Martha saw something flare in his dark gaze for a second or two, just a flash and then it was gone, but it told her that beneath the grim exterior was a man who cared very much for the well-being of his daughters. He took a big swallow of his coffee.
“B-but this is crazy.” She managed a shaky laugh.
“Crazy?”
“Crazy. You really don’t know anything about me, for starters.”
“Ah, hell.” He waved one hand dismissively. “I talked to Vi—she likes you. Bloss showed me your application. You’ve got decent handwriting. Strong. Honest. Straightforward.”
If only he knew!
He drained his mug. “That counts for something. I expect people to be honest with me. Or, if they’re not, I expect them to have a damn good reason to lie. Either way’s fine with me.” He set down his cup. “And you’re a widow, to boot. Just what I’m looking for, although I have to say I’d’ve preferred someone a little older.”
Widow? Straightforward? Dear God, everything she’d told him so far was a lie!
“How much are you offering?” she asked. This was a business proposition, after all. His remark about her age, well, she’d let that pass. How old was he? Thirty-five? Forty? Forty-five? Hard to tell with these tanned outdoor types.
He named a salary, not a lot, but of course room and board was part of the bargain, and it wasn’t the money she cared about, anyway.
“No cooking?” She was only teasing, only echoing the ad.
“Nope. I’m a fairly decent cook myself and so is Bloss, believe it or not. She’s had to be, poor kid.” He frowned, shrugged, didn’t explain. “A neighbor a few miles down the road comes in to keep house for us once a week.”
He stared at his hands, spread wide and flat in front of him on the table. They were work-hardened hands, the backs tanned and scarred, the fingers long, strong, capable. Martha could feel the tension in his posture, could feel the answering tension in her own body. It couldn’t be easy for such a man to admit to a stranger what he’d just admitted—that he needed help. He’d said the girls needed a woman in their lives, and no doubt they did, but she knew, too, that it was his way of saying he couldn’t cope on his own any longer.
“Sounds all right to me,” she said finally, to her own astonishment. What in heaven’s name was she doing? And a few months was all she could give this odd little family. What then?
“Fine.” His expression, when he glanced up to catch her gaze, held grim triumph. Another man might have smiled. “When can you start, Mrs. Thomas?”
“This afternoon.”
THINGS HAPPENED FAST. Maybe too fast.
A few hours after she’d agreed to look after Fraser McKenna’s two little girls, her belongings had been packed up and transferred to McKenna’s red Ford Bronco, stenciled on both doors with what she assumed was the name of his ranch—Westbank Rambouillets. Her hotel bill had been paid, and with Fraser and his daughters following in the Bronco she’d driven her rental car to the agency in Rock Springs. She’d wondered, as she drove, if she was doing the smart thing.
What was the smart thing, anyway? All her life she’d done the smart thing, and where had she ended up? Just one more casualty in the downsizing operation of a big media conglomerate, that was where. Maybe this was the time to do something crazy for a change, now when it didn’t really count.
That something crazy had put her in the passenger seat of a stranger’s dusty vehicle heading north, God only knew how far. Maybe she should have asked.
“How did the dog…get hurt?” She’d already found out it wasn’t easy making conversation with this man.
“Spook?” Fraser glanced at her, then frowned back at the empty road, which had begun to wind up into rugged hills. They hadn’t seen another car in half an hour. Martha saw a sign that read: Pine Ridge, 102 miles.
The mangy three-legged mutt growled softly from the floor behind her. He lay at the feet of the two girls, who were both sound asleep in the back seat in a tangle of hair and knees and elbows and potato-chip crumbs and comic books and stuffed toys. The dog’s name was Spook, Daisy had told her.
Well named, Martha thought. The mutt didn’t like her much; that was clear. The feeling was mutual. He’d growled almost constantly from the moment she climbed into the vehicle in Rock Springs.
“Got him from a fellow two winters ago who found him wandering down at Big Sandy,” Fraser said finally. “He’d been abandoned, the fellow figured, and had pretty bad frostbite. Vet had to amputate his back leg.”
