by Linda Howard
There looked to be a couple of storage-type buildings, and a huge barn. As soon as they drove past the barn, she saw the house. It was a pretty house, obviously remodeled and added on to: two-story, white, with a wide porch running across the entire front. There was a one-story addition, with a single step leading up to an inset rectangular concrete porch. Even farther to the right was a long, low building that she assumed was the bunkhouse. Between the two houses, and set back by itself, was a cabin that could be no more than two rooms, and both of them small.
Decker stopped his truck at an angle in front of the small porch. Dollars to doughnuts one of those doors opened into the kitchen, or more likely a mudroom leading into the kitchen. No one else was in sight. From the way Kat had described the ranch, Carlin had expected it to be bustling with activity, but except for the grazing horses she hadn’t seen any other living creature. Well, and Decker. She supposed he counted as a “living creature.”
She got out of the car and stood in the open doorway, abruptly suspicious as she looked around. Alarm sent tingles skittering up her spine. Okay, she knew it was irrational; Kat wouldn’t have steered her wrong, wouldn’t have sent her into a dangerous situation. Still … she was out here all alone with a man she didn’t know, regardless of how he made her hormones all jittery and happy. Common sense told her everything was okay, but common sense had been wrong about Brad. Keeping her right foot on the floor mat, poised to jump back in the car and hit the door lock, she gave Decker a flinty, narrow-eyed look. Her tone was flat as she asked, “Where is everyone?”
“Working,” he said shortly. “The cattle don’t live in the house.”
She didn’t want that to make sense, but it did. She slid her keys into her pocket, eased her foot out of the car and onto the ground. “Lead on.”
He reached for her car door, evidently to get her scant luggage from the vehicle, but some knee-jerk reaction made Carlin quickly thumb the remote and all the locks clicked down. Decker straightened and scowled at her. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’ll carry my own bags,” she said curtly. It was a small hill and she didn’t intend to die on it, but for now it was just the right size for needling him.
His green eyes went cold and narrow as he hooked his thumbs in his belt. His grim mouth set in a hard line so thin she could barely see his lips. “I don’t give a damn if I carry them, you carry them, or they walk in on their own, just stop wasting time so you can get started doing your damn job, and I can get back to mine,” he barked.
Jeez, what a grouch. She turned her head in case she couldn’t control the satisfied smile that threatened to break loose as she unlocked the car and hauled her bags out; he muttered something she was glad she couldn’t understand, then wheeled around and stalked up onto the porch.
He opened the door, and she noticed that he didn’t have to unlock it first. He might not like it, but unlocked doors were now something in his past, at least while she was in the house alone. And that reminded her … “I’ll need a house key,” she said as she followed him into the house.
“Why?”
The question so stupefied her that she stopped in her tracks and stared at him. “So I can get in when you aren’t here,” she explained as slowly and carefully as if he were just now learning English.
In response he said, “Let me show you something,” in almost exactly the same tone she’d used. He pulled the door shut with a bang. “See that round thing? We call it a doorknob, and we use it to open the door. Pay attention, now. See how I put my hand on the doorknob? Turn it to the right, and—” Slowly he demonstrated, and triumphantly thrust the door open. “I’ll be damned if the door doesn’t open! That’s how you get in when I’m not here.”
Ohhh, bonus points for both the demonstration and the sarcasm; she knew great smart-ass-ness when she saw it, and this was championship.
“Correction,” she cooed. “That’s how it used to work. From now on you’ll need a key, because I will be locking the door while I’m here alone during the day, and if I go to Battle Ridge for supplies I’ll lock the door when I leave. I hope you have two keys, otherwise you’ll be knocking on the door to be let into your own house.” Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she smirked at him.
He crossed his arms and leaned a broad shoulder against the doorframe. His expression hadn’t lightened, but a glint in those green eyes suddenly gave her the impression he was almost enjoying himself. “Suppose I can’t find a key?”
