by Linda Howard
Another truth: he missed Libby way the hell more than he’d ever missed Rachel. This morning he’d discovered—again—that he was out of clean socks. Maybe he’d have noticed beforehand if he’d folded his laundry and put it away in the dresser drawers the way Libby had always done, but this was summer and all he had time for was taking the clean clothes out of the dryer and dumping them in a laundry basket. That was his system: dirty clothes on the floor, clean clothes in the laundry baskets. Unfortunately, in the tangle of underwear, he hadn’t noticed that there were no more clean socks. He’d taken the time to throw a bunch of clothes in the washer and turn it on, and he just hoped to hell he remembered to transfer them to the dryer when he dragged himself back to the house tonight.
Come to that, he hoped he’d put detergent in the washer, but he couldn’t remember if he had or not. Shit. Maybe he’d be able to tell by smelling the wet clothes whether or not they’d been really washed, or just rinsed. If not, he guessed he’d have to run the washer again, just to be sure. He sucked at this housekeeping stuff.
He swung the hammer and it glanced off the heavy nail, catching him on the side of the thumb. “Fuck!” He said several more swear words, shaking his hand. That was what happened when you let your mind wander while you were trying to hammer something. Good thing he hadn’t been on a horse, or he might have ended up sitting on his ass on the ground.
But thinking about his domestic arrangements—or lack of them—wasn’t exactly letting his mind wander. Since Libby’s departure, all of that crap had been an ongoing problem. He and the men worked hard; they needed meals prepared for them, he needed clean clothes, by now it would probably take a pitchfork to clean out the house, and all of that made running the ranch harder than it needed to be.
But damned if he knew what the solution was. In the months since Libby had left he’d hired three different women to take her place. Well, no one could take her place; all he wanted was someone to cook, clean, and do laundry. Was that too much to ask of a decently paid employee? Apparently so, because none of the three had stayed. One had sat on her ass watching TV most of the time instead of getting things done. Another had said it was driving her nuts to be so far away from everything. In Zeke’s opinion, that particular drive hadn’t been a very long one. And the third one had caused trouble between the men, which had taught him a lesson about hiring a young single woman who was even remotely attractive.
So they were back to eating Spencer’s cooking again, and Zeke had been doing his own laundry, when he happened to remember it. As for cleaning the house … well, it would get done, eventually.
Aggravations aside, Zeke was a man who knew his place in the world and was happy in it—as happy as a man who didn’t have any clean socks could be, anyway. While other ranches were losing money, being sold, even turned into—God forbid—dude ranches or summer homes for movie stars with more money than sense, he worked hard to keep his corner of the world the way he liked it. Maybe the cash didn’t flow in nonstop, but he always found a way to get by, to keep his accounts in the black. It didn’t hurt matters that he’d been a big saver back when things had been great. Those savings had come in handy over the years.
His gaze went beyond the men to the mountains in the distance. He wasn’t a sentimental sap, but this was home. He didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Just about the time they finished repairing the fence, Zeke saw Spencer step out onto the bunkhouse porch. “Come and get it!” the kid yelled before ducking back inside.
Zeke pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. After putting away their tools, everyone trooped toward the bunkhouse. As ranch accommodations went, the bunkhouse wasn’t too bad. Only five of the men actually lived there; two were married and had their own houses, and the foreman, Walt, who was both the oldest and had been with Zeke the longest, had his own very small private house beside the bunkhouse. The larger building had six small bedrooms and three full baths, as well as a sizable common area that was furnished with battered recliners and a big-screen TV, and a full, if not very modern, kitchen. The bunkhouse was solidly built, had a wood-burning stove to back up the heating system just in case, and essentially served its purpose. The long trestle table would comfortably fit all of them; sometimes Zeke ate with them, though most of the time he opted for a sandwich, eaten alone, while he slogged through paperwork.
