by Carol Grace
"For what? Bringing me back here? Telling me I had no sense?"
"No."
She sat there calmly waiting, forcing him to explain when she knew perfectly well what he was talking about. Then for some reason she gave him a break. "You're sorry about what happened in the kitchen, aren't you?"
"Aren't you?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Unless it comes under the category of flirting or encouraging the men, which includes you, I guess."
"No, no, of course not. It was all my fault. You didn't do anything..." Nothing but kiss him like she meant it, look at him with desire in her eyes. "Well, that's all I wanted to say." So it was no big deal for her. He was relieved. Not disappointed. Not at all.
"Good night. Again." He said the words but he didn't leave. He just stood there at the door looking at her, aching to cross the room to kiss her again, to see if he could make the magic happen again. To lose himself in her arms. To recover something he'd lost years ago.
She raised her eyebrows inquiringly and he took a deep breath. "I don't want to take advantage of you, of your situation," he said.
She waited, holding perfectly still. The whole house was still, waiting. Waiting for him to spit it out.
He tried again. "I don't want you to think that just because I'm your boss..."
"That I have to exchange sexual favors for your giving me the job."
He stiffened. "That's one way of putting it."
She sat up straight. She was wearing those awful pajamas. "I don't think that. I never thought that. I kissed you because I wanted to."
"Maybe out of gratitude," he suggested.
"Oh, for heaven's sake. Didn't anyone ever tell you you're a very attractive man? What about all those women who were lined up outside the house waiting in line to throw themselves at you after your wife left?"
"What are you talking about? Nobody's ever thrown themselves at me."
"That's not what I heard."
"I should never have taken you to town," he said with a frown.
"People talk," she agreed.
"What else did they say?"
"Um... well, are you sure you want to know?"
"Go ahead."
"That you're fair and honest and you never hire women."
"Until now."
"I appreciate your breaking your rules for me, Parker. I—I really like it here. I'd work for you for nothing. But... that's probably not a good idea. I feel at home here, maybe it's because I can't remember if I have a home or a family of my own. And if it will make you feel any better, I'll try to keep my hands off you. But you can't, you know, look at me the way you do. I'm not made of stone." Her voice shook just slightly as she came to the end of her sentence.
"I know," he said gruffly. He knew only too well what she was made of. His heart started to pound in his chest as he tried not to look at her the way he did, tried not to remember how she felt in his arms and how much he wanted her. "Well, I guess we understand each other a little better," he said. But did he? Did she? In any case she nodded and gave him a small smile. Then she raised one hand in a gesture that was clearly goodbye and, as gracefully as he could, he left the room.
Christine sat staring at the closed door, her body tired and aching, her mind in turmoil. She was so new to this game, she had no perspective, no plan, no frame of reference. She only knew that she wanted him, wanted him to make love to her, wanted to tear down the barriers between them, between him and the world.
She thought that tonight was a start, a kind of beginning. That there might be possibilities. That he... that she... But he'd made it clear she was wrong. It meant nothing to him. And everything to her. She sighed and put her amnesia book on the table next to her bed. Then she turned out the light. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. But thoughts of Parker, visions of his face, memories of his kisses, kept her awake long into the night. Even more than learning about her own past, she wanted to know about his. Sooner or later she'd find out. From someone. But she wished it could be from him.
Chapter Five
She was home. Sarah Robinson, with her hair flying in every direction, her long legs in blue jeans, arrived the next afternoon to spend the weekend. Christine stood at the kitchen window and watched, fascinated, as the girl ran like a graceful colt from the barn to the stable and then to the house. She burst into the kitchen and stopped short, out of breath, when she saw Christine.
"What smells so good?" she asked, poised in the doorway and eyeing Christine curiously.
"Spice cookies," Christine said, taking a pan out of the oven.
"Are you the new cook?" Sarah asked. "The one with amnesia?"
"How'd you guess?" Christine asked, pausing to stare into eyes the exact blue of her father's.
