by Linda Howard
Spencer moved to relieve her of the corn bread muffins, but Zeke forestalled him; the bowl was too big and heavy for the kid to handle with just one hand. Carlin said, “Thanks,” without looking at him.
“No problem.”
She handled the pitcher of tea with the practiced ease of a seasoned waitress, which she was. Working at The Pie Hole would have broken her in, fast. If only she’d picked up some of Kat’s cooking skills, too, then he’d really lucked out.
Because he’d said he liked tuna casserole, and because he was the boss, he nutted up and dipped himself a big helping.
There was rice. Rice was okay; he was neutral on it. There were some mixed vegetables. He liked vegetables, so that was a plus. There was tuna. And, as she’d promised, there was a lot of cheese. He dipped his fork into the steaming hot mixture and, trying not to show how wary he felt, carried it to his mouth.
He should have let it cool a little beforehand, but he felt such massive relief he was barely aware of the heat.
“Damn,” he said in surprise. “It’s good!”
Chapter Nine
CARLIN WAS SO exhausted, she expected to fall asleep the minute her head hit the pillow, but that didn’t happen. Her mind was spinning, and she couldn’t get comfortable, even though the bed in her room—her rooms, she had her own little mini-suite—was the most comfortable she’d been able to call her own in so long she couldn’t even remember. It was a vast improvement over the futon at Kat’s place, though she was definitely fond of both Kat and the attic room.
The doors were locked, but, damn it, this house would be too easy to break into. A broken or cut window, and anyone could reach in and unlock a door. Not easily, unless they had freakishly long arms, but with a tool of some kind it was definitely possible. She calmed herself by making plans to talk to a locksmith in the morning, and by reminding herself that there was no way Brad could find her here. Even if he did, there were two locked doors between her and the outside world—either of the doors to the outside world and the crappy lock on her bedroom door—and the locks on her windows were a lot more reassuring than the ones on the doors. She’d also placed a chair under the doorknob to her room. Someone might be able to get in, but by God they wouldn’t sneak up on her.
And there really was a butcher knife tucked into the top drawer of the bedside table. Just in case.
She’d learned to sleep through fear; learned that sleep was necessary for survival and she only hampered herself if she went too long without it. In truth she was as safe here—safer—than she’d been anywhere else for a very long time.
Nice, soft bed; butcher knife; isolated from the outside world.
Carlin stared up at the ceiling. It was Zeke Decker who was keeping her awake, damn him—Zeke Decker and her damn hormones. As she lay there in the dark, she tried to reason with herself. He was good-looking, in a rough-hewn, totally masculine way, and she’d been forced to spend several hours in his company. Add to that the fact that she’d been without any male attention for, well, years.
The thought made her pause. Had it been that long? Even before Brad had come along and screwed everything up, she hadn’t exactly had an active love life. Her friends had always said she was too picky, but she really didn’t think it was out of bounds to have standards when it came to allowing a man into one’s bed and body.
Maybe her current state was the simple matter of her biological clock kicking into gear, and Zeke just happened to be the closest appropriate male. She’d read about the biology of attraction, analyzed it. Men liked women with big breasts because that meant they could feed all the babies. Women, on a cellular level, went for a man who could take care of the saber-tooth tiger that was trying to get into their cave. When it came to simple genetics, Zeke was rather caveman like. He hadn’t yet grunted at her, but she was certain he would, sooner or later.
Logic was her friend. So why didn’t it help? When she closed her eyes, a part of her wished like hell that she wasn’t alone in this comfortable bed. After months of running, of separating herself from others, of not being touched at all, she craved the weight of a man, the pleasure of his mouth on her body, the release that would come …
Yeah, this was going to help her sleep.
