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Page 87
He spoke, just to regain his mental balance, his arms tight against his body. “I’m sorry about being such a hard case. I just want to make sure everything goes smooth for Rip.”
“You’re a good friend,” she said softly. “Rip’s lucky to have hired someone who looks out for him like you do.”
While he paused, Felicia’s hand floated up to coast over her arm, over the area he’d touched. The reminder of the intimate accident made him go hot in the face, all over his body. The innocence of her movement couldn’t have been more seductive, laying him bare because he wanted to do it one more time.
Wanted to do so much more.
He started to walk toward the front door, running away yet again, but her voice stopped him.
“I have a confession.”
The low song of her tone slowed him down, turned him around.
She shrugged, pointed toward the oven. “The crisp? I didn’t make it. My friend Emmylou Rhodes is a real fine chef and she sent it over with me today. I only warmed the dessert up.”
A flush stained her cheeks and he could guess that she hadn’t wanted to let this particular cat out of the bag.
Had she wanted to impress him that much?
“But,” she added, “I really can cook. I just need a flexing period, like a ballet dancer.”
She sounded so sincere, so well-meaning.
In fact, it looked as if her soul were in her eyes, reaching out to him, trying to convince him to step over the line he’d drawn years ago. To give up and allow her in.
“I’ll—” he motioned toward the front door “—be outside. Eating.” He turned back around then walked a step or two. Stopped. “Your food. Eating your food.”
Now, that awkwardness had been prizeworthy.
Leaving well enough alone, Jackson retrieved his hat, then drew it down over his eyes as he made his way to the table with the other wranglers.
He never even glanced back at Felicia.
Looking back would hurt too much either way.
As Felicia began to collect the gravy-sopped plates from the outside table, the men stoked a fire in a cement ring, gathering around the night heat to relax.
“Leave that for later,” Rip said, emptying her hands. “Dishes can always be cleaned, but the stars are right beautiful at this moment.”
One peek at the crowd around the fire assured Felicia that Jack hadn’t gone to the bunkhouse. She was shocked that he hadn’t burned rubber out of her sight yet, what with the way he’d actually opened up to her in the kitchen.
Opened up being a relative term, of course. But, for Jack North, that touch on her arm had been akin to a nationally televised speech.
While Rip hobbled to the fire, she took a second to relive the dizzy moment—in slow motion, even.
Jack with the hint of a grin.
Jack loosening up.
Jack’s hand rising, coming closer, meeting the skin of her upper arm.
Jack looking horrified.
She’d just as soon forget that last part because it didn’t fit too well with the fantasy. But at least the other images would keep her going until morning.
Progress! Tonight, fleeting contact. Tomorrow…?
When she sat on one of the tattered lawn chairs, the men welcomed her. The wrangler named Carter had even pulled out a harmonica and he was working on some tune Felicia didn’t recognize.
Rip patted her knee. “Carter’s learnin’, and we’re toleratin’.”
The men chuckled—even Jack.
Now, why was it so hard for her to get a laugh out of him?
She noticed that he was sitting far away from the flames, a part of the group without actually being in the midst of it. He was even facing away from the fire, as if pretending it wasn’t there.
“At the risk of sounding like an ingrate in the face of such accomplished music,” said a cowboy named Stoverson, a man who sat straighter than the rest of the workers and had a deep, oddly cultured voice, “I’d like to hear Ms. Markowski’s story.”
“That’s right,” Dutch said. “We all go through it when we’re hired on. Campfire introductions. A rite of passage.”
If possible, this wrangler’s skin was in even worse shape than Rip’s. Not that Dutch was ancient; he just hadn’t aged gracefully.
“Then, Ms. Markowski,” Rip said, “it looks like it’s your night to entertain us.”
She thought she saw Jack’s shoulders rise in slight laughter as he reached into his jeans pockets then brought out the switchblade and a fresh stick of wood.
Snick, snick, went his whittling.
“I’m not all that interesting,” she said. “Unless you want to gossip about the Rhodes family.”
Dutch leaned closer and Carter set down his harmonica.
“Is it true,” Stoverson said, “that one of the sons married a maid and leveled a stroke on big Mr. Rhodes after it was all said and done?”
“The cook,” Felicia said. “Deston married the cook. Emmylou’s one of my best friends. And as for Mr. Rhodes’s stroke, Deston didn’t eventually bring it on as much as lots of eating, smoking and working did.”
Dutch flipped a cigarette into his mouth, lit it to life. “I hear everyone on Oakvale has to take medical classes now,” he said around the smoking stick, “in case Mr. Rhodes has another attack.”
Felicia shook her head at the exaggeration. “Mrs. Rhodes has us trained in CPR, and there’s a nurse on the premises. It’s just a matter of caution, just in case any of us happen upon him at a bad moment.”
Yes, maybe it did sound like overkill, but Felicia would go any distance for her employers. She would even learn to do open heart surgery to keep Mr. Rhodes safe, if it came right down to it.
