The Rancher And The Redhead

by Leigh, Allison

  He notched his hat back with his thumb. “Is that really how I am?” His eyes were serious. “A twenty-four-hour grump?”

  Her heart squeezed. He hadn’t been last night. “Sometimes,” she whispered, closing her fingers around the edges of the Cracker Jack box hidden inside the deep side pocket of her coat. “Mostly when I’m around.” She’d seen him with his brothers. With Emily. He wasn’t a grump with them. He was a decent, hardworking man, full of patience and an easy humor. She was the one who seemed to bring out the worst in him.

  He seemed to mull over her words. After a moment he jammed his hat down on his head again. “It’s cold. Pull up your collar,” he ordered, and set off across the parking lot.

  For a moment Jaimie hung back, watching him. Dark brown cowboy hat shading his face. Hands tucked in the pockets of his heavy sheepskin jacket while his long legs ate up the distance toward his truck. Sighing, she followed his footsteps, pulling up her collar as she went.

  Chapter Five

  Matthew hung up the phone and propped his elbows on his desk, the thumbs of his clasped fists tapping his mouth. He wasn’t all that sure he should’ve made this particular call. Donna Blanchard was a nice woman. She was hanging on to the small piece of land bordering a northeast portion of the Double-C by the skin of her fingernails. Matthew had known her for years.

  He’d known her when her father had virtually drunk away his operation. He’d known her when she’d married that good-for-nothing Cliff Blanchard. And he’d known her when old Cliff took off with Suzette Lipton. Suzette had been a waitress, for lack of a more proper term, at Colbys—the bar that comprised half of the dinky town of Weaver, about twenty miles south. If a person wanted booze, poker or pool, Colbys was the place to go. Suzette, however, had been known to provide even more individual pleasures.

  No doubt about it, Donna Blanchard had had her share of troubles. But she’d always been a nice lady. A strong woman. A decent neighbor.

  Still, Matthew couldn’t shake the vague sense that he should’ve never made that phone call. If it hadn’t been for that annoying grumpy thing nagging at him for the past week, he would never even have thought of doing what he’d just done.

  There’d been no mistaking the surprise in Donna’s voice when he called. Sure, they saw each other now and again, being neighbors and all. They would shoot the breeze over coffee at Ruby’s Café in Weaver. Talk about feed, seed, grain and beef. Matthew figured she was pretty well accustomed to a rancher’s life. She knew it through and through.

  He looked at the tray of coffee that Jaimie had left on the corner of his desk earlier that morning. His empty mug sat in the center of a big white snowflake cutout.

  Yes, Donna knew ranch life. And he would bet his first calf of the season that Donna didn’t go around cutting holiday shapes out of every piece of colored paper she found, either.

  Matthew growled impatiently and leaned back in his chair, glancing out the window. A purple-coated redhead zigzagged across the road, chasing after a streak of gray fur. Sandy bounded behind them both, barking excitedly.

  His hands closed over the arms of his chair when he saw her stumble, then fall headfirst into a snowbank. But Jaimie was already flipped over onto her back, the cat in her arms. When D.C. skittered away a few moments later, chased closely by Sandy, Jaimie lifted her head. He was too far to see her exact expression, but he was certain her green eyes would be filled with laughter.

  His hands relaxed. He swiveled his chair a little more and watched her head fall back against the snow. Her hair streaked out about her, the white bank making the color appear even darker. Her arms and legs started to move, and a grin tugged at his lips. She was out there making snow angels.

  She looked about fifteen.

  And he felt like a hundred-year-old lech slobbering over her from his window. Disgusted, he whirled around and faced his desk again. It was a good thing he’d called Donna, he decided. She was his age. They had a lot in common. What harm could a simple dinner do?

  Jaimie stared at Matthew, unable to believe her ears. The man had been avoiding her all week, and when he finally did seek her out, it was because of this? Water dripped unheeded from her mop onto her bare feet and the floor. “You want what?”

  “You know how to fix spaghetti, don’t you?”

