by Linda Howard
“Sure, we can handle the rest of it.”
“Mind if I head back to the bunkhouse early, so I can get my shit packed up? I’m thinking I’ll start out early tomorrow morning.”
Zeke glanced at Walt, silently checking if Walt had something lined up that he’d need Darby’s help with. Walt gave a “why not” shrug. Nothing was in the works that the rest of them couldn’t handle.
“Go ahead, we’re good here.”
“Thanks.” Darby collected his tools, loaded everything into one of the ranch pickups, and headed out. They had four trucks there, so getting everyone back wasn’t a problem.
Darby had been gone about ten minutes when Zeke got an uneasy feeling. First, Darby would have had plenty of time tonight to pack; it wasn’t as if he needed a moving van. Second, Carlin was there alone, and though she was still religious about keeping the door locked, this was also the time of day, when normally all the men were gone, that she would do some light cleaning in the bunkhouse, and in Walt’s cabin.
Maybe it was nothing. As far as he knew, Darby had taken his first warning to heart and not bothered Carlin in any way. Nor would he necessarily know her house-cleaning schedule, unless he had happened to go back one day to fetch a needed tool, and noticed her coming or going to the bunkhouse. That was a stretch. But … would Darby know how fanatic she was about keeping the doors locked while she was in the house? Her edict on locks hadn’t extended to the bunkhouse, because she wasn’t in there all that much. She dusted, she swept, and the rest of it was left to the hands to keep their space clean.
So far as he knew, the subject of the locked doors had never come up with the men. He knew about the locks; Spencer knew about the locks. But he’d never mentioned it, and he didn’t think Spencer had either, unless it was in the bunkhouse at night.
He was worrying about nothing.
On the other hand, he and everyone else had noticed a distinct coolness in the way she treated Darby, something that had been the subject of a lot of jokes at the ranch hand’s expense, and which Darby hadn’t taken well. He had an outsized ego, maybe from the rodeo groupies, maybe because that was just in his makeup. He’d already caused trouble with one housekeeper, though to be fair two other people had been involved, it wasn’t just Darby.
But would he hold a grudge against Carlin? Oh, shit yeah.
Zeke ignored his gut feeling for another few seconds, then straightened and pulled off his gloves. “I’m going back to the house,” he said abruptly. “I don’t trust Darby.”
Walt straightened, too, thought about it for a second. “Good call. We’ll go with you.”
Every last one of them loaded up in the remaining pickups. The job wouldn’t get finished today, Zeke thought, but so fucking what? Making sure Carlin was okay was more important.
He kept his boot jammed on the gas pedal harder than he normally would have, the truck bouncing hard on the cold, rough ground of the pasture. The trail they normally drove would have been smoother, but he was more interested in speed than comfort, or the springs on the truck. The two other trucks followed right behind him.
Spencer, in the passenger seat, held on tight with his good arm. For once, he wasn’t smiling. “I don’t think Darby would hurt Miss Carly,” he said, worry evident in his tone. “But he might mess with her some and upset her.”
Zeke grunted. He wasn’t prepared to take the chance with her safety, period. If he made a fool of himself by rushing to the rescue when no rescue was needed, if Darby was in the bunkhouse packing his belongings the way he said and Carlin was in the kitchen cooking supper, he was okay with that. But the fact that even Spencer, who normally gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, thought it was possible Darby might try something with Carlin, made him drive even faster. Darby had a ten-minute head start, but by cutting across the pasture like this he could make up most of that time.
THE GUYS DID a decent job of keeping the bunkhouse clean. At least they did their laundry, and mostly kept their clutter out of the common area. Carlin didn’t go into their rooms, but she did go through the common area every day and do a fast neatening; overall, she spent about half an hour or forty-five minutes in the bunkhouse, and if Walt had asked her to do the same in his little cabin she’d give it a fast polishing-up, too, but that seldom took more than fifteen minutes. She didn’t have to do it all at once, either. Her schedule was her own, varying according to what else she needed to be doing. She might sweep, then go back to the house and put on a load of laundry, or get the next meal started, before returning to finish the job.
