by Leigh Riker
“And we have a laundry setup on the back porch.”
“No, it’s in the basement.” Logan was standing by the door now.
“I guess I can figure out a washing machine,” she said, giving in to a smile, “as long as it’s not the old-fashioned wringer kind or a washboard. And takes quarters.”
Sam cackled. “You got a good sense of humor. I like that.” He glanced at Logan. “This house could use a few laughs.” His sharp gaze pinned her like a butterfly to a mounting board. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine last month.”
He sank back against his pillows. “You want babies?”
Logan shifted his weight. “All right, Sam. Time for you to sleep.”
“I don’t need a nap. I’m ready for supper.” He paused. “As long as it’s not more canned stew—and I don’t want some TV dinner tonight either. No one ever called me picky but...” He pointed at her. “While you’re at it, make me some decent lemonade.”
“If life hands you lemons...” she said, which was the story of her life.
Blossom actually believed the old saying, but she’d think about the disaster she’d made of things so far, and about her dubious future, later.
She was already half in love with Logan’s grandfather. Better still, the isolated Circle H offered a temporary hiding place.
* * *
“WHAT IS THIS stuff I’m supposed to eat?”
Logan stared at the yellow glop on his plate. After calling the Mother Comfort agency to say Blossom could stay temporarily but to keep looking for a male replacement, he’d left her to Sam for the rest of the day. Because bison rarely had trouble giving birth, Logan had watched half a dozen cows safely deliver the first spring babies in six far-off pockets of the ranch. He’d brooded the whole time.
That haunted look in Blossom’s eyes was enough to bring a man to his knees. Determined to suppress the disturbing thought, he’d ridden home near sundown hoping for some peace of mind and a hot, home-cooked meal. Not too much to ask, was it?
He could hardly blame Sam for complaining about the stew. Logan had fixed too many skimpy frozen dinners in the past few days, too many cans of mediocre chili. He’d had to admit it would be nice not to have to rustle up something himself.
Now he couldn’t identify anything on his plate except the rice, if that’s what it was, under all that goop. The two cowhands who lived at the Circle H were eating dinner here tonight. Another pair had gone home to their families, and another couple worked only as needed. Seated at the long plank table that, to his surprise, was set with his mother’s best china, Willy and Tobias made curious sounds.
“Madras curry,” Blossom finally said from behind a pitcher of flowers at the opposite end of the table, her head bent over her dish, her russet curls shining in the overhead light. She wouldn’t look him in the eye, which seemed to be a habit of hers whenever things weren’t going well.
“You mean like a plaid shirt?”
“It’s a province in India.”
Logan didn’t consider himself to be an ignorant man. But in his regular job as a test pilot he flew mostly local flights around Wichita and it had been a long time since geography class. Still, he’d also served time in the military and now watched Jeopardy some nights to keep aware of the world beyond this place.
“I know where India is,” he said at last, glancing at the two cowboys, who were trying not to laugh. They kept sneaking looks at Blossom, too, but for some reason he didn’t want them to notice her like that.
“You know about Madras, do you, Willy?”
“Sure. I’ve ate curry. Before that restaurant in town with the bead curtains closed last year.”
Willy, a rough-hewn six foot four with dishwater blond hair and hands like shovels, hadn’t lifted his fork. Any other night he would have been done by now, his plate all but licked clean. Logan had assumed Willy was a meat-and-potatoes man like him. He was clearly lying to please Blossom Kennedy.
She raised her head. “Try it,” she told Logan. “It won’t kill you.”
Tobias, the other cowhand, eyed his plate.
“Your cooking come with a guarantee, Miss Blossom?”
She half smiled. “I guarantee it’ll fill your stomach.”
“Good enough,” Tobias said, then dug in to his food.
His balding crown glowed like a pearl on his lowered head. Both men were eating now. What about Sam? Logan cocked one ear but heard only silence from the second floor. It wasn’t like his grandfather to remain so quiet. Frowning, he pushed rice around. “Did Sam eat this?”
