Книга - Porcupine Ranch

Porcupine Ranch
Sally Carleen


THE HUNGRIEST COWBOY IN TEXASClayton Sinclair ran the toughest ranch in Texas, and all he wanted at the end of a long day was a steak dinner and a tidy house. But his pretty new housekeeper couldn't boil an egg to save her life. Maybe the lady was just desperate for a job. Or, maybe Hannah Lindsay was up to something….A plain Jane with two left feet, Hannah knew nothing about cooking, hospital corners–or attracting a man, for that matter. So when Clayton made her feel like a beauty queen, all she wanted was to win the handsome cowboy's heart. But would he thank her with a marriage proposal when he learned the bittersweet truth about who she really was?









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#uf30ece56-7203-556a-b81d-4a2ff52b4b7f)

Excerpt (#u9a5d4d64-8b9a-5d43-ae41-061b39af4baa)

Dear Reader (#u31804f2b-fc50-5d88-a6be-d9c95acf503b)

Title Page (#ub11012e1-ae7e-5368-957d-333382b5b850)

Dedication (#ua5774e16-e883-5d8e-ad05-1994c40b02e2)

Sally Carleen (#u3029deb2-87a8-5be4-8042-6942db89d2a5)

Chapter 1 (#u865e5411-a91c-5893-8dd9-6ac3b2ab82d2)

Chapter 2 (#ud253d363-bbc2-5611-83ad-b43ea004160e)

Chapter 3 (#ucd10e917-9165-50dd-9091-c4d20318b0ad)

Chapter 4 (#u20f96060-83f7-5a33-85ee-9ad9d3b700e1)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




“I noticed you haven’t been making my bed.”


Hannah seemed mystified by Clayton’s accusation. “Make the bed? Every morning?”



“Straighten the covers. Put the spread on top.”



“But—you sleep in that bed.”



“That’s true. But only at night. It can sit here made up the whole day while I’m working.”



“You should air it during the day so it’ll be fresh at night. What benefit do you derive from it being made while you’re gone? You’ll only see it at night before you unmake it.”



She stood beside his bed, inches away from him, looking at him tentatively. She was as wrong for him as any woman could be. But he wanted to pull her into his arms and sink into the unmade bed with her, and hold her all night and all day…


Dear Reader,

This April, let Silhouette Romance shower you with treats. We’ve got must-read miniseries, bestselling authors and tons of happy endings!

The nonstop excitement begins with Marie Ferrarella’s contribution to BUNDLES OF JOY. A single dad finds himself falling for his live-in nanny—who’s got a baby of her own. So when a cry interrupts a midnight kiss, the question sure to be asked is Your Baby or Mine?

TWINS ON THE DOORSTEP, a miniseries about babies who bring love to the most unsuspecting couples, begins with The Sheriff’s Son. Beloved author Stella Bagwell weaves a magical tale of secrets and second chances.

Also set to march down the aisle this month is the second member of THE SINGLE DADDY CLUB. Donna Clayton, winner of the prestigious Holt Medallion, brings you the story of a desperate daddy and the pampered debutante who becomes a Nanny in the Nick of Time.

SURPRISE BRIDES, a series about unexpected weddings, continues with Laura Anthony’s Look-Alike Bride. This classic amnesia plot line has a new twist: Everyone believes a plain Jane is really a Hollywood starlet— including the actress’s ex-fiancé!

Rounding out the month is the heartwarming A Wife for Doctor Sam by Phyllis Halldorson, the story of a small town doctor who’s vowed never to fall in love again. And Sally Carleen’s Porcupine Ranch, about a housekeeper who knows nothing about keeping house, but knows exactly how to keep her sexy boss happy!

Enjoy!

Melissa Senate

Senior Editor

Silhouette Romance

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3




Porcupine Ranch

Sally Carleen







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Linda Steward and Sarah Reed

for letting me borrow their real ranch




SALLY CARLEEN


For as long as she can remember, Sally planned to be a writer when she grew up. Finally, one day, after more years than she cares to admit, she realized she was as grown up as she was likely to become, and began to write romance novels. In the years prior to her epiphany, Sally supported her writing habit by working as a legal secretary, real-estate agent, legal assistant, leasing agent, an executive secretary, and in various other occupations.

She now writes full-time and looks upon her previous careers as research and/or torture. A native of McAlester, Oklahoma, and naturalized citizen of Dallas, Texas, Sally now lives in Lee’s Summit, Missouri, with her husband, Max, their very large cat, Leo, and a very small dog, Cricket. Her interests, besides writing, are chocolate and Classic Coke.

Readers can write to Sally at P.O. Box 6614, Lee’s Summit, MO 64086.




Chapter One (#ulink_cefe5570-206e-5353-ad80-ee40798b0c82)


Hannah Lindsay rubbed her sweaty palms down the sides of her cotton skirt. Yesterday, she’d lost her mind or she never would have let Samuel talk her into coming out here. Today, she’d lost control of her body. No matter how hard she concentrated, she simply couldn’t make her hand reach up and knock on the door in front of her.

She turned and looked wistfully back toward her small white car parked only a few yards away. The normally nondescript vehicle had been transformed into a bright, beckoning beacon against the dreary landscape. Tufts of grass, a few small cacti and several gnarled mesquite trees stabbed the flat, parched, brown earth, their green colors muted by the dust

Only forty-five minutes south of San Antonio, Clayton Sinclair’s ranch seemed light-years from her cozy condo in the heart of the city. If she drove really fast, she could make it home in forty minutes. Maybe thirty-five.

Behind her the door opened.

She spun around to see a huge cowboy standing in the doorway, glowering down at her.

Okay, maybe huge was an exaggeration, but he was definitely large, and he was definitely glowering.

She recognized Clayton Sinclair from the picture Samuel, his grandfather, had shown her. He was a younger, tougher, sun-bronzed version of his grandfather. Tall, like Samuel, but with much wider shoulders and a bigger chest, as if he wrestled two-ton steers before breakfast.

His hair was light, sun-streaked. Probably wrestled those steers after lunch in the midday sun, too. Squint lines fanned out from intensely blue eyes that seemed to burn from his deeply tanned face. Whoever said blue was a cool color? Hannah thought.

He wore faded blue jeans over a flat stomach and muscular thighs, and his faded denim shirt was open at the throat, allowing light brown curls to spring out. Clayton oozed virility and sexuality and he didn’t look like anybody’s grandson. This was going to be even worse than Hannah had anticipated.

“Can I help you?” he asked—demanded, actually—when she continued to gawk at him as if she were an idiot.