She was dusting, almost finished with the bunkhouse for the day, when she heard a truck drive up. She was so attuned to the rhythm and routine of the ranch by now that she registered immediately that the truck had approached from the rear instead of coming up the road to the house, which meant it was one of the ranch trucks. The men were all doing some much needed maintenance work around the ranch, so probably Zeke had sent someone back for some tool or piece of equipment they’d discovered they needed. She continued what she was doing, not thinking anything of it though she half-listened for the sound of the truck heading back out again.
Because the door was closed against the cold weather, she didn’t hear any footsteps approaching the bunkhouse door. Abruptly the door was pulled open and a muscular, stocky man was framed against the sunlight. Carlin jumped, startled; the man in the doorway went still for a moment, too, then continued on into the bunkhouse and closed the door behind him.
“Well, look who’s here,” Darby drawled, his gaze raking down her.
“I was just finishing,” she said without inflection, moving into the kitchen area. The common space was open, kitchen, dining, and den all together. Not only did she want some furniture between her and Darby, she wanted to be closer to the block of knives that sat on the counter.
“Don’t hurry on my account.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, watched her with hooded eyes. Resentment gleamed in those eyes, showed plainly in his reflection. “I came back to pack up my stuff. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Good riddance hovered on her tongue, but she didn’t say anything, just gave a curt nod.
The gleam in his eyes changed. “You could send me on my way with a smile, you know.”
A cold twist of fear tightened her stomach. She was alone here with him; before, there had been someone still outside, within hearing distance if she screamed. Today, she could scream her head off and no one would hear. But damned if she’d show how scared she was. Very deliberately, she reached out and pulled the largest knife from the block, turned the blade so it caught the light.
She didn’t say anything, just stood there with the knife in her hand. Her heartbeat was thundering so hard she was surprised he couldn’t hear it, but damned if she’d let him guess for even a second how scared she was. Darby wasn’t particularly tall, but he was thickly muscled, and if he got his hands on her she didn’t know that she’d be able to fight free. Maybe if he thought he’d suffer some damage, he’d back down. Maybe.
Instead his eyes got meaner. He took a step toward her.
“Back off,” Carlin said, standing her ground and managing to keep her tone level.
“Or what?” he sneered. “You’ll use that knife on me? I don’t think so.” He took another step.
“Think again.” Swiftly she grabbed another knife from the block and held both of them poised. He could grab one of her arms and twist it to make her drop the knife, but he’d need both hands to do so and in the meanwhile she’d do whatever she had to. Darby was no more a self-defense artist than she was a fighter; she was bound to inflict some damage on him, and from the flicker in his expression, he’d come to that realization, too.
He changed tactics, holding his hands up as if he were totally innocent, smiling at her. “Hey, you don’t want to do something stupid. I’m just trying to be friendly. You don’t have to get all bent out of shape. All I’m suggesting is that we have a little fun before I go. I can promise you
a good ride, but without the eight-second clock on me, if you know what I mean.”
“Not really,” she said coldly, though of course, living in Texas, she at least knew that a bull ride lasted eight seconds—if the rider stayed on that long.
He took another step. “Don’t play innocent. I figure you’re giving the boss all he wants every night when the lights go out. I don’t mind—and he won’t mind what he don’t know about.”
“If you take another step, I’ll make damn sure he knows about it.” She could feel herself start shaking and she tried to hide it. The last thing she wanted him to know was how scared she was, because that would make him bolder. Chills were running up and down her spine, dread solidifying in her stomach.
“Don’t be like that, sugar. You’ve got a pretty mouth, you know that? We don’t have to fuck. Maybe you can just go down on me. You look like you could suck the chrome off a bumper—”
The door behind him was jerked open and Darby halted, half-turning to face the newcomer. Zeke filled the doorway. Carlin felt her knees wobble and she made a rough sound in her throat at the sight of him.
