by Drake, Laura
She finished and sat looking at him, chin thrust forward.
“Okay.” He lifted himself from the rickety chair. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Her brows scrunched. “Okay.” She stretched the word like warm taffy.
Wyatt stepped from the back door of the house and took a deep breath. “Thank God that’s over.” Maybe Max had won the better chore after all. His wrestling match with the bottom line yielded worse results than Wyatt had feared. If something didn’t change soon, making the payroll would be a stretch by summer’s end.
He rolled his shoulders. A ride would serve two purposes. He could finish checking the herd and clear the smell of failure out of his sinuses. If Max is napping instead of cleaning the stable, he’s vulture bait.
Walking to the barn, Wyatt noticed a mud-spattered red Jeep parked in the deserted dooryard. Monday afternoons were quiet. Most boarders worked days, and the crew had left before dawn to work fence. He stepped into the gloom of the barn and stood a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. His brother was nowhere in sight, but Max’s black-and-white paint stallion, Trouble, stood cross tied in the aisle.
He raised his voice. “Max, why didn’t you clean this mess before you got Trouble out?” He walked the aisle, watching where he put his feet. “Why is he out, anyway?”
A woman stepped from the tack room, a battered forward-seat saddle over her arm. She crossed to the stallion and tossed the saddle over its back.
Max barreled from a stall farther down the aisle. “What in holy hell!” Trouble sidestepped and reared, dumping the saddle in a pile of fresh droppings. Max ran up. Trouble danced, head thrown up, eyes rolling. Catching the horse’s halter, the woman rubbed his forelock, speaking in undertones until he calmed.
“What possessed you to put English tack on my horse, woman?” Max said in the Donald Trump “you’re fired” voice that had scared off the last groom.
She flushed. “I don’t know how to tie the girth on a Western saddle. I worked at an English show barn and—”
“Wyatt, meet Aubrey Tanner. She’s applying as a stable hand.”
Wyatt hadn’t thought the woman could blush deeper, but Max’s tone did it.
He took pity. “Ms. Tanner, please excuse my brother. Our father passed away not long ago, and Max has been out of sorts. Would you mind giving us a moment? If you’ll just wait by the paddock, I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Staring daggers at Max, she turned and stalked away.
She was barely out of earshot when Max started in. “Wyatt, this ranch needs new fences, repairs, more boarders. It makes no sense to hire some city cupcake who doesn’t know how to tack a horse. God, she looks like a Friday-night buckle bunny!”
“Listen, Max, you pigheaded idiot.” Wyatt held a finger inches from his older brother’s nose. “One. You’re the jerk who chased off the last stable hand.” Max tried to interrupt, but Wyatt was only getting started.
He put up a second finger. “Two. No one in town wants to work for you. That ad has run all week and we haven’t had one applicant. And after going over the numbers this afternoon, we don’t have any time to waste.”
“Hell, Wyatt—”
“Third. If you’d pull your head out of your behind, you’d see that this girl knows what she’s doing.” He gestured to the stallion. “Look at your horse.” Trouble’s coat gleamed, and even his hooves had a shiny coat of black polish. “I can’t believe you gave her a stallion to work on. You know as well as I that your cowhands wouldn’t have succeeded in getting him in the crosstie, much less picking up his hooves. But she did. At least until you came out here bellowing.”
Max sputtered. “I—”
“Just shut up and think a minute. If we open as a guest ranch, you can’t see the advantage of having a female employee? Especially one who looks like that? She could do a commercial as the ‘girl next door.’ It won’t hurt to have a view of more than the mountains for the male guests, you know.”
Max glared. “I haven’t agreed to your hair-ball dude-ranch idea. Dad’s having a heart attack in heaven, and you damn well know it.”
“Hey, if you’ve got a better idea for putting this ranch in the black, throw it out, bro.” He stood tall, crossed his arms, and stared his brother down. “Okay, Max. If you don’t want her, you go tell her. You’re the one who interviewed her.”