"I'm smart," she confessed. "But I wish I wasn't. Then I wouldn't have to go to the Academy. I could go to school in Clear Creek." She reached for a cookie and crammed it into her mouth.
Christine nodded. "I saw that school yesterday. The one in town."
"What did you think? Isn't it nice? Was there anything wrong with it?"
"I—I couldn't really tell, from the outside," Christine said.
"Do you know what it's like to go to school in Denver?" Sarah asked, pouring herself a glass of milk from the refrigerator.
"I don't think I do. What is it like?"
"Awful. Terrible. I hate it," she announced.
"Why?"
"Cuz it's in Denver. I want to be here. Do you like it here?"
Christine looked out the window at the sheep grazing in the pasture, at the mountains in the distance and the sun shining on a narrow ribbon of river that wound through the valley. "Yes, I do," she said. "Who wouldn't?"
"My mom didn't," Sarah said, straddling the kitchen chair.
"Really?" Christine held her breath. If Parker knew his daughter was talking to his cook about his ex-wife, he wouldn't like it. Not at all. She wanted the girl to continue, but she didn't want to make Parker angry.
"Nope. She left when I was little. I used to think it was me she didn't like."
Christine stared as the girl talked to her as if she'd known her all her life. Her eyes, her cheekbones, were so much like Parker's, her lack of inhibition, her forthright nature, so different.
"I'm sure she does like you," Christine said, pouring herself a cup of tea and sitting at the table. Who wouldn't like this uninhibited, carefree creature, all arms and legs, and untamed energy?
"She's forgotten about me," Sarah said with an unconcerned shrug. Then she tilted her head to one side. "What's it like to have amnesia?"
"Well, it's kind of weird," Christine answered slowly. "It's like part of you is missing."
"Maybe that's what my mom has. Maybe that's why she can't remember me. Not even my birthday."
Christine swallowed hard over a lump in her throat. Under her breezy grown-up exterior, there was a little girl inside who'd been hurt badly by her mother's desertion. "When is your birthday?" she asked.
"March fourteenth. When's yours?"
Christine shook her head. "I don't know. I don't even know how old I am."
"We could look at your teeth. That's how you tell with horses."
Christine let her jaw fall open and Sarah braced her arms on the table and leaned forward to peer into Christine's mouth. At that moment Parker walked in the back door.
"What's going on here?" he asked, riffling his daughter's hair. "Don't frighten the new cook. She's not used to being examined by a wild twelve-year-old. She's used to getting some respect around here."
Sarah jumped back from the table and grinned impudently at her father. "From who, you and the boys?"
"And Pop," Parker assured her.
"I was just trying to find out how old she is," Sarah explained.
"She's not a horse," he said as Christine looked back and forth from father to daughter with envy at their easy banter.
Sarah giggled. "I know that. I knew she was your cook from the first minute I walked in h
ere and smelled those cookies. Here, try one." She picked up a warm, soft cookie and handed it to her father, then watched as he chewed it. "You didn't tell me she was so pretty," she chided her father. Sarah reached up and gingerly touched Christine's curls. "Or that her hair was soft as a baby lamb's."
"That's because I wash it with Lanolux, guaranteed to bring out the shine in your fleece," Christine explained.
Sarah's eyes widened in amazement. "That reminds me," she said, "I gotta feed my baby lamb." She gave a little skip and twirled out the door, slamming it behind her.
Christine sat down, suddenly exhausted by the little whirlwind. "What an amazing child," she said. "How do you keep up with her?"
"I don't even try."
"She has so much energy."
"Fortunately they know how to direct it at the school."
"Is that why she's there?"
"It’s a fine school. She's a smart girl. But headstrong. Opinionated and stubborn, too."
"I wonder where she got those traits," Christine mused under her breath.
He chose to ignore her remark. "I suppose she told you she wants to come home," Parker said.
Christine hesitated. She didn't want to betray Sarah's confidence, and yet she had a feeling she wasn't the first person Sarah'd told about not liking her school.