“Without a word,” she informed him.
“You don’t say.”
“Yes. I am saying, Mr. Hunter.” So they were back to that again. Two bright flags of color appeared on her cheeks, but her voice stayed soft as if she was afraid of offending him too much. “I should think, after the day’s work you put in out there—” she waved toward the darkened window “—you’d eat anything that didn’t move, especially when you didn’t have to heat it yourself.” Despite the brave words, her eyes held that uncertain look again. “If you don’t like it, there’s sliced turkey in the refrigerator, a ripe tomato and some bread. You can make yourself a sandwich.”
Or go hungry, her tone implied. Like a traitor, his stomach grumbled. At the sound, Willy snickered and Logan glared at him. His men hunched over their plates, forks flying. Tobias even smacked his lips. If he said one word, Logan would fire him. Or think about it anyway. He’d taken enough jabs in the past three years since his divorce. He wouldn’t be laughed at.
He picked up his fork and took a tentative bite then another. If he didn’t look at the stuff, he could get it down at least. With an audible gulp, he swallowed. Fire hit his throat, and he grabbed his water, which Blossom had served in his mother’s wedding crystal. Logan emptied the glass, certain steam was coming from his ears.
“What’s in here?” he managed, eyes watering.
“Curry powder, of course. The hot kind, too.”
Logan glanced around the table but didn’t see the same reaction from Tobias or Willy. Both men were shoveling in food as if they’d skipped breakfast and lunch, which Logan knew they hadn’t. Wait a minute. Had Blossom given him an extra dose of curry powder?
“What makes it so yellow?” It looked almost orange.
“The turmeric—it’s one of the spices—and some saffron, too.”
“I thought that was a color.”
“It’s also a spice, from which the color got its name. It comes from the stigmas of crocuses.”
He grunted, not wanting to be impressed by her knowledge. Stigmas? He didn’t want to be eating flowers.
“Where’d you learn to make curry? In fact, where’d you find any curry powder? I doubt it was in the pantry here.”
“My father was in the service. We moved around a lot. I brought this curry powder with me,” she said. “It was a special order from overseas.”
“I bet.”
He leaned on his forearms, eyes fixed on a point just north of his plate so he wouldn’t have to look at what passed for his meal tonight, or at Blossom. Those frozen TV dinners had been the best part of his week after all. Miss World Traveler was different, all right. Maybe that explained her weird, shapeless clothes.
After his throat stopped burning, Logan managed to finish the curry. He imagined a woman like Blossom Kennedy must love tofu.
Her red curls had grown even springier from the humidity in the kitchen, but he didn’t want to think about her hair right now. Or anytime. He needed to make it clear that he was the boss here. “Next time—if it wouldn’t be too much to ask—I’d like a nice thick steak, some home fries and a pile of green beans.” He sent her a thin smile. “I’m partial to green. Never cared much for yellow.”
All she sa
id was “You’ll learn to love it.”
Logan tried to shut out the choked-off laughter from the two cowhands. A couple of comedians. He’d deal with Tobias and Willy later. But he wondered what had put that haunted look in Blossom’s eyes and, never mind her other travels, why she was clearly on the run.
CHAPTER TWO
LATER THAT NIGHT Blossom surveyed her temporary bedroom. She’d made it through dinner, even held her own with Logan Hunter, although it would be an understatement to say her new boss wasn’t impressed by her cooking. She’d tried to make the meal special with lacy place mats and the few flowers she’d found in the neglected garden, but it had been Willy and Tobias who kept up the conversation.
At least she’d managed to wash the dishes without breaking any of Logan’s best family china.
By the half-open window she plopped down in an old rocking chair. Its wooden arms were worn to a smooth patina that soon warmed under her hands, and the nighttime breeze smelled of grass and animals. Blossom breathed deep. The aroma was better than perfume to her. She’d never had a home like this, but oh, more than anything she wanted one. Her bedroom. The chintz curtains weren’t her style, nor was the fading forget-me-not wallpaper, but tonight she had a job—if only she could do it to Logan’s satisfaction. Something she’d never been able to do with Ken.
