Mac's Law

by Sarah McCarty

  He hovered as she climbed the uneven, wooden steps. “Your boss would have been a heck of a lot more impressed if you’d worn a pair of jeans and running shoes.”

  “How was I supposed to know my boss was going to be so easy to impress?” She stepped into the foyer ahead of him, silently cursing her impulsive tongue. They’d just reached a truce and now she was heating things up again. What was it about the man that just made her itch to make him sit up and take notice? She glanced over her shoulder, took in the breadth of his shoulders, the flash of humor in his blue eyes and the intelligence in his rugged face. Okay. So she knew why. She just needed to learn to handle it better.

  The same way she needed to learn to handle how he could make a look trace over her skin with the impact of a touch, leaving goose bumps springing to attention, her breasts swelling and her nipples perking with availability.

  For heaven’s sake, the man was a walking pheromone. She folded her arms across her chest in self-defense, forcing strength to her knees and looked right back at him. With no visible effect. Darn it. First chance she got to go to town, she was getting a book on how to reduce a man to a puddle of mush with a look. She definitely wanted tit-for-tat in that department.

  Her boss noted the crossing of her arms with a lift of one dark brow, his mouth quirking up at the corner. She so did not want to know what he was thinking. She stared back at him and waited. The other side of his mouth turned up before he motioned to the right of the center staircase.

  “The kitchen and pantry are through the dining area there. There is a separate eating area for the hands. We reserve this room for company.”

  Jessie took in the room with its old fashioned floor-to-ceiling windows and the lace panels filtering out the late evening sun. More lace covered the table and the mahogany sideboards. There was an aura of family in this room that didn’t only come from the collection of pictures covering the mantel of the brick fireplace. A sense of continuity. “Has your family owned this house long?”

  There was no mistaking the pride in his voice when he answered. “My great-great-great grandfather settled this land back in 1855. It took some doing, and we almost lost it once or twice, but a Hollister has always lived here.”

  She smiled wistfully. “It must be nice to have such a strong sense of where you come from.”

  He hesitated as he hefted the suitcases again. “Nobody in your family kept records?”

  “Not that I know of.” Her family had been small, just consisting of her mother and herself. Now, it was just her.

  “I’ll show you to your room.” With a wave of the smaller suitcase, Mac motioned her to go ahead of him up the stairs. “Third on the left,” he instructed when she reached the landing before reverting to the discussion at hand. “If you really want to trace your roots, I’ve got a friend who does it professionally.”

  She shook her head and forced smile. “That’s not necessary.” She really didn’t want to know how many people she could have met, should have met, and never would meet.

  He shifted his grip on the suitcases, the muscles in his upper arms straining his shirt deliciously. She’d never been turned on by muscles before, but on this man each bulge and flex was enticing. Almost an invitation for her hands to wander.

  “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  “There’s not much point. My parents are both dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  So was she. Some days. “Thank you.”

  She opened the door and stopped dead. Her bedroom was a beautiful light-filled study of yellow and white. Here and there bright touches of blue caught the eye.

  “This is wonderful!” She turned to Mac and reached for the larger suitcase, attempting to take it from him. “It’ll be a pleasure to stay here.” She tugged.

  He didn’t let go. He did step further into the room, forcing her to step backward. “I’ll tell my sister you like it.”

  “This is your sister’s?” she asked, reaching for the smaller suitcase. He arched his brow at her and shook his head. She frowned at him. He smiled back. She gave up trying to take the suitcases from him.

  “Won’t she need it?”

  “No.”

  “Should I be staying in it?”

  “Yes. I’ve got you staying two doors down from me for a reason.”

  “I hope it’s a good one.”

  That sharp comment earned her an impatient look. Jessie didn’t really care. Niggling, uncomfortable bits of suspicion were creeping up her backbone. After all, beyond the fact that the man had great buns, just what did she know of Mac Hollister?

  His eyes narrowed as he realized what she was thinking. “I have no intention of paying you any late night visits.”

  “That’s a relief.” And wasn’t she just the biggest liar to come down the pike this year?

  Mac removed his Stetson and slapped it gently against his thigh. Something she was beginning to realize the man did when he was bothered.

  “The truth is,” he admitted gruffly, “I can’t say the same for all of the hands. I’ve got a couple of new men this year that I don’t want to find out about the hard way.” The battered Stetson slapped against his hard thigh a couple of more times as he weighed the dilemma in his mind.

  “I understand.” And she did. She even appreciated the concern.

  “Dammit,” he ground out, “I was expecting a man.”

  “I told you it’s all right.” And then because curiosity always sat on her shoulder, she asked, “What about your sister? Will she mind?”

  Mac looked up from the spot he’d been studying on the floor. “What? Oh, Amanda. She just got married. God willing, we won’t have to put up with each other for a long time.”