As soon as he stepped into the bunkhouse, his heart sank. It was oatmeal, all right, but then all he’d specified was that the food be “hot and fast.” Spencer had also added some cheese toast to the mix. The consistency of Spencer’s oatmeal aside, cheese toast wasn’t something Zeke would ever have picked to go with it. He felt like gagging. Judging from the expressions on the other men’s faces, he wasn’t the only one. Jesus. When he had time to do something about it, he seriously needed to look for a cook.
But not a woman. After the last fiasco, never again would he hire a woman unless she met the triple criteria of being at least middle-aged, married, and completely uninterested in horny cowboys. What he really wanted, now that he thought about it, was a male cook. Men could cook as well as women. Weren’t all the great chefs men? The fact of it was, nine dicks and one vagina together on one large slice of land just didn’t work, unless the woman was married to one of the men.
With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, some of the men sat down to shovel in a bowl of the gluelike oatmeal. Others opted for the cheese toast. None of them ate both. Patrick mentioned, in an almost offhand way, that he’d had instant oatmeal before and it wasn’t too bad. Figuring the cheese would stick with him longer than the oatmeal, Zeke grabbed a couple slices of toast before the others beat him to it.
Hell, he couldn’t fault Spencer. The kid hadn’t hired on to be a cook, didn’t want to be a cook, but did whatever Zeke asked of him. He did a marginally decent job in the kitchen, but he wanted to be a cowboy. God knew he’d never be a brain surgeon.
“Where do you need me, boss?” Spencer asked eagerly, around the toast he’d stuffed in his own mouth. His gaze went to the window, scanning the land before him and the mountains in the distance with the same kind of reverence Zeke himself felt. It would be cruel and unusual to put him to housework full-time. “Won’t take but a minute to do the dishes.”
“All hands in the hay fields,” Zeke answered briefly. Until the hay was in, everything else was on hold, including collecting semen from his prize bull, Santos. Selling bull semen had turned into a profitable business aspect of the Decker ranch, and no one was better with animals than Spencer. Whatever it was about him, he had a calming influence on them: horses, dogs, cattle—even bulls. When you were collecting semen from a two-thousand-pound bull, keeping him calm was important—or at least as calm as could be expected, under the circumstances. Therefore it only made sense that even though he was the youngest of the hands, and the one who had been here the shortest time, Spencer was the one in charge of this job.
Sperm collector and cook. Wouldn’t that look impressive on a résumé?
Walt cleared his throat. “Any answers to your latest want ad?”
Spencer looked up, hope in his eyes.
“None that’ll do.” He’d had one query, but the “no housework” stipulation had stopped that one cold. He’d rewrite his ads. He didn’t think he could get away with “elderly battle-ax preferred,” but he could sure add that a man was preferred. “Someone will turn up, though. Let’s get going, boys. This hay won’t get cut and baled by itself.”
SUMMERTIME, AND IT was barely seventy degrees in the middle of the day. After the broiling heat of Texas, Carlin enjoyed the mild temperatures, but she couldn’t help but wonder what winter would be like here—not that she’d be around to find out. Winter was months away, and there was no telling where she’d be by then, but it almost certainly wouldn’t be here.
The thought of moving on was surprisingly tough; the regular customers already treated her like she was one of their own, and always had been. She’d have been suspiciou
s of a stranger showing up out of nowhere, but Kat simply told everyone she was a friend, and that was good enough for her customers.
Had she ever been that trusting? Yeah, she had—once upon a time. But not now, and maybe not ever again. Before waiting on her first customer, she’d decided to tell them all to call her Carly. It was nice that Kat called her by her real name, that she hadn’t disappeared completely into a false identity, but to have an entire town—no matter how small—knowing her name wasn’t a good idea. One post on a social site about Carlin at The Pie Hole might be enough to bring Brad here; it simply wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, Carly was close enough so that she didn’t stumble when someone called her by that name.
Not for the first time in her life, she wished her parents had given her a normal name, like Mary, or Maggie, or any one of a hundred well-used names that didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. Her brother and sister hadn’t been spared the family curse, but Robin was a relatively normal name for a woman, and Kinison could be shortened to Kin. Her parents had loved to laugh so much they’d named all three of their kids after their favorite comedians. God, she missed them. They’d died too soon.