“Suppose I call a locksmith out and have the locks rekeyed?”
“Suppose you can afford that?”
“If I have to, I suppose I can.” Oh, yeah, she could play up-the-ante all day long.
“Will you give me a key if you do?”
She opened her mouth to shoot back that he could have a key only if he paid for it, but abruptly she realized the reason for his enjoyment. “Oh my God! You really don’t know where your house key is, do you?”
He shrugged. “It’s around somewhere.”
He was blocking most of the doorframe but one side of it was free, so she banged her head three times against the wood. Looking up at him with a scowl, she said, “I’m a woman. Wo-man. You might feel safe living way out here and not locking the house, but I don’t. I’ve been taught from the time I was in kindergarten to be cautious of strangers, to lock my doors, to park under a streetlight if I have to be out at night, and how to use my keys to jab out a man’s eyes. I need a house key. I can’t sleep in an unlocked house.”
“Can’t jab out anyone’s eyes, either.”
“I’d use my car key for that.”
His lips relaxed a little and he cocked his head to the side as he studied her for a long minute. She’d spent long months trying to avoid just that kind of attention, and it didn’t escape her notice that, with Decker, she was breaking her own rules about staying under the radar. She was smart-mouthing him when an employee in desperate need of a job, as she was, should be tripping over all the yes sirs and no sirs coming out of her mouth.
What the hell. Given the fierceness of her attraction to him, the only way to balance it out was to fight fire with fire, and keep needling him. He’d pretty much disliked her on sight—and never mind that, if she thought about it, the idea always gave her a little pang of hurt—so she’d do everything she could to keep that dislike bright and alive.
“Fine. You’re right,” he finally said. “I’ll look for the key tonight. If I find it, I’ll have it duplicated for you.”
“Tomorrow,” she insisted. “No longer. If you don’t take care of it, I’ll call a locksmith tomorrow.” She studied the lock on the door. “Come to think of it, I’ll call the locksmith anyway. Don’t bother looking for the key. You don’t even have a deadbolt. I’ll have one installed on all the outside doors.”
He rolled his eyes up. “You’re paranoid, you know. People out here all tend to have rifles and such, and anyone breaking in would have to assume—”
“I want to borrow one of your rifles, and a butcher knife, to keep in my bedroom until I can get some decent locks installed on these doors.”
He paused, eyeing her, and after a moment said cautiously, “A butcher knife?”
“For close-contact battle. Just in case.” She wasn’t kidding. She might be exaggerating a bit, but she wasn’t kidding. Since Brad, she’d done a lot of improbable, just-in-case things, arming herself with whatever she thought might work and cause some harm, or gain her enough time to get away, or both. She hadn’t slept with a chain saw beside her bed yet, but she didn’t rule it out, either.
“Paranoid, homicidal, and delusional—as in, if you think you couldn’t stop someone with a rifle, you’d have a chance with a knife.”
“Knives are more scary than guns. Most gunshots miss, you know.”
He gave a dismissive snort. “Mine don’t.”
No, his shots probably didn’t miss. He’d probably been hunting since he could walk. Okay, another exaggeration, but probably not
by much. “Well, considering I’ve never fired any kind of gun, I’m betting I’d miss. Maybe I should go for a shotgun.”
“I vote for a straitjacket.”
“Hah,” she replied, wrinkling her nose just enough to imply a sneer, to show him what she thought of his opinion. She gave a swift tilt of her head. “Are you going to show me the house, or keep me standing out here holding these bags until sundown?”
Having insisted on carrying the bags herself, she was fully prepared for him to snap something insulting at her, but instead he just rolled his eyes and gave her a mocking bow, sweeping his hand toward the door. “After you.”
