Lone Star Hero

by Jennie Jones

  “Are you armed?” she asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “If Momma asks you to do something illegal, just tell her you haven’t got time.”

  He shook his head and turned his face to the windshield.

  “We’re a bit of an oddball family,” she told him.

  “Is that right?” he said reflectively.

  Molly bit her tongue. Don’t answer. You’ll get yourself into more trouble. And anyway, they were about to turn up the dirt track that led to the roofless hacienda.

  Saul swallowed a sigh as his employer bumped the pickup over a ridge at the base of an incline and headed up the hill. It wasn’t that she wasn’t a good driver, he just preferred to power his transport himself. Driving, or on his own two legs. He bit back his third desire to tell her to watch it with the sharp turns.

  He ducked his head when she drove beneath a low, crumbling, partially rendered arch.

  “We fit,” she said, not looking at him. “Four inches to spare. I measured it.”

  “One small landslide and four inches is grinding the alloy off the cab roof.”

  Speaking of roofs... Saul pushed into his seat, and squinted at his workplace which was appearing fast before them.

  She drove up the track, following a curve. They were high enough to take in a stunning vista but it wasn’t the scenery that was creating the muscle spasm at the side of his eye. The area by the house was more or less cleared. A washhouse or staff quarters to the right. An old toppling fountain in the courtyard in front of the hacienda. Two-story on the right with a pitched roof, and single-story on the left, and up the top of the single-story—

  “Looks like a flat roof from here.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Thought you said it was a pitched tile roof?”

  “It will be.”

  “Hold on.” Saul straightened and slapped the dash. “Pull up.”

  She pulled over and sat looking out the windshield, a determined set to her full mouth. “Let’s be pleasant about this. I didn’t lie.”

  “You didn’t exaggerate, either. There’s no roof on that single story section, is there?”

  “Look...” She swiveled to face him, still holding the steering wheel tightly with both hands. “You didn’t give me a chance to explain the exact requirement of the renovation.”

  “You had every opportunity. I asked if the roof was flat or pitched.”

  “But you didn’t ask whether the rafters and the tiles were, as yet, actually up at roof height.”

  He turned on his seat to face her. “I said something about not having to haul lumber.”

  “You don’t have to haul more than thirty rafters—and all the other smaller bits that fit together.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “We can use the pickup to drag them.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’ can use the pickup?”

  “I’ll help. I’m not going to sit around knitting sweaters while my employee—”

  He held up his hand, palm facing her. “First off, we end the employer-employee relationship right here. If I stay—and it’s a really tall if—you’ll pay me, but you will not refer to me as an employee. If I stay, and I’m doubting it, lady, it will be as a contractor.”

  “They’re usually more expensive.”

  “Now you’re getting real.”

  “I’m not going to give you an upfront hefty payment just because you want one,” she told him, going close to cross-eyed in astonishment. “I don’t trust you.”

  “You think I trust you? If I stay, I’ll take a weekly cut from my contractor’s all-up payment—which, I must inform you, has just risen by twenty-five percent. So take that deal or go without a roof.”

  “If you stay,” she told him, determination sweeping astonishment off her face as she leaned closer. “You’ll get a ten percent hike on the original weekly wage.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Eighteen—and if I stay,” he said, moving close enough to feel the warmth of her breath of his face. “You do as I say.”

  “But I’m the boss.” Her eyes were so green they’d ignite if the sun settled on them for too long.

  “Not anymore,” he said. “You’re an ordinary person at the whim of a disgruntled contractor who could fire your ass any hour, any minute, any second of any day. Get it?”

  “No. You get this,” she said, pushing her nose at his. “Both parties can fire at will, at which point, said verbal contract is over, and the contractor hauls his ass off the hirer’s property and never comes back.”

  Saul paused. Her eyelashes were long, and they were real. He’d thought them fake but they were goddamn real.

  “I really ought to run now,” he said softly, unable to help the tug of a smile.

  He nearly tipped his face to one side and kissed the gutsy slant off her pink mouth, but managed to halt the temptation. There was something extraordinary about her but he couldn’t figure out what, and he never went around kissing women just because he was tempted to.

  He pulled from her and slapped the dash. “Okay. I’ll take a look.”

  She turned fast and put the truck into drive. She shook her ringlets, drove the short distance on the remaining driveway, concentrating with a frown. Raw energy and worry came off her in waves.

  Saul sighed. I should have run.

  Chapter Five

  Saul stood on the chipped brick paving in front of the rubble-filled base of the courtyard fountain. The hacienda looked bigger than he’d thought coming up the drive. It would feel spacious inside, too, not having a roof. “How long since anyone lived here?”

  “Seventy-eight years.”

  He whistled. It didn’t look too bad from the outside, the walls either plastered with an adobe mix, or left as blocks of stone. A set of stone stairs led up to the upper level of the two-story section.

  “I moved back to town a month ago,” Molly told him.

  “Why?” he asked, looking at her over his shoulder.

