by Pam Crooks
“Do you believe me?” Lark asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“About what?”
“About me. Now that I’m here, what am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing. And neither will I. But I’m going to send Chat to town.”
“Chat?” Vague alarm filtered through Lark. She didn’t want the girl involved. What if she got hurt? “But what can she do?”
Santana cleaned the straight razor and returned it to the shelf. “She knows a lot of people who love to gossip same as she does. If Catfish has been seen around these parts, she’ll hear about it.”
Lark eyed him dubiously. “You’re the bounty hunter. Not her.”
Remnants of shaving soap remained on his face. He wiped them away with the towel, then tossed the linen aside. “I don’t go into town much. Hardly ever. If I ride in, start asking questions, folks are going to wonder.” He turned toward her, hands on hips. “Chat, on the other hand, goes to town most every day. No one will find it unusual that she’s there.”
Still, Lark worried. “I hope you’re right.”
“I am.”
He stood next to the bed, tall, bare-chested and…male. His rich molasses gaze lingered over her hair, wild and tangled on the pillow, as it always was when she woke up in the mornings, lingered so long that a tiny tremor of fear rippled through her.
What was he thinking? What did he intend to do?
When Chat left, Lark would be alone with him. Just the two of them, with no one else around.
I’m not going to hurt you.
Damn you for thinking I would.
She took heart from the words he’d spoken the night before, as if he was offended that she thought otherwise.
“If I’m to stay here, I want to make myself useful,” she said quietly, looking up at him.
“You’ve got enough to do just staying alive right now.”
“I’ve intruded on your lives. I’ve kept you from your room and bed. Now, Chat will have to go into town to scrape up information, all on my account.”
He fished a small key from the pocket of his Levi’s and found her ankle beneath the covers. “You hear us complaining?”
“I’ll not stay here and do nothing.”
He slid the key into the leg iron, and the shackle fell free. Santana frowned at the faint ring the iron left on her skin. He sat beside her and rubbed it gently with his thumb.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
Her mind sifted through her talents, few that they were. Numbers were her strong suit, but would good would that do her here?
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I can cook, I guess.”
“Yeah?” His thumb stopped rubbing.
“I was assigned to kitchen duties in prison. I cooked every day for five years.”
“Chat damn near burns everything she makes.”
Lark remembered their dinner last night, the too-dry beef and too-dark biscuits. The meal had been rather tasteless, but then, Lark hadn’t been of a mind to enjoy much of anything, no matter how well it had—or hadn’t—been prepared.
“Mrs. Kelley is an excellent cook. She’s taught me how to fix numerous dishes, so I’d be happy to…”
Santana rested his hand on her foot and distracted her with his boldness. Long, lean fingers curled around her ankle, loose and casual, as if he didn’t even realize they were there. But the warmth of his skin, the clean scent of his shaving soap, his close proximity on the bed sent awareness zinging through her like buckshot.
She pulled her foot from his grasp and sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. Her toes curled into the mattress.
She eased out a breath. “I’d be happy to perhaps show Chat a few—a few things.”
Brow furrowed, Santana straightened. “Never been much good in the kitchen myself. Mother passed on when Chat was barely six, so she’s not had a female around to teach her what she needs to know. The proper way, at least.”
No sisters, then. And no father? Lark refrained from asking. What business was it of hers who made up the Santana family?
“You’ve done a fine job with her,” Lark said softly. “She’s a lovely girl.”
“That she is.” He stood. “She does what she can the best she knows how.”
Which didn’t include much success in the kitchen, evidently. Lark eyed him with sympathy. She’d lost her own mother what seemed like forever ago. How different would her life be if Mama had lived?
“I’ll cook breakfast then,” she said.
He inclined his dark head. “If it’ll make you feel better.”
“It will.”
“Chat’s still sleeping.” He strode toward his dresser, removed a clean shirt from the drawer. “I’ve got chores to do. I’ll see you a little later.”
She watched him go. Keenly aware of the privilege he’d given her, that of moving about his home with a semblance of freedom, but mostly of trust, she slipped from the mattress.
It moved her, that trust.
She’d be a fool to abuse it. He’d given her no reason to, besides. And so she took great care in making his bed, smoothing the sheets first, then pulling the quilt up and seeing that the sides hung even and straight. She plumped the pillows, laid them next to one another and stepped back.
Ross Santana, she had to admit, had a wonderfully handsome bed.
Her gaze dallied over the quilt with its bold-colored squares in varying shades of blue, rows and rows of them, each perfectly stitched by deft, experienced fingers. His mother’s? Grandmother’s?
Lark could only imagine the wealth of time and love that had gone into the creation. She had no such keepsake, and she swallowed down a little welling of sadness from the loss.
She shook it off. She had more important matters to think about than not owning a family quilt.
Her dress was still in Chat’s room, she recalled with a grimace. She’d taken it off in there before her bath, then cleaned the blood from the fabric in the leftover bathwater. Lark didn’t want to risk waking Chat to retrieve it. Besides, the bodice needed mending, and she had no idea where to find needle and thread.