  Her grip tightened on the handle of the mop. He was lucky she didn’t pitch it at his head. “Yes.” She forced the words through her teeth. “I know how to fix spaghetti.” And garlic bread and Caesar salad, and she could even toss in a terrific dessert. And hope that they both choked. “Who is Donna?”

  “Donna Blanchard,” he said. “A neighbor.”

  “Ahh.” That explained it. Matthew had invited his neighbor to dinner. His female neighbor. In all the time she’d been at the Double-C, whether working or visiting, she’d never once seen Matthew invite a woman to the ranch. Neighbor or otherwise.

  She shoved the mop into the water, splashing water over the side of the pail. “Anybody else?”

  “Hmm?” .

  “How many will there be for dinner?” Jefferson and Emily, hopefully. Maybe Matthew just wanted to have some social interaction. Lord knew that Daniel had been remarkably scarce these days. And Squire had been practically living down in Casper.

  “Just the two of us.” He set down his coffee long enough to pull on his coat and shove his hat on his head. “Squire’s likely to be at Gloria’s awhile. Who knows what Dan’s doing.” Without another glance her way, he took his mug and headed outside.

  “Just the two of us.” She slopped the mop onto the floor, sending a small tidal wave across the linoleum. “Of all the nerve...asking me to cook for him and his...his... ooooh.” Jaimie set to mopping the floor so vigorously that she broke out into a sweat and had to peel off her heavy sweater. She tossed it onto the table before plopping down onto a chair.

  In all the varied jobs she’d held in her lifetime, a maid had never been one of them. Thank goodness. Oh, it was a perfectly respectable job...just not one of her favorites. She leaned forward in the chair and wrung out the mop.

  Of course Matthew expected her to cook his dinner. That’s what he paid her to do. She would cook for him and that woman, but that didn’t mean she would have to like it. In fact, just the idea of preparing this particular meal pretty well made her want to spit.

  She stood up, stretching the kinks out of her muscles. She dumped the mop water and put everything away. Matthew said he wanted to eat about seven, leaving her several hours yet. Matthew and Squire and Dan, if he was around, always ate promptly at five. “He probably wants time to get beautiful,” she muttered, her fingernails digging into her palms.

  Her stomach twisted. She’d never figured she would be the jealous type. It had never cropped up before. Not even during her doomed engagement. And now it wasn’t a pleasant realization. Groaning, she buried her face in her hands. She didn’t even have a right to be jealous. Perhaps that’s what hurt most of all. To Matthew, that night in Gillette notwithstanding, she was nothing but an employee. An employee he’d been more or less forced to hire.

  “Feel a little more sorry for yourself, Jaimie, my girl,” she told herself. She would fix his spaghetti dinner. She would even serve it with a smile. And hope that she kept her temper and didn’t dump the food right into his lap.

  She headed for the dining room. Fifteen minutes later she’d found everything necessary to set the table for a romantic dinner. The only way she’d been able to do it without breaking the china had been to imagine that she was the woman with whom he planned to share his table. When she stood back and looked at the gold-rimmed china and gleaming crystal, her chest grew tight.

  She wasn’t that woman, and it was foolish to even pretend that she could be.

  Matthew Clay was out of her league. He could have his pick of women. He certainly wouldn’t choose a former city girl who hadn’t stuck with one single thing in her life for more than a year.

  Clearing her throat, she turned away
in search of her socks and boots. Where had she left them? Maybe downstairs when she’d been dusting. Her feet slapped against the cool wood as she went down to the recreation room. Sure enough, her socks were sitting in crumpled balls by the pool table. She shook them out and pulled them on, then stepped into the boots that she still hadn’t become accustomed to. It was a shame that her tennis shoes were ruined beyond recognition.

  Wiggling her toes in the stiff boots, she leaned back against the pool table. It had been down in this very room only six months ago that Jaimie had shared her one and only dance with Matthew Clay. Her hand absently smoothed the gleaming wood beside her. It had been the night Emily had invited her, Joe and Maggie to dinner. To celebrate Squire’s homecoming from the hospital.