Things were getting worse by the minute. Talking to strangers wasn’t easy for Hannah under the best of circumstances, and talking, under false pretenses, to a stranger who oozed sexuality didn’t even rank in the top fifty percent of her list of possibilities. In fact, it was pretty darn close to the bottom. Right down there with the day she graduated from high school and was supposed to give the valedictorian speech…and froze in front of a thousand people.

She opened her mouth, but coherent words couldn’t fight their way past the tense muscles in her throat. She gurgled.

That should make a terrific first impression. He’d probably send her packing before she figured out how to make her vocal chords work again.

So? Wasn’t that what she wanted?

“Are you Hannah Lindsay?” he finally asked.

She had no idea what he’d expected, but she obviously wasn’t it. The disappointed look on his face knifed straight into her heart. Suddenly she was back in her adolescent years when everything she did was a disappointment to her parents.

She nodded in answer to his question, giving up the effort to verbalize. The movement was a little jerky, but she was pretty sure it was the right one. Up and down with the head. Up and down. Good girl.

“You’re applying for the job of live-in house-keeper?” He sounded resigned. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he knew all about her deficit in housekeeping skills.

She cleared her throat and straightened her spine. “Yes.” That was much better. A squeak instead of a gurgle. A recognizable word. She was becoming practically verbose.

“I’m Clayton Sinclair. Come in.” He stepped aside, holding the screen door for her.

She swallowed hard, took a deep breath and ordered her feet to take her into the big old ranch house. Right foot. Left foot. Breathe.

She almost lost cadence as she brushed past Clayton and the compelling scents of leather and open country overwhelmed her, painting a vivid mental picture of him on a horse, swinging a lariat and roping longhorn cattle. She’d better omit breathing from her walking sequence. One thing at a time.

With its high ceiling and drawn drapes, the large room was cool, shadowy, cavernous and ominous. She half expected a bat to fly out of a corner at any minute. Or out of her own personal belfry. Today’s events certainly proved she had a few up there.

“Have a seat.” Clayton indicated a looming, Victorian-style armchair patterned with large flowers on the back. Maybe the dim lighting was a good thing. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see those flowers up close.

From long habit, she reached behind her to shove things aside before she sat down, but the chair was empty. No books, papers, computer disks, shoes. That was probably one of the things housekeepers did. Kept the chairs empty. She had no empty chairs at home, not even after her housekeeper came.

She perched on the edge. Ready to run…to escape.

Clayton sat on a long red sofa a few feet away. It was empty, too. Until he sat down, anyway. He filled up a good portion of it and looked totally out of place on the formal, feminine furniture.

“The position involves a lot of work,” he said, crossing one booted foot over the other knee with relaxed, unconscious masculinity.

The gesture added one more layer of tension to the mass already squirming in Hannah’s stomach. Nothing could make this ordeal easy, but it would have helped if Clayton had been short and pudgy.

She didn’t try to talk this time. Best to save her effort for when he asked her a direct question.

“Keeping this place clean isn’t an easy job,” he continued. “As you can see, my mother furnished it pretty elaborately. It’s not my style, but she comes back to visit every month or two, so I like to keep all her tables and vases and—” He waved a negligent hand around the room, and Hannah noticed lamps, statues, bowls…even a bird cage decorated with flowers. A lot of wasted space, it seemed to her. Nothing that served any practical purpose.

Her survey of the room ended with the painting over the fireplace. Samuel would be pleased to know it was still there. He was right. His wife had been a beautiful woman, but even in the portrait she looked frail.

“The floors are all hardwood and have to be polished, except the kitchen,” Clayton went on. “It’s linoleum and has to be waxed. Then there’s the laundry. I have five ranch hands who’ll be here through the spring roundup. They stay in the bunkhouse, so you don’t have to clean for them, but you will be expected to do their laundry as well as mine, and you’ll cook for all of us, three meals a day.”

He paused, peering at her intently. Unfortunately, her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and she could see his dubious expression quite clearly. He didn’t for one minute think she could do all those things.

Well, she couldn’t, so why did his attitude upset her? She could design complex computer programs as easily as most people wrote letters, but her cooking skills stopped with peanut butter and blackberry jam sandwiches or an occasional frozen dinner.

She ought to stand up, agree with Clayton, thank him for the interview and leave. She’d promised only to come out here and apply for the job. She could honestly tell Samuel she’d done her best. And she had warned him there was no way she’d actually be hired.

Stand! she ordered her legs. Up!

They ignored her.

She wasn’t surprised.

“Your former employer gave you a glowing recommendation,” Clayton continued.

“Glowing recommendation?” she repeated, her surprise conquering her nerves sufficiently to give her a voice.

Omni Software, Inc. had given her a glowing recommendation as a housekeeper?

That was impossible. Of course they hadn’t. He must be trying to let her know that he knew who she was and knew this whole thing was a hoax.

She dropped her head, letting her masses of unruly hair fall protectively forward. She should have felt relief that it was all over, but instead her cheeks flooded with embarrassment.

It wasn’t enough that she looked like a complete idiot in front of Clayton Sinclair, now she’d been exposed as a deceitful idiot.

“Yes, your employer said you were the best house-keeper he’s ever had.” Clayton’s tone was dry and unenthusiastic…a little angry, she thought. Not that she blamed him, considering the circumstances. “Actually I didn’t talk to Mr. Taylor directly.”

Hannah gasped, her head snapping upright at the mention of the surname Samuel had taken years ago when he’d awakened in a mental hospital in California, unable to remember his last name or how he got there. By the time he’d fully regained his memory, he’d already begun his business under that name and had kept it.

What had Samuel done?

Clayton frowned at her gasp, then continued. “Glen Ramsey, my banker, tells me that Mr. Taylor, who’s one of his major depositors, has given you a good reference and would really appreciate it if I’d hire you. This message comes from my banker who holds the note on this ranch—a man I really need to keep happy.”

Now she knew what Samuel had done. Pressured somebody at the bank to pressure Clayton. No wonder he’d been so unconcerned about her lack of skills! The game had been rigged from the beginning.

If she got out of there without having a stroke, she’d kill Samuel.

“I’m sorry he did that,” she mumbled, staring at the floor, again letting her hair fall forward around her face, embarrassed at her friend’s tactics.

She rose on shaky legs. Less shaky than when she’d come in, though. Now she had a purpose. Make it home to kill Samuel.

Clayton heaved a long sigh. “No, no. Sit back down. It’s all right. I don’t have applicants for this job lined up for ten miles down the road, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have time to interview them. I need a housekeeper, and I need one now.”