Trouble put his nose on Max’s shoulder and blew a warm breath in his ear. “Don’t you start on me too. You’re a guy. Guys don’t get pedicures. You oughta be ashamed.” He walked the aisle, but hesitated in the shadow of the barn door.
The woman stood at the paddock gate, frowning out at the sage-covered plain he felt sure she didn’t see. Resting a manure-encrusted shiny new boot on the bottom rail, she afforded him a great view of a slim backside in the snug, store-creased jeans. That damned wavy auburn hair lifted in the breeze. Bad enough he had to accept Jo—his Jo—married and settled with Trey Colburn. Could he stand walking around corners every day, having that red hair give him a cattle prod shot below the gut?
Yet as much as he hated it, Wyatt might have a point. If they were forced to turn the place into a “yuppie ranch” to keep the land, a female employee would be an asset.
As she turned her face, the wind blew her hair back. He recognized the “I will” set to her jaw. Maybe she had the stubbornness to survive out here.
He snorted. Yeah, right. Everything about her screamed “city.” He expected she’d scoot at the first cold snap. This land didn’t suffer fools, in spite of his brother’s plans.
Well, there’s enough starch in those new clothes. Let’s see if there’s any in what’s inside ’em.
Aubrey crossed her arms, chest tight, anger hissing through her. Wyatt seemed nice, but his brother was a cowboy Cro-Magnon. Even his father’s death was no excuse for total lack of professionalism or the manners of a baboon. She’d give Wyatt the courtesy of a goodbye, but then she was in the wind. Jackson Hole came next on her list, and she’d always wanted to see Wyoming.
“You have a résumé?”
At the sound of the gruff voice, she turned to face the jerk, happy to vent some belated comebacks. “To clean stalls? You’ve got to be joking. I don’t need your job, Dude.” She scanned the dilapidated buildings. “Besides, anyone can see this place is running like a well-oiled machine.”
He grinned and tucked his hands in his back pockets. “Well. There’s a little roar in the mouse after all.”
The abrupt mood shift caught Aubrey flat-footed, as did the transformation the smile made to his stony features. Animal attraction hit her like a slap. She took a step back, snapped her mouth closed, and narrowed her eyes. With that lanky build and rugged good looks, he probably charmed the hell out of country girls. She continued the stare down, which was more like a stare up, as he was at least six inches taller.
“Look, I’m sorry. Wyatt has a point. Maybe my father’s death affected me more than I realized.”
She wasn’t buying his line or the ingratiating look. He had no way of knowing that she’d learned about manipulation at the feet of the master, her scum-sucking former boss, Vic. More than once she’d seen him charm a ticked-off customer into apologizing for being rude. She ignored the stab of regret for her lost career and focused on the current irritant. “You used to sell used cars, didn’t you?”
Wyatt walked up, relaxed and smiling. “Believe it or not, he’s sincere. I’ve known him all his life. Trust me on this.”
She glanced between the two men. It was hard to believe they were related. Wyatt was tall and fine boned, with blond hair, fair skin, and features blurred by softness in his cheeks and mouth. Max was the darkness to his light, with sable hair, brown eyes, and cheekbones as strong as the mountains that rimmed the horizon.
His gaze settled on her face, his intent focus warming it like the heat from the sun. She crossed her arms over her chest to cover her body’s involuntary reaction. The guy fairly exuded testosterone—heady stuff to a girl who�
�d been locked up with women for a year. “Apology accepted. But be advised, my horseshit detector is set to high.”
“Fair enough. I’ll stop shoveling it.” With a last lingering look and a potent smile, Max turned and sauntered into the barn.
Aubrey glanced to Wyatt, unsure of her footing again. The guy didn’t even say goodbye.
“He’s crude, but he does have some well-hidden charm.” Wyatt gave her a salesman-on-commission smile. “Want a cup of coffee? I’d like to talk to you about our plans. That is, if Max hasn’t scared you off.”
“He hasn’t,” she said with a quick glance to the barn.
