"Well, heckfire, what'd we do?" someone at the end of the table muttered before Jonas could speak.
"I've already told you what you did, but by heaven, I'll tell again," she said hotly, her gaze raking each of them in turn. She shook her spoon at them like a wagging finger. "The lot of you ran in here without so much as a ‘good morning.' None of you bothered to wipe your boots or use the wash water and soap I left on the porch."
The youngest cowboy ducked his head and hunched his shoulders slightly. Apparently he was young enough to at least recall someone, someone, teaching him manners. A couple of the other men muttered comments she couldn't quite catch, but Hannah was in fine fettle now, so she simply raised her voice to drown them out. "Then you fell on the food like a pack of starving dogs fighting over the last bone in the house."
Someone grumbled under his breath, but she didn't care. She wasn't finished. Not by a long shot. Glaring at Hank, still cradling his arm close to his chest, she demanded, "Were you all brought up in caves? Did no one ever teach you simple table manners?"
"All right. Hannah," Jonas said, pushing back and away from the table. His chair legs screeched against the wood floor and she whipped her head around to stare at him. "I think you've said enough."
"I don't," she countered. "I have never seen anything like it," she continued, raking the men with an angry stare again. "Grown men, acting like… like…"
She shook her head, unable to come up with a likely description. She hadn't noticed Jonas moving around the table. When he took her elbow firmly in his grasp, she jumped, startled. The spoon dropped from her hand to clatter onto the table. Lifting her gaze to his, she was met by an icy blue wall that simmered with banked fires of anger that burned as hot as her own.
"Let's step outside," he said quietly, "to talk."
There was nothing gentle in his grip on her, but at the same time, she knew he was leashing his strength. Though his grasp was firm, he wasn't hurting her. Instead, she felt an odd sensation of heat threading up the length of her arm.
She looked up at him, wondering if he'd felt it, too.
For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of surprise flash across his eyes, but it was gone too quickly to be sure.
"You show her the way of it, boss," someone said, and a shutter dropped over the Mackenzie's eyes.
"Come on. Hannah," he muttered, already steering her toward the door.
Warmth still trickling through her body, Hannah fought against the pleasant feeling and gathered up the remaining threads of her righteous indignation.
This time when she looked him in the eye, she matched him angry stare for angry stare. If they were to have a lasting marriage, he'd better learn right away that she wouldn't be manipulated by the strength of his powers. Either his witchcraft abilities or the affect he seemed to have on her pulse rate.
"Fine," she agreed. "There are a few more things I'd like to say."
Someone actually chuckled.
The Mackenzie shot the table a hard look that silenced any further outbursts.
"You fellas go on with your breakfast, then get back to work," he said over his shoulder as he propelled Hannah toward the door.
Her feet flew across the floor hardly touching the wooden planks. Once outside, he continued walking quickly and her short legs were no match for his long strides.
"Watch out for gopher holes," he muttered as he practically dragged her across the yard.
Dutifully, her gaze raked the ground, but it was moving so quickly, she had a feeling she'd step in a hole before she could see and avoid it.
He stopped beneath an old cottonwood tree. Dappled shade dusted the hard ground, with splotches of sunlight. The breeze rattled the leaves overhead, sounding like harsh whispers. Out of earshot of the house, he released her and took a step back as though he needed distance between them.
"This isn't going to work out after all," he said flatly.
"What isn't?" She rubbed her elbow, but couldn't wipe away the still-lingering traces of warmth.
"You. Being here," he shook his head and went on through clenched teeth, "Never should have tried it. I'll have Elias take you into town. Put you on the stage that'll take you to the train station."
Whatever she'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. Straightening up to her full less-than-imposing height, she said, "I'm not leaving."
"If I fire you, you're leaving," he said, and somewhere in the distance, the familiar roar of building thunder sounded out.
Another storm? Hannah tore her gaze from his, glanced up, and watched as dark clouds skittered across the sky, obliterating the sun. Shadows fell all around them and the temperature dropped suddenly, bringing a chill to her veins.
She ignored it and faced him.
Hands at his hips, feet braced wide apart, he looked like a man ready for a fight. Well, then, she would give him one. She wasn't leaving. Not until she knew he would help her by defeating Blake Wolcott.
"You can't fire me after one meal."
"I can do whatever I damn well please," he reminded her. "This is my place."
From the corner of her eye, she caught the silvery flash of lightning pulse against the clouds, and a few moments later, the crash of thunder rolled down the mountainside.
"And who will you get to cook for you and the rest of them?" she asked.
She couldn't imagine any woman willingly cooking for that bunch of ill-mannered goats. By heaven, if she didn't have to be there, she'd have already left. Yet here she was. It didn't matter what he answered, she assured herself, because she had no intention of leaving.
"Someone who won't yell and make a big to-do first thing in the morning would be my first choice."
She frowned at him. All of this because she'd lost her temper? For pity's sake. Did he prefer the kind of woman who never raised her voice? If so, this getting-to-know-each-other period was going to be more difficult than she'd imagined.
"Make sure your new cook is blind, then," she said with a lift of her eyebrows. "Because anyone who has to watch a performance like that every morning is going to make a big to-do."