Hannah lifted her head. Surely he wasn’t saying what it sounded like he was saying.

He ran a hand through his hair, shifting the strands of light and shadow. She could almost feel the coarse texture, the warmth brought inside from days of working in the sunshine.

And sweating under a cowboy hat, she told herself in an unsuccessful effort to shut down her flight into fantasy. This was a real, working cowboy, not someone from a movie.

Somehow that thought made Clayton even more attractive.

“I don’t like being pressured, but, on the other hand, I really don’t care how I get a housekeeper as long as I get somebody who can do the job. Samuel Taylor assured my banker that you’re a very competent housekeeper and that you could handle the work with no problem.” A slight frown darted across his features, creasing his forehead between his eyebrows and making his jawline look even more square. “I just didn’t expect you to be so…” He spread his hands, moved them close together then far apart.

Hannah watched in tense fascination, wondering what he hadn’t expected her to be.

“My former housekeeper was fifty years old,” he said, “and, uh, sturdy. Mrs. Grogan could throw a hundred-pound sack of feed over her shoulder and carry it to the barn. Not that you’d be required to do that, of course.”

Hannah straightened her admittedly slim shoulders. Was he suggesting she couldn’t heft a hundred pound bag over her shoulder and carry it to the barn?

“You think I can’t?”

He looked at her dubiously, and her shoulders slumped.

Certainly she couldn’t. Why did it bother her that he had pointed out the obvious? She couldn’t cook or do laundry or polish floors, either, so why should she feel indignant and upset that he wasn’t going to hire her to do just that? Hadn’t she learned after all these years that it was pointless to try to succeed at activities for which she had no ability?

“We’ve been three weeks without a housekeeper,” he went on, ignoring her dumb question. “Mrs. Grogan left unexpectedly when her mother up in Oklahoma had a stroke. Last week she called to say she was going to have to stay there. My extra hands for the spring roundup came on two days ago, and the five of them have been complaining ever since about having to eat sandwiches after doing the work of ten men.”

He slapped one big hand on his denim-covered thigh, making her jump. “Okay, so you’re young and, uh, slim. I guess neither one of those problems is fatal. We’re in a financial crunch right now and I probably can’t start you at what you were making, but if the salary I mentioned in the ad is okay, you’ve got the job.”

Hannah fell back into the chair.

“The job?” she croaked. “I’ve got…?”




Chapter Two (#ulink_90c527c2-c142-532e-8980-b4bd7e6df32b)


Clayton studied his new housekeeper curiously. Her disjointed response to his job offer was the oddest he’d ever encountered. While he resented his banker’s pressure tactics, at the same time, he’d been relieved that his search was over. He was ready to hire the woman and be done with it.

His comment that he didn’t have time to interview a lot of applicants had been a gross understatement. This was the busiest time of the year as well as the most expensive, what with the extra hands. Every minute he spent interviewing cost him money—and money was something that was in short supply, especially with the continuing drought.

He hadn’t had any doubts about hiring Hannah Lindsay until he’d opened the door and seen her standing there, looking terrified and completely out of place.

She was a little taller than average, but so slim he was afraid the first strong west wind would blow her away. Big brown eyes peeked out from masses of shiny, dark brown, curly hair that almost hid the rest of her face. How was she going to keep that hair out of her eyes when she leaned over to scrub floors? Her clothes weren’t very housekeeperish, either—a blouse with long, puffy sleeves, a vest and a long flowing skirt. She looked like some kind of an artist, much too unworldly and fragile to handle the ranch.

She’d come into the stuffy old house trailing the scent of roses, and she had a look about her that made him think of a spiderweb with a drop of dew on it, quivering in the morning sunlight. He wanted to touch her, feel the translucent skin of her delicate face.

Clayton clenched his callused hands and mentally ordered them to keep away from that porcelain skin. He’d threaten the other guys within an inch of their lives if they got out of line with her, too. From the looks of her, he didn’t think she’d be able to deal with the rough characters he’d hired for spring roundup.

Nevertheless, this Mr. Taylor had given her a great reference, and, even if he had a choice after Glen Ramsey’s persuasive phone call, he was desperate.

“My banker said Mr. Taylor has already closed up his place and left for Europe, and you’ll be able to move in and start work immediately.” Those big eyes got bigger. Did she not understand what he meant? “Can you start work soon? Tomorrow? Today?”

“Tomorrow?”

He wasn’t sure if she was repeating something she didn’t comprehend or agreeing to start tomorrow. He elected to put the positive slant on it. “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Morning?”

She really did have some major communication problems. Thankfully, cooking, washing and cleaning didn’t require a lot of communication. “As soon as you get up, you get dressed and then come on out here.”

He stood.

She stood.

“Would you like to see your room?”

She shook her head, the motion jerky but a definite negative.

“In the morning, then. I’m very pleased to have met you, Ms. Lindsay.” He offered his hand to shake and after a second’s hesitation, she took it.

Her hand was slim, smooth and soft in his. Again the word fragile came to mind. And tantalizing as that concept might be to Clayton’s male ego, it wasn’t a good one for a housekeeper on a ranch in Texas brush country. Out here, only the strongest survived.

Reluctantly Clayton turned her hand loose even as he fought an urge to pat it and smile and reassure her…and not hire her to take care of his house.

He moved to the door and opened it.

She came to life then and, with a wild-eyed look, darted out the door, across the yard, into her car and peeled away in a cloud of dust.

Clayton shook his head as he watched her go. Such a pretty girl. Too bad she was so odd. Maybe her mother didn’t take enough vitamins when she was pregnant.

He made a quick check to see if they had enough lunch meat and bread for dinner. Damn! They were running low on mayo. Thank goodness he could stop worrying about things like that come tomorrow.

So what if Hannah Lindsay was a little strange, a bit off center? She had great references.

From an elderly man who lived in a condo, not a crew of half-civilized cowboys on a completely uncivilized ranch.

Determinedly ignoring the nagging voice of doom, Clayton went out to continue vaccinating the hundred plus head of cattle they’d rounded up that morning. The men would work even harder knowing they’d soon have decent meals.



Hannah went straight to Samuel’s apartment, ignoring her own door across the hallway. She banged on the door with one fist while she repeatedly jabbed the doorbell with the other.

The older man opened the door almost immediately. “Did you meet him?” he asked before she had a chance to say anything. Just seeing him standing there looking so hopeful took the heat from her self-righteous anger.

