The Manning Sisters

by Debbie Macomber

  Taylor was about to argue when she noticed the teenager coming down the aisle.

  “Oh, hi,” Mandy greeted her, brightening. She hurried to Taylor and her brother. “You’re not eating that for dinner, are you?” the girl asked, eyeing the frozen meal in Taylor’s cart. A horrified look spread across her face.

  “It seemed the least amount of trouble,” Taylor admitted. She’d spent a full day unpacking and cleaning, and even a frozen dinner was more appealing than being forced to cook for herself. As far as she could see, there wasn’t a single fast-food place in town. The nearest McDonald’s was a hundred miles from Cougar Point.

  “I’ve got a big pot of stew simmering at home,” Mandy said eagerly. “Why don’t you come over and have dinner with Russ and me? We’d love to have you, wouldn’t we, Russ?”

  Her brother’s hesitation was just long enough to convey his message.

  “It’s the neighborly thing to do,” Mandy prompted.

  “You’re welcome to come, if you want,” Russ said finally, and Taylor had the impression it took a great deal of resolve to echo his sister’s invitation.

  There wasn’t any question that Taylor should refuse. But something perverse in her, something obstinate and a bit foolish, wouldn’t allow her to do so. Perhaps it was because she recognized the same mulish streak in him that she knew so well in her father. Whatever the reason, Taylor decided she was going to enjoy this dinner. “Why, thank you. I’d be honored.”

  “Great.” Mandy beamed. “We live about ten miles east of town.”

  “East?” Taylor repeated, turning in a full circle in an effort to orient herself. She wasn’t sure which way was east, at least not from where she was standing in the grocery store.

  “Take the main road and go left at the stand of sycamore trees,” Mandy continued. “That’s just past Cole Creek, only don’t look for any water because it’s dried out at this time of year.”

  Further directions only served to confuse Taylor. She wasn’t even all that confident she could tell a sycamore from an oak. And how was she supposed to identify a dried-out creek bed? Usually Taylor was given directions that said she should go to the third stoplight and take a left at the Wal-Mart.

  “Why don’t you ride along with us?” Mandy suggested next, apparently sensing Taylor’s confusion. “Russ can drive you back into town later.”

  “It’ll probably work better if I follow you,” Taylor said. “My car’s at the house, but it would only take a minute for me to swing by and get it.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble. Russ has to come back, anyway. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to get lost once it turns dark.”

  Taylor noted that Russ didn’t echo his sister’s suggestion. The temptation was too great to ignore, and once more Taylor found herself agreeing to Mandy’s plan.

  “My truck’s parked outside,” Russ grumbled. He didn’t seem very pleased by this turn of events. But then he hadn’t looked all that thrilled about anything from the moment they’d met.

  Russ’s truck was a twenty-year-old dented Ford that most folks would have hauled to the scrap heap a year earlier. The bed was filled with supplies. Grain sacks were stacked in one corner, fertilizer in another.

  The front fender was badly bent and had begun to rust. The license plate was missing, and Russ had to completely remove the passenger door for the two women to climb inside. Once they were seated he replaced the door and latched it shut.

  Taylor squirmed around in the bench seat, searching for the seat belt.

  “There aren’t any,” Russ explained as he slipped in next to her and started the engine.

  The seat was cramped, and Taylor had to dig her elbows into her ribs. Her shoulders were touching his on the left side, his younger sister’s on the right. It had been a long time since Taylor had sat this close to a man. At first she tried to keep her thigh from grazing his, but it was nearly impossible. So their thighs touched. Big deal.

  Only it soon got to be.

  There must’ve been something in all that fresh country air that was adversely affecting her brain cells. Without much difficulty, Taylor could actually imagine herself smitten with this man. Smitten? Oh dear, her mind was doing it again, tormenting her with this old-fashioned country jargon….