  They’d all been down in this room. All of Squire’s five sons had been home. They were an overwhelming group of men. Each one compelling in his own right. But Jaimie hadn’t been able to tear her eyes from Matthew. Music had rocked the room. More than a few beer bottles had been raised. Matthew’s youngest brother, Tristan, had been swinging Emily around the room in a wild dance, and suddenly Jaimie had found herself in Matthew’s arms.

  Her throat tightened. That dance, innocent as it had been, had kept her awake for weeks. Just as the night they’d spent in town had disturbed her sleep every night since. Every time she closed her eyes she remembered the feel of his lips on hers. The broad, strong breadth of his shoulders beneath her hands...

  This is ridiculous. She knew that Matthew had felt uncomfortable about the mischief they’d gotten up to. She need only remember the look of masculine relief on his face when she’d told him to dismiss the entire thing.

  She stomped her feet inside the stiff boots as if to underline that thought and went upstairs.

  Maggie was sitting at the kitchen table in her cozy house when Jaimie headed back over to check on her. Her pen tapped the opened checkbook in front of her, while she peered at the bills scattered across the table.

  “Well, you must be feeling better,” Jaimie said, surprised. She quickly shut the door behind her and slipped out of her coat.

  Maggie shrugged, her attention still on the items on the table.

  “Did you eat?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  Jaimie wandered into the kitchen, passing the round table that filled the small bay. She opened the refrigerator and looked inside. “Do you want something?” She straightened and looked over the open door. “Mag?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Want anything to eat? Soup?”

  “Sure,” Maggie said absently. Her pen scratched across the paper next to the checkbook.

  Jaimie selected a diet soda for herself and pulled out the soup that she’d made the day before. Within minutes she set a steaming bowl beside Maggie, along with a tall glass of milk.

  Maggie finally looked up when Jaimie sat down at the table. She stared hard at the food. “Is that for me?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Oh.” Maggie rolled her eyes and set down her pen. “Right. I guess I was a little distracted.” She scooted the bowl closer and picked up the spoon, gingerly lifting a spoonful of creamy soup to her lips. “This is good.”

  “Of course. I used your recipe.”

  “That explains it then,” Maggie murmured, smiling slightly. “Did you take any up to the big house? You should,” she added when Jaimie shook her head. “Matthew loves broccoli soup.” She took another taste. “Any soup, actually.”

  Jaimie fiddled with the pop top on her can, well aware of Matthew’s favorite foods. “He’s already asked for spaghetti,” she said. “Never mind the fact that I’ve got a turkey casserole sitting in the fridge over there, just waiting to be baked,” she added, disgruntled.

  “Matthew’s never been fussy. In fact, those men have always seemed grateful just to get something edible and hot. Did you tell him you’d already started supper?”

  Jaimie leaned her elbows on the table. “Nope.” She sipped at her soda, her eyes narrowed. “He has company coming. Donna Blanchard. Do you know her?”

  Maggie set her spoon down and delicately slid the bowl out of her sight. She nodded. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “She’s nice.”

  “Figures.”

  “She’s lived here for years,” Maggie went on. “If Matthew were interested in her, I hardly think he’d have let all this time go by without doing something about it.”

  “I could not care less if Matthew’s interested in Donna Blanchard.” Jaimie uttered the lie so blithely, she half expected lightning to strike her down.

  “Right.”

  “He’s a cranky stick-in-the-mud.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, he is.” Jaimie raked her hair back from her face.

  “You have got it bad, haven’t you?” Maggie leaned forward and patted Jaimie’s hand.

  There wasn’t any point in denying it. Maggie had known her too long. Jaimie looked out the window, thinking how much she’d come to love the ranch. Snowdrifts, incessant wind and all. How much the idea of staying-put somewhere actually appealed. To her. She shrugged, not as casually as she would have liked. “I could tap-dance on his head and he probably wouldn’t even notice. He’d just swat me away like some annoying bug.” She slapped her palms on the table and rose. “And now I get the pleasure of serving him and his new girlfriend a romantic spaghetti dinner. I’ll probably walk in with their dessert only to find them doing that Lady and the Tramp thing with the spaghetti noodle.”

