Sweet Nothings

by Catherine Anderson

  Savvy women didn’t trust strange men. One had only to read the newspaper headlines to understand how foolhardy it was. Now that she was out of the sun, the pain in her head had eased a bit, enabling her to think more clearly. With clarity came a host of concerns. How could she be sure Jake Coulter wasn’t a sex offender or serial killer? If she vanished, no one would think to look for her on a cattle ranch in central Oregon.

  As if he sensed her nervousness, Jake didn’t enter the bedroom with her when he showed her through the house. Instead he stood in the doorway, blocking the only exit with his considerable bulk. Wonderful. The man weighed well over two hundred pounds, every inch of him honed to a steely hardness. If he meant her harm, she would have a devil of a time getting past him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, jerking her away from her troubled musings.

  Molly blinked and focused on his dark face, studiously ignoring the impressive span of his shoulders. “I’m fine,” she assured him, wanting to cringe when her voice came out thin and tremulous. “A bit of a headache is all.”

  Feeling stiff and graceless, she turned to take in the room, which was small and held only the essential furnishings. She bent to test the mattress. “What a lovely brass bedstead. Have you any idea what they go for now?”

  He shifted to brace a muscular shoulder against the doorframe, the crown of his brown Stetson brushing against the crossbeam. “More than they’re worth?”

  Molly gave a startled laugh. Having haunted antique stores with her adoptive mother Claudia for years, she had a keen appreciation for collectibles. The memories of those shopping expeditions stabbed her with sadness. Not only had she lost her father a year ago, but to all intents and purposes, she’d lost the only mother she’d ever known as well.

  “Practically speaking, I suppose brass beds are a little overpriced.”

  He eyed the mattress. “I’m a nostalgia buff myself, but I draw the line when it interferes with comfort. People back then must have been midgets. When I slept on that sucker, my feet hung over the end, and my ankles banged on the foot rails all night.”

  Molly could believe it. Jake Coulter wasn’t exactly of diminutive stature—a fact that seemed to have taken center stage in her thoughts now that she was alone in the cabin with him. When her therapist, Sam Banks, had encouraged her to let down her guard with men, she felt sure this wasn’t the sort of thing he’d had in mind.

  She patted the mattress. Then she remembered she’d already done that once and jerked her hand back. If this man was a sex offender, she didn’t want to put ideas in his head. “I’m sure the length will do nicely enough for me. I’m not very tall.”

  His unnerving blue gaze took a leisurely journey from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. “No, I don’t guess you are. If a good wind came up, you’d blow away.”

  “Hardly.” Molly pressed a hand to her stomach. In her early twenties, her rail-thin lower body had filled out, adding an unattractive thickness to her waist and hips and eliciting comments from Rodney that she looked pregnant. Not even the safari shirt she wore hid the flaws. “I’m not what you’d call skinny.”

  His sable brows drew together as his gaze moved over her again. “Nope. More what I’d call pleasingly plump.” He let that hang there, then flashed her a lopsided grin that did strange things to her pulse rate. “With the emphasis on ‘pleasingly.’”

  He turned away, leaving her to wonder what that meant. In her experience, kindly adults used the phrase “pleasingly plump” to describe chubby children. Not that she cared what he thought. She had long since accepted that her body was far from svelte, and no amount of dieting would change it.

  She listened to the rhythmic thump of his boots on the old plank floor as he moved through the small house. Casting a glance toward the comfortable-looking bed, she made her weary body move. She found her new employer in the antiquated kitchen. He’d struck a match and was trying to light the pilot on the propane cooking range, once lime green but now yellowed with age. Never having used such an outdated appliance, she stepped closer to watch.

  Just as she bent down to peer at the burner, the gas ignited and flame shot toward her face with a startling ka-whoosh! She squeaked and leaped away, slapping at her shirt and hair. “Blessed Mother!”