  Suddenly they turned off the main road and headed down a lengthy rut-filled section that tossed her up and then down. Every time they hit a dip, Taylor would bounce off the seat as if it were greased. It was all she could do not to land on top of Russ or Mandy. They were obviously accustomed to this thrashing about, and each managed to stay neatly in place. Taylor, on the other hand, was all over the inside of the cab.

  Whenever the truck hit an uneven patch, some part of Taylor’s anatomy came into intimate contact with Russ’s. Their thighs stroked each other. Their shoulders collided and their waists jostled together. Again and again their bodies were slammed against each other.

  Taylor couldn’t help noticing how firm and muscular Russ felt. She didn’t want to acknowledge it. Nor did she want to experience the heat of his body and the warm muskiness of his skin. He felt solid. Strong. Virile. A host of sensations, long dormant, sprang to life inside her.

  Not once had Russ Palmer purposely touched her, and yet Taylor felt as though his hands had caressed her everywhere.

  “Would you mind slowing down?” she cried. She hated having to ask.

  “Why?” Russ asked, his voice filled with amusement.

  “Russ,” Mandy snapped, “Taylor’s not used to this.”

  Amused or not, Russ slowed the vehicle, and Taylor went weak with relief. She could feel a headache coming on, but she wasn’t sure it had anything to do with the skipping, hopping and jumping she’d been subjected to for the past ten minutes.

  They arrived at the ranch house a couple of minutes later, at just about dusk. The first thing Taylor noticed was the huge red barn. It was the largest she’d ever seen, but that wasn’t saying much. She knew next to nothing about barns, although this one seemed enormous. The house was sizable, as well. Four gables stood out against the roof of the huge white structure, and the windows were framed by bright red shutters.

  Taylor climbed out of the truck on the driver’s side after Russ, not wanting to be trapped inside while he walked around to remove the passenger door. It took her a minute to steady her legs.

  Mandy bolted ahead of them. She raced up the back steps that led into the kitchen, holding open the door for Taylor. “The stew’s in the Crockpot.”

  Taylor saw that Russ had gone in the opposite direction, toward the barn, probably to see about unloading the contents of the truck bed. Her gaze followed him, and she wondered briefly if the close confines of the truck had affected him the same way they had her. Probably not. He looked a lot more in control of himself than Taylor felt.

  A thin sheen of perspiration moistened her upper lip. What the hell was the matter with her? Groaning silently, Taylor closed her eyes. She knew precisely what was wrong, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  Two

  Russ remained silent for most of the meal. He didn’t like this schoolteacher. But he didn’t exactly dislike her, either. She was as pretty as Harry had claimed, and her hair was thick and rich. A couple of times he’d been tempted to lift a strand and let it slip through his fingers, but that would’ve been impossible. And what she did to a pair of jeans ought to be illegal. On the ride to the ranch he’d purposely driven over every pothole he could just because he liked the way her body had moved against his.

  “You’re from Seattle?” Russ asked. He’d been trying to ignore her for most of the meal, not because he wasn’t interested in learning what he could about her, but because—dammit—he was as taken with her as Harry had been.

  Taylor nodded, smiling. “I was born and raised in the shadow of the Space Needle.”

  “Ever had snow there?”

  “Some.”

  The thought of her smooth pale skin exposed to the elements knotted his stomach.


  “I understand winters are harsher here than in western Washington,” she said stiffly. “I came prepared.”

  “I doubt that you have a clue how severe winters can get in these parts.” Russ had seen too many cases of frostbite to have any illusions.

  It was clear that Taylor resented the way he was talking to her. He didn’t mean to imply that she was stupid, only unaware, and he didn’t want her learning harsh lessons because no one had warned her.

  One quick look told him he’d raised Taylor’s hackles. She seemed to need several minutes to compose her response, then she set her fork next to her plate, placed her elbows on the table and joined her hands. Staring directly at him, she smiled with deceptive warmth and said, “You needn’t worry, Mr. Palmer. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’ve been doing so for many years. I may be a city girl, but let me assure you, I’m both intelligent and resourceful.”