Blossom put a hand over her heart, making sure the treasure she’d put there was still safely tucked away. She should feel peaceful tonight, but of course she didn’t. As clear and sharp as broken glass, she recalled how quickly Ken had changed from the attentive boyfriend who said he loved her into the coldhearted fiancé who seemed to hate her.
Not all men, she kept telling herself, had his mercurial temper. Just the ones she’d known. She hadn’t seen that in Logan—yet—but then men like Ken and her father never showed their true colors until it was too late.
Blossom slipped a hand under her oversize shirt to touch the small picture she’d hidden in her bra. Carefully, she withdrew it then held it near the light to study the creased, blurred sonogram image in black-and-white, trying to make out a tiny hand here, a foot there.
She saw no need to tell Logan about her baby. If she could keep from getting fired for even one week, she would take her pay and hit the road again.
Every week, every mile down the road from Pennsylvania to Kansas, every awful job she’d taken to stay alive and protect her unborn baby, took her that much farther from Ken. She had to keep going.
She held the picture to her chest and began to hum, as if the baby she carried was already here in this safer place, his or her sweet, warm body against hers.
Blossom shut her eyes. Tonight she was in a nice, if a bit old-fashioned, room in a wide-windowed, airy house in the middle of nowhere. A house that only needed a woman’s touch—even hers—to feel homey again. Once she got the hang of it, this job wouldn’t be half-bad. And while she was here, Blossom meant to do it well. As well as she could anyway.
Comforting herself, she rocked and sang.
About a little baby...and a mother who’d buy her a mockingbird.
* * *
IN THE DARK Logan listened to the soft melody that drifted from the upstairs window. He pushed the front porch glider with one sock-covered foot. For years it had had the same creak, even before his parents had died, and even when his grandmother was still alive, but he wouldn’t oil it. Neither would Sam. Everything in this house had its own special sound by now, and he didn’t see any reason to paint the metal swing while he was here either. A few rust spots sure wouldn’t ruin his faded work jeans. No problem.
But Blossom? She had trouble—big trouble—written all over her. And that was a problem he didn’t need.
Hours after he’d choked down that too-hot curry, he was still seeing her at his grandmother’s table tonight using his mother’s things. She’d looked more at home there on her first night than any of Mother Comfort’s other candidates would have in a dozen years. No, she’d looked relieved.
Sure, she was pretty enough—although he’d never been drawn to redheads before—but what really got to him was that lost look about her. And if he kept seeing her as an appealing woman, a woman in need, rather than an employee...
Logan wasn’t looking for love. Blossom, on the other hand, looked as if she’d found it then lost it somehow and wouldn’t be the same until it was in her grasp again.
He had enough to worry about. One day he’d been in Wichita about to flight-test a sweet new jet, vying for the promotion he badly needed—the one with better pay that would allow him to fight his ex-wife for joint custody of their now six-year-old son. The next morning he’d been back on the Kansas plains, a temporary cowboy again.
The soft tune floated down to him once more from the window, and the glider jerked to a stop. He should be inside going over the ranch accounts, because no way could Sam do them right now. With his mind on some other planet, he couldn’t be trusted to make any decisions. Instead, Logan had been sitting out here alone in the blackness with a sweet song for company, thinking sad thoughts about his broken marriage and the child he seldom saw.
Upstairs Blossom was buying a diamond ring for some baby she sang to.
He wouldn’t fall for Blossom Kennedy. If she thought he’d missed the travel plans that shone in her eyes, she was mistaken. She wouldn’t stay long.
Neither would he.
* * *
“GIRL, SET YOURSELF down a spell. You haven’t stopped moving all morning.”