“Poor dog!” Martha couldn’t help a twinge of sympathy, despite her opinion of Spook. “How could anyone do that—just leave a helpless animal on its own to starve?”
Fraser looked directly at her, then back at the road. Martha thought his look suggested more than his words indicated. “Maybe it was an accident. Maybe the dog ran off when his people stopped for gas or something.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Anything could’ve happened.”
Yes—and who knows why the rescuer had brought the maimed animal to Fraser McKenna?
The man beside her shrugged again, winced and swore sharply under his breath, his shoulders tensed. His head must be killing him. Maybe that was why he was so quiet.
“Anyway, you might have noticed he’s not too friendly. But the girls like him fine. And he won’t let me go anywhere without him.” He gave Martha the shadow of a smile.
He must have really tied one on last night, she thought. Still, even scowling and unshaven and not much more than surly, he was a pretty attractive man. Physically, anyway. She could see why the unknown Katie Barker took such an interest. A boozer and a woman-chaser, Anne had said bluntly, reporting Mrs. Jamieson’s opinion. On the other hand, Martha supposed there weren’t too many eligible men in this part of the country, even if this particular one came with two children attached. Perhaps Miss Barker couldn’t afford to be that choosy.
My new boss.
Martha turned toward the window, trying to ignore the dog’s faint menacing growl from behind her. Well, she’d taken on the job with both eyes open. At least until she made up her mind what she was going to do when she went back home. If she went back home. But whatever she ended up deciding, she’d only be at this ranch for a few short months. Unless, of course, this Katie Barker or some other Wyoming lass managed to drag her employer to the altar before then.
Wild Wyoming man or not, Fraser McKenna didn’t worry her. Not on a personal level. Sure, he seemed a little unfinished around the edges, a little abrupt, a little blunt. Sure, he was handsome as the devil himself, if you liked the type, all big and rough and brooding. But he was polite enough in a rather charming old-fashioned way, and he wasn’t the first good-looking man she’d seen up close. She could handle that. He’d been truthful with her back at the hotel. Honest, straightforward—which was more than she’d been. She liked that about him. Mostly, it was clear to her that he loved his daughters deeply. That one simple fact outweighed everything else.
And—who was she kidding?—deep down, Martha felt excited as heck about the turn of events. How often did a city woman like her, who’d grown up with pavement and dancing lessons and summers at the lake, have the chance to spend time on a genuine Western ranch? This was an adventure. This was a bonus. This was serendipity. This was Lady Luck. And it wasn’t as though she’d committed her entire life to anything.
“What are rambouillets?” She was pretty sure she’d mangled the pronunciation, but at least he’d probably talk about whatever kind of beasts he raised. Most of what she knew about ranching she’d gotten from the movies.
“Ram-bo-lays,” he enunciated slowly. At least he didn’t seem to mind her occasional pesky questions. “They’re sheep. I run about—”
“Sheep!”
“Yeah. Sheep.” She heard the faint smile in his voice. “I run a couple of thousand head on my high range in the summer. Wool and meat, mostly wool. I have a smaller year-round operation down at the main ranch—purebreds and breeding stock. So, yes, sheep
,” he repeated. “That surprise you?”
“I guess it does. I thought a rambouillet was some kind of fancy cow. I had no idea there was anything but cattle out here in Wyoming.”
“Cattle, sheep, hay—whatever pays the bills. I’ve got a neighbor who raises ostriches.” He turned, and she couldn’t be sure if the gleam in his eye meant he was kidding. Ostriches! He had to be. “I’ve had cattle for years, and I’ve still got some. Whitefaces. But I prefer the sheep.”
“How many staff?”
“Two pretty regular. Tom’s my top hand, and his cousin Alfred’s on the payroll. Then I’ve got a couple of part-timers, depending on the work. More during lambing and branding.”
“You mentioned someone comes in to do some work in the house. Does she live far away?” Even if the ranches out here were few and far between, it’d be nice to have another woman to talk to occasionally.
“Couple of miles.”
Martha waited, and when there was no more information forthcoming, she continued, “Young? Old? Married? Children?”
He smiled slightly, but said nothing.
“Does she do a good job? Do the girls like her? Does she have a name?” Martha finished in frustration.