  She gave him a great view of her apricot-clad asset when she turned, picked up a brick, and threw it on top of the rubble in the fountain. “Is that part of the contractor-hirer deal?” she asked, leaving him in no doubt he wouldn’t get an answer.

  And anyway, he didn’t want to know. “Who lived in it?”

  “Nobody. My great grandfather built it for my great grandmother, but he had to leave suddenly. My great grandmother set up house in town. My grandmother wouldn’t spit on a brick of this place either. Still won’t, she says. Until I get it fixed up as my own place. Then the badness will leave.”

  “What badness?”

  “Old tales. You know—superstition and stuff.”

  At least it sounded like she didn’t believe in that kind of nonsense.

  “Amazingly, it’s not too bad on the inside,” she said, turning side on and looking at her hacienda. A smile touched her face and Saul had the impression she’d softened considerably, just by looking at the place. “Filthy though,” she said, her voice wistful. “And some kind people used it as a dumping ground for a while. But it’s functional.”

  “Once you get a roof on it,” Saul reminded her. “What happened to the roof, anyway?”

  “A storm blew it off, rafters and all. Just before I was born.”

  “Wasn’t that a warning,” he said beneath his breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “I was warning you I might not get an entire roof built in the short time I’m here. If I stay,” he added. “How come I see electrical conduit and plumbing if nobody has lived in the place?”

  “Just over six years ago my grandmother attempted the renovation. But she had to stop before they got to the roof.”

  “Why?”

  “The builders were frightened off by eerie tales. A few falling bits of plaster and stone, and everybody left and nobody would come back. Then I left the valley and she said the timing had gotten out of whack—or something.”

  �
�You haven’t got the money to hire a building firm now?”

  “Not enough. I’m selling some of my work to magazines. I’m a photographer.” She kicked at stones on the ground. “Plus, I’ve got twenty thousand dollars owed me.”

  There was obviously some controversy with that, but he didn’t want to know.

  “What about your grandmother? Can’t she help with the roof costs?”

  “Things got tougher in the valley. Her money went on living.”

  “What’s that used for?” he asked, pointing to the flat roofed adobe building to their right. “Looks like a washhouse, or staff quarters.”

  “It was both. Now it’s the lodge house.”

  “You’ve renovated it?”

  “Kind of. Davie helped me. But he’s busy with his art business, and I didn’t want to take up too much of his time, or his generosity.”

  “So where are you sleeping? And most importantly, where am I sleeping?”

  “Why don’t we look inside the main house?”

  She walked past him and Saul took hold of her arm, bringing her to a stop. “Why don’t you tell me where we’re sleeping?”

  She shrugged him off. “Boy, you’re tetchy.”

  “Takes one to know one. What’s the lowdown on the sleeping quarters?”

  A blush flared on her face.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “The washhouse.”

  “The lodge house.”

  Well, at least it had a roof. “Show me.”

  She sighed, cracked her neck, and straightened her back.

  He followed her across the courtyard, over the rough track driveway, and onto another, longer, brick-paved area. There were plants in pots here and there which were thriving. A rainwater tank had a hose attached and a bucket beneath it to catch the drips. Perhaps she couldn’t even change a washer.

  She opened double wooden doors and walked inside.

  Saul stepped in behind her, unsure of what he’d find.

  “This is the main living area,” she said, standing with her back to him, arms opened to the long vertical space. The plastered walls had been recently washed, he could still smell the cleaning fluid. The tiled floor was a mosaic pattern of light blue, white, and navy.

  It was sparsely furnished, although what was there was old or antique style. There was a dining table big enough to seat eight, a leather sofa, and wooden benches with multi-colored cushions, although no TV. No Longhorns postseason games for Saul for the next—however long.

  “Only this main living area and a couple of bedrooms have been made habitable,” she told him. “There are plenty more rooms at the rear, but they’re not cleaned yet. That way,” she said, pointing to their left—she still had her back to him, “is my room.” She pointed to the other end of the space. “That way is your room. Yours is smaller than mine, but if you really test my patience with your contractor’s demands, I might swap.”

  Saul grinned at her back. She hadn’t looked at him square in the face since he’d followed her inside. She was nervous in case he didn’t take the job. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, not having any intention of taking her bedroom away from her. If he took the job. “I take it food and board is included and is in addition to my contractor’s price?”

  “Yes.”

  Settled without an argument. Amazing. He hoped she could cook.

  She turned to face him, shook her ringlets, settled her face into a professional glare, and clutched her hands in front of her.

  He had a vision of her in twenty years’ time. Not as glamorous as her mother, but a whole lot more attractive. Molly had an arty side to her nature. There was a natural well of beautiful simplicity somewhere beneath those riotous curls, and he thought that sexier than any pink bling a woman could adorn.

  I should have run.

  “You’ve got electricity here, too?”

  “Only one power source in each of the rooms at the moment.”

  “Where’s the kitchen?”

  She pointed to a microwave sitting on the dining table placed against a wall.

  Saul put his hands on his hips and tipped his head back. Man.

  “That’s just a temporary thing,” she said. “In case I want a snack in the middle of the night. There’s a real kitchen in the hacienda. Two refrigerators, another microwave, and a stove.”