Today’s lunch crowd was a good one: mostly men, as usual, but there were a couple of women chatting away in a corner. One of the regulars was a skinny cowboy named Sam who tipped his hat and winked as he walked in the door. Carlin had already learned to dismiss the flirts, taking her cue from Kat. Usually all she had to do was simply ignore any overtures. If that failed, a cool look would do the trick. Maybe single women were a hot commodity in these parts, because a new one certainly did stir up a lot of interest.
Kat said business was up some since Carlin had started working there. Two single women, serving pie and burgers and endless cups of coffee, were apparently an irresistible draw for many of the cowboys Kat had warned her about.
That kind of attention made her a little nervous, but the flirting was good-natured, and most of the men—once rejected—seemed resigned to satisfying themselves with baked goods, caffeine, and a little harmless staring. She hadn’t had any real trouble with any of them, so she stayed.
She was settling into a comfortable routine. In the back of her mind she knew comfortable meant dangerous, but it felt good to just relax a little, let her guard down a notch and pretend she had a halfway normal life. She liked what she was doing, liked her employer, liked the lack of drama. She wanted to hang on here for just a while longer.
Routine was nice. Once lunch was done and the doors were locked, she and Kat would clean to whatever music Kat was in the mood for that day, which could be anything. Kat might get some baking done while Carlin cleaned, depending on whether or not she had any special orders. Then they’d share a quick, early supper, and Kat would head home, while Carlin went upstairs to quiet and solitude, which went a long way toward healing her tattered nerves. The next day they’d start all over again, except for Sunday, which was two days away. The café was closed then.
Carlin wasn’t sure what she’d do with herself, with an entire day and nothing to do. Well, nothing except her laundry, and cleaning her room, but that wouldn’t take long. It seemed forever since she’d had the luxury of time.
Maybe she’d read, or watch a baseball game in the kitchen.
Then again, maybe she’d have too much time to think, get antsy about this too-good-to-be-true situation, and run.
Chapter Four
ZEKE DROVE INTO Battle Ridge, taking care of a Monday-morning run he could’ve assigned to any of his ranch hands. He had to hit the hardware store, the feed store, and pick up a couple of pies from Kat’s place. Spencer had already bought groceries for the week, so he was saved from that chore. He had a thousand things on his mind, and driving alone gave him time to think. Ranch business was at the top of his list—hell, ranch business was his only list—including his inability to find a suitable cook and housekeeper. Over the weekend he’d tried again; he’d talked to a couple of applicants by phone, hoping to find someone who would do for now. If he could just find a cook to get them through the winter …
But not one applicant had been acceptable. Yes, he’d significantly narrowed the field when he’d decided not to bring another woman into the mix, but you’d think with the economy the way it was he’d have a good crop of men to choose from, honest men whose background checks panned out, and it would sure as hell be nice to get an application from someone without a violent criminal background.
Damn it, it was beginning to look as if Spencer might be doing all the cooking at the ranch from now on, which didn’t make anyone happy, Spencer least of all. Zeke knew he was running the risk of losing the young hand if he didn’t get his domestic situation straightened out, but for now they were making it work. Zeke hated doing his own laundry, and despised housework—not because of the work itself, but because it was added on to his already long hours. But, hell, what choice did he have? Spencer couldn’t cook three meals a day, handle his usual ranch duties, collect bull sperm, and be a full-time housekeeper, too. It was bad enough that the hand who was collecting the sperm was also doing the cooking; seemed like someone asked, before every meal, “Spencer, did you wash your hands?”
Spencer was a good kid, and he didn’t let the teasing get to him—for now, anyway. The situation was stable. Zeke wasn’t looking for perfection—that had been Libby—but right now he wasn’t desperate, either. He’d eventually find an older guy who liked ranch living, could cook, and didn’t mind doing laundry and all the other household crap. He didn’t have to settle for just anyone.