Carlin closed her eyes, rolled onto her side, and took a long, deep breath. Maybe she should just stop fighting it and arguing with herself, and deal with reality. So, she had the hots for her boss. It wasn’t as if she could act on the attraction. The tingles and the butterfly stomach and the twitches in a place she’d thought would be twitch-free forever should serve as a reminder that her life wasn’t over. He’d tried, but Brad hadn’t taken everything from her. On the other hand, because of him she couldn’t act on the attraction, and she hoped he burned in hell.
She burrowed under the covers and imagined Zeke lying in the bed with her, that tall, hard-muscled body stretched out beside hers. She imagined until she could almost feel the heat of the body that wasn’t there, until she could almost feel the dip of the bed where he didn’t lie.
And finally, gently, she imagined herself into a deep, dream-filled sleep.
SHE HAD NEVER realized that men who engaged in physical labor all day had such hearty appetites. It made sense, but Carlin felt as if it would be impossible to prepare too much food for this bunch. If people working regular jobs ate this much, they’d be humongous, but Zeke and the other hands regularly put away twice as much food as she’d initially expected.
Leftovers would not be an option.
Nine men had plowed their way through a mountain of scrambled eggs, pounds of bacon, and an entire loaf of bread, toasted, in a matter of minutes. Carlin had stood back and watched them eat as they talked about the morning chores. It was rather like watching a swarm of locusts descend.
But, dang. As she’d watched them eat, an unexpected feeling had come over her. She was needed. In the most basic of ways, of course, and it wasn’t as if she were doing a job no one else could do, but it was nice to be needed for a change.
After they’d had breakfast and tromped out to go to work, she had the house to herself for a few hours. All the men—Zeke included—had literally eaten and run. Even Spencer had declared he needed a pain pill and a nap in the recliner where he’d been sleeping since getting hurt. She could take a breather now. The dishwasher was running, the washer and dryer were both working hard—she wondered if it would be possible to catch up on the laundry in a month or so—and the locksmith was scheduled to arrive between one and three in the afternoon. Carlin made herself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table with a selection of cookbooks she’d found on a shelf in the dining room. There were quite a few, but she’d chosen the three that looked the most well used. Then she leafed through, looking for pages that were marked by breaks in the spine or splatters of food on the pages. Those would be the favorite recipes, the dishes that had been prepared in this house again and again, right? It made sense to her.
Chili; beef stew; stroganoff; corn bread dressed up with corn and onions; biscuits; chocolate cake; apple pie.
Like she’d attempt to compete with Kat in the pie department. She might tackle a cobbler, but an actual latticetop pie? No way. If Zeke wanted a pie, she’d order one from Kat.
Over the hum of the appliances, she heard the knocking on the back door. The pain pill must not have knocked Spencer out for very long! This time she wouldn’t make him stand there and wait. She jumped up, and rushed to unlock the door.
Just her luck. It wasn’t Spencer who stood there, but Zeke, scowling at her through the glass. She supposed it was too late to turn around, take a sip of coffee, and head this way again, taking her time.
“Didn’t find your key, I see,” she said as she opened the door.
“Found it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Left it in my room this morning.”
“Early-onset Alzheimer’s?”
He glared down at her. “I happen to think I shouldn’t need a key to get into my own damn house in the
middle of the damn day.”
Carlin turned her back on him and stalked toward the kitchen. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree, but the door will be locked again when you leave the house.”
“I won’t be leaving for a while,” he said.
Great! The last thing she needed was Zeke Decker underfoot. Frowning at him, she demanded, “Why not?”
“It’s my house, I don’t have to make excuses to you. I’ve got …” He stopped mid-sentence, inhaled deeply, then looked at her. “What’s that smell?”
“There’s a Mexican shepherd’s pie in the oven for lunch and a roast in the Crock-pot for dinner.”
“I have a Crock-pot?” He couldn’t have sounded more astonished if she’d told him he had a unicorn’s horn sprouting out of his head.
She held back a smile. “I found it in the back of the pantry.”
He made a grunting noise, deep in his throat, and headed for the coffeepot. “Libby must’ve bought it.”
