. I was never allowed to work on the ranch. Dad thought that a woman's work was in the house and in the garden." She washed and rinsed the plates before she continued. "I guess it turned out for the best that I went to college and then started to teach."

  "Oh yeah? How so?"

  "Health insurance. I was able to include Dad on my policy and that saved us when he got sick. The bills were positively ruinous."

  Those medical bills might explain some of the neglect on the ranch.

  "Last fall I meant to paint the fences around the house, but Dad's illness got a lot worse. He needed more chemo treatments, and I just didn't get around to the chores. Frankly, it didn't
seem all that important then."

  "Death has a way of putting things in perspective," Quint said.

  She looked at him, surprised. Next to the surprise, he fancied he saw a little respect in her eyes. Had she thought he was a complete jerk, too dumb, superficial, or incapable of giving death a second thought?

  Aileen broke eye contact. "The plates go on the middle shelf in the last cupboard."

  "Okay." By the time the dishes were done, Quint was familiar with the layout of the kitchen. He knew he ought to bring up the question of the sleeping arrangements, but something held him back. The kitchen was warm, peaceful, and homey. A man could get used to this. When he recognized that feeling of longing for a home that crept up on him in unguarded moments, he chastised himself. A man could get soft and careless, and the soft and careless of this world didn't survive. He knew that.

  The telephone rang. Saved by the bell.

  Aileen picked up the receiver and spoke with someone named Steve. A student? A colleague? A boyfriend? From her tone he surmised that it wasn't a student, but he couldn't decide if it was another teacher or a boyfriend. Whoever the guy was, Aileen seemed to be on good terms with him. Quint didn't entirely like that.

  "That was Steve Sanders," Aileen said after she hung up. "He's a history teacher at my school."

  "One of your colleagues who went to D.C. with you last week?"

  "Yes. How did you know?"

  "Something you said about the trip. Do you date him?"

  "No. He was involved with someone until recently. We're on several committees together. Lincoln isn't that big a school. You get to know everyone." Dismayed, Aileen wondered why she was explaining this to Quint. It wasn't any of his business whom she dated. "Do you want more coffee?"

  "No, thanks." She was changing the subject. Quint wondered if she wanted to date this Steve Sanders, now that the man was available. He watched her pour the coffee down the sink. With her back to him, he couldn't gauge her expression. The overhead light turned her hair into a golden fire.

  "Tell me, what do you call the color of your hair?"

  Aileen swiveled around to look at him. "Pardon?"