Sam’s blue eyes sparkled, all the more vibrant in his pinched white face as he lay back against the fresh sheets Blossom had just put on his bed. She elevated Sam’s head on a stack of pillows and tucked an old but hand-sewn quilt around him. Dull sunlight streamed through his bedroom windows, which were filmed with dust, and Blossom made a mental note to wash them.
“Rest,” she said. “Your grandson won’t thank me for making you more tired this morning than you were when I got here yesterday.”
Sam grunted. “What I’m tired of is being in this bed.”
“Logan is right. The more you rest, the quicker you’ll heal.”
“What’s that?” he said. “Another old wives’ saying?”
She smiled. “I don’t know any old wives.”
Sam snorted. “That was good lemonade you made for dinner last night. Tart but just sweet enough.” He grinned. “Too bad my pucker was wasted. Some woman missed the best kiss of her life.”
Blossom laughed. “You’re bad.” Gathering up his used sheets, she walked to the door. He looked pale to her, and although his running conversation had been sprinkled with corny jokes while she cleaned his room, she sensed he wasn’t quite himself. Blossom could read moods as fast as any high-speed computer could crunch numbers. “You take a short nap and when you wake up, I’ll have lunch ready.”
He straightened. “More of your curry?”
“There’s none left.” She raised her eyebrows. “The other men took care of that. And you,” she added. Last night Sam had eaten two helpings.
“Not Logan,” he guessed.
“He finished his dinner, too, but he wasn’t happy about it.”
“Fussy eater. Always has been.” Sam shook his head then seemed to think better of it. He rubbed one hand over his forehead. “That boy didn’t eat anything but grilled cheese sandwiches until he was ten years old. Then came beef—when I still ran cattle like his daddy and grandpa before me. Even then, he still wouldn’t touch anything that didn’t start out bawling, on four hooves, right here on the Circle H.” He paused. “Far as I’m concerned, my bison now are better than beef. They yield less fat and more protein. But Logan won’t even try the meat.”
We’ll see about that. “He needs to expand his horizons.”
Sam’s expression turned wistful. “I wish I could have seen him choke do
wn that curry. I heard Tobias and Willy laughing all the way up here.”
Blossom didn’t miss his underlying message.
“You can join us for dinner as soon as that dizziness goes away. I’ll save your place at the head of the table.”
He fell back against the pillows again, as if the spinning in his brain had gotten worse, and Blossom felt her heart clench.
“I am kind of tired,” he admitted. “Too much thinkin’ yesterday. I’ll rest my eyes to get ready for lunch. Don’t tell me what it is. Surprise me.”
Blossom had no idea what to serve, or if Logan and his men would come back to the house for the noon meal. Maybe she should ask him to approve her menu—as soon as she made one. With a last glance at Sam, who had turned his face away, she stepped out into the hall.
“Olivia?” The unfamiliar name stopped her, the bundle of sheets in her arms. “Thanks. Makes a man proud to have a daughter-in-law like you. Now, if you and Logan can just set your minds to giving me a few more great-grandkids...”
He trailed off and Blossom’s heart sank. He’d mistaken her for his daughter-in-law. Yesterday he’d thought she’d come to the ranch in answer to some singles ad. When Logan had asked him his name, Sam had stopped to think. He was clearly disoriented, at least part of the time, but she wouldn’t make things worse by pointing that out and upsetting him.
“We’re working on it” was all she said.
With her cheeks feeling flushed, Blossom carried the old bedding down the stairs, through the front parlor and the dining room, and on into the kitchen. She dropped the pile down the laundry chute.
More great-grandkids, Sam had said, which implied there was at least one already. Blossom hadn’t seen any children and certainly no wife for Logan. So where was Olivia?
None of that was her concern. As long as Sam got well enough so he could leave his bed, she’d feel she’d done her job here. It was the least she could do in return for finding this brief refuge at the Circle H.
The sunny morning and the vast expanse of land isolating her here on the ranch lifted her spirits. If she could find Logan, she’d ask about the lunch menu she didn’t have yet. While she was at it, she’d tell him about the incident with Sam.