Carlin tried not to acknowledge the surge of jealousy, but unexpectedly, there it was. Kat had mentioned Libby and so had Zeke, as he’d shown her to her rooms. But no one had shared any real details about the woman and her place here. Girlfriend? Wife? Kat said Zeke had been married once. Unable to help herself, wondering why she’d chosen this moment to become not only curious but a little peeved, she asked, “Who’s Libby?”
Zeke poured coffee and turned to face her. “She had this job, your job, for years. Libby was cook, housekeeper, and surrogate mother to the men. She cooked, cleaned, and lent an ear to anyone who wanted to cry on her shoulder. During calving season we could count on her to help out, if we needed her.” He took a long sip of coffee. “Until her knees started giving her fits.”
“She sounds perfect.”
“Damn near,” he said baldly.
Perfect was something Carlin would never be, or try to be, so she might as well make it plain what her boundaries were. “Well, I don’t plan to help out during calving season”—not that she had any idea what or when that was or what would be involved in helping—“and I will not be your surrogate mother.”
Zeke started to smile then caught himself. “Noted.” He pushed away from the counter and headed toward his office. “I’ve got some paperwork to take care of.” The damn it was unspoken, but there.
“Before you go,” Carlin said, stopping his exit just as he reached the door between the kitchen and the dining room. He turned to face her, a suspicious expression on his hard face. “We never did discuss my day off.”
He looked almost horrified. “You want a day off? You haven’t even been here twenty-four hours, and you’re already talking about taking time off?”
“Yes! Half a day, anyway,” she conceded. “Aren’t there labor laws in Wyoming? Aren’t you required to give me some time off? I’ll make sure there’s food, no one’s going to starve, but I’d like to see Kat, check out a book at the library, just … chill.” And check in with her family on one of those public computers in the library, though she wouldn’t tell Zeke, or anyone else, that detail.
Now he just looked annoyed.
“Libby never took a day off?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“No wonder you can’t keep a housekeeper,” she muttered. From the way he talked, it was clear no one would ever be able to replace the perfect Libby. Did she dare to attempt the recipes she’d been reading? They were probably Libby’s, and no matter how she tried her efforts were unlikely to measure up.
Zeke leaned almost casually—his body was wound so tight she wondered if he was ever truly casual—against the doorframe. He took a sip of coffee and maybe, just maybe, unwound a tiny bit. “You can visit Kat and the library when you go to town to do the grocery shopping.”
“That would hardly make it a day off, then, would it?” She hadn’t thought much about buying groceries, though of course that would be part of the job. She tried to wrap her mind around shopping for nine hungry men. If she didn’t plan well, she be in Battle Ridge four days a week! “And besides, I couldn’t find my way back to town on a bet.”
“I’ll take you tomorrow. Until you’re sure of the way, either Spencer or I will go with you.”
He had an answer for everything! “Why can’t Spencer go with me tomorrow?” Spencer didn’t make her jumpy, didn’t make her mouth go dry, and didn’t invade her dreams at night. She’d much rather be with him, because then she wouldn’t do anything stupid.
“I want him to rest awhile longer, and besides, I need to stop by the hardware store and the bank.”
Arguing with him would be silly. At the moment, she just wanted him out of her kitchen and out of her sight. “Fine. We’ll talk about my day off then, I suppose.”
“Half day,” he said, and then he turned to walk away, headed for his office and paperwork. The man did look good walking away. Tight cowboy ass, in tight cowboy jeans, equaled yum. And she needed to get that thought out of her head.
Carlin opened her mouth to shout something after him, but changed her mind. She’d take a half day, for now.
SHE WOULDN’T LAST.
He couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.
Zeke tried to concentrate on the payroll before him, but his attention kept drifting off the numbers. His mind kept wandering to the woman who had taken over his house and, evidently, his wits. Desperate as he’d been, it had been a mistake to hire Carlin. She could cook well enough—more than well enough, so far—and she was making progress in the house, but still, it had been a mistake.