His physical resemblance to her own grandfather was superficial, but the kindness in his blue eyes, his uncritical acceptance of her, his caring attitude were hauntingly reminiscent of the man who had been her world. She wanted to return his caring, to do everything she could for him, all the things she hadn’t been able to do for her grandfather because he’d died too soon.

“Come in and tell me about my grandson,” he said. “How did he look? What did he say?”

“How could you do this to me?” She tried to force indignation into her tone. “You called somebody at the bank and lied to him, and now I’ve got the job as your grandson’s housekeeper!”

“But Hannah, you agreed to do it for me.”

Hannah spread her hands in frustration. “I agreed to apply for the job, but I never dreamed I’d get it! I told you I wasn’t going to lie about my qualifications.”

“And that’s very admirable of you, but not very practical. That’s why I had to lie for you. If you didn’t get the job, how could you get to know my grandson? How could you smooth the way for me to meet him in person and not just in this cold, flat picture my detective took of him?”

Samuel looked so sad, so lonely. In the six months since he’d moved in across the hall from her, he’d become a dear friend, and she knew how much this meant to him. She wanted to help him.

But she couldn’t.

She’d already crumpled under the impact of Clayton Sinclair’s disapproval. She’d had more than enough disapproval in her life. Working as Clayton’s housekeeper guaranteed she’d give him plenty of occasions for more.

“Samuel, you know how hard it is for me to talk to people I don’t know.”

“You didn’t know me when I moved in here.”

“But you were so friendly, and you reminded me so much of Granddad. It wasn’t like you were a real stranger.”

“You’ll get to know my grandson even faster since you’ll be living there.”

Hannah shook her head remembering the way Clayton looked in his blue jeans and western-cut shirt, the way he’d crossed one booted foot over his knee, the easy air of strength and masculinity. She’d love to get to know him…in another lifetime, of course, when she’d be a confident, sexy woman whom he could be interested in.

But she couldn’t tell Samuel that.

“You know I don’t even like to go to the grocery store. I’m only comfortable when I’m home with my computer, designing my games.”

“I know that. I also know the company in Dallas wants you to make personal appearances in an advertising campaign to demonstrate the latest game you’re working on and you told them no. That proves it’s time you get out into the world, get away from the computer and experience life. Going to Clayton’s ranch and doing this for me will be a great place to start.”

Hannah shook her head. She’d thought Samuel understood that she was experiencing the only life she wanted to experience.

Opting to change her approach, she turned, walked over to her own door and flung it open. “Look in here and be logical. How can you possibly expect me to clean house and cook for anybody?”

Samuel came to stand beside her and survey the controlled chaos that was her home—stacks of papers, drawings for graphics pinned to chair backs and thumbtacked to walls, books sprawled here and there with protruding bits of paper marking pertinent pages, articles of clothing sprinkled throughout and other odds and ends.

“Look,” she repeated, waving her hand through the air. “Not one empty chair. Clean houses have empty chairs. I haven’t seen my carpet in so long, I don’t remember what color it is. I live on peanut butter sandwiches, chips and dips, frozen dinners and colas because I don’t know how to cook.”

Samuel wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “There you go again, underestimating yourself. You can do anything you want to do. How many times have you told me that everything anybody needs to know can be found in books? I just happen to have a book on cleaning house as well as a cookbook.”

Good grief! He had this all planned out! Just like the call to the bank!

“Even if I could do it, I already have a job! I’m under contract for Unicorn in the Garden. They’re willing to live without me being a part of the advertising, but they do want the game finished in time to feature it in their fall catalog of computer games. I have a deadline!”

Samuel took her arm. “Please, Hannah. I’m counting on you. Let’s go over to my place where I’ve got empty chairs. I’ll fix you a nice cold cola, and we can talk about this.”

“No.” This no wasn’t quite as firm, she noticed with dismay. Surely she wasn’t going to let herself be talked into this insanity.

“It’ll only be for one day, maybe two.”

“Oh, right. Like he’s not going to notice by the end of the first day that I haven’t done any cooking or cleaning.” But she found herself allowing Samuel to lead her into his apartment. Saying no to him was so difficult, just as she’d never been able to say no to her own grandfather.

Beyond that, she realized with a sinking feeling, some perverse part of her actually wanted to go back to Clayton’s ranch and prove to him that she could do everything Mrs. Grogan had done. To see approval in those piercing eyes.

Jeez! She really had lost her mind.

* * *

Shortly after ten-thirty the next day, Hannah’s teeth rattled as she drove over the cattle guard onto Clayton’s ranch.

In the back seat she had two of the outrageously expensive suitcases her mother had given her for high school graduation, the large one full of clothes and the small one containing Samuel’s cookbook and housekeeping manual.

No doubt about it. She’d slipped a gear, gone mental—she was, in the vernacular, nuts.

Especially considering she was halfway—well, maybe a quarter way—excited about this venture, about seeing Clayton Sinclair in his faded denims and scuffed cowboy boots again, even if she could only grunt or gurgle at him.

A giant ERROR message flashed across her mind at that thought. She’d feel Clayton out about his grandfather, tell him how sick with grief Samuel had been, convince him Samuel would never have deserted Clayton’s mother if he’d known he had a grandson on the way, and then she’d get out of there quick. Before night.

She focused on the road stretching ahead, a dry, colorless ribbon leading to the house. A glance in the rearview mirror showed nothing but a giant cloud of dust roiling in her wake, following her. As omens went, it didn’t seem like a very good one.



Clayton swore under his breath as he tried to herd a group of ten normal cattle plus one rambunctious young bull who seemed to think this was all a game.

Usually he kind of agreed with the bull.

Cattle could be difficult creatures, and trying to raise them in the tough brush country only made it worse. Nevertheless, he loved everything about the life, every ornery cow, every dry bit of sand, every prickly cactus, every twisted mesquite tree.

His mother, born and raised in the hill country of Austin, had hated their home as passionately as he loved it. As a child, Clayton had resented her attitude, had almost taken it as a personal rejection. But he’d come to realize that the land was simply too harsh for her. She’d have escaped years ago if she hadn’t been left alone and pregnant, the despised ranch, belonging to her dead husband and missing father-in-law, her only home and means of support.

Gradually Clayton had taken over the management, but it was only when he reached the age of twenty-one that she’d turned over the books to him. He’d discovered then how badly she’d mismanaged the ranch, even taking out a mortgage on the place.

He’d never blamed her. She’d done the best she could. She’d just been unsuited for the ranch.

He took a great deal of pride in the fact that he was pulling it out of debt in spite of everything.