Zeke glanced at Darby, then at Carlin. His gaze dropped to the two knives she held, traveled back up to her white face, then zeroed in on Darby again. There was no mistaking the import of the scene, the tension, or the reason she was standing on guard with two knives. She’d never seen him look like that, gone pale under his tan, his eyes like green ice.
“Boss, I—” Darby began, then Zeke took one long stride forward and hit him, a powerful uppercut to the chin that sent Darby crashing back into one of the recliners. It tipped over on its back, taking a table and lamp with it. The lamp broke, sending shards of ceramic flying. Zeke was on the man like a panther on its prey, grabbing him by his belt and literally tossing him toward the door. Darby managed to yelp, “Wait! Nothing—” before Zeke was on him again, this time throwing him completely out the door.
Carlin didn’t move. She couldn’t, not right now. She was breathing hard, and feeling as if she might faint. Tears stung her eyes; she blinked them back. Still holding tightly to the knives, she glanced out the kitchen window in time to see Zeke hold Darby up by his shirt with one hand while he pounded his other big fist into Darby’s face, over and over. Blood and snot were flying.
Two men came rushing into the bunkhouse. She blinked at them, recognized Walt and Spencer. They both skidded to a halt, staring at the knives. Carlin looked down at her hands. One of the knives was a big chef’s knife; the other was a serrated bread knife. Like Zeke, they realized immediately why she was holding them.
Very carefully, she turned and slid the knives back into the appropriate slots in the wood block.
“Are you all right, Miss Carly?” Walt asked in a rumbly, cautious tone.
She took a deep breath, tried to master her voice so it would be louder than a squeak. “Yes. He didn’t do anything. He was trash-talking, working himself up, but—not yet.” She sounded thin, even to herself, but at least she wasn’t crying.
“That’s good.”
She glanced out the window again. Darby had rallied and as she watched he got in a couple of punches, himself. Wincing, she turned her head. She had a vague feeling that she should do something to stop the fight—wasn’t that what women always did?—but she didn’t feel capable of the effort. Besides, some primitive part of her enjoyed watching Darby get pounded. She didn’t like Zeke getting hit, though.
“Should … should we stop Zeke?” she asked.
Spencer glanced out the door, pursed his lips as he considered the scene. The sounds of fists and cursing and scuffling came through loud and clear. “Not just yet. Let the boss get in a few more licks.”
Carlin pulled out a chair and sat down. Her knees were definitely wobbly, and this situation looked as if it could take a while.
She was wrong; she heard a flurry of punches, then someone—Micah, she thought—said, “That’s enough, boss. He needs to be in good enough condition to drive.”
She listened to a few seconds of heavy breathing, then Zeke growled, “Good point. Get up, asshole. Get your shit packed and get out of here, and don’t bother coming back in the spring.”
“Like I want to work at this shit-hole end of nowhere,” Darby snarled back, his voice thick. There was the sound of spitting. “I’m gonna file charges against you for assault.”
“Assault, my ass,” someone else said contemptuously. Eli. “I saw you trip and fall out of your own damn truck.”
“Yeah. And I remember you bragging to all of us how you might stage an accident and sue the boss.” That was Bo.
“You lying sons of bitches!”
“I didn’t hear them say a single lie,” Spencer put in from the door, his innocent face as virtuous as a nun’s.
“I’ll help you pack.” That was Kenneth. “You just stand out here and I’ll throw your shit out the door. You can pick it up. I bet you can be on the road in ten minutes.”
Carlin thought she might cry. In true western fashion, these men had come to her rescue. Zeke had gotten into a fight because of her—no, not because of her, but because Darby was an asshole jerk. Regardless, he’d gotten into a fight on her behalf. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss all of them. And she’d try her damnedest not to cry, because that would only make the men uncomfortable.
“I wasn’t going to do nothing she didn’t want,” Darby said sullenly, and outrage brought her surging to her feet, wobbly knees forgotten.