  “And the space where the roof should be on the kitchen?”

  “Waterproof canvas. All the beams or whatever you call them are still in place at ceiling height. I strung it across those.”

  By herself? Maybe Davie the bodyguard had helped. “Where are the bathrooms?”

  “Bathroom, singular,” she said, pointing behind Saul.

  He turned to a door he hadn’t noticed, set in the center of the main living room, then ran another look around the living space. “What are you planning to do with the place? It’s a big home for one person.”

  “I intend to turn the hacienda into a photographer’s gallery and studio, and live in the lodge house.”

  He looked around to see where she might have set up her tripod, or left her cameras and lenses. She must keep them in her bedroom.

  “Well, that’s it,” she said. “It’s not so bad after all, so why the crooked curve to your mouth?”

  He gave her his ranger stare. “We’d need a timetable for the bathroom. I don’t mind how long you take in there, so long as I’m done and out.” He had a sister. He knew how long women took in bathrooms. He could have the roof built by the time Molly showered and curled her hair.

  “That’s stiff,” she said. “I thought you were the chivalrous type.”

  “I thought you had a roof.”

  She winced. “So, will you take the job?”

  “The contract,” he said, as he remembered it. “How much are you paying?”

  She named a sum so small Saul thought it might be kinder to volunteer for the job instead of having her go to the bother of getting her money clip out each week.

  “Is that with the eighteen percent increase?”

  “Fifteen.”

  He sighed and ran his eyes over her. She wasn’t a Sally-Opal, even with all that makeup and the curls. He already knew she had a soft nature, regardless of the sparky dialogue, because the same light that shone in her mother’s eyes—that kind, caring, and generous beam—shone inside Molly, and in the depths of her large green eyes, fringed with long, long lashes. She didn’t mind answering back, so she was spirited. Which, he reckoned, came from covering something up. Something to do with the town, and maybe she was running from something, like she’d said. And man, he didn’t want to know what.

  Neither did he want to see the look of condemnation on his grandpa’s face if he ever discovered Saul had refused to help a woman in need.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll go get my pack.”

  Molly sat back on her haunches and sighed. She’d thought cycling was tough but clearing rubble at the rate Saul wanted it cleared was going to break her.

  “Once we’ve got this whole area out here sorted,” he called from the double doors at the back of the hacienda, where he was standing around measuring stuff while Molly filled wheelbarrows, “I’ll get a crane system hooked up. It’ll have to be the old pull it and crank it ourselves variety though. You up for that?”

  Molly dragged her head around to acknowledge him. “Count me in.” Or kill me now. A crank-it-yourself crane system sounded a lot like dragging those rafters across the large, uneven stony space, hauling up each end, hooking them onto a sling, and cranking them up to roof height by arm power.

  She reached up and rubbed the back of her neck, which only resulted in wiping more grit and dirt from her gloved hand onto her hot skin than had been there before. Thank God it wasn’t summer.

  “Want a cold beer?” she asked, perking up at the thought of it.

  “We’ll get this finished before we call it a day.”

  She pushed the curls above her ears beneath the baseball cap she’d tucked her hai
rdo into. He hadn’t given her time to change let alone rinse out or flatten the ringlets. He’d gotten his gear, thrown it into his room, followed it, and closed the door. Two minutes later he’d emerged wearing old jeans, a well-worn navy T-shirt, a thick pair of workman’s gloves, and they’d set off.

  After a ten-minute sojourn around the inside of the hacienda—that she’d been pleased to see impressed him, even though he’d kept that to himself—he’d cracked the whip, or in Molly’s case, the tarpaulin off the wheelbarrow, and set her straight on the first of many tasks.

  He had done some physical work though. He’d lugged a stack of rafters from inside to outside and placed them at the back corner wall where he said they were going to start the roof building process.

  “We should be done in a couple of hours,” the dirty-contractor stated.

  Molly’s shoulders sank. She wanted a shower and a cold beer. Or a cold beer and then a shower and then another cold beer.

  What would the dirty contractor want first? She wouldn’t get into the bathroom until he’d taken his turn. She doubted he’d spend longer than four minutes in the shower, but how long until he got into the shower? Would he want to eat before he cleaned up?

  She glanced at him. She was no longer unsure of his roof-building experience, since he’d proven himself capable of knowing what he was talking about, but there had to be something wrong with the man. Why was he scared of women? Was he running from one? Had he deserted one? Or more than one? Maybe she’d find out later, when they were eating. Unless he wanted to eat on his own. She wouldn’t put it past him to be rude, not now that she’d had a taste of his wit. Correction. Bullying.

  Since he wasn’t looking at her, she ran her eyes down his body. Tall, lean-muscled hunk of dirt that he was, she couldn’t help but be impressed by his energy and commitment. They’d done more this afternoon than Molly could have accomplished in a week.

  He paused suddenly, lifted the hem of his T-shirt, and used it to wipe his face.

  Molly’s stomach flipped. Seriously, what phenomenal abs.