The long drought was taking a heavy toll. With most of his herd under optimum weight, he desperately needed rain. But even without it, he’d manage. This was tough country, a worthy opponent, and that was what he loved about it.

Normally, working the cattle, mending the fences—any of the necessary tasks—brought him contentment and took his mind off all the problems. But today had gotten off to a lousy start and hadn’t improved a bit so far.

He’d wasted most of the morning hanging around the house waiting for Hannah Lindsay, his taste buds anticipating his first hot meal in three weeks.

Not to mention that he wouldn’t mind seeing a pretty female face after looking at nothing here lately but unshaven, ugly cowboys and hairy, smelly cattle. Even if she couldn’t talk, Hannah was real easy on the eyes.

She was also a no-show. Hadn’t even phoned to say she wasn’t coming. She’d probably realized she wouldn’t be able to hack it out here and had run for her life.

He forced himself to pay attention to the task at hand and finally got the young bull headed in the right direction.

He’d take this group to the corral, then go back to the house and make ham sandwiches again. It was ten-thirty already, and last night he’d promised the over-worked men that they’d have real food for lunch. Now he would have to disappoint them.

As he neared the corral, he saw a cloud of dust rolling toward his house. That was strange. The only visitor he expected today had been Hannah Lindsay.

Irritation and disappointment washed over him anew at the memory of her failure to show up. He’d been right about her. She was too much like his mother, her soft fragility unsuited to the land’s harshness.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the rebellious bull, apparently taking advantage of Clayton’s momentary distraction, had separated from the group again.

Cursing Hannah Lindsay and whoever was stirring up that cloud of dust, he went after the bull.

When he finally got his cattle settled in the corral, Clayton headed toward the house. As he approached, he recognized Hannah’s little white car.

His first impulse was delight. She’d come after all.

Several hours late, he reminded himself, his guard automatically going up. Being late for the first day wasn’t a good sign. Out here they didn’t have the luxury of being late, especially in the mornings.

He tried to push his doubts aside. Maybe she’d had car trouble. Maybe she’d gotten lost. Considering the peculiar way she’d acted yesterday, that was certainly a possibility.

The important thing was, Hannah was here. He had a cook and housekeeper. That was the only reason he was so glad to see her.

Then he saw her slim figure heading across the yard, back toward her car. Was she leaving? No, he couldn’t let her do that! He urged his horse to a full gallop.

She stopped with the car door open and looked toward him, apparently hearing the sound of his horse’s hooves. Her dark, luminous eyes were visible even from a distance.

He reined up beside her and dismounted, amazed at how excited he was to see her in spite of his earlier misgivings. But he supposed that was understandable. He was as tired of eating sandwiches as the men were. Not to mention that he was running out of clean underwear.

“Hi,” he greeted her, smiling as he pulled off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his brow in one practiced movement. “When you didn’t show up this morning, I was afraid you’d decided not to take the job.”

She looked puzzled, pushed the car door closed then checked a large, black-banded watch that was much too big for her thin wrist. At least it was practical; not one of those thin gold things. He told himself that was a good sign.

And with that observation, he realized that he was looking for good signs. He was desperate for good signs, and Hannah didn’t carry many with her.

She lifted her deer-caught-in-a-headlight gaze from the watch to him. “It is,” she said. “Morning.”

Clayton bit the inside of his lower lip and clenched his hands. This was not a good sign.

“I don’t know what kind of a schedule your former employer had, but around here, morning comes quite a bit earlier, like about 5:00 a.m.” He spoke as softly and calmly as possible. He didn’t want to scare her off.

Nevertheless, she flinched as though he’d slapped her.

“Five? Is the sun up then?”

Oh, brother. They were in trouble. And yet he felt like a jerk just for telling her the hours she was expected to work.

That was a dumb thing to feel. If she couldn’t handle it, she had no business being here.

Taking a deep breath, he slid his hat back onto his head, momentarily blocking his view of her. It was easier to scold her when he couldn’t see that vulnerable look on her face.

“No,” he said. “The sun isn’t up at that hour. We have to get an early start. I should have told you yesterday. Never mind. You’re here now. Think you can put together a quick lunch?”

“Lunch?”

Well, he wasn’t hiring her to make speeches. Surely her cooking skills were better than her verbal ones.

“Where are your bags?”

Reluctantly, it seemed, she looked toward the car. “In there.” Her voice sounded as if her throat needed to be oiled.

He took the key from her, opened the car door and hauled out two designer suitcases. He wasn’t paying her what she’d earned before if she could afford bags like those.

But by the end of the season, he should have the mortgage paid off. Then next year he’d turn a profit, and he’d make it up to her.

As though she was likely to be around next year. Mrs. Grogan had lasted for three years. Except for his mother who hadn’t had anywhere else to go until she met her new husband, that was pretty much a record. His father and grandparents were gone before he even arrived on the scene. Most people didn’t fare well out here. Nothing was permanent except the land and him.

But he could hope Hannah would last a year or two. Hiring and training new employees took time away from work.

“Come on. I’ll show you where everything is in the kitchen. Mrs. Grogan always stayed pretty well stocked up, but if you need anything, you can order it this afternoon and it’ll be delivered in the morning. I know that’s harder than going to the store and getting things yourself, but we’re so busy this time of the year, nobody leaves the ranch unless it’s an emergency.”

“Nobody leaves?” Hannah repeated, somehow managing to fill each word to bursting point with panic.

What on earth was the matter with her? Clayton wondered. She sounded as though she’d been sentenced to life in a maximum security prison. She’d just taken the job. Surely she wasn’t already planning to leave. That would set a new record, even for this ranch.




Chapter Three (#ulink_0529171b-d045-55b7-a9a3-dbf32f299eb4)


Nobody leaves the ranch unless it’s an emergency?

Clayton’s words hit Hannah smack in the gut like a bad case of botulism.

So much for her plans to be out of there before night. Clayton wasn’t talking about just a day or two. Did this emergency thing mean she’d have to burn down the house to get out? Or would a complete nervous breakdown be sufficient?

Hoping for a sudden time warp to fold around her and drag her anywhere but where she was, Hannah followed Clayton’s towering figure across the yard and into the house.

His broad back and denim-clad thighs made her blood run hot on the way to her heart and cold on the way back as she thought of having to face him, talk to him. Or maybe it was all running at the same time, sharing the same vein. The way she felt right now, anything was possible. Except, apparently, that time warp. She remained stuck in the here and now.

Clayton led her upstairs to a large, dark room at the end of the hall. Large dark furniture, including a four-poster bed, loomed at her. She was supposed to sleep in this mausoleum?