Walt shot her an alarmed look and wedged himself in the door, effectively blocking it. “Yeah,” he said contemptuously to Darby. “That’s why she had two knives in her hands, right?”
She could hear angry muttering from the other men, and something defensive from Darby, but with all the muttering she couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, which was probably for the best.
Abruptly she was very tired, and wanted nothing more than to get back to the house. She’d just as soon not ever have to see Darby again, but she wasn’t going to run out the back door as if she had done something to be ashamed of. “It’s okay,” she said to Walt’s back. “He’s a jerk, but I’m okay, and I just want to go to the house and get dinner started.”
Walt glanced over his shoulder, critically eyed her as if judging her state for himself, and gave a brief nod of approval. “All right, then,” he said, stepping aside.
Carlin gathered her cleaning supplies and went out the door, looking each man in the eye and saying a quiet “Thank you.” Two of the men stood with Zeke behind them, presumably because they weren’t yet certain he wouldn’t light into Darby again. She got a good look at his face, though; the damage didn’t look too bad, one cheek was reddened and might swell, but that was about it. Darby hadn’t come off nearly as well, but so what. She didn’t give a damn what kind of shape he was in, which might say something about her as a person, but right at the moment she didn’t give a damn about that, either.
Then she stopped and looked at Zeke again, eyeing him critically. What was nothing but a red place now could become an awful bruise if it wasn’t iced immediately.
“You need to come to the house, too,” she said briskly. “Put some ice on your face.”
“His hands will need it more.” Spencer fell into step beside her, taking the bucket of cleaning supplies in his good hand.
That made sense. Zeke hadn’t moved, so she stopped, gave him a death stare, and lifted her eyebrows. She didn’t want to say anything else in front of the men; while she got an evil enjoyment out of being a smart-ass to him when no one else could hear, in front of the men she at least acted the way a normal employee would.
“Spencer’s right,” Walt said. “If you don’t ice your hands, they’ll be too sore tomorrow for you to get any work done.”
That commonsense argument worked when general bullheadedness might have kept Zeke there until Darby had packed up and left. He wasn’t as pale as he had been but his jaw still looked like granite, his lips a thin grim line, a
nd she sensed it wouldn’t take much to reignite him. Icing him down was a good thing, in more ways than one.
“Come on,” she said, and he followed her and Spencer to the house.
CARLIN COULDN’T SLEEP. The wind was howling, bringing colder weather with it, but it was more than the wind keeping her awake. Dinner had been strange, with an underlying tension despite Darby’s absence. Their group chemistry had been upset, and even though Darby hadn’t been a particular friend to any of them, they’d generally accepted his complaining and gotten along with him. No one joked around, the way they normally did. On the other hand, no one seemed to particularly miss him, so Carlin decided everyone simply needed some time to settle down.
The knuckles of both Zeke’s hands were scraped and bruised, though thanks to sessions of soaking them in bowls of ice water the swelling was minimal. He could flex both hands, and make fists, so no bones were broken. His left cheekbone had some puffiness to it, but again a judicious application of ice had done wonders.
The idea that Zeke had gotten into a fight for her—that was what was bothering her. After Brad, she simply hadn’t been tempted by any kind of relationship, but Zeke was kind of the antidote for Brad. Brad threatened her; Zeke protected her. Under those same circumstances she thought he’d have stepped up for any woman, not just for her, and that in itself made her heart hurt because it spoke to the kind of man he was.
But it wasn’t just that. There was fire between them, fire that was becoming more and more difficult for her to ignore. It would be so much easier if she didn’t occasionally catch him looking at her in a way that revealed too much, with a hooded intensity that took her breath. When she caught some men mentally stripping her, she felt annoyed, as if they were encroaching on her privacy even if they never said anything. When she caught Zeke doing the X-ray vision thing, it made her breathless, warm, and restless in her own skin.
Since he’d startled her in his bedroom and she’d found herself lying beneath him, wanting what she couldn’t have, feeling that he wanted the same thing, the temptation had grown sharper.