  Jake caught her by the shoulders to hold her still. “Are you burned?” He moved a hand over her hair and shoulder. “Molly, answer me.”

  She clutched her throat and gulped, no longer entirely sure all the heat she felt was due to gas ignition. Everywhere his hand touched, her skin burned. Red alert. This man could be dangerous in more ways than one. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. Really, I’m fine.” She tried to escape his grasp by wiggling away. “It just went off in my face and startled me. I don’t think it actually burned me anywhere.”

  He gave her hair a final check. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have warned you. These old gas stoves are bad for that. They even startle me sometimes.”

  He turned back to test the valves. This time, Molly stood well away, not entirely sure which she most wanted to avoid, the stove or the man. Rings of blue fire leaped to life, making her nerves leap as well. If she had to cook on that horrid old thing, she’d starve.

  Apparently satisfied, he turned off the burners and patted the ugly green porcelain with long, sturdy fingers. “She seems to be in fine working order.”

  He turned on the sink faucets next. The first rush of water was a rusty brown, but it quickly cleared as the flow washed away the pipe sediment. He cupped a hand to collect some water, then bent to taste it. After wiping his mouth, he said, “You’ll love the well here. It’s artesian.”

  Molly’s gaze was fixed on the old hand pump mounted at one side of the sink. She’d come across a few in antique shops, but she’d never seen one in a house. “Does that still work?” she asked incredulously.

  “Like a charm. When I modernized the kitchen, I was going to jerk it out, but my sister Bethany had a conniption fit.” He primed the pump with some water from the faucet, then began working the handle. After only a few tries, water gushed from the spout. He stepped to one side. “Try some.”

  Taking care not to bump against him, Molly cupped both hands under the flow and bent to drink. Maybe she was only thirsty, but never had anything tasted so wonderful. She gulped greedily for a moment and then remembered he was using muscle power to keep up the flow. Embarrasseed, she straightened away, wiping her chin. “I’m sorry. That’s absolutely divine. It’s like drinking from a crystal-clear mountain brook.”

  He stopped working the handle, his gaze falling to the droplets still on her bottom lip. Feeling self-conscious, she scrubbed her hand over her mouth.

  The intense blue of his eyes darkened to a stormy blue gray. “No need to apologize. I don’t mind pumping, and water’s cheap.”

  “Not in—” Molly broke off, mentally waving her arms to keep from falling into that one. She’d nearly said water wasn’t cheap in Portland. She glanced away, wishing, not for the first time, that she were a more practiced liar. “Not in my hometown.”

  His dark brows lifted. “What town is that?”

  She thought of all the communities that lay along Interstate 5. “Grants Pass.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Nice place. My college roommate grew up there.”

  “You went to college?”

  He chuckled. “Us country boys need to have some kind of edge.”

  Molly had meant no offense. She was just surprised. Jake Coulter didn’t have the air of any college man she’d ever known. In his Wranglers and blue chambray shirt, he seemed as earthy and elemental as the wilderness bordering his land, and he sometimes spoke with a lazy disregard for proper grammar. “Which university did you attend?”

  “Oregon State. That’s where a lot of us country boys go. My twin brothers attended the veterinary school there. My brother Zeke went for his MBA. Hank and I focused on ag and animal husbandry.”

  “Good grief, you’ve got four brothers?”r />
  “And a sister. That’s how I got ornery. I was the oldest of six, and the only way to survive was to get mean.” He stepped around her to set the temperature controls inside the ancient refrigerator. “What’s your alma mater?”

  Another wave of memories washed through Molly, this one leaving her cold and feeling oddly empty. “I went to college only for a short time.” That was the story of her life; big dreams, no staying power. “Things happened, and I dropped out.”

  He glanced over the top of the door at her. “Never would have guessed it. You talk like you’ve got an impressive education under your belt.”

  She flashed what she hoped was a bright smile. “I read a lot of books.”

  “A self-made woman, are you? What line of work?