That left her with Santana’s shirt again, to use as a robe. Lark contemplated the garment, hanging on a hook near his bureau, where Chat had left it last night. Odd that it no longer bothered Lark to wear the thing.
She slid her arms into the sleeves and adjusted the shoulders to fit better over hers. Her fingers worked the buttons, and she breathed in the scent of starch.
Mr. Templeton always smelled of starch, too. Always wore crisp white shirts, like this one. Preferred his surroundings neat and tidy, just as Santana did.
But, Holy hellfire, there couldn’t be two men who were more different.
Had it been only yesterday that Mr. Templeton had honored her with the responsibility of closing up the Ida Grove Bank in his absence? That she’d thought of him, spoken with him, had envied his wife his love and affection for her and their son, Phillip?
A lifetime ago.
Once he learned the truth about her, she would never be his favorite employee again.
Chapter Seven
Ross led the last of Chat’s milk cows out of the paddock to graze in the pasture beyond the barn. He’d already strained their milk and carried the pails to the cellar where they would chill and set for the cream she’d skim tonight. He’d skimmed the cream from last night’s milking, too, and left the jug on the back step.
Might be Lark could use some for their breakfast.
The cows were Chat’s responsibility, but Ross did her share of chores this morning, just so she could sleep in some. She wouldn’t be expecting him to do her work for her, but he figured he’d owe her the favor. Sending her into town to do a bit of discreet investigating would be more than worth a few minutes of milking time.
He strode from the barn to the house, but paused on the front porch. Thoughts hung heavy on his mind, and he had a need to sort them through. He leaned
his hip against the rail to have a smoke and realized he’d done the same thing the evening before, when Father Baxter had ridden out with Lark.
Funny how the morning had a way of putting a different perspective on things.
He struck a match, cupped a hand around the flame, and lit a rolled cigarette. He’d wanted nothing to do with her then. But sometime during the night, he’d come to think of her less as an outlaw and more as a woman.
Right there, that would get him into trouble.
Seeing her in his bed, that wild mane spread out on his pillow, sleep-tossed and thick with those auburn curls, had stirred his blood with a slow fire. He shook out the match and drew in deep on the tobacco.
A slow, lusty fire.
She’d mess up his head if he wasn’t careful. He had to stay focused. Detached. In control. After all these years, she was his one chance to capture Catfish Jack. He might not get another. And if he recovered the money from the Muscatine heist in the process, well, that was just sweet sugar icing on the cake.
He exhaled, squinted against a haze of blue-gray smoke. If nothing else, her need for his help awakened in him a hunger for the justice he’d years ago buried deep inside him, so deep he didn’t think about it much anymore, deep enough he pretty much believed that hunger was dead.
It was still there.
Justice.
The thrill of the hunt, too.
It was what had earned him his reputation as a damn good bounty hunter. Gut instinct. Raw nerve. The ability to think like a hunted man would think.
But as he studied the burning end of his cigarette, nauseating fear rolled in his belly.
Could he do it again? A one-eyed, has-been bounty hunter, protect himself? Lark? Chat? Was he man enough to protect them all?
Sweet Jesus, he didn’t know.
He dragged his stare to the yard, to his workshop and the woods beyond, and, as always, endured the sickening sensation of having the images only half of what they’d once been.
The blast from Catfish’s shotgun had destroyed all vision on his right side. He wouldn’t see anyone coming at him from that angle, would miss the most subtle of movements, most likely the most obvious, too, until it was too late.
Catfish Jack would take advantage of that.
Ross sighed heavily and dropped the cigarette stub to the porch floor, then mashed it to ashes with the toe of his boot.
The sight of the stub jolted him. The thing reminded him of what he’d become. A wasted, ground-out imitation of his former self.
He stared once more into the woods past his shop and met the half vision head-on. Lark had thrown him into a do-it-or-die-trying kind of situation, and damned if he was going to run from it. He had a thing or two to prove to himself. To Chat. And, yeah, Lark, too.
At the knowledge, his acceptance of it, an unexpected vein of anticipation hummed through him. He turned, pushed open the front door and froze at the myriad of aromas that greeted him.
Breakfast.
His mouth watered. When had the house smelled this good? Sausage frying. Coffee simmering. And something that smelled vaguely of cinnamon.
Lark’s cooking?
He headed toward the kitchen, but halted before going in. She stood at the stove, barefoot and wearing his shirt again, right over her nightgown. Her hair hung in a queue down her back, with a ribbon tied at her nape to hold the auburn ringlets in place. Standing over hot burners bloomed a delicate flush in her cheeks, and damn if that fiery lust didn’t start flickering inside him again.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in. I won’t be much longer.”
“Take your time.” He eyed the sausage in the skillet, the bowl of light batter next to it.
“I found the waffle iron in the pantry.” She held her hand over the long-handled utensil Ross hadn’t seen in a good long while, sitting on the burner over a brisk fire, gauging the metal’s heat with her palm. “I hope it’s all right I’m using it.”
He’d given the irons to Chat a couple of Christmases ago. “We’ve only had waffles but once or twice that I recall.”
She stilled, looking worried. “You don’t like waffles?”