Wyatt led the way toward a long, weathered building. Aubrey followed him across the dirt yard. No longer preoccupied with the stress of the interview, she studied her surroundings. High Heather Ranch was settled on the plain ten miles from town. She’d seen only one other ranch on the way out. Something seemed wrong until she recognized the silence. No traffic rumbled on a two-lane blacktop. All she heard was the soughing of wind and the cry of a hawk riding thermals overhead. The smell of sweet grass came on the wind, the scent of wildness and high, empty places. It whispered past her ear. A place to heal.
She glanced past the imposing fieldstone and timber main house to a knoll behind it, where two white grave markers explained the small wrought-iron enclosure. The mounded brown scar in the emerald carpet declared the family’s recent loss.
Wyatt’s long stride had left her behind, and she trotted to catch up.
CHAPTER
3
Wyatt gestured for the “groom” to sit at one of the tables, then crossed the scuffed tile floor to an industrial coffeemaker on the counter. Max is right about one thing. This woman fits in here about as much as I do. He glanced to the hideous scar that the scarf at her neck didn’t quite hide. “We have ten hands at present. There used to be more.” He reached for the plain white stoneware mugs on the shelf. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black, thanks.”
He carried the steaming cups to the long table and sat on the picnic-style bench across from her. “So, why did you leave your last job?”
Her mouth twisted as if she’d smelled something nasty. Her eyes flicked around the room. “Bad breakup. I needed a change.”
He started to ask another question, but she broke in.
“I worked at English riding stable in Arizona for four years. I can give you the phone number of the owner for a reference if you’d like.” She set down her mug with a clunk. “I can get a horse show ready in two and a half hours, including braiding mane and tail. A Western stable can’t be that much different. I can learn what I need to know in no time.”
“You don’t want to tell me about yourself?”
Her shoulders flinched before she straightened. “Sure. I’m a hard worker, and I’ll give you an honest day’s work for your wage.” She lifted the mug again and took a sip. “How did the ranch get a pretty name like High Heather?”
He’d allow the subject change. For now. “My great-grandfather, Jock Jameson, was a prizefighter. Family legend has it that he left Boston one night after making a bundle throwing a fight. In any case, he had the cash to buy land when he arrived.” He took a sip of coffee and licked his lips. “He said the blooming sage reminded him of Scotland, so he named it High Heather. It seems he had a bit of a soft spot, in spite of his violent career.” He straightened and looked her in the eye. “Before I waste your time, you need to know that this job pays minimum wage. Room and board is included. You get one full day off a week, or two afternoons, if you’d rather.”
“That’s fine.”
He waited, but that was all she had to say on the subject. “All right, then. Before you make up your mind, let me take you on a tour of the place.” He stood. “It’ll be easier to show you than to explain.” She stood, and at her nod he led the way to the dooryard. Hiring her would solve the groom problem. He wished he could rub out the small kernel of homesickness in his chest. And the quicker I get this place settled, the quicker I can get home to Boston. The kernel opened to a pit of loneliness. And to Juan.
“We hope to open as a guest ranch.” He gestured to the cluster of buildings that made up the ranch headquarters: the rambling fieldstone and timber main house, barns, corrals, and several buildings adjacent to the dining hall. “You can see there is a lot of work to be done.”
She scanned the yard. “If you don’t mind my saying so, your brother doesn’t seem as enthusiastic as you are about the project.”
He snorted. “Max is not a fan of change. He expected to live his life as a cattleman, as our father did.” He looked past the buildings at the scrub-filled grassland that stretched for miles. “But the demographics of the area have changed. The ski slopes brought wealthy tourists, who bought vacation homes. They’ve driven up the price of land, which jacked up the property taxes. Add to that the falling price of beef. Many ranchers are selling out, making more land open for development. It’s a vicious circle.” He turned to face her. “If you want the job, it’s yours.”
“But your brother—”
“Is an idiot and he’s short a groom. Don’t let him scare you off.”
Aubrey smiled and extended her hand. “I’ll take a chance on you, if you’ll do the same.”