  Maggie chuckled. “Somehow I can’t see Matthew and Donna doing that.”

  “I can. I can imagine that. And a lot more,” she said darkly. After all, what the man could do with a chocolate kiss should be outlawed.

  “So do something about it.”

  “Like what? Dump the Caesar salad in his lap?” Jaimie’s eyes narrowed. “Give him an excuse to get out of his pants with Donna Blanchard sitting right beside him? I don’t think so.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” Jaimie’s wicked grin died. “I just need to get over this, that’s all.”

  “Why? Matthew is a good man. You could do a lot worse.”

  Jaimie frowned. “He’s not interested in me that way. He’s made no secret of the fact that I don’t belong on his ranch. Any ranch. And even if he was interested, well, I’m not cut out for the marriage and kids bit, anyway. I’m not going to apologize for the way I am. Not for him. Not for anyone.” Not ever again. She’d spent enough of her life trying to live it to please other people. It hadn’t worked out once.

  She went over to the coat rack and retrieved her jacket.

  “Jaimie—”

  “Mmm?” The zip fastened, she flipped her hair out from beneath the collar.

  Maggie tilted her head, her pale, golden hair spilling over her shoulder. “Matthew is not Tony.”

  Jaimie paused at the mention of her ex-fiancé. Matthew was ten times the man Tony had been. But that didn’t change the facts. “I know.”

  “Matthew’s as steady as they come,” Maggie was saying. “So are you. He’s bound to see that.”

  “Me steady?” Jaimie managed a light laugh. “You’re talking to a woman who’s had no less than, hmm...eighteen? Nope. Nineteen different jobs.” She opened the door and stepped through. “Matthew has his pick of women. Why on earth would he settle for me? I won’t even be staying here, once your baby arrives and you’re back on your feet.” She closed the door before Maggie could respond. Maggie had been the encouraging force in Jaimie’s life for a long time now. But not even Maggie could get around that particular fact.

  Jaimie had covered the salad with plastic wrap and was sliding it into the refrigerator when the doorbell rang just before seven. She’d never heard it ring in the big house before. Everybody always came around to the back and through the mudroom.

  Her lower lip jutted out as she shifted bottles on the shelf to make room for the salad. Was answering the door part of her duties, to
o? The chimes sounded again, and she huffed. Closing the refrigerator door, she started for the living room, stopping short as she realized Matthew was heading down the stairs to the door. His head was lowered as he buttoned the loose charcoal gray shirt he wore with black jeans.

  The smoky silk clung to his broad shoulders, billowing about his hard stomach, yet still managing to emphasize his leanness. The jeans finished the job, hugging his tight rear and muscular thighs.

  Jaimie kept herself hidden in the archway of the dining room, slathering over him in his unfamiliar garb. Heaven knew Matthew looked sinful in his usual faded jeans and soft, flannel shirts. But tonight...

  Rooted in place, Jaimie watched him swing open the door, his smile easy as he greeted his dinner guest.

  Donna Blanchard walked in, and Jaimie bit her lip, her heart sinking. The woman was everything Jaimie was not. Her nut brown hair was sleek, hugging exotic cheekbones and big brown Bambi eyes that Jaimie could see clear across the room. Then Matthew helped the woman off with her hip-length coat to reveal a figure that made Jaimie’s eyes nearly pop out. She swallowed, hard, and turned from the sight.

  Back in the kitchen she banged a few pots around. Sandy scrambled from her position under the table and trotted out. “They’re probably fake,” she grumbled to the departing dog. “Real women just aren’t built like that.”

  “Like what?”

  She whirled around, knocking the spaghetti pot off the counter. It made an awful racket as it rolled across the floor, stopping at the toe of Matthew’s highly polished boot. Her cheeks burned.

  He bent and picked up the pot. “Good thing it was empty,” he murmured drily, returning it to the counter before opening the refrigerator to pull out two bottles of beer.

  Naturally the woman drank beer. Personally, Jaimie hated the stuff. She brushed the bangs from her eyes and turned to fill the pot with water. Resolutely she ignored his freshly showered scent. She’d never before noticed how good a man could smell.