by Kat Martin
They rode along in silence. She was sure she would catch him checking her out. She was wearing a short navy-blue pencil skirt, a pale blue sleeveless silk blouse, and her usual spike heels. Bridger didn’t seem to notice.
His lack of interest should have pleased her. Instead, she felt a trickle of irritation. Fortunately, the scenery along the route to the ranch kept her entertained: rugged sage-and-mesquite-covered mountains at the lower elevations, tall pine-covered peaks in the distance. The road wound through the countryside, climbing upward, each turn more intriguing than the last.
Just before reaching the tiny town of Coffee Springs—a mile ahead according to a sign on the side of the road—Bridger turned off Highway 131 onto a narrower strip of pavement.
“How far are we from the ranch?” she asked.
“About eight miles.”
“So town’s not that far away.”
His head swiveled toward her. “If you can call Coffee Springs a town.”
That didn’t sound promising.
Sam kept driving, finally pulling onto a gravel road that led to a wooden gate. A sign read: BRIDGER RANCH. Below it was a big wrought iron B with a circle around it.
“That’s our brand,” he explained. “Circle B.”
He used a device to open the gate, then continued up the hill, passing lush green pastures dotted with clusters of black steers whose glossy coats gleamed in the sun.
“Black Angus,” Sam said. “That’s what we raise here on the ranch.”
She loved animals. She trusted them way more than people. “They’re beautiful.”
Sam’s gaze swung toward her. “You think so?”
“Don’t you?”
“Sure, but that’s different. I live here. I deal with them every day.”
Her gaze went back to the grassy pastures. “Look at those sweet little calves. Such darling faces.”
Amusement touched his features. “On a ranch, you learn very young not to get too attached to them.”
Because they grew up and people ate them. “I’m a vegetarian,” she said.
Bridger’s eyebrows shot up. He cast her a look of pure disbelief. “I can see you’re going to fit right in.”
Libby’s mouth tightened. She didn’t have a problem with people eating meat. After all, humans were carnivores. It was part of their nature. In the back of her mind, she still remembered the taste of a charcoaled hamburger. Her mouth watered at the mere thought of it. It was just that she kept thinking of the animals who provided the nourishment.
She spotted the ranch house ahead, a long, sprawling wood-frame structure. Huge plate glass windows looked out at the mountains. The view had to be spectacular. A barn sat on one side of the house, and a little farther up the hill, there was a row of wood-framed guest cabins, each with a covered porch out front.
Sam drove up to the house and turned off the engine, climbed out of the truck.
“Welcome to Bridger Ranch. Let’s go inside. Clara’s going to need your help in the kitchen.”
“Clara’s your wife?”
Those piercing dark eyes fixed on her face. “I’m not married.”
“Oh.” Why she felt a sweep of relief, she would never know. “So she’s your chef?”
He scoffed. “Clara Winslow’s my aunt and the ranch cook.” Bridger unloaded her bags from the bed of the truck and grabbed the handles of the two biggest pieces. “Grab a couple of those others and let’s go.”
She looked down at the bags. Bridger was already walking toward the front door, leaving her to fend for herself. She grabbed two of the other three bags, which turned out to be a lot heavier than they looked, but her apartment building had bell staff, and one of them had carried the luggage down and loaded it into the limo for the drive to the Teterboro jet terminal.
As she entered the foyer beneath a wrought iron chandelier in the shape of a wagon wheel, one of the bags slipped out of her hands and hit the slate floor in front of a pair of long, jean-clad legs in worn cowboy boots.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No problem. Just pick it up, follow me, and I’ll show you your room. You can come back and get the other stuff later.”
She glanced back the way they had come. “I thought I’d be staying in one of the cabins.”
“Sorry, those are for paying guests. You’re an employee.” Bridger started walking.
Libby grabbed the leather handles, hoisted up the bags, and followed him up the stairs.
“Your room’s at the far end next to the bathroom,” he said.
“What do you mean next to the bathroom? Are you telling me the bathroom isn’t en suite?”
Sam Bridger actually grinned. “Mine is.”
Libby swore a nasty oath beneath her breath. She was surprised he even knew the meaning of the French word. She couldn’t believe she’d have to stomp down the hall in her nightgown in the middle of the night.
Suspicion crept through her. “Where’s your room?”
Sam’s mouth edged up at the corner. There was a ruggedness about him that should have made him less handsome but didn’t.
“My room’s at the other end of the hall.”
“Where does your aunt sleep?”
“She’s got her own quarters off the kitchen.” Bridger opened the bedroom door and stepped back to let her in.
Libby spotted her big bags tossed up on the queen-sized four-poster bed, dropped the ones she was carrying, and fought an urge to rub the muscles in her lower back. Her gaze went to the door.
“There’s a lock,” Bridger said, reading her mind. “But you don’t have to worry. I’d never cross the line between employer and employee.”
Libby clenched her teeth. Dear God, the man was insufferable. She hated the place already, and she had only just arrived!
Chapter Four
Leaving Libby with instructions to change into her work clothes and meet him in the kitchen, Sam strode back down the stairs and out the front door, slamming it behind him harder than he intended.