"What did she say?" Parker asking, taking another cookie.
"Just that she likes it here.'"
"Because she has no idea what ranch life is really about. She comes home for the weekend. She sees the newborn lambs and she takes her horse out riding and has Pop eating out of her hand. What she doesn't see is the backbreaking work, the day-to-day grind."
Christine poured some more tea in her cup from the pot on the table. "You make it sound pretty grim and yet you seem to like it."
"Of course I like it. It's my life."
"Then why..."
"Don't you start, too. And don't encourage her in this ranch life business. It's not a life for a woman. It's boring and lonely. Women want change, excitement. I know what you're thinking. It sounds sexist. Well, I don't care. I know what I know. Sarah's meant for other things."
He took a cold beer from the refrigerator. Christine assumed the conversation was over so she went to the pantry for a bag of rice and a can of tomatoes but when she came back he was still there, leaning against the counter.
It had been two days since she'd returned from town with him. And she'd hardly spoken to anyone except Parker's father since. She didn't mind. She was just grateful to be there, doing what she was good at. And there had been no complaints about the food, either from the men or from Parker. His father was easy to talk to. Or rather, easy to listen to.
Christine didn't have any tales of her childhood to tell, but Emilio had plenty. Plenty of tales of Parker's childhood, too, which Christine found illuminating. His son had loved the land and the animals from the beginning, adopting orphaned sheep and hand-feeding than just as his daughter was doing now. It amazed her that Parker didn't empathize with his daughter's wishes, since they were so similar to his own. But what did she know about parenting anyway?
She tried to ignore Parker's presence in the kitchen as she chopped onions and bell peppers, but it wasn't easy. It was partly his size, partly his bearing, partly those penetrating eyes, always watching, always assessing her, the suppressed energy that made her aware of him. That made her wonder what he was going to say or do next. And then there was the memory of the last time they were in the kitchen together. He'd probably forgotten. She'd tried, but she couldn't. Probably because there wasn't much else in her memory. But the touch of his lips on hers, combined with the smell of leather and the hard contours of his chest pressed against her breasts kept coming back to puzzle and to haunt her. What made him do it? Just repressed physical desire. That was obviously it. It had been a long time, perhaps since his wife left. Who could blame him for taking advantage of the new cook? Who'd taken advantage of whom, anyway?
She turned the gas on under a large frying pan and poured olive oil into it. And still he stayed, sipping his beer slowly. She didn't look at him, she didn't need to know that he was still watching her, studying her. What did he want? Why didn't he say something? Her hands shook just slightly as she scooped the vegetables off the counter and dumped them in the pan.
Oil spattered against Christine's shirt and she reached for the white apron hanging from a hook on the wall. With a spoon still in one hand she pulled the apron over her head with the other, then awkwardly tried to tie it behind her. Without thinking he set his beer down and crossed the room, pulling the sash around her waist and knotting it tightly. The scent of her hair, of her skin, filled his senses. He told himself to move away before he did something he'd be sorry for. Again. But he didn't. He let his hands rest on her hips, fighting the urge to pull her back against him, to bury his face in the silky softness of her hair. She was breathing hard. He was afraid he couldn't breathe at all. Afraid his heart had stopped beating.
"Thanks," she said breathlessly.
"For what?" he demanded.
She held perfectly still. "For everything. Tying my apron. Giving me a job." Her voice was a whisper.
He backed off. Physically and mentally. He went back to the counter and picked up his beer. She was grateful to him. That was all. That was the reason she'd kissed him the other night, the reason she accepted his coming on to her. He knew he was attractive to most women. He knew they liked him, invited him to dinner, offered to help him out. But this was not most women. This was one special woman. And once she got to know him, and know what ranch life was really like, she'd leave just the way Cheryl had.
"You don't have to keep thanking me," he said brusquely.
"And you don't have to keep saying you're sorry," she said, turning from the stove to look at him.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Did I say..."
