Wrangling the Rancher

by Jeannie Watt

  She rolled her neck, trying to ease the stiffness out of it. She’d unpacked the trailer and discovered that the losses were less than she’d anticipated. As near as she could tell, the thieves had blindly grabbed boxes, because if they’d looked inside, they wouldn’t have bothered with some of the things they’d taken. She’d lost her flatware, some serving dishes, her lingerie and a box of miscellaneous electronics. The loss of the flatware and dishes she took in stride, but the lingerie...that pissed her off. Bras were expensive, and finding ones that fit properly—that approached nightmare territory, which was why she bought her underwear from a boutique that specialized in bra fitting.

  Five hundred bucks of silk, lace and underwire. Gone. Like that.

  Let it go. Move on. She could practically hear Karl saying the same words he’d said over the phone whenever she’d failed to ace a test or hadn’t run her best during a cross-country meet. She wouldn’t be sharing this particular loss with him.

  Tucking her hair behind her ears, Taylor folded the list she’d made and slipped it into her purse. She’d get a copy to the sheriff’s office and another to the insurance company. One more task tacked onto an already full agenda. She still had to return the trailer, buy flatware of some kind—and at the moment she was leaning toward plastic—and hire someone to fix the floor with money she couldn’t spare.

  It had to be done. She wouldn’t have minded coming home to bunnies hopping around her house, but mice...she didn’t do mice. The floor needed to be fixed.

  So what now? Pick the name of a handyman at random? The way her luck was running, she’d hire a scam artist.

  She needed advice in the worst way, and even though she hated to call her grandfather with a sad story again, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed his number. Miraculously, he answered, so after making certain that all was well on his end, she launched into a description of what Cole had called the bunny attack, leaving out the part where she’d mistaken Thumper for a rat, as well as the part where she’d locked herself in her car. She had to hold on to some small shred of dignity. It was bad enough that her farm-mate had seen her. She ended her story with a description of the damaged boards under the sink.

  “So what do I need? A plumber or a carpenter?”

  “Why don’t you ask Cole to fix it?”

  Because she’d had it up to there with tall, dark and irritating. “He’s pretty busy with farm stuff. I thought I could hire someone to do it.”

  “Yeah, you could.”

  “It’d be pricey, right?” She was guessing based on his tone of voice.

  “I’ll call Cole.”

  “No.” The word popped out in a way that made it necessary to do damage control immediately afterward. She forced an easy smile into her voice. “I can handle things. I was just looking for a little guidance.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

  Half an hour later she realized just how long her grandfather was going to have to wait to hear that all was well. All the carpenters and plumbers were booked out for many weeks due to new construction in the area. The two local handymen were also seriously booked up.

  “I’ll tell you what,” the last guy said, perhaps hearing the distress and desperation in her voice, “if you can cover the area with thick plastic and duct tape, that might keep the mice from coming in. If they’re not hungry enough to chew. Don’t keep food in the house.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes. No food. Right. “And you’ll put me on the schedule?”

  “Three weeks out.”

  “If there’s a cancellation?”

  She heard him suck a breath in between his teeth. “Five people ahead of you, but I’ll slot you into the waiting list.”

  “Thank you.” It was kind of hard to say the words in a meaningful way, but she knew better than to annoy a handyman.

  Taylor didn’t allow herself any breathing room between ending the call and heading for her car. She had to keep moving because if she stopped to consider her reality—no bras, possible mice, sleeping in a place in which she didn’t yet have a mattress—then she might not move forward at all.

  Temporary. Remember?

  Maybe she needed to write the word on the back of her hand in indelible ink.

  She carefully closed the bunkhouse door as she left so as not to let in more rabbits, and then headed for her car, only to stop when she caught sight of Cole in the big shed where the baler and swather were parked. Abruptly she shifted course. Why? She hadn’t a clue. Maybe because she was still steamed about him calling her entitled. Taylor had never been good about leaving a fight alone. The same obsessive tendencies that had made her a great student also made it hard for her to handle unfinished business. He was bent over the baler, denim hugging the back of his thighs. Yeah, the guy was built. And yeah, he wasn’t getting any points for that. She was more about attitude, and his sucked where she was concerned.

  “Hey,” she said. His head jerked up and he turned, the pained expression on his face clearly asking “What now, lady?” He was as ready for a fight as she was...so she wasn’t going to.

  “I’m heading to town. Want anything?”

  He blinked at her as a suspicious frown formed. “No.”

  “Just checking,” she said smoothly.

  “Right.” He turned back to the baler.

  Dismissed. She didn’t think so. She ambled closer, saw the muscles of his shoulders bunch just a bit. He glared at her again, and she wondered if he knew that scowling only made him look hotter—in the sensual sense, rather than the angry sense.

  “I need access to the house this afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “Karl said I could have the mattress in the guest room.” And rather than ask him to help her move it, she figured she could back her SUV to the side door, lay the seat down and shove it in. Awkward, yes, but she wasn’t going to ask this guy for help.

  “Fine.”