He deposited her bags inside the door. “Your bathroom is two doors down. Sorry it’s not private. This house was built before we had indoor plumbing this far out of the city.”

Not private? Hannah gulped at the thought of sharing a bathroom…and sharing it with this overwhelming male person.

“Of course, the only visitors we ever have are my mother and her husband. So, except for the fact that you have to go out in the hall, it’s pretty much private.” Hannah released a soft sigh of relief mingled with a tiny hint of disappointment that Clayton apparently had his own bathroom. “Clothes closet through there, linen closet in the hall,” he continued, obviously unaware of her personal drama.

Clayton checked his watch, and her gaze followed his, noting the sunbleached hairs curling from his shirt sleeve, surrounding the leather band.

“Ready to fix a little lunch for six hungry cowboys?” he asked.

She nodded, wondering if a lie had to be verbalized or if movement counted. Lying by omission, lying by nod.

She was ready for a lot of things—to run screaming from the house, to murder Samuel, to press the hairs on Clayton’s wrist and watch them spring back, but she was in no way ready to fix a little lunch.

Wondering how the heck she was going to get out of this one, Hannah went downstairs with him to the big kitchen. As he pointed out the location of all the unassembled food components, she made an effort to memorize everything he said.

Flour in the big canister, sugar next, then coffee. Cans of food in the pantry.

The peanut butter jar greeted her like an old friend in a world of strangers. She wanted to embrace it. She didn’t see any blackberry jam, but there was a big jar of strawberry preserves. That would do. She could make lunch after all.

“Through that door is the laundry room and a big freezer with plenty of meat and vegetables.”

She could check that for the possibility of froze, dinners.

“I know it’s late,” Clayton said, standing behind her, his warm breath stirring her hair. “You don’t need to come up with anything elaborate. We’ve been eating sandwiches so long, anything else will be welcome.”

Anything else? So much for her lunch plans. Back to square one.

For a long moment he didn’t move, just stood there behind her so close she could smell his leather, sunshine and warm earth scent that teased her senses and somehow made her feel even more confused.

He needed to leave so she could catch her breath. So she could go upstairs and look up lunch in the cookbook. Surely he didn’t plan to wait around for her to make the meal? How in the world was she supposed to look it up then figure out how to do it with him watching?

“So,” he said, “what do you need to get started?”

She turned to look at him. He was planning to wait around and watch her.

In desperation she pointed upward. “I need—”

“Oh, sure,” he said, stepping back. “You do remember where the bathroom is?”

The bathroom? Oh, well. It didn’t matter what he thought she was doing as long as she could get to that cookbook. Hannah nodded, then darted away and charged upstairs.

She opened the small bag and hurriedly flipped the cookbook open to the index, to the L’s.

Liver…surely they wouldn’t expect her to make that.

Lobster…oh, she loved lobster thermidor. When she’d lived at home, she’d frequently asked their cook to make it. This wasn’t going to be so tough after all.

Lunch dishes. There it was! She turned excitedly to the page.

Soup and sandwich. No, that wouldn’t do. Clayton had nixed the sandwiches.

Pasta salad. Perfect! She loved the colorful curly pasta and all the little bits of goodies.

If she could program a computer, surely she could do this. Other people cooked all the time.

She winced at that thought, her parents’ oftrepeated statements playing again in her head about what other people could do. All your friends have learned to dance. All your friends can make small talk with the guests at parties and dinners. All your friends make their parents proud of them.

Being able to understand advanced calculus and quantum physics or program a computer hadn’t helped her then.

But now she had specific directions, and she could follow directions, she told herself reassuringly.

The recipe purported to be adequate for four people, so she’d better double it to feed seven. She read it twice, carefully doubling and memorizing every measurement, every detail.

Clayton smiled eagerly at her when she came back down to the kitchen. He had a nice smile. His white teeth made his tan look even more golden and turned the crinkles around his eyes into sunbursts. For a brief, unreal instant, she fantasized that the sparkle in those eyes was for her, but she knew it was only because he was hungry, and he expected her to feed him. Her own lips turned upward at that ridiculous thought.

His expression seemed to soften as if a haze settled around his face. “Nice.” He spoke the single word quietly, almost indistinctly. It sounded like nice, but that made no sense. It was completely out of context.

“Ice?” she questioned. That would be logical since they were dealing with food.

“Huh?”

“Rice?” she guessed desperately. “Mice?” Surely not.

He shook his head and cleared his throat. “What do you need first?”

“Pasta,” she said, hoping he’d forget about the rice…or those mice. “A sixteen-ounce package of pasta.” Maybe he’d leave once he was sure she knew where things were located.

“Pasta?” He opened the pantry door, reached behind some boxes and came out with a huge package of spaghetti. “Like this?”

She shook her head. “No. Curly, colored pasta.” She moved to check in the pantry herself, but he moved at the same time…directly into contact with her. Her hands went up in automatic defense and encountered soft, warm denim with the feel of solid muscle beneath—Clayton’s chest. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she felt his hands on her shoulders, steadying himself.

The hot blood rushed to her face, to her hands where they touched him, to her shoulders where he touched her. Every one of those spots felt much warmer than 98.6 degrees. Was this how cases of spontaneous combustion occurred?

“Sorry,” he mumbled, backing away, taking his odd heat-producing properties with him. “I’d, uh, better go check on the guys. Tell them lunch is on the way. In, what, half an hour? Forty-five minutes?”

“Forty-five minutes. Sure.” She had no idea if that would be long enough, but she’d have agreed to anything to get him to leave.

His going made the kitchen seem much larger and more open. She could breathe deeply now. She’d surely be able to get through this cooking ordeal a lot more easily.

So why did the large, open kitchen feel so empty?

Shrugging off the inexplicable feeling, she started scrounging through the pantry, looking for pasta. She couldn’t find any of the colorful, curly kind, but she did unearth a couple of packages of macaroni. A monochrome start, but the bits of olives and other components should liven it up.

Following the advice of the recipe, she checked the package directions for the pasta and carefully measured enough water for both packages into a pan, then set it on the stove to boil.

This was easy. Why had she worried? She was going to be able to do this.

In her mind’s eye she could see Clayton sitting at the head of the big oak dining table they’d passed on their way to the kitchen. She could see a big smile spreading across his face, tilting the corners of his eyes, as he tasted his first bite of her pasta salad.

Stop that! she ordered herself. What was the matter with her? She was no longer an insecure teenager, falling all over herself in a vain attempt to please everybody she met. She had only to please herself. Clayton’s opinion wasn’t important.