“Name’s Birdie. Birdie LeBlanc. Yeah, she’s married.” He shrugged. “Husband’s name is Hugh. He works for me off and on. You’ll meet her soon enough.” The subject clearly held no interest for him.
Martha gave up. She leaned her head against the vinyl headrest and closed her eyes. She envied Anne and Daisy the health and youth to be able to fall asleep so easily. Sleep was something that had too often eluded her these past few weeks. Maybe it would be different up at Fraser McKenna’s ranch.
She opened her eyes a sliver to glance at him. He was frowning again, driving a little too fast over what must be familiar terrain. Occasionally he swerved to avoid potholes. He leaned against the driver’s door, relaxed, slouched away from her. One hand on the wheel, eyes intent on the road. Preoccupied. Distant. Once more she felt that sense of buried power—physical, vital, tautly controlled. Secrets. A sense, too, of his separateness. A deliberate separateness. A feeling that some faint chord sounded inside him, music only he could hear.
Utter fancy.
Martha wrenched her eyes away and closed them again—ah, the bliss of sleep, of not remembering. She yawned, remembering to yawn delicately, simply by widening her nostrils, ladylike, the way Gran Thomas had taught her. As if this man would care if she showed all her fillings.
Then, suddenly, she felt a tiny giggle rising to the surface. Of course he’d care—she was the Lady Companion. She was supposed to be setting a good example.
Somehow the impossible happened. She slept. The next thing Martha knew, she was waking up, cold, uncomfortable, scrunched up against the passenger door. Her mouth felt full of cotton wool, and she heard the whimpered protests of the girls waking in the seat behind her, the deep soothing tones of their father and, outside, dogs barking. A door slammed, Fraser’s door. It was dark, very dark, except for a few yard lights, and she could see a thick blanket of stars in the sky. She’d never seen so many stars; hadn’t known there were so many.
“Hey!” She nearly fell into his arms as he opened her door. Her legs were cramped and numb. “Ouch.”
“You okay?” It wasn’t much in the way of comfort.
She grimaced. “Sure. I’m fine.” Martha cracked a tiny smile to herself. The overhead light was bright in her eyes, and she wondered how she must look, stupid with sleep, eyes blinking, neck cricked and stiff from her awkward position. She swung her legs toward the open door and stumbled out.
“Ouch!”
“Hold on.” He put his arm around her shoulder and held her firmly against his side as her left leg gave way. Martha could feel the pins and needles in her knee and calf. It was nothing to the sudden pounding of blood in her brain. Fraser McKenna hadn’t touched her until now, hadn’t even shaken her hand when they met. Even now, he acted as though he couldn’t bear to be near her, stepping back awkwardly the instant she put her weight on her lame leg.
“I’m fine,” she said, but she knew her voice was unsteady. “Just give me a minute. I—I guess my leg went to sleep.” She took a couple of deep breaths and limped away from the truck. The air was cold and sweet. She could smell dead grass and leaves and the bark of trees, and felt frost crunch under her thin soles. A couple of ghostlike black-and-white farm dogs kept a respectful distance. She shivered. “This is your ranch?”
“Westbank Ranch. West of the Blue.”
“The Blue?”
“The Blue River.”
She heard the quiet pride in his voice, felt the knowledge in her bones that this man was home, that he knew he was home, and that the place he called home meant a great deal to him.
“I’ll get the girls out,” he said gruffly, and moved away into the darkness. The farm dogs followed him, tails wagging. Spook leapt about, his missing leg apparently little handicap. He snuffled through the frostrimmed grass, relieved himself against a nearby bush, then trotted back to deliver a last threatening growl at her.
“Beat it,” she said halfheartedly. He raced around to the other side of the vehicle, to where Fraser had managed to bundle Daisy against his shoulder and lift her clear. Martha followed. Anne had already climbed out, her hair awry, her face creased with sleep. She scowled as Martha reached out to give her a hand. My, my, Martha thought. Independent. Like father, like daughter. But she let Anne shake off her offer of help and watched as the girl trailed across the ghostly grass after her father, Spook trotting importantly, if awkwardly, at her side. They walked toward the dark bulk that must be the ranch house. Daisy’s bedraggled kangaroo dangled from one small hand, the other hand tucked near her mouth on Fraser’s shoulder. Martha knew where her thumb would be. The farm dogs had bounded ahead and disappeared into the darkness. No one looked back. No one seemed too concerned about waiting for the Lady Companion.