Traffic was light in Battle Ridge, as usual these days. Not for the first time, Zeke wondered what he’d do if many more of the businesses in town went under. The necessities were still available, but if the hardware store or the feed store closed, he’d be in a world of hurt. It would mean more hours on the road, driving into Cheyenne for those supplies he chose not to order from an online store. Besides, he liked having a hometown. Maybe he wasn’t the most sociable man in the world, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be a hermit.
He spotted a parking space in front of the hardware store, and was headed for it when a woman jogged across the street just ahead of him. He slowed to let her cross, and automatically gave her a swift, assessing look: blond ponytail, baseball cap, sunglasses … great ass, in a pair of nice-fitting jeans. She lifted a hand and waved, fast and casual, not even slowing down. He couldn’t see her face well, because of the baseball cap, but he was sure he’d never met her. It wasn’t like he knew everyone who lived near or shopped in Battle Ridge, but he’d damn sure have remembered that ass.
I’d look good on that, he thought, his eyes following the fine ass all the way to the library.
The instant thought was accompanied by a burst of heat in his groin, reminding him that it had been way the hell too long since he’d had sex, even with his fist. He’d been too damn tired after they got in from cutting hay, but thank God that was done now and he felt better about having enough hay to see the herd through the winter. Now he could think about other things, first and foremost being how it would feel to have a woman under him—maybe even that sassy blond, whoever she was. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her before, but the town was small enough he could probably find out who she was by asking one or two people.
Maybe he should check out a book …
After he parked Zeke headed for the hardware store, not the library. Nice ass aside, he had errands to do, and the blonde probably had a husband or a boyfriend. Or a face that could stop traffic—and not in a good way. A nice ass did not mean the rest of her was as appealing. Maybe he should just enjoy the memory of the unexpected sight and continue with his day.
Still, it was amazing what the mere sight of a heart-shaped butt in a pair of tight jeans could do to improve his mood.
CARLIN HAD BEEN in Battle Ridge for eleven days, long enough to have learned the rhythm of the town. The breakfast rush was over, Kat was working on the day’s pies, and a fifteen-minute break
was just long enough for her to cut catty-corner across the street to the small library, which was tucked in just a couple of doors down from the hardware store. A pickup truck coming down the street slowed, allowing her plenty of time to cross. She couldn’t see the driver well enough to tell if she recognized him, but she threw him a quick “thank you” wave as she picked up her pace. She was getting used to doing stuff like that. Already some people—regulars in The Pie Hole—smiled and waved when they saw her, as if they’d known her all their lives, as if she was one of them.
It was a little disconcerting. Until Brad had forced her out of her comfortable life, she’d been accustomed to the anonymity of cities, where she could come and go without being acknowledged by anyone outside of her circle of friends and acquaintances. She’d always felt safer, being anonymous. Yeah, that had worked out well, hadn’t it? Regardless of that, being noticed still made her feel exposed.
She also felt guilty, being the recipient of such unguarded friendliness. She wasn’t one of them, and she didn’t plan to stay around very long. But because it was the proper thing to do, and the move that would attract the least amount of attention, she always smiled and waved back.
The cool quietness of the library enveloped her, and she went directly to the public-access computers. She wouldn’t put her family in danger by contacting them directly, but that didn’t mean she was willing to completely lose track of Kinison, or Robin and her family. A fake Facebook profile connected to a free online email account and an old friend who served as intermediary made it possible for Carlin to touch base, now and then. She could let her family know she was okay, and see the occasional photo of her nieces and nephew. They were growing so fast, changing every day. It wasn’t as if she’d seen them all that often before her life had fallen apart, but they’d talked regularly. And she’d always known she could go see them at any time, if she wanted to. Now she couldn’t, and that loss cut deep. It was when she was in front of the computer, reaching out for a snippet of news about her family, that she felt most angry. Brad had taken her family from her, and she didn’t know when she’d ever get them back.