He gave her a tight, unamused smile as another flash of lightning sparkled overhead. A clap of thunder followed. Louder and closer this time, it boomed into the tense silence.
Taking the storm as a sign, Hannah used it shamelessly. "Besides," she pointed out with another glance at the sky, "you can't expect me to leave in the middle of a storm."
He shot a look at the heavens, and if God was watching, even He probably wanted to hide from the Mackenzie's expression. Grumbling darkly, Jonas tugged his hat brim down low on his forehead, then narrowed his gaze on her. Waving one hand at the house, he said, "Why don't you just admit it? You don't belong here. You've only been here a couple of hours and already you've caused more uproar than we've seen in years."
Her big green eyes widened in astonishment and she clapped one hand to the center of her chest. "I've caused…?"
"You are the one who hit Hank with a spoon, aren't you?"
"I didn't hurt him," she defended herself lamely.
Jonas sighed and threw both hands wide. Was she deliberately missing the point?
"You couldn't hurt Hank if you backed a wagon over him." Feeling the need to move, to do something, he started pacing, kicking at the dirt beneath his feet. "I'm talking about how you carried on in there."
"For heaven's sake, Mackenzie."
He stopped in front of her and silently warned himself not to look too deeply into those green eyes. Or to notice how the top of her head reached only as high as his chin. Or how when she was angry, color rushed into her cheeks, giving her skin a glow that made him want to touch it.
Damn it.
He didn't want her here. Didn't need the distraction she dragged along with her like a shadow.
The sky rumbled overhead. From the corner of his eye, he spotted lightning flash against the ridge. His morning was quickly turning to crap. And a blond-haired fireball with soft green eyes an
d a curvy body wasn't helping anything. Pretty or not, she had to find out right now just who was the boss around here.
"What the hell was that all about, anyway?" he demanded, his voice as tight as his body.
She leaned in close and he caught a whiff of what smelled like lemons.
"How can you even ask me that?"
He pulled his head back to avoid breathing in her scent again. "It's not up to you to teach those men—or me –" he added, "manners."
"Someone should –" she started, but didn't finish because he cut her off abruptly.
"They work hard. We all do." Steeling himself, he met her gaze and still felt a slap of something hard and searing shake him to his boots. Damn it, he wasn't a kid anymore, stirred into a froth over a pretty face and sweet smell. Gritting his teeth, he went on determinedly. "We expect our meals to be plentiful and hot. We don't expect to get our hands smacked for not saying please and thank you."
She was simmering. He didn't need to see the flash of indignation in her eyes. He sensed it pulsing around her body like a heartbeat. Anger fairly rippled off of her in waves. He wouldn't have been surprised to see sparks shooting from the ends of her hair.
Well, she could be as mad as she wanted to be. It didn't matter a damn what she thought of him. Hell, it would probably be easier on them both if she couldn't stand the sight of him. Then at least she'd give up on that marrying nonsense for good and all. And maybe if she was shooting daggers at him all the time, his thoughts would quit straying to notions he had no business considering.
"I worked hard, too," she told him shortly.
Hell, he knew that. Breakfast was better than anything he'd had in longer than he cared to think about. Still he was boss around here and she'd better learn that now.
Bracing his feet wide apart, he folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her. "A cook cooks," he said. "Nothing else."
"That explains what happened to your house," she muttered.
His teeth ground together until he thought his jaw might break. And despite the small part of him that enjoyed her not backing down, he stood his ground. "So," he said, squeezing the words past thinned lips, "do we understand each other?"
Her mouth worked furiously as she drew several deep breaths. She clasped her hands together at her waist and squeezed until her knuckles whitened and paled against her dark green skirt.
And still he waited.
"I think so," she said at last, in no more than a strangled whisper. She dipped her head and looked up at him from beneath impossibly long, dark eyelashes. "You want plentiful, hot meals with no worrying about table manners."
That had cost her. He could see it. And one part of him admired the hell out of her for it. Anybody who could rein in a temper like hers had strength. She had the look of a woman who didn't give in lightly, or often. As that thought occurred to him, he also thought that perhaps he ought to be worried by her surrender. But in the next instant, Jonas decided there was no point in looking for trouble when it came looking for him often enough.
Nodding, he said. "That's right. Think you can do that?"
"Oh," she told him, still giving him that shaded stare, "I think I'll be able to manage."
"All right, then," he said with another nod. Frustration drained from him as he gave the sky another searching look. He smiled faintly. The once-threatening clouds had thinned into misty ribbons of darkness stretching haphazardly across the sun. Lowering his gaze to hers, he said. "Guess the storm's passed us by this time."
"Perhaps," she said, starting for the house again, "but the clouds are still there, so it's too early to be sure."
He watched her go and as his gaze drifted to the sway of her hips, he wondered idly if they'd been talking about the same storm.
Chapter Five
Once astride his horse, Jonas put everything but work out of his mind. A cold mountain wind shot past him and he hunched deeper into the folds of his jacket. Tugging his hat brim down low on his forehead, he squinted into the afternoon light. His sharp eye inspected each of the