"You were going to."
"Maybe I was. Anyway it's my turn to thank you. For the great meals. The men have never been happier."
She nodded and turned back to the stove. He finished his beer and tossed the bottle in the trash, then walked out the back door.
After dinner in the bunkhouse Sarah helped Christine clear the table, then carefully rinsed the dishes while Christine loaded the dishwasher.
"I could be a big help to you," Sarah said, handing Christine a salad plate. "Like peeling potatoes, or pulling weeds from the kitchen garden." She paused significantly. "If I lived here."
"I'll bet you could," Christine answered. "But you don't. Maybe after you graduate. Or even in the summer."
"Will you be here then?" Sarah asked, pouring herself a glass of cold milk to wash down a cookie she'd just snitched from the cookie jar.
"I suppose not," Christine said, trying to sound casual when she felt hollow inside thinking of her uncertain future.
"Then I have to stay here now. I'll help you and you'll teach me to cook. That's something I can't learn at school."
"You mean they don't have home economics anymore?"
Sarah turned the corners of her mouth down. "Uh-uh. They don't have anything practical at my school. If I lived here I could join 4-H, and raise my own goats."
"Goats? I haven't seen any goats around."
"Cuz there aren't any. But goats get along real well with sheep. What I want to do is—"
Parker came in at that moment and interrupted their conversation. "Don't you have homework to do?" he asked his daughter.
She wrinkled her nose. "A little. I can do it tomorrow."
He shook his head. "I thought we had a deal. You can come home for the weekend anytime, but you have to get your homework done and let me check it before you go out on your horse."
"It's poetry, Dad. I don't understand it and we've gotta write a paper on it."
"Poetry?" Christine asked. "Can I see it?"
"But we're not finished," Sarah protested, looking desperately around the clean kitchen for something more to do.
&nb
sp; "Yes, we are. Go get your book."
Reluctantly Sarah left the room and they heard her drag her feet up the stairs to her room.
"See what I mean?" Parker asked with a wry smile.
"About her being determined? You didn't expect to have a weak-willed child who said, 'How high?' when you said jump, did you?"
He shook his head, and stared out the window. "I guess I expected a boy who'd take over for me. When I got a girl I thought my wife would teach her to be a lady. Instead she left."
Christine held her breath, rubbing her already dry hands with a dish towel. She never expected him to say anything about his wife.
"It must have been a...a shock," Christine said softly.
"A shock?" An old feeling of bitterness welled up in his throat and burned like acid. "You could say that."
He dragged his gaze back to her. "I don't normally talk about it. I don't know why I am now."
She was afraid to speak, afraid to say too much or too little. What she wanted to say was, "Go on, go ahead. It's not good to keep things bottled up for twelve years."
Instead, running a hand through her short curls, she said, "Maybe it's because I'm not a part of your life. I'm just a stranger who's fallen out of the sky from an alien spaceship and someday I'll go back to my planet and take your secrets with me."
"So you heard all that," he said, and poured himself a cup of coffee from the stove. "Do you remember anything else about that first night?" he asked, glancing up over the brim of the cup.
"Like your undressing me and giving me a bath?" she asked.
So she knew. With an effort, he deliberately made his face a blank. He couldn't let the memories of that night show from a telltale gleam in his eye or a smile on his face.
"I must have a been a pretty sight," she sighed.
"I really don't remember," he lied. The memory of that episode lingered, played havoc with his dreams. He couldn't deny he'd seen her, every gentle curve, every flat surface, every bump, every bruise.
"That's good," she said, absently filling the salt shaker. "The funny thing about this amnesia is that while I can't remember anything from before the accident, everything since is engraved on my consciousness. Probably because I have nothing else to think about. Everything seems so fresh, so new, as if I've never seen it before. The air outside, every blade of grass, the sun, the sky... Every feeling I have is so intense, every sensation... That's why I'm afraid I overreacted the other night. When you kissed me and I kissed you back, it was as if..."