  Her throat felt as if she’d swallowed drain cleaner, and she glanced longingly at the water still dripping from the pump spout. “Finance,” she settled for saying. Given her penchant for tripping over her own lies, it seemed wise to stick as close to the truth as possible. “I work at an investment firm.”

  “When you’re not on hiatus?” he inserted.

  “Right. If you’ve got any discretionary dollars to invest, I’m the person to talk to.”

  He chuckled and ducked back into the refrigerator, his rumbling voice echoing back at her. “Right now, I don’t have a discretionary dime. Buying back the ranch has sucked me dry.”

  Buying it back? Molly wondered what he meant. Had he owned the Lazy J before? She wanted to ask, but it wasn’t any of her business, and she squelched the urge.

  When he finally emerged from the refrigerator, the old appliance’s motor hummed to life, making the floor vibrate. Molly curled her toes. As he closed the thick, rounded door, she noticed the name Gibson scrolled across the white enamel front.

  “The old gal’s a marvel. Keeps the milk so cold, your teeth ache.”

  Molly thought of her shiny apartment kitchen in Portland with its 1200-watt microwave and Jenn-Air cooking range. Her appreciation of old things aside, she preferred having modern conveniences for everyday living, and she sincerely hoped the kitchen at the main house was better equipped. If not, she’d be in big trouble.

  He plugged in the toaster to make sure the coils worked. The acrid smell of burning dust and stale breadcrumbs rose to her nose. “Looks like everything in here still works well enough,” he pronounced, running a broad palm over the countertop to check for dust. “I cleaned thoroughly when we moved out, but you’d never know it.”

  As he circled her to leave the kitchen, Molly stared worriedly at the stove. Even with the pilot light on, she was afraid it might explode again if she touched it.

  When she joined Jake in the small living room, he was crouched before a camelback trunk. She moved closer to peer in. It was just about large enough to hold a dead body.

  Not that she still believed he might murder her. He’d been far too concerned about her after the stove mishap to mean her any harm. Her only lingering worry was that his definition of harm might be entirely different than hers. He was far too charming for comfort, a characteristic that might be inherent, but was far more likely to have been acquired with experience and at great cost to the opposite sex.

  She eyed the impressive play of muscle across his broad back every time he moved. In Portland, there were plenty of body builders, but they lacked Jake Coulter’s hard edges, looking more like overblown rubber sculptures by comparison. Oblivious to her regard, he set aside some wooly blankets.

  “Everything in here was laundered after we moved out. I’m pretty sure it’s all still clean.” He sniffed a pillowcase, seemed satisfied with the smell, and went back to rifling through the bedding. “This trunk should have protected it.”

  Molly shifted her weight. “I have my own bedding, Mr. Coulter.” She glanced at the jumble of bags on the brown leather sofa. “It really isn’t necessary for you to bother yourself like this.”

  “The name’s Jake, and it isn’t a bother. You look tired to the bone.” He tipped back his hat to glance up. “I’ll just help you get settled in, then be out of your way.”

  He selected a set of white sheets, three blankets, and two embroidered pillowcases before pushing to his feet. Her gaze snagged on the needlework, a telltale sign that there’d once been a woman in his life. Was he divorced? Probably. As handsome as he was, he undoubtedly thought monogamous was the name of a prehistoric dinosaur.

  Molly followed him to the bedroom. “I can make my own bed,” she protested, wishing he’d leave her to it. “I’m sure you’ve got a ton of other things you should be doing, and I can manage just fine.”

  He snapped a sheet over the old mattress. As the linen settled, he said, “Nothing I can’t do tomorrow and twice as well. Never came across a chore yet that didn’t wait until I got to it.”

  Molly supposed there was wisdom in that. She was also beginning to understand why this ranch was named the Lazy J. Jake Coulter didn’t give the impression that he got in a hurry very often. “I hate to disrupt your schedule.”