  “You don’t get along?”

  He shrugged and tossed her biggest suitcase—the one with all her cookbooks in it—up on the bed as if it were a feather pillow. The mattress croaked a protest.

  “We get along fine. We’re just too much alike, and there can only be one boss to an outfit.”

  “And you’re it.”

  “And I’m it.” He glanced at the door, his words revealing his mind had never left the previous subject. All the delicious possibilities of why that was sent her hormones into ecstatic cartwheels. “If you’re nervous about staying in the house with me, I can get you a more substantial lock for your door.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  He stopped, frowned and thumped his hat against his thigh. “Maybe I should get you one anyway.”

  Jessie placed her hand on his forearm as he swung the smaller suitcase up on the bed. The muscles beneath were hard and jerked at her touch. “There’s no need. I trust you.”

  He studied her hand as it rested on his arm for a full five seconds before his blue eyes locked with hers. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  She knew what he was telling her. He was interested in her. She also knew a man that could be so loved by an entire town to the point that they saw his life as theirs to worry over, wasn’t going to rape her. “I’m going with my instincts on this one.”

  The hat came to an immediate standstill. “And your instincts say to trust me.”

  “Yup.”

  “Damn.” With precise movements, he placed his hat on his head and adjusted the angle. His smile was slow and easy as he grazed her cheek with his callused fingers, then turned and walked away, without another word, leaving her to wonder about that “damn” and all its possible ramifications.

  Chapter Three

  At four o’clock the next morning, Jessie was in the kitchen gathering her ingredients for Sunday breakfast. Mac had said the previous evening that it wasn’t necessary to cook this morning. Most of the hands had Saturday night off and probably wouldn’t show for breakfast anyway, but Jessie knew differently. Hungry men who had been surviving on the remains of the meal she’d cleaned up last night would be lining up outside the door with optimistic faces to see what the new cook could do. And she had no intention of disappointing th
em. The way she figured it, if a threatened revolt had landed her this job, another one could allow her to keep it.

  She grabbed a colander and started scooping the dried apples out of the water in which they’d been soaking. She gave them a shake and frowned. Assuming she wanted to keep it. She dumped the apples in the large stockpot on the stove. As she went back for more apples, she acknowledged that was a pretty big assumption considering the temptation she had tossed and turned with half the night.

  She sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. More than she needed this job, she needed to live. To experience the things other women her age had long since tucked into memories. She dumped the last of the apples into the pot. For the last ten years she’d been taking care of her mother as she’d battled Alzheimer’s. That hadn’t left much time for dating, let alone deeper relationships. As a result, she was way behind in life experience. And quite frankly, she was eager to catch up. The problem was, despite her determination, this last year, she hadn’t met a man who could get her hormones to flutter let alone get them into an uproar. Or a man who didn’t run when she exposed her real desires.

  Until Mac. She poured the sugar and cinnamon mixture over the apples, dropped the cover on the pot and turned the heat to low. Mac was her fantasy come to life. Everything she’d ever wanted. He had that edge to him that told her he could handle her dark side. Might even enjoy it. She sighed. It just figured she’d have to choose between employment and satisfaction. Seems no matter what she did, she leaned toward the hard way. Her mom always said it was because she loved the challenge, but she was wondering if maybe she just had a penchant for bad luck.

  She hefted the batter bowl to the chair seat so she’d have some leverage. Grabbing the large slotted spoon, she whipped the batter for apple pancakes. Convincing Mac she was worth the trouble might be her second biggest stumbling block. She blew a tendril of hair off her face. A man of his looks and age no doubt had tons of experience. Educating a woman of her well-read but limited practical experience might not be his idea of fun. She grabbed a precooked ham and cut off thick slices in preparation for frying. Reluctance on his part would definitely put a crimp in her plans, but it wasn’t going to stop her. More than anything in the world she wanted to know what he could do with the sexual energy that throbbed through her when he was around.

  A glance at the clock revealed it was almost five a.m. She put the coffee on. As with everything she’d made that morning, she estimated the amount she would require to feed teenaged boys and doubled it.

  Turning back to the stove, she checked the temperature on the lard she had heating. Three hundred seventy-five degrees. Perfect. She dropped the first round of doughnuts in. Before the second batch had been pulled from the softly hissing oil, she heard the first set of boots hit the back porch. She turned with a smile. “Good morning.”

  “Ma’am.”

  He stood there after the introduction, doing nothing but breathing deep, and scoping out the kitchen. And her.