  “Do you know what happens to skin when it’s exposed to temperatures below thirty degrees? How about the symptoms for hypothermia? Would you be able to recognize them in yourself or others?”

  “Mr. Palmer, please.”

  “Russ.” Mandy’s outraged eyes shot from him to Taylor and then back again. “You’re being rude to our guest.”

  Russ mumbled under his breath and resumed eating. Maybe he was overreacting. Perhaps his motives weren’t so lily-white. Perhaps he was more angry with her than concerned about her welfare. She’d certainly done enough to upset him in the past few hours. Taking Mandy’s side on that makeup issue had bothered him, but that hardly mattered after the way she’d pressed herself against him during the ride from town. He couldn’t get the feel of her out of his mind. Her skin was soft and she smelled like wildflowers. That thought led to another. If she smelled so good, he couldn’t help wondering how she’d taste. Like honey, he decided, fresh from the comb, thick and sweet. The knot in his stomach tightened. If he didn’t curb his mind soon, he’d end up kissing her before the night was through.

  “You’re an excellent cook,” Taylor said to Mandy in a blatant effort to lighten the strained atmosphere.

  Mandy beamed at the compliment. “I try. Rosa and her husband retired last year, and I talked Russ into letting me do the cooking, and it’s worked out pretty well, hasn’t it, Russ?”

  He nodded. “There’ve been a few nights best forgotten, but for the most part you’ve done an excellent job.”

  “She took over all the cooking at age thirteen?” Taylor asked, obviously astonished, although Russ had trouble figuring out why. He’d long suspected that city kids didn’t carry anywhere near the responsibility country kids did.

  Mandy eyed Russ. He knew that look well by now, and it meant trouble. He bit his tongue as she opened her mouth to speak.

  “It seems to me that any girl who can rustle up a decent meal every night is old enough to buy her own clothes without her older brother tagging along, don’t you think?”

  The way things were going, Mandy was angling to be sent to her room without finishing dinner. “That’s none of Taylor’s concern,” he said tightly, daring their guest to challenge his authority with his younger sister.

  “You agree with me, don’t you Taylor?” Mandy pressed.

  “Uh…” Taylor hedged, looking uncomfortable. “I have a limit of answering only one leading question per day,” she explained, reaching for another piece of bread. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get on Russ’s bad side twice in only a few hours. I might end up walking back to town.”

  “Russ would never do that.”

  Want to bet? Russ mused. Okay, so he wouldn’t make her walk, but he’d sure as hell hit every pothole he could. The problem there was that he’d be the one likely to suffer most.

  “What do you honestly think?” Mandy repeated.

  “I think you should eat your dinner and leave Taylor out of this,” Russ ordered harshly. The girl had turned willfulness into an art form.

  “I…Your brother’s right, Mandy,” Taylor said, lowering her gaze to the steaming bowl of rich stew. “This is something the two of you should settle between yourselves.”

  “Russ and I’ll settle it all right,” Mandy responded defiantly, “but he won’t like the outcome.”

  Russ didn’t take the bait. “More stew, Taylor?”

  “Ah…no, thanks. My bowl’s nearly full.”

  “When did you start buying your own clothes?” Mandy asked, clearly unwilling to drop the issue.

  Russ stared at Taylor, daring her to question his authority a second time. She glanced nervously away. “As I recall, I had the same problem with my father at this age. I got around him by taking a sewing class and making my clothes.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, about the eighth grade or so. To this day I enjoy sewing most of my own things. It’s economical, too.”

  “The eighth grade?” Mandy cast Russ a triumphant look. “You were basically choosing and sewing your own clothes when you were only thirteen, then.”

  “It’s not a good idea for me to get involved in a matter that’s between you and your brother, Mandy. I did earlier and I don’t think it was the right thing to do.”

  Russ felt a little better knowing that.

  Mandy’s shoulders sagged, and Russ was pleased to note that she was gracious enough to accept Taylor’s word. Finally.