She focused on the macaroni package directions. Cook six to nine minutes or until tender.

Six to nine minutes or until tender? What the heck kind of direction was that? A thirty-three and one-third percent variance with an open-ended conclusion? She could just see herself writing instructions for her computer games like that. Click left mouse button six to nine times or until something you like happens.

This cooking certainly was an inexact science. In fact, anything that nebulous could hardly be called science at all. It was more like alchemy.

But somehow she had to figure out these ambiguous instructions.

After all, if she didn’t prove herself competent, why would he listen to anything she had to say about his grandfather? That was absolutely the only reason she wanted to impress him.



Clayton washed up at the outside faucet down by the barn with the rest of the men.

“Okay, fellas,” he said, trying to locate a semiclean spot on the community towel to dry his own hands, “the new cook got here a little late, so lunch won’t be anything spectacular, but at least it won’t be sandwiches.”

Mugger and Dub threw their hats into the air, Bear punched Cruiser on the shoulder, Bob slapped his knee and yelled “Hot Damn!” and everyone cheered.

“And one more thing.” They quieted immediately, and Clayton realized he’d used his this-is-important-so-you’d-damn-well-better-listen-close voice. Well, it was important. “Hannah—Ms. Lindsay—is a little different from Mrs. Grogan. She’s, uh, quieter, younger, prettier—”

Cheers broke out again, interspersed with whistles.

“The first one of you gets out of line with her, I’ll break your face.” The words came out loud and harsh.

Silence ensued as the men looked at each other.

“No problem, man,” Bob mumbled.

“You got it, boss,” Mugger agreed.

He hadn’t intended to snap at them even before they’d done anything. On the other hand, better before than after. Hannah’s big brown eyes were bottomless pools of innocence. If one of the men did anything to destroy that innocence, he’d do worse than break the guy’s face.

“Ms. Lindsay is, um, different,” he said.

“You already told us that,” Bear growled.

“I said she was different from Mrs. Grogan. Now I’m saying she’s different from everybody.”

“You mean she’s not right in the head?”

Clayton flinched at the brutal description. Hannah wasn’t crazy. At least, he didn’t think so.

“She’s different,” he concluded obscurely. “Let’s go get some lunch.”

“All right!”

The men followed him up to the house and into the dining room where the table was set with his mother’s dishes with their elaborate floral design. His fault. He should have told her to use the plain brown ones he’d bought after his mother moved out. Well, it wouldn’t hurt the men to eat off pink and purple flowers. They probably wouldn’t even notice in their excitement over their first hot meal in two days.

“Where’s the food?” Bear demanded.

“Sit down. She’ll be out in a minute,” Clayton said confidently. But he didn’t feel all that confident. No tempting odors drifted from the kitchen the way they did when Mrs. Grogan cooked.

Hannah appeared in the kitchen door carrying a serving bowl with a spoon sprouting from it. Her hair looked even wilder than usual, and her eyes had a glassy look. She hesitated, her gaze taking in the ruffians who were talking and laughing as they settled into the chairs at the table. Her entrance froze them in place, Cruiser and Dub already poised over their chairs.

“Ms. Hannah Lindsay, this skinny guy here is Dub. The big, fierce one, with so much grizzled hair and beard all you can see is the tip of his nose, is Bear. The one with the trim little gambler’s mustache is Mugger. The long drink of water is Cruiser, and the redhead’s Bob.”

Hannah’s gaze went from one person to the next, all around the table, her expression getting wilder with each cowboy. When she came to Clayton, a bright red spot appeared on each smooth cheek. “Lunch,” she blurted, holding the bowl before her.

Cruiser ran to take it. “Let me help you, ma’am.”

Hannah’s face relaxed enough to allow a tentative smile as she surrendered the bowl. Yes, she definitely had a nice smile. “Thank you,” she said in a relatively normal voice.

Dub stumbled from his half-sitting position and pulled out her chair at the end of the table nearest the kitchen.

“Thank you,” she said again, looking and sounding a little more confident. She was communicating coherently, and the blood was redistributing itself from her cheeks to the rest of her body. That was an improvement.

Cruiser scooped out a large spoonful of food from the bowl and plopped it onto his plate. Macaroni mixed with bits of black, green and red sprawled among the painted flowers. Nobody said a word as all attention turned to the concoction.

“What is it?” Cruiser finally asked.

“Pasta salad.” Her voice was again strained as she dipped her head, letting her hair fall over her face.

“Pasta salad,” Clayton repeated before any of the men could say something to upset her more. “Great. This should give us a chance to cool down. Pass that bowl over here.”

Knowing the others would be watching him and following his example, he scooped out a generous serving. “Looks terrific.”

He took a bite of the stuff. The pasta was way past al dente. In fact, it was more like al mushe.

He looked down to the other end of the table. Hannah was watching him expectantly, her heart in her eyes.

“Good,” he said, thankful he’d had a new lightning rod installed last year. That kind of a lie could bring down divine retribution. “Needs a little salt. Maybe a little picante sauce.” Texas picante sauce could cover a multitude of bad flavors, or in this case, no flavor.

The men poured on the picante sauce and ate without grumbling, but he was sure he’d hear about it later.

They’d just have to cut her a little slack. She hadn’t had a lot of time to cook today, and maybe her last employer liked overcooked pasta salad for lunch. She’d never worked on a ranch before. He’d have to explain to her that they preferred heartier meals.

She’s not going to make it, a little voice nagged in the back of his mind. You knew that from the minute she walked in here. Roses bloom in town, along the river. Prickly pear cactus is the only flower that thrives out here.

He knew that little voice was probably right, but he ordered it to shut up anyway.

“All right, boys. Back to work.” He folded his napkin and laid it on the table. “I’ll be down to the corral in a few minutes.” He slid back his chair.

Hannah watched the other cowboys push away from the table. They’d been every bit as gracious as any of her mother’s guests, but she knew they were disappointed.

She grabbed an armload of dishes and ran into the kitchen, away from the censure that was in the air if not actually spoken.

She’d blown it again.

She’d wanted to run out of the room the minute Clayton had looked up with a pained expression and declared her meal to be “good.” But she’d had to sit at the table while everyone poured on enough picante sauce to drown any noodles that had survived her excessive boiling, then choked down the horrible mess.

She couldn’t go through that much stress again. She had to work up the courage to talk to Clayton about his grandfather then escape before dinner.

How did some people manage to cook three of those things a day?

Clayton came through the kitchen door carrying the empty serving bowl.

“Have you got a minute?” he asked, setting the dish on the counter. “We need to talk about something.”