Dammit! If Martin Hale were still alive, Sam would curse him straight to hell.
For chrissake, he wasn’t the kind of man who let a woman carry her own bags! Or made her feel anything less than welcome. He’d been raised to treat women with respect, even a certain reverence. He was nearly a foot taller than Libby and at least seventy pounds heavier. It wasn’t fair to make the same demands on her that he would make on a man, no matter how sexist that sounded.
But Martin’s video had been specific. No special treatment. She must carry her own weight, just like any other employee.
Sam had known Marty Hale for years. When they first met, Sam had been a twenty-year-old kid, just enlisted in the army for a three-year stint after graduating from junior college. Martin had spent two weeks every summer at the ranch for fourteen straight years, had continued even after Chet Bridger had died. He knew Sam well enough to trust that if he accepted the fifty-thousand-dollar payment, he would uphold his end of the bargain.
He would treat Liberty Hale the same as any other person who worked on the ranch for the summer. Which, considering she was one of the most beautiful, sexiest females he had ever laid eyes on and he was a red-blooded male, wouldn’t be easy to do.
After a couple of deep breaths, Sam walked back into the house, heading for the kitchen. Though the stainless appliances, cabinets and countertops were new, the room itself was as old as the house, built sixty years ago, a big country kitchen with yellow daisy wallpaper and pale yellow curtains.
An old-fashioned butcher block sat opposite the sink, and there was a long wooden dining table surrounded by ladder-back chairs next to the window.
Both Sam’s parents had passed—his dad six years ago, quickly followed by his mother. They’d been a close family, and the loss had hit him hard. Aunt Clara, his mom’s older sister, had helped
him through the worst of it. She had arrived at the ranch for Olivia Bridger’s funeral and never left. Sam was thankful every day to have her there.
Standing at the stove stirring a pot of chili, Clara was a silver-haired woman, still attractive at sixty, with a few extra pounds smoothing out the wrinkles in her cheeks.
She smiled. “So...is she as pretty as she looks in her pictures?”
Photos of Libby had been included in the video, along with cosmetic ads from magazines, though Marty had shown Sam pictures of her on his phone over the years.
“They don’t begin to do her justice.”
Clara smiled. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
Good luck with that, he wanted to say, but didn’t. Liberty, so named because she was born on the Fourth of July, was haughty and overindulged, clearly used to people waiting on her hand and foot. But he would let Clara make up her own mind.
He looked up just as Libby walked into the kitchen in a pair of skintight jeans with silver embroidery and rhinestones on the back pockets and a sleeveless white tank that showed a hint of cleavage. Sam felt the same punch in the gut he’d experienced the moment she had stepped out of the jet and started down the metal stairs.
As if his world had tilted sideways.
He didn’t like it. He had a job to do, and it didn’t include being sidetracked by a spoiled, rich, city girl. No, he didn’t like it, but he was beginning to understand why Marty had sent her to the ranch. She needed a dose of reality, needed to come to grips with a future that no longer included her overprotective billionaire uncle, to prepare herself for a life she would be facing on her own.
“Libby, this is my aunt Clara.”
Libby’s warm smile surprised him. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Winslow.”
“It’s just Clara, dear. Or Aunt Clara. That’s what everyone calls me. And it’s nice to meet you, too. Your uncle always spoke highly of you.”
“I really miss him.”
“I’m sure you do. He was a good man. It was always a pleasure to have him here.”
“How well did you know him?” She flicked a glance at Sam as if the question were actually meant for him.
“Martin came here every summer,” Clara answered. “Fourteen years in a row.” Her eyes sparkled. “I think he liked my cooking.”
Libby smiled. “He did love to eat.”
“Marty loved spending time at the ranch,” Sam said. “I think that’s why he wanted you to come, to discover the peace he found when he was here.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You called him Marty?” She had the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen, and the thickest black lashes. He wondered if they could possibly be real, then decided she was probably wearing a lot of mascara.
“We were friends,” he said simply.
Libby shook her head. “It’s hard to imagine. No one ever called Martin Hale Marty. Not even his friends.”
“No one but you—is that what you’re saying?”
Her chin inched up. “That’s right. No one but me.” She glanced away, and he thought he caught the sheen of tears. It was probably just the light in the kitchen.
“He never even mentioned this place,” Libby said. “He traveled a lot. Two weeks out of town was not unusual for him, but he never spoke about the Bridger Ranch.” She sighed. “It’s as if he were a different person when he was here.”
“I think he was different,” Sam said. “He told me once, these mountains were the only place he felt completely free.”
Libby walked over to the window and looked out at the distant peaks, a few still touched with snow even at this time of year. “It’s beautiful.”
Sam’s gaze followed hers. “Yeah, it is.”
Silence fell. It took a moment for him to realize his attention had strayed from the scenery to the woman staring at it.
Anxious to get out of the kitchen and get his thoughts back where they belonged, Sam returned to the subject.
“Part of your duties include helping Clara with breakfast and dinner. She’ll take care of the box lunches for the hands and any guests who want them while you clean the guest cabins. Once you’re finished, the rest of the afternoon is yours. Your evenings are free after supper is over and the dishes are cleaned up.”