  She took the opportunity to stare back between doughnut loads. The cowboy had obviously taken great care with his appearance. His face was smoothly shaven and scrubbed clean, handsome in a rugged outdoorsy way. His clothes were too good to be working clothes, and his boots were the fancy kind a man wore into town. She judged him to be in his forties. His hair was a dirty blond cut short and his eyes were a friendly grey. And he was making her uncomfortable with his staring. The way all men did. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be found attractive. She just didn’t know what to do with it. After she gave the apples a quick stir, she did what she always did with male attention. She redirected it to an area in which she was comfortable. Her cooking. She dropped two doughnuts into a paper towel and held it out.

  “Want to be the official taste tester?”

  “It’d be my pleasure.” The way he smiled at her made her wonder if he thought she was flirting.

  “Damn—I mean darn, this is good,” he managed through the second bite.

  “Thank you.” The bliss in his expression was familiar ground. “The coffee’s ready if you’d like some.”

  “The name’s Will, ma’am, and I’d love a cup of coffee if it comes with another one of those.” His gaze fell to the plate Jessie was filling with the next batch of doughnuts.

  Jessie laughed. “The name is J. C., and help yourself.”

  Will proceeded to do just that, but at his first sip of the coffee, her confidence took a hit. Obviously she’d screwed that up. “What did I do wrong?” she asked. Will took another swallow, but his grimace made it obvious the brew wasn’t improving with familiarity.

  “This stuff’s on par with cat p—” He caught himself. “It’s pretty weak, Jessie.”

  She didn’t even bother to correct his misunderstanding of her initials as she reached for the pot. Damn, now she’d have to start over and that was going to throw off her timing. “If I start again, do you think you could show me the way it should be done?”

  Will got there before she could. “I’d show you, but there’s no time for that now.” He motioned with his head to the hot grease. “You’d better put some more of those doughnuts in, because as sure as shootin’, when I don’t come back with my tail tucked between my legs, those boys down at the bunkhouse are going to start believing what their noses are telling them.”

  Jessie scooped the ham steaks off the grill, slipped on some more and glanced at the wall clock. “Breakfast isn’t supposed to be until six a.m. on Sunday,” she said as she cut and flipped doughnuts into her hand, before deftly slipping them into the oil.

  Will grabbed a couple of handfuls of grounds and threw them into the coffeepot. “Ma’am, we’ve been listening to you clank around in here for a good hour and a half, and everyone’s been saying how nothing you cook up could taste as good as our imaginings.”

  Jessie turned the doughnuts, allowing herself a small smile. She’d never met a man who could resist a fresh doughnut. “And why is that? I am a cook.”

  Will shrugged. “When the boss came down to the bunkhouse last night and left his sense of humor at home, we all kind of concluded that you must not be much of one.”

  Jessie judged the doughnuts ready and started transferring them to the plate to drain. “Mr. Hollister is a bit impulsive in his decisions.”

  “I’ve known the man for years and I’ve never known him to be impulsive.”

  She flipped the ham steaks over, checked the apple mixture and mentioned, “I’ve known him for less than one day and found him to be nothing but.”

  Will rummaged through the cupboards until he found some cheesecloth and some twine. He arranged the cloth over the spout of the pot so it worked as a filter. Pouring himself a cup, he took a sip before responding. “Mac takes his responsibilities seriously. If you got hurt, whether on or off the job, he’d consider himself responsible.”

  “I’m sure that makes him an admirable boss, but I’m pretty determined I’m getting a fair shot at this job.” She noticed Will wasn’t grimacing as he took another pull of his coffee.

  “How is it now?”

  “Not great, but nobody will croak on the stuff.”

  “Damn,” she swore as she added more doughnuts to her growing mountain. “I wanted everything to be perfect.”

  “Ma’am, you just put this pile of doughnuts in front of the men, and they won’t care whether you serve them mud to go with it.”

  She looked at the thick brew swirling in his cup. “From what I can see from here, there isn’t much difference.”

  He laughed a low, lazy chuckle. “In all my forty-eight years, I haven’t yet met a woman who didn’t feel that way.”

  “Glad to say I’m sticking within the norm.” The clomping of many boots on wood alerted her that the rest of the crew was here. She put the huge skillet on the stove, and ladled in the pancake batter.

  Will watched her for a moment before speaking his mind. “The boss was real explicit last night about your being off-limits.”

 
She glanced over her shoulder. “Off-limits?”

  Will shifted his hip against the counter, took a sip of coffee and continued. “Most of the crew are good men.”

  She put more ham steaks on and turned, “But?”

  “But we had to hire two new guys this year. They are excellent with cattle, but I’m not so sure about women.”

  “Which two are they?” She so did not want to end up the source of amusement for a couple of bad apples.

  He studied her face quietly for a moment. “Good to see you’re not getting angry at the suggestion that you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

  She checked the oven. The temperature was perfect. “I’m not stupid, Will. I can hold my own in most situations, but I’m not Wonder Woman. If there’s danger about, I’d rather be warned. Now, which two are they?”