Hannah couldn’t remember any good conversations that began with that statement. Here it came. He was going to fire her. She wouldn’t be able to help Samuel.

But what really clenched her stomach into hard little knots was knowing Clayton viewed her as a failure.

Damn it, why did she care what he thought of her?

She braced herself, straightening her back and looking him in the eye. “Yes?”

Clayton stood for a moment gazing at her, his eyelids drifting to half-closed. He lifted one hand and pushed her hair back from the side of her face, his fingers barely stroking her cheek.

Her breath caught in her throat. The touch set off little sparks, and she wanted him to continue doing it.

When his hand fell away, her belligerent hair sprang right back as if his fingers had never been there. But the skin he’d stroked remembered. Something inside her remembered exactly the way his touch had felt.

“You smell like roses,” he said softly, his lips forming the words as though caressing them, and she wondered how those lips would feel if they replaced his fingers on her skin.

“My grandfather loved roses,” she whispered, trying to force her thoughts away from such fanciful thoughts. “He—”

She couldn’t remember what she’d been about to say. The expression on Clayton’s face took her words away. Took her breath away for that matter. He looked like one of those men in the movies just before they kissed the girl.

She was fantasizing again! Why would Clayton want to kiss her?

But what if he did and found out that she could no more kiss than she could sing, dance, play piano or make small talk at parties? She’d die of embarrassment if that happened!

“What?” she croaked.

He blinked. “Huh? What?”

“You wanted to talk to me.”

“Oh. Yeah. I did.” He drew a hand over his own cheek and chin—the same hand he’d touched her hair and cheek with. “I wanted to talk to you about…oh, yeah. About lunch. I know this is a big change for you from your last job.” That was the quintessential understatement! “But there’s a little difference between cooking for a retired man and cooking for a bunch of cowboys. We do a lot of physical labor, and we like our meals to be hearty. Roasts, chicken, meatloafs, bacon and eggs for breakfast, things like that. Protein. Food for energy.”

Of course he hadn’t been thinking about kissing her. He’d only been thinking about criticizing her. Clayton sounded just like Hannah’s dance teacher after she’d broken her toe in class, like her voice teacher when he told her he’d had to buy ear plugs and hide the crystal, like her parents who’d finally given up on her and let her go her own way.

Well, she thought, thrusting her jaw forward and clenching her fists, she’d left all that behind her. She wasn’t going to give in to it again. Her own way hadn’t been so bad.

“We usually eat around seven. Can you get something together by then?” he asked.

“Of course I can,” she blurted, surprising herself with her bravado. “And I won’t break my toe doing it, either!”




Chapter Four (#ulink_54685ed8-8489-5742-bb1e-df69af201220)


Clayton got out of the house as fast as he could, climbed onto his horse and rode toward the corral at a gallop.

He’d almost kissed Hannah Lindsay. What the hell had he been thinking?

He hadn’t been thinking. That was the whole problem. Something about Hannah Lindsay scattered his brains the way the west wind scattered the dust.

He’d better maintain a little more control in the future. That was the last thing he needed right now— to get involved with a delicate, sweet-smelling flower, inhale her scent, touch her butterfly soft lips—

His self-reprimand wasn’t going too good. He’d better rephrase it.

He didn’t need to get involved with a woman who’d turn his brain to mush, distract him from the ranch that required all his attention, especially now. A woman who, like his mother, would soon wilt in the scorching Texas sun.

If he’d needed proof of her fragility, he’d gotten it when he’d criticized her luncheon fiasco. She’d lifted her head bravely which only added to her look of vulnerability, emphasizing the hurt in her dark eyes.

But even as he’d seen that hurt and felt guilty for causing it, he’d also seen her lips, slightly parted, full and tempting. He’d had to fight the urge to pull her into his arms, comfort her, kiss away the pain, replace it with desire. Her hair had been soft when he’d touched it, and she’d made a barely audible sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

Every emotion showed on Hannah’s open face. As clearly as he’d seen the pain, he saw that she’d wanted him to kiss her. And, heaven help him, he would have if she hadn’t been the one to interrupt.

He had an uneasy feeling that Hannah Lindsay was going to cause him some real problems. Or maybe that uneasiness just came from the pasta salad with picante sauce that was crouching in his stomach like a spicy, soggy rock.

He reined in at the corral.

Dub looked up, pulled his hat brim low over his face and tugged on the reins to turn his horse to ride away.

“Didn’t hire that one for her cooking, did you?” Bear guffawed as he plunged a vaccination needle into a big Simmental’s rump.

Clayton scowled. “One more comment like that, and you’re all out of here.” In shock and disbelief he listened to the words coming from his own mouth. Had he really said that? What would he do if even one of the men walked? Every able-bodied man in the area was already working on one of the various ranches.

Dub halted and thumbed his hat back from his face. “I been seeing signs of a porcupine around here,” he drawled. “Looks like he’s been trying to eat these tough old mesquites and live oaks. After he’s been on an awful diet like that, I’d sure hate to run into the prickly critter.”

Clayton shifted in his saddle, aware of the implied comparison. “Sorry, fellas. I didn’t mean to snap.”

Hannah was causing problems, and she wasn’t even around.

Except in his thoughts.

Mugger rode up. “We got a break in one of the irrigation lines down in the hay field.”

“Damn! Okay, let’s go take a look.” Clayton turned his horse in that direction, surprisingly relieved at having a crisis to handle. Even though they couldn’t spare the precious water draining away, a broken irrigation line would be a simple, straightforward problem compared to Hannah.



She had to make dinner. Hannah didn’t see any way around it. She found some chicken breasts in the freezer and a recipe for chicken Kiev in her cook-book. It was a short recipe, and a dish she’d always enjoyed eating. Surely Clayton and the other cowboys would like it.

With the chicken thawing, she looked around in bewilderment. What was she supposed to do now? Without her computer, she felt lost.

She tried to recall what her housekeeper did. Sweep, mop, dust, vacuum. But the details were sketchy. While Mrs. Henson cleaned, Hannah worked, completely involved in her computer, with the rest of the world tuned out.

She wandered into the living room and drew a finger across the smooth surface of one of the multitude of small tables. Even in the dim light, she could see the mark. However, she’d always felt that being able to write your name in the dust didn’t count—it was only when the sides of the letters collapsed.

Nevertheless, she could probably dust. She went upstairs to the linen closet and got a washcloth. That should work.

As she was starting back, she noticed the dark outline of a computer screen through the half-open door down the hall. She hesitated, then decided that was as good a place as any to start dusting.





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