Carter and Dutch tripped all over each other, asking more questions, immediately tagging themselves as the gossip hounds of the group. But Felicia swerved the talk away from the Rhodes family’s personal matters and kept up her end of the campfire bargain by offering anecdotes about her massive family: stories about her great-great-grandparents settling here, her mother and father defying the wishes of their parents and marrying outside of their ethnicities, the tradition of working on the Rhodeses’ estate for the women of her family.
It occurred to Felicia that she was performing for Jack, trying in a roundabout way to bridge the gap between the two of them, using bystanders as go-betweens.
“I saw all those cousins running around Oakvale,” Rip said. “Hundreds of them. Good-looking rug rats. Is your family aiming to take over the county? Are you all going to breed until there’s no room for anyone else?”
Even though Rip was joking, the comments sliced through her.
When she hesitated, too distracted to answer, Jack glanced up, their gazes connecting.
For a heartbeat, he looked into her, hard features gentling. Searching.
Had he somehow heard about her problems? Was that why he was already so standoffish, because he didn’t want to start anything with a woman who couldn’t follow through with the promises her gender was born to make?
This time, Felicia was the one who broke eye contact, standing, brushing off her jeans just to give herself something to do.
“Those dishes aren’t going to wash themselves,” she said. “You boys have fun.”
They tried to convince her to stay, but she couldn’t.
Not with Jack still gauging her.
Chapter Five
T he next morning, after Felicia had served up fried eggs, beef, potatoes, fruit, coffee and juice, the men went their separate ways: Dutch and Carter were fixing the water tank floats in the corrals while Jack and Stoverson made a trip to Wycliffe to buy fencing posts and wire for repairs. Rip had traveled with them in order to see a lawyer about the final legal paperwork for guardianship of Bobby, whose arrival was just around the corner.
Before all three of them had piled into the pickup’s cab, Rip had found Felicia wearing long rubber gloves and taking a scrub brush to the nooks and crannies of his kitc
hen.
“This shack’ll be brand spankin’ new if you’re not careful,” he said, leaning against a chair.
Felicia rested her hands on her thighs, unmindful of the dirt she was getting on her work jeans. “I’ll be sure to leave a few spiderwebs and dust bunnies, just to keep this place feeling like home.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Usually, Rip delivered his conversation with more spunk. What was going on with him?
“Anxious about Bobby?” she asked.
“Hell, yeah.” He exhaled, seemingly relieved that she’d guessed. “I’m an ancient bachelor. Never had more than a dog for a pet, not countin’ the horses and beeves, of course. But that’s not the same, is it?”
“You’re willing to give him a home. That counts more than anything.”
“Let’s hope.” He started to leave, then shot her a sheepish glance. “Say, you got the fixin’s to make more of that apple stuff tonight?”
Had Jack told Rip about Felicia’s culinary deception? That she wasn’t exactly a crisp queen?
“Anything you want,” Felicia said, determined to whip up the best treat they’d ever tasted. “And I’ll have lunch ready for everyone, to boot.”
Rip sighed, patting his flat stomach. “What did I do to deserve you, little Markowski?”
“You must’ve lived a good life at some point.”
After the rancher took his leave, she shone up the kitchen to her satisfaction, then set to work on the food. Emmy and she had raided the Oakvale pantries, so there was no shortage of cooking supplies.
She’d also made copies of Emmy’s favorite recipes; the apple crisp was indeed among them.
And she was off, determined to make mouths water and tummies groan with pleasure—especially since she’d seen how much Jack had enjoyed the aroma of Emmy’s baking yesterday.
Felicia wanted him to feel the same way about her cooking. It was silly, really, possessive and competitive, but she wanted to give Jack something she’d made with affection.
Something she’d produced herself.
Following Emmy’s directions—and even adding some coconut flakes that she found in the Oakvale pantry supplies—Felicia mixed the ingredients, then baked her buns off.
When noon rolled around, she’d swarmed the cabin with the aroma of homemade goods. The crisp—and lunch—had turned out beautifully.
She could be of use in the kitchen, doggonit.
As she served the lasagna outside at the long table—sure, it wasn’t the most challenging of dishes, but she’d done it without messing up—even Jack seemed to like it. He gave her a slow nod, then shoveled the cheese and pasta into his mouth, looking for all the world like a man who hadn’t eaten in years.
It was the best compliment she could have hoped for.
So he’d been wrong about Felicia, Jackson thought, savoring the final bite of his favorite Italian dish. Definitely way off the mark.
She really was serious about keeping them all well fed.
While Rip and the wranglers stretched out of their seats then wandered back to work, Jackson took a moment, rested his elbows on the rough table and lifted a cup of coffee to his lips, keeping Felicia in his sights as she collected the dishes.
Even in threadbare jeans and a faded red sleeveless shirt, she was something to behold. She’d pinned up the light strands of her hair so the pale column of her neck was exposed, damp curlicues clinging to her nape.
He imagined stirring one of the locks with a finger, allowing the caress to travel forward to her throat. Once there, he would stroke her skin, gently, easing her—and himself—into a kiss.
A soft, uninhibited kiss.
Heat invaded him at the thought of his lips whispering over hers, his fingertips skimming over her collarbone, then her chest….