He remembered to call her Carly in front of the other guys, but Carlin suited her better. It was different. He’d never known anyone named Carlin; he’d never met anyone like her. And that was where the mistake came into play.
This was Kat’s fault. If she hadn’t suggested Carlin for the job he never would’ve thought of it on his own, because he knew trouble when he saw it, and right now trouble was living in his house. How in the hell had he been talked into this? Here he was now, stuck in the position of employer, when the missionary position was what he really wanted. Carlin, naked, under him, her legs wrapped around his waist—oh, hell yeah. His eyes half-closed, because he could almost feel the wet heat of her body closing tight around his dick.
But he’d screwed up by hiring her. Hell, this whole situation was screwed up. He’d have asked her out the first time he’d met her if she hadn’t hung such a huge “leave me alone, you jerk” sign around her neck. Now he knew why, but in the meantime their relationship, such as it was, had disintegrated from wariness on her part to something that wasn’t quite downright hostility, but close. It was as if she wanted them to be at odds, as if she used that smart mouth of hers to keep him skating on the edge of his temper. If the stalker story was accurate, he could even understand why she’d have that attitude. His divorce from Rachel had been “amicable,” which meant they were both glad to see the last of each other, but even so it had been a while before he’d wanted anything to do with women. He hadn’t sworn off them or anything stupid like that, but he’d definitely needed some woman-free time.
Was that what she was doing? Had she picked up on how often he mentally stripped her and tossed her into his bed, and was throwing up the attitude to keep him at a distance?
Except Carlin was nothing if not mouthy; if she didn’t want anything to do with him as a man, all she had to do was say so, and he figured she wouldn’t be shy about it, either. The fact that he was her boss wouldn’t stop her. She struck him as perverse enough that she might even get a kick from figuratively telling him to fuck off.
And he was perverse enough to enjoy the push he got back from her. Libby hadn’t taken any shit off him, and Carlin didn’t seem inclined to, either. That was good. He didn’t have the time to mollycoddle anyone’s feelings, and while he was very definitely the boss when it came to ranch matters, as far as he was concerned, it was with great relief that he’d turned over the kitchen and everything pertaining to the house to Carlin. As fa
r as he was concerned, she was now in charge, and she seemed to be on the same page with that.
So in a way they were equals here. No boss, no employee, and never mind that he paid her salary. She was still in charge. He’d agreed not to fire her, but she hadn’t said she wouldn’t quit if the notion moved her.
He leaned back in his chair and thought that last part over, because it hadn’t occurred to him before now. That little shit! She’d got the upper hand on him, and he’d just now realized it!
What he’d realized from the beginning was how damn tempting she was.
When she’d said she wasn’t going to be his surrogate mother, he’d almost responded, “I’m one baby you’d never wean.” For once, his common sense had jumped in front of his big mouth and won the battle for dominance. Maybe he’d get used to walking into the house and seeing her here; maybe the sight of her would stop hitting him low and hard, once he got used to having her here. Maybe she’d stop glaring at him as if he were a plague carrier. Yeah, maybe.
So, what was he going to do? Push her away, or keep her? Try to find a less-stressful solution to his problem, or enjoy the hell out of her while she was here?
In six weeks or so, Spencer would be out of his sling and able to take on the cooking again. All the laundry would be done by then, he imagined, and the house would be set to rights. He’d told Carlin that he wouldn’t fire her until spring, but if she quit that would be another matter. She was already annoyed with him over the day-off thing. If she stayed annoyed, would she walk away?
A part of him—the part in his pants—wanted her to stay until spring. By then he should be able to find a man or an older woman to take the job, and Carlin would be more than ready to move on. Until then everyone on the ranch would be well fed, he’d come home every day to hot food, a clean house, and no laundry waiting for him. Spencer would be available when calving season began, when every able hand would be needed. It made perfect sense to attempt to make it work.