Max needs someone to shake him out of his cave. I know him—he wouldn’t have reacted so rudely if this woman hadn’t threatened to get under his skin. This could be interesting. They shook on it. “You’re certainly not going to fit in at the bunkhouse. We’ll put you up in a bedroom at the main house. Follow me.” He started off.
“I don’t think so.” Her voice was quiet and slow, but hard as frozen concrete.
He stopped and turned. “Pardon?”
When her face flamed, the ugly scar stood out in bold relief. Her hands dove in her pockets, and she stuck out her chin. “I’ll just bunk in the barn.”
He frowned at her, head cocked. “Where? In a sleeping bag in the hayloft?”
“If you used to have a bigger crew, you’ve got to have an extra cot around here somewhere.”
Her panicked demeanor reminded him of a cornered animal.
“I can sleep in the office. I’ll clean it up, and with a stout lock, I’ll be fine.”
Her pleading look twisted Wyatt’s gut. She wasn’t going to budge. “All right, if that’s what you want.” He stood a moment, thinking. “There’s a restroom in the dining hall, but you’ll have to use the house to shower. Tia Nita is almost always there. She’s our cook, housekeeper, and the boss most of the time. I’ll take you up to the house later and introduce you.”
“Sounds like a plan. Is it okay if I go unpack now?”
Wyatt nodded and watched her walk to the Jeep. He had more questions than answers, but at least he and Max wouldn’t have to flip for that job anymore.
Her nose tickled. Aubrey grabbed a rag from her back pocket to cover an explosive sneeze. The past two hours spent cleaning had paid off. The office was now dust, cobweb, and vermin-free. She looked down. The same couldn’t be said for her. Good thing she’d changed the fancy interview outfit for a T-shirt and worn jeans.
Sun streamed through the now-sparkling window set high in the wall, lighting a snowstorm of dust motes on its way across the floor to hit her favorite watercolor on the opposite wall. Under the window sat a narrow iron-framed cot that had been delivered by two shy, brown-skinned cowboys. She’d made it up with a Navajo blanket she’d found in a corner. The men had also carted off an ancient footlocker, trash, and other flotsam of her afternoon’s labor.
At the head of the bed, an ancient gooseneck lamp and her laptop were all that remained on the battered desk. She’d almost left the computer in her mother’s garage, but at the last minute gave in to the siren call of her old life.
Aubrey fisted her hands in the small of her back and groaned. This room must have been a dump for every marginally useful piece of junk from the last twenty years. Kneeling, she gathered a change of clothes
from the suitcase she’d stowed under the cot. She had to find a bathroom—soon.
Trotting to the main house, she ignored the men who dismounted shaggy cow ponies outside the corral. When no one answered her knock, she cupped her hand around her eyes, and putting her nose against the screen, she peered into the shadowed kitchen. Manners might dictate she wait, but her bladder commanded otherwise, so she opened the door and rushed in.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed back. Thinking it would be less rude to wander in without invitation than to pee on the floor, she barreled through the door to the entrance hall.
“Ooof.” Head turned, glancing through doorways, she collided with a solid chest. Bouncing off, she smacked into a hall table, dislodging a china pitcher. Max grabbed her upper arm to steady her, then caught the vase with his other hand.
He dropped her arm and replaced the pitcher, glaring at her all the while. “Who let you in?”
She rubbed her stinging hip as she clutched her change of clothes to her chest.
“I’ll explain everything. But first, for the love of God, where is the bathroom?”
He stepped aside and pointed to a door down the hall. She ran, hearing what might have been a muffled chuckle as she closed the door.
An hour later, Max knocked on the doorframe of what she already thought of as her room.
“Dinner is ready in fifteen min—wow.” He looked around the room, his glance stopping at the cot. “Who’s going to sleep here?”
Aubrey finished capturing her damp hair in a ponytail, adjusted the bandana at her neck, and turned from the tiny mirror she’d hung next to the door. “I am.”
The lines of his face morphed into the familiar stony mask. “We’ll see about that.” As his chest expanded, his gaze combed the room. “It smells like a damn beauty parlor in here.”