  She waited. He waited. Taylor was used to charged atmosphere—and there was a definite edgy vibe developing between them as each waited for the other to make a move—but apparently Cole also seemed to be comfortable with tense silences. Neither of them blinked, but Taylor was the one who had to get the rental trailer back within the hour or pay for another day. She’d certainly rather spend her money on new bras than a now-useless trailer.

  Finally, she gave in—but only because of extenuating circumstances. With a curt nod she started to turn, but not before she saw the glimmer of victory light his eyes.

  Walk away. Return the trailer. This is just one battle, not the war.

  Taylor didn’t let battles go lightly, but this time she would.

  For now anyway.

  * * *

  AFTER WINNING THE FACE-OFF, Cole watched Taylor march out of the machine shop to her SUV, wondering what had happened to her Z. Had she done the sane thing and sold it to help make ends meet? Or hung on to it as she waited for some kind of miracle rescue for the situation she’d gotten herself into? A few seconds later he cringed as she peeled out of the driveway. Cool. She could pay to have it regraveled.

  Cole stepped back into the machine shop. He could dig into the scrap lumber and fix the floor while she was gone, but he was still pissed about her assumption that he would fix things ASAP for her. More than that, he was irritated that she was there at all. He’d leased the place, and therefore it should be his...but Karl was a longtime friend of his grandfather’s, and had given Cole a healthy break on the farm’s lease. The least he could do was play ball for the undoubtedly short period that Ms. Taylor Evans would be in residence. Which was another good reason why he wouldn’t fix the floor. The more uncomfortable she was, the quicker she’d be out of here. But if Karl asked him to fix it, he would.

  Hell, if
she asked him to fix it again, he probably would.

  The wrench slipped and he banged his knuckles. Shaking his hand and cursing, he then braced his hands on the edge of the baler and let out a breath. It sucked being a decent guy sometimes. Decent guys tended to get taken advantage of. Miranda had taken advantage of him whenever she could, and since he had a conscience as well as a younger sister to protect, he stuck things out on the ranch until Jancey finished high school. Then he told Miranda he was through. The look on her face had been rather satisfying. And even though he no longer managed the ranch, he still had a stake in the place. A stake that Miranda would dearly love to relieve him of.

  “Good luck with that,” he muttered.

  Once upon a time, the Bryan Ranch had been a joint venture between his father and his uncle. They hadn’t made a lot of money, but they’d eked out a living—and then his uncle married his second wife, Miranda, who proceeded to talk the brothers into increasing their profits by turning one ranch into a guest ranch and leaving the other as a small working ranch for the entertainment of their guests...and to keep Cole’s father happy.

  The plan worked. Miranda turned the guest ranch into a popular vacation and retreat destination, making most of the family miserable in the process—everyone except for her husband, who loved her blindly until the day he died. Cole’s father had immersed himself in the working ranch and ignored the guests and everything associated with them, so after graduating from college, Cole had become responsible for the trail rides, the outfitting, the cattle drives—anything that involved animals and guests. He was good at his job, and enjoyed it until his father died and Miranda went power mad. Everything had to be cleared through her and everything had to be perfect. Not just regular perfect, but exceptionally perfect—which was a direct quote from his step-aunt.

  After their father died, Jancey had stayed in the family home while Cole had spent most of his time at the main guest ranch, a half mile away so that he could be on call—Miranda’s idea, even though Jancey had been only a junior in high school at the time. The arrangement worked for the most part, if one didn’t mind the animal-population explosion that had occurred once Jancey had the working ranch to herself. Whenever possible, Cole had escaped to his family home to spend time with his sister. Jancey was better at looking after guests than he was, which was why she had continued working at the ranch, saving money for college, after he quit.

  Bottom line, the ranch made money and he and Jancey got a cut. But the price they’d paid in emotional turmoil was ridiculous.

  Which was why he wanted to be alone, and the fact that he wasn’t ate at him.

  Maybe Jancey was right—maybe he was suffering from post-Miranda stress disorder.

  * * *

  TAYLOR DROVE PAST the hotel parking lot where she’d been robbed, then made her way to the sheriff’s office. After dropping off her list of stolen items, and knowing full well that she needn’t have bothered because she was never seeing any of that stuff again, she returned the trailer, then headed to the building supply store two blocks away.

  Taylor pushed an oversize cart along the aisles, feeling remarkably out of place. She’d never been in a building supply store—not one that didn’t also sell appliances and curtains and flowers in addition to lumber and hardware. She cruised the aisles, though since there weren’t many, it didn’t take that long. She bought thick plastic and duct tape, then, since she was in no hurry to get back, she stopped at the coffee shop on the other side of the parking lot and took her time sipping a chai latte.

  Chai was her go-to calmer-downer, but instead of relaxing as she sipped the hot, sweet tea mixture, she found herself drumming her fingers. Abruptly, she closed her hand and dropped it into her lap, where it clenched into a fist.

  Plastic and duct tape and a couple of gnarly cats were all that would stand between her and the rodent population of the Eagle Valley.