She stepped inside a combination mudroom and laundry. There was a bench to the right, against the outside wall, and in front of the bench was an assortment of boots—regular boots, insulated boots, cowboy boots, even a lone set of sneakers. The congregation of boots wasn’t neat and orderly; it was a jumble, some standing like sentinels, some on their sides like fallen soldiers. One sneaker had sneaked in among the military contingent, while the other lay forlornly half behind the bench. The wall beneath the high window was lined with hooks, which looked to be three-deep in coats and jackets. The man was serious about his outerwear.
To the left were a modern front-loading clothes washer and dryer, mounted on pedestals … she thought. Either that or they were perched atop a truly astounding pile of clothes; she couldn’t tell for certain because the mounds completely covered the bases of the machines. She could see parts of two laundry baskets, but they, too, were mostly buried.
Carlin didn’t say anything. She couldn’t; she was too busy mentally calculating exactly how many loads of laundry those piles represented, and how long it would take her to get everything washed, dried, and put away. The laundry alone had to afford months of job security.
At the other end of the small room was another door, the top half of which was glass panes. She could see into the room on the other side, which was the kitchen, and she actually skidded to a stop, took a reflexive step back. She wasn’t Catholic, but—Holy Mary Mother of God!
He opened the door into the kitchen and stepped inside, threw an impatient look over his shoulder. “Are you coming, or not?”
“Not,” she replied, her eyes wide as she surveyed the wreckage behind him. “Holy crap! You lied. You lied like a yellow dog, with apologies to the dog.”
Dark brows drew together, eyes narrowed. “Lied?” he repeated softly.
She pointed into the kitchen. “The cows do live in the house!”
He turned his head to give the kitchen a slow, considering look. Then, damn him, a very pleased smile curved his lips. “Should keep you busy for a while,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll bunk.”
In silence, her eyes wide, she followed him through the kitchen piled high with dirty dishes, pots and pans, empty grocery bags, spilled flour … or salt … or sugar … or all three—and yet more dirty clothes. Ye gods, this man owned enough clothes to fill a department store, as long as the department store dealt in not much else besides denim, cotton, and flannel.
From the kitchen they went down a short hallway to the left; she could tell they were still in the added-on part of the house. “These were Libby’s rooms,” he said, opening a door. “It used to be two bedrooms, when her daughter lived here, too, but after Jen grew up and left I remodeled it so Libby had her own living space and privacy. You have your own bathroom, too, of course. It isn’t fancy, but it’s private.”
Under other circumstances she’d have been ecstatic, but she was still shell-shocked by the condition of the laundry and kitchen.
The first room they entered was the sitting room, definitely on the cozy side, but nice. Well, once she got rid of the boxes he’d stored in the room it would be nice. Empty boxes, half-empty boxes, unopened boxes. Compared to the mess she faced in the kitchen, though, this was nothing. She’d have it set to rights in no time.
The walls were painted a neutral beige, just dark enough to edge into the warm tones. There was enough space for a small sofa and a chair, two end tables that each held a lamp, a coffee table, and a surprisingly up-to-date flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, which she supposed was almost necessary given the size of the room. An entertainment center, even a small one, would have eaten up most of the remaining floor space. There was even a small gas fireplace, which she imagined would be extremely welcome during the winter.
“The bedroom’s back there,” he said, pointing to a door. “And the bathroom attaches to the bedroom. That’s it.” He adjusted his hat on his head, his expression so satisfied she wanted to slap him. “I’ll leave you to it. There are nine of us. You’ll be feeding nine for breakfast and lunch. There will just be seven for supper. Two of the hands are married, and they go home at the end of the day.”
“As they should,” Carlin said, dropping her bags on the floor. Her bedroom could use a dusting, but at least there were no boxes stored here.
“You can cook and serve everyone here or in the bunkhouse,” Zeke said. “Your choice. Spencer always felt more comfortable in the bunkhouse, but when I cooked I did it here, in the house.”
She shot him a dirty look. “So that mess in the kitchen is yours.”
He grinned. “It’s yours, now.”