Martha grabbed two of her bags from the back of the Bronco and followed.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, the girls were tucked in their beds, pajama-less, but at least Martha and Fraser had managed to get jeans and socks off before allowing them to curl up under the quilts in their T-shirts and underwear. Martha walked toward the door. There were toys everywhere, and clothes. But something about the room struck her as unusual. What was it?
She turned as she reached the door, felt her heart twist as she saw Fraser lay one large hand lightly, briefly, on top of each sleepy head. No doubt he’d bend down to kiss them if he was alone.
Martha looked away quickly and stepped into the hall. This was a private moment between the man and his children. His gesture spoke of deep and tender feelings, feelings impossible to share with a stranger. It made something inside her hurt unbearably to face the hard truth once again—she would never touch the sleep-sweaty brow of a child of her own.
She shivered. Fraser had turned up the heat when they’d first come in, but the house was still cold. Cold and silent. She felt as if the very walls were watching her, as if they disapproved of her.
Where had he put her bags? Martha looked around, taking in the roughhewn structure of the building, log beams exposed, walls thick with many years of paint and wallpaper. An old-fashioned dark wood wainscoting ran at waist-height along the hall. It was a plain house, what she’d seen of it so far, plain and substantial. Like the man who lived in it.
“I put you down here.” The man in question emerged from the bedroom, turning off the light behind him and leaving the door ajar. “This way.”
He set off down the hall and Martha followed. She’d been put in the room at the end of the hall, opposite the girls’ room and beside another bedroom. His? The bathroom—she peeked in quickly as she went by—was next to the girls’ room.
“I hope this suits you,” Fraser said gruffly, standing aside to let her enter. Martha went forward quickly. Her bags were at the foot of a high white-painted iron bedstead, the mattress covered in a
nother quilt, this one faded with time and many launderings. There was a dresser, walnut, from another time, and a chest with drawers, also dark polished walnut. A painted door led, presumably, to a closet. The floor was bare. It struck her, then, what had seemed so odd a moment ago—everything in the girls’ room looked new. Brandnew.
“This’ll be just fine,” Martha said. Somehow she knew he’d been waiting for her reply, because she heard him let his breath out slowly. Relief? “I’ll want a reading lamp of some kind for the bedside table,” she added. “And maybe a chair.”
“I’ll fix you up tomorrow.” He didn’t move, and she glanced up at him uncertainly. Did he want to say something more? She hoped not. Lord, she was tired…. “That all right?”
“Fine.”
“Bathroom’s across the hall,” he said, leading the way again. “Sorry, but we have to share it. There’s another one off the kitchen.”
Martha nodded. “That’s fine.” Then she laughed weakly, an afterthought. “Look, I don’t want you to think I’m terribly fussy about my arrangements. I’m not. Maybe in the morning we can go over what you expect from me—my duties, that sort of thing…”
“You want a hot drink or anything now?” he asked. “Coffee? Tea?”
She didn’t, but she could tell it was a formal gesture of hospitality on his part, an effort to make her feel welcome. She supposed she could manage to keep her eyes open for another ten minutes or so.
“That would be lovely. Maybe some hot chocolate.” She smiled again, and this time saw a flicker of response in his eyes.
In the kitchen, she sat at the scrubbed wooden table as he prepared their drinks.
“How’s your head?” she asked tentatively.
He gave her a rueful smile. “A lot better.” He plugged in the kettle, then began to rummage through a cupboard.
“Despite what Bloss may have said, I’m not much of a boozer,” he commented dryly, pushing aside a box to reach into the back of the cupboard. He seemed more relaxed here in his own house than he’d been all day. “Never could handle my liquor, even as a young fellow. That’s why I generally stay away from it. I always pay for it when I don’t.”
Judith Bowen Page 3