  “I didn’t mean to cause such a scene in the variety store,” Mandy murmured apologetically. “All I wanted was Russ’s okay to buy some lip gloss.”

  Russ set his napkin on the table. “I wouldn’t mind letting you wear some lip gloss, but you insist on overdoing it. I walked past your bedroom the other night and I swear your lips were glowing in the dark.”

  Mandy glared at him, her eyes filled with indignation. What had he said now? Before he could ask her what was so all-fired insulting, she threw her fork and napkin onto the table and promptly rushed out of the room.

  “Amanda Palmer, get back here this minute,” he shouted in the same steely tone that sent his men scurrying to obey. When Mandy didn’t immediately comply, he stormed to his feet, ready to follow her.

  “Russ,” Taylor said softly, stopping him. He turned toward her, wanting to blame her for this latest display of pique.

  Taylor sighed and pushed aside her bowl. “Give her a few minutes. She’ll be back once she’s composed herself.”

  “What did I say?” he demanded, sitting back down, genuinely perplexed.

  Taylor hesitated, then said, “It might’ve had something to do with the joke about her lips glowing in the dark.”

  “It’s true. I told her she couldn’t wear any of that war paint you women are so fond of, so she defied me and started putting it on before she went to bed.”

  “She’s exercising her rights as a person.”

  “By spurning my rules? I swear that girl drives me to the edge of insanity. What’s gotten into her the past couple of years? She used to be an all-right kid. Now it seems I can’t say a word without setting her off.”

  “She’s a teenager.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he barked.

  “Don’t you remember what you felt like at fourteen? How important it was to dress and act like everyone around you?”

  “No,” Russ stated flatly. His features tensed. He didn’t want to discuss his sister with Taylor. She didn’t know any more about raising kids than he did. The problem with Mandy was that she was getting too big for her britches.

  Standing, Taylor reached for her bowl and glass. “I’ll clear the table.”

  “Leave it for Mandy,” Russ insisted.

  Taylor ignored him, which was getting to be a habit with her. Russ had yet to understand what it was about women that made them constantly want to challenge him—especially in his own home.

  “Why?” Taylor demanded, startling him out of his reverie. Even more astonishing was the fact that she looked angry.

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you want
to leave the dishes for Mandy?”

  “Because that’s woman’s work,” he explained.

  “You’re possibly the worst male chauvinist I’ve ever encountered,” she said, carrying what remained of the plates to the sink. “In my opinion, those who cook shouldn’t have to wash dishes.”

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell before you’ll ever see me washing dishes, lady.” He found the thought comical. He hadn’t taken kindly to being called a chauvinist, but he refused to argue with her. They were having enough trouble being civil to each other without further provocation from him.

  Taylor hurried to the sink, filling it with hot water and squirting in soap. “Since the task apparently belongs to a woman, I’ll do the dishes.”

  “No guest of mine is washing dirty dishes.”

  “Fine then,” she said, motioning toward the sink. “Everything’s ready for you.”

  Although he was struggling against it, Russ was thoroughly irritated. He was standing directly in front of her. Not more than two inches separated them.

  Taylor stared up at him and must have recognized his mood, because she swallowed hard. It wasn’t consternation he saw in her eyes, but something that stabbed him as sharply as a pitchfork. Longing and need. The same emotions he’d been battling from the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

  He saw something else. She didn’t want to experience it any more than Russ wanted to feel the things he’d been feeling for her. When they’d sat next to each other in the truck, he’d never been more profoundly aware of a woman in his life. The air had been alive with tension—a tension that seemed to throb between them all evening long.

  Russ felt it.

  Taylor felt it.

  Both seemed determined to ignore it.

  Bracing her hands on the edge of the sink, she anxiously moistened her lips. Russ’s eyes fell to her mouth. Her eyes reluctantly met his, and the look they exchanged was as powerful as a caress.

  “I…I should be going,” she whispered.

  “You called me a chauvinist.”

  “I…apologize.” Her pride was obviously crumbling at her feet. The fight had gone out of her.