“I happen to favor them. So does Chat. But the last time she used the irons, she had such a mess going, she hasn’t used them since.”
“They can be difficult to clean,” Lark conceded carefully.
“Might be she just wasn’t using them right.”
“Perhaps.”
Lark looked apprehensive. Ross wondered if his comment made her question her choice of menu for breakfast.
“They’ll be a nice change from eggs and bacon every morning,” he said.
She relaxed a little at that. “Mrs. Kelley serves them on Sunday morning to her boarders. They’re quite popular with us.”
“Make plenty then. We’ll eat ’em up.” He remembered the jug he’d left on the back step. “There’s cream if you can use it.”
She made short work of buttering the irons, then ladling batter on top. A soft smile curved her lips. “I love fresh cream in my coffee. Thank you.”
She sounded so pleased he felt ridiculously pleased himself that he had thought to mention it. He set the jug on the table, and not finding her cup, took one from the sideboard, filled it with black brew and added the cream.
She stood with her back to him as she removed browned sausage from the skillet, setting each one on paper to drain. He extended the coffee toward her, and her glance flew up at him in astonishment.
“My, my.” She put the fork down, took the cup from him, the tips of her fingers barely brushing his when she did. “I didn’t know bounty hunters could be this thoughtful.”
“Only when we’re fed waffles, so don’t get used to it,” he muttered roughly.
The tinkle of her laughter surprised him. Surrounded him. Her femininity, too, and the delectable aromas of breakfast cooking, and damn, how could she be guilty of the crimes she’d committed?
He had to work hard at remembering the kind of person she was, or at least used to be, and the one crime she needed to be held accountable for. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a thing to say, or do, and so he stood there, looking at her, feeling like a hapless little spider caught in the delicate web of confusion she’d managed to spin around him.
Chat burst into the room, saving him.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I completely overslept. Why didn’t you wake me, Ross?” She froze, her eyes widening. “Miss Renault, I mean, Lark, what are you doing?”
“Fixing breakfast.” Lark turned from him to resume her work at the skillet, one hand still holding her cup. “Are you hungry? There’s plenty.”
“But you’re our guest. You shouldn’t be cooking. Ross, why are you letting her?”
“She wanted to. Besides, she’s good at it, it seems.” He stepped away, went in search of his own coffee in hopes of clearing his head of the effect she had on him.
“I should say so. Everything smells delicious,” Chat said.
Lark finished with the sausage, set the plate aside, and moved the skillet to the back burner to cool. “Thank you.”
Chat’s incredulous gaze settled on the hot irons. “Are you making waffles?”
“I am. And this one is ready, I think.” Putting her coffee down, she lifted the top handle. A round, golden waffle appeared.
“Oh,” Chat breathed. “How did you get it to turn out so perfect?”
“I’ve helped Mrs. Kelley many times, and we made them now and again in—” Her uncertain glance darted to Ross, then slid ruefully back to Chat. “Well, since we all know where I once was, I’ll admit I helped make them when I was in prison.”
“If they look this good, who cares where you learned how?” Chat asked, arching a brow at Ross in silent challenge for him to deny it.
He didn’t. Prison had its place, namely to reform those who needed it. And reform included teaching lawbreakers new skills for them to use on the outside. In Lark’s case, forcing
her to work in the penitentiary’s kitchen had paid off.
She lifted the waffle from the iron with a fork and eased it on a plate. She dusted the top with powdered sugar, sprinkled cinnamon on top, added several browned sausages, and handed the whole thing over to Chat.
“Give this to your brother, won’t you? I’ll make another. Unless you’d like to try making one yourself?”
“I would.” She set the plate on the table with a hurried clatter, leaving Ross to retrieve his own fork and napkin. He didn’t mind. Chat needed tutoring in more than just waffle-making, and Lark was well-suited for the job.
He’d owe her for that, he supposed, taking a bite of the warm cake and liking the taste of it on his tongue. Chat had a great deal of admiration for her. If this breakfast was an indication of all Lark had to offer, Ross hoped Chat would learn from everything she had to say.
“But your batter is so different than mine was,” Chat said, dipping the ladle in, then raising it and letting batter spill back into the bowl. “Mine was much too thick, as I recall.”
“The trick is to set it aside in a warm place until it gets very light, then add a little flour and butter,” Lark said. “Make sure the iron is greased well, too, and hot enough to sizzle.”
Chat made a sound of understanding.
“When you pour the batter onto the iron, don’t fill it too full. Otherwise, batter will leak out the sides,” Lark went on. “The waffle expands as it’s baking.”
“It’ll burn, too,” Chat said. “I know that for a fact.” She rolled her eyes. “What a mess.”
“Now you won’t do it again.” Lark closed the iron. “And that’s it. Simple, really. In a minute or two, this one will be ready.”
By the time enough golden waffles had been made for them all, Ross was on his third plate. After his belly had its fill, he leaned back in his chair and contemplated the two women at the table with him, both barefoot and still in their nightgowns, their hair uncombed, but their conversation animated and relaxed. In time, he knew, they’d be fast friends, if they weren’t already.