  How was she supposed to sleep with that kind of a threat hanging over her head? Meanwhile the guy who probably didn’t care about rodents slept in the mouse-proof house.

  Her fist clenched even tighter, and Taylor made a conscious effort to unclench.

  It was clear that her grandfather wasn’t going to suggest to Cole that he trade places with her, even after the month was up. Which meant that she was probably stuck in the bunkhouse hellhole until she got back on her feet.

  Taylor started drumming her fingers again, then she picked up her phone and went to YouTube, searching for videos on repairing rotten floorboards. She scrolled through videos, watching pieces here and there, before concluding that her repair didn’t have to be pretty. It had to be mouse-proof. Who was going to see under the sink except for her?

  And if things played out well, she wouldn’t be there for that long. The obsessive part of her brain wouldn’t have to grapple with the fact that there were messy boards under the sink. She’d spent the better part of the evening reading through job listings within driving distance of the Eagle Valley, so she had hope.

  She felt better as she finished her tea. First she’d conquer home repair, then she’d find a job. Ever upward and all that.

  Taylor got to her feet, shouldered her purse, tossed the cup into the trash and left the shop with a sense of purpose.

  Forty-five minutes later she had short boards that the woman in the lumber department had cut for her, a box of wood screws, a cordless drill that made her feel kind of powerful and macho—and which had cost less than one of her bras—a hammer, just because, and steel wool for plugging extra space around the incoming pipe. She also had two mousetraps, just in case. Taylor smiled grimly as she pushed the cart through the automatic doors.

  It was good to take control.

  * * *

  THE SOUND OF a drill brought Cole’s head up as he walked by the bunkhouse on his way to the barn, where he planned to start fixing the corrals for the three orphan calves he was taking off his sister’s hands. The drilling stopped, followed by a clatter and a muttered curse. When they’d spoken earlier about the hole under the sink, Taylor had seemed clueless about repairs, but judging from where the noise was coming from, she appeared to be tackling them herself.

  None of your business.

  Actually, in a way, it was his business. If it turned out that Taylor was handy with tools, then her assumption that he would fix her problem was going to irk him that much more. In fact, it had already irked him to the point that he single-handedly moved a mattress and box spring out of Karl’s basement and hauled them over to the bunkhouse so that he didn’t have to have any more contact with her than necessary. And if that mattress and box spring happened to be twin-size instead of the queen-size bed in the guest room, so what? A twin bed would fit her just fine, and maybe someday he’d have guests.

  Cole forced himself to ignore the bang that erupted from inside the bunkhouse and walk on.

  He’d spent too much time on the guest ranch. Too much time smiling when he wanted to walk away from some self-important douchebag with a snotty attitude. Granted, for every douche, there were at least ten people he enjoyed helping, but the jerks did tend to stick out. And then there were the ladies who seemed to think that he was fair game. He was game for quite a bit, but not with clients. Something like that was not only wildly unprofessional, it would have given Miranda an advantage over him—and that was the last thing he’d have let happen.

  He didn’t have to worry about that anymore. It felt so damned good working alone, not worrying about politely dealing with the public, or what part of his life Miranda was going to try to control just to prove to him that she could.

  Now if he only had his farm to himself...

  In good time. After all, how long was Taylor Evans going to be able to stand living in a bunkhouse?

  That was the exact question his cousin Jordan put forth to him when they met for beer and burgers at McElroy’s Bar earl
y that evening.

  “Not long. I hope.” Cole took a drink and set his beer back on the table. “But here’s the thing—she must be desperate to be there at all, so maybe how long she stays is out of her control. The fact that she’s there means that she’s in a rough place.”

  “Good point.”

  “You should see her. Not exactly farm material. She drives a freaking classic Z.”

  “What year?”

  “Looks like a ’72.”

  “No.” There was an envious note in Jordan’s voice.

  “Yep.” Cole let his chin drop. “She can’t stay there forever.” He realized that he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

  “You hope.”

  “Thanks, Mary Sunshine.”

  Jordan laughed, and despite his dark mood, Cole grudgingly smiled. It was good to see his cousin so relaxed and happy. Jordan hadn’t had an easy life. He’d been injured and disfigured during his time in the military, and while he was recovering, Miranda had done her best to steal his inheritance on a technicality. He’d been in a bad place for a long time, but now he had his mountain ranch, a wife he adored and a baby on the way. Cole’s problems were trivial in comparison. He had a woman on his ranch when he wanted to live alone.

  In all honesty, how bad was that? Cole let out a sigh. “Sorry to unload. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “I get what the deal is,” Jordan said simply. “You’ve been working with the kind of people I avoid at all costs for years, and now, after you escaped, you have one of those same people invading your space for an indefinite amount of time.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You have a right to be pissed off, but I’ll tell you what I think is going to happen.”

  “Yeah?”

  Jordan leaned his forearm on the table. “You’re going to go about your business as if she isn’t there. She’ll do the same once she realizes that you aren’t going to put out her fires for her. The two of you will live parallel lives until she moves on.”