  “Don’t believe in schedules.” He tucked the sheet on his side, forming a corner far tidier than hers, undoubtedly a result of his having such large hands and the strength to pull the linen tight. “Sure as rain is wet, something always happens to screw them up. It’s enough to give a man ulcers if he places too much importance on them.”

  “Well, you’re the boss. If you insist on making my bed, have it your way.”

  “I will.” He winked mischievously, making her wonder if he’d practiced that bone melting grin in front of a mirror. “I generally do.”

  Disconcerted, Molly bent to tuck the sheet on her side, then moved with him toward the foot of the bed. They worked well as a team, she decided, and then wondered where that thought had come from.

  She watched bemusedly as he unfolded all three blankets. “One will surely be enough,” she said, recalling the hot day. “I’ll roast.”

  “Better to kick off than get cold.” He began tucking in the blankets at the foot of the bed, the thick pads of his hands barely fitting between the mattress and frame. “You’ll be glad of the warmth by morning.”

  Molly doubted it would get that chilly. “It feels like summer out there right now.”

  “Don’t let it fool you. We’ll see snow again before spring makes a debut.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Just a warm snap. Happens in high-desert climates as spring approaches, freezing one day, hotter than Hades the next.” He tossed her a pillowcase. “I won’t be surprised if we wake up to frost in the morning.”

  As soon as the bed was made, he was off again with Molly hurrying behind him to keep up. Once back in the living room, he opened a drop-down metal door sunk into the log wall beside the old rock fireplace. “Looks like you need more wood.” As he straightened, he added, “Just as a precaution, make sure you always give this door a couple of kicks before you open it.”

  Her gaze shot to the wall. “Why?” she asked warily.

  “Rattlers. Makes for a nasty surprise when you’re half asleep.”

  “Rattlers?” she echoed.

  “They’re happy enough to leave if you give them some warning. It’s probably not even a worry so early in the year, but it can’t hurt to be careful.”

  “Are you talking about snakes?” she asked thinly.

  He cocked a dark eyebrow at her. “You aren’t afraid of them, are you?”

  Of course she was afraid of them. “Rattlesnakes get in the wood box?” She peered past him at the metal door. “That doesn’t have a latch, does it? Couldn’t a snake press against it and come in?”

  “Not likely.”

  When speaking of rattlesnakes, she preferred to deal in absolutes. “But it could happen.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Then what stops them from getting in the house?”

  “Mostly their good sense. They wind up dead if they get around people. Just give the door a couple of kicks. You’ll probably never se
e one.”

  She would have a heart attack if she encountered a rattler. She glanced at the tarnished fire tools behind him, wondering if the poker would serve to kill a serpent. When she looked back at Jake, he was tugging on his ear, his expression bemused.

  “You’ve never spent much time in rattlesnake country, I take it.”

  She pushed at the strand of hair that kept falling in her eyes. “Not really.”

  “They’re reclusive critters. Walk with a heavy tread, make noise. If you go into the woods, find yourself a stick and beat the brush. They’ll head for safe ground. I’ve lived in this country all my life and never known anyone who got bit.”

  Molly wrapped her arms around herself and glanced worriedly at the wood box again, which prompted him to sigh.

  “Would you like me to lay out some rope along the wall?” he asked.

  “Why a rope?”

  “They think it’s another snake and won’t cross over it.”

  “Really? Yes. All right.”

  He nodded. “I’ll have to round some up and bring it over.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  His gaze held hers. After what seemed like a very long moment, he smiled. “I honestly didn’t mean to give you the willies. Around here, most people take rattlesnakes in stride and don’t give them much thought.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Molly swallowed, resisting the urge to check behind her for slithering intruders. “Noise. I can make noise. I’ve never been very light on my feet, anyway. Now my gracelessness will finally serve a purpose.”

  He continued to search her gaze. She got the oddest feeling he was about to say something and then thought better of it. Finally, he turned and went outside.