One of her eyebrows arched, not golden like her hair, but darkened by a pencil. She was, after all, a makeup model. He wondered how much of her beauty was real and found himself wanting to find out.
“So that’s what...?” she asked. “About a twelve-hour workday? Maybe I should have my lawyer negotiate overtime pay.”
His lips twitched. Her uncle had had a sharp wit. Apparently his niece did, too. “What would normal overtime pay be for a makeup model?”
Her gaze sharpened. “How much did Marty tell you about me, anyway? Obviously you know a lot more of my background than I know of yours, which is nothing.”
He shrugged. “Fourteen summers is a long time, and he liked to talk about you.”
“Good or bad?”
He smiled. “Both.”
Libby flipped a golden curl over her shoulder. “Overtime pay at my level is around two hundred an hour.”
Whoa. Plus, Marty would have left her a barrel of money. “I don’t think that’s what your uncle had in mind.”
She sighed. “No. For whatever reason, I don’t suppose it is. Actually, being a model is a lot like being an actor. Sometimes you work, sometimes you don’t. And waiting around for something to turn up can really be boring.”
Her honesty surprised him. Then again, everything about her surprised him.
She flicked Clara a glance. “I guess if your aunt is willing to work that hard, I can too.”
Sam would have to see it to believe it. Still, there was a chance she had more grit than he’d first thought.
His gaze went to the rectangular shape in her front pocket. “One more thing. Your cell phone stays in your room. You’re free to use it on your own time when you’re upstairs, but you can’t bring it down here.”
Her hand went protectively to the phone. “You’re kidding, right? That’s your idea of a joke?”
Sam cast her a pitying glance. “Sorry, no joke. One of the reasons people come here is to escape the outside world. Families want their kids to appreciate the beauty around them. People like your uncle...they just want a chance to be free from outside pressures, at least for a while.”
Libby grumbled something he couldn’t hear. “Fine,” she said.
“All right, that’s it for now. In the morning, I’ll show you around. The first guests will be arriving sometime tomorrow. You can help me check them in. Part of your job is to make them feel welcome.”
She said nothing.
“Clara can fill you in on what she needs you to do in the kitchen. I’ll see you both at supper.” Turning, he walked out of the kitchen.
On his way to the barn, Sam spent a full five minutes trying to erase the memory of perfect breasts beneath a sleeveless white tank top and the sexy behind that was impossible to miss with the glitter of rhinestones on each cheek.
He gave a long-suffering sigh. The next month was going to seem like a lifetime.
Chapter Five
Libby made it through supper preparations with only a few minor mishaps. She had warned Clara ahead of time that she had no idea how to cook anything more than frozen pizza and an occasional omelet, but she was willing to learn.
“You’ll do fine,” Clara said, patting her hand, but the woman was smart enough not to give her any difficult tasks.
Libby peeled potatoes, saving the skins to feed the chickens, then washed lettuce and sliced tomatoes for a salad. She hadn’t known dicing onions was such a miserable task until Sam walked in and saw tears rolling down her cheeks. His worried expression looked almost sympathetic.
Libby burst out laughing. “Onions,” she to
ld him, wiping the wetness from her cheeks.
Sam smiled with relief, and a warm feeling rose in her chest. It had been years since a man’s smile had made her feel anything more than wary. She reminded herself not to let her guard down and quickly went back to work.
The meal—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy—came together smoothly, evidence of Clara’s years of experience. There were vegetables right out of the garden and homemade bread, so there were plenty of vegetarian options for Libby.
Sam introduced her to the cowhands who worked at the ranch. Starting tomorrow, while guests were in residence, the men would take their meals in the bunkhouse.
Tonight they sat grouped around the kitchen table: Julio Santiago, the ranch foreman, an older Latino man with leathery skin burnt dark from the sun; Big John Coolwater, Native American, at least six-six with long black hair in a single thick braid.
Dare Landon was in his late twenties, a good-looking guy with sandy-brown hair who seemed quiet, capable, and kept to himself. He’d been raised on a ranch in Montana, Sam said, been in the marines before he’d come to work at the ranch. Ronnie Yates was a handsome African American man who struck her as intelligent and friendly. All of them were pleasant and respectful.
Fortunately, her kitchen duties didn’t look all that daunting. Libby had worked a lot of different jobs in the city, but her boredom threshold was low and none of them had lasted very long. Sooner or later, she would find her true calling, she was sure, which definitely wasn’t cooking or modeling of any kind.
In college at Columbia, she had taken a class in astronomy merely to satisfy a requirement for graduation, then ended up dropping out of school at the end of her third year. Much to her uncle’s chagrin.
But the class had sparked an interest that remained. She thought of the hard-sided travel case up in her bedroom that held a Celestron NexStar Evolution portable telescope, one of Uncle Marty’s most precious gifts. She planned to find a place outside to set up the scope as soon as she got settled.
She made another pass around the kitchen, paused to wipe up a trace of grease on the counter that she had missed. Clara had already gone to bed, but Libby felt oddly restless.