“Can I take your plate?”
It was her voice, shaking him into the here and now. She was standing behind him, loaded down with dishes piled on top of one another.
Even though he itched to ask her if she needed help, he stayed seated, afraid to stand up. To find himself weak-kneed or, worse, tent-poled in the zipper area.
When would his body ever grow up? You would think he was thirteen again with the way it was acting.
“I’ll clear the rest of the table in a second,” he said. Once again, he sounded too damned gruff so, on a lighter note, he added, “Thanks.”
“No, thank you.”
As she whisked by on her way to the cabin, her fragrance swept over him. A sunny day in a meadow. Butterflies, long grass and not a care in the world.
He wished he could feel that way beyond a sniff of perfume.
He watched her walk up the porch steps, carefully balancing her load, her curvy hips swiveling under jeans that hugged her rear end.
Running a hand over his face, he cut off his own view, made sure he was put together well enough to greet the public, then stood. He cleared the rest of the table, taking his time.
When Jackson finally entered the cabin, composed as ever, she was already elbow deep in sink suds.
She seemed to sense him behind her and glanced over her shoulder, arms still submerged.
Great. He was on her radar.
And damned if he didn’t find himself sort of happy about that.
“There he is,” she said with enough pep to convince him that they hadn’t seen each other for the last year. “You can put your cargo down.”
She indicated an open space of counter with her chin, and he complied, dishes clattering.
“So what are you doing for the rest of the day?” she asked.
He couldn’t tolerate just standing there, so he scraped the plate remainders into the trash. Not that he meant to show her they had some sort of truce going on. He still wasn’t comfortable with her around, but he didn’t want to be a layabout while she labored away, either.
“Rip’s got me going over his accounts,” he said, grabbing a towel and a dripping dish from the drying rack. At her inquisitive glance, he added, “I’ve got a business background.”
And that was all he was going to offer by way of personal information. No need to go into the details of his former life: the MBA from Texas A&M, the horse-breeding venture he used to run with Jenna and had planned to pass on to Leroy and Lucas someday.
“Hope you get some good news from Rip’s books, then.”
Felicia deposited a few cleaned forks in the rack while he let the comment go by without a response.
Like an efficient assembly line, he took up where she left off, making quick work out of the now-spotless utensils.
It crossed his mind that they were a decent team.
Silence stretched between them. Nothing to talk about. Nothing in common.
Maybe she’d catch on that they were about as far apart as two people could be and leave it at that.
Yet, instead of pushing her agenda, she merely sent him a contented grin, acknowledging the fact that they were getting along pretty nicely without needing to yammer on.
Ironically, he rushed to correct the misconception.
“You can’t tell me you’re enjoying it here,” he said, “hanging around with a bunch of campfire coots.”
“It’s not like I have a fantastic nightlife. You’ve been to Wycliffe. Honky-tonks aren’t really my thing.”
“Then how do you meet anybody? I mean…” It sounded as if he was fishing for her dating history—which he wasn’t. “How do you meet…friends?”
She gave a tiny chuff, telling him she knew he wasn’t interested in friend talk.
Jeez, it was true, wasn’t it? He did want to know about Felicia’s boyfriends and all the reasons a woman like her was unattached.
Without looking, she guided a plate to the rack, but he was too quick on the trigger. As he grabbed it, their fingers brushed, zinging a bolt of electricity bone deep.
An encore from last night. A second touch, as powerful as the first.
A pause shattered the space between them. Had the
same jagged attraction split her apart, too?
He busied himself, clearing his throat as a preemptive strike.
“Let’s see,” she said, blushing slightly. “How do I meet…friends?”
Done with the dishes, she let out the water, spraying the suds away with the movable faucet head. “Setups, compliments of my relatives. Taking random classes like quilting or self-defense from the local community college. Going to rodeos or grabbing a burger at the soda shop…. How do you meet…friends?”
Damn, she smelled so good. “I don’t.”
“You should try it, Jack. It’s not so bad. Of course, relationships don’t always turn out so great, either, but what’s life without some risk?”
It’s safe, he thought. That’s what it is.
He finished drying the last dish while Felicia tidied up the kitchen. There were a couple of pies and a cooled crisp near the windowsill on a flat wire rack, and he suspected that, this time, they were all her doing.
He warmed at the realization—just a little.
“Of course,” she added, her back to him, “there’re times when you’re plum out of luck after you take a chance. I could tell you all about my last boyfriend, but I don’t think you’d want to hear.”
A stab of jealousy lit through him. Boyfriend.
He didn’t want to hear about it.
Laying his towel on the counter, he backed away.
Idiotic, that’s what he was being. He had no time or inclination for getting-to-know-you talk, for clever dating conversation that would lead to a dead end.
“I’ll let you get to work,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to do, too.”
“Sure.” The word came out perkier than usual, but almost in a way that overcompensated, that told him she’d been put in her place.
Had the reminder of her last boyfriend gotten to her? Or was Jackson’s rudeness finally too much for her to handle?
“Thanks, again,” she said.