She thought about the mess seven or nine men would make, a mess she would have to clean up no matter where it was made. And then she thought about making the short trip between the house and the bunkhouse three times a day. Not so hard now, but when winter arrived it would be a different story. “House,” she said simply.
Zeke nodded once. “We’ll be back at dark, so have supper ready.” His tone mirrored his expression, which meant she now wanted to slap him twice.
Nine. Nine. She could do this. She’d just pretend she was cooking for a crowd at Kat’s. But tonight for supper, there would be seven hungry men, and she had so much to do before then! Somehow she was supposed to get that wreck of a kitchen organized enough to actually cook something, not just slap sandwiches together.
Daunting as that seemed at the moment, it was far from the toughest job she’d ever had.
On the way out of the room Zeke paused and looked back. “Oh, yeah—don’t forget to cook enough for yourself, too.”
Chapter Eight
A GRIN SPREAD over Zeke’s face as he drove away from the house. A huge sense of relief spread through him, one so strong he had the urge to stop, throw his hat in the air, and run around the truck whooping with joy. Thank you, Jesus! He didn’t have to cook supper tonight!
It didn’t matter if Carlin could or couldn’t cook even half as well as Libby. All she had to do was put edible food on the table, and she’d pretty much beat both his own and Spencer’s efforts. Now he didn’t have to try to remember to put a load of clothes in the washer before he rushed out to put in a long day on the ranch, or after he dragged himself in from the same long day. Now he didn’t have to figure out what he’d done wrong with the dishwasher, why suds were running every fucking where, because as far as he could remember that had never happened before. Dishwashing detergent, dishwasher, dishes; what about that equation would cause a Vesuvian-type eruption? Damned if he knew, and now it was Carlin’s problem.
Food he hadn’t cooked, clothes that were clean, not having to fight his way through the house because he hadn’t had time to even halfway pick stuff up since Spencer had gotten hurt—if that wasn’t the definition of heaven, he didn’t know what was.
If he hadn’t enjoyed so much the look of horror on Carlin’s face when she’d first seen the kitchen, he might have been embarrassed—but he had, and he wasn’t. In fact, he’d gotten a great deal of pleasure out of leaving the mess for her to handle. That had stopped her smart mouth.
He had to admit, though, he’d kind of enjoyed all the sass. Despite her stalker troubles—assuming her tale was true, and Zeke didn’t ordinarily take everything he was told at face value, so he was withholding judgment on that—she didn’t show th
e least bit of fear. Some women might have turned timid, but not Carlin. She wasn’t afraid of him at all, and he liked that. He liked it almost as much as he liked that heart-shaped ass of hers.
Nope, on second thought, it was no contest: her ass won by a landslide.
Half an hour later he reached the site where Darby and Eli were repairing a water pump station that had been damaged by one of the tractors while they were cutting hay. Eli was the best on the ranch with mechanical stuff; Darby was a good all-around hand, which was why Zeke kept him on despite the man’s nonending litany of complaints about any-and everything; when tempers got short it was hard listening to him, but some people were never satisfied no matter what, and Darby was one of them.
As he got out of the truck, both men straightened from where they were bent over the pump. Eli swiped a greasy hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat but leaving a black smear in its place.
“How’s it going?” Zeke asked, pulling on his gloves to help, if needed.
“We’ve about got it done,” Eli replied. “Another half hour, maybe.”
“Good.”
Darby arched his back to relieve the strain in his muscles. “Got the new cook settled in?”
“She’s there. I don’t know if she’s settled in or not.” Thinking of the expression on her face when he’d left her to it made him want to smile again.
“I hope to God she can cook better than Spencer,” Darby grouched. “But then, almost anybody could cook better than Spencer—except for you, boss.”
That was the literal truth, so Zeke didn’t take umbrage. Then Darby continued, “How old is she?”
Just four words, but they were enough to set off Zeke’s alarms. Darby had been involved in the situation that caused him to lose the last cook. “She’s young enough,” he said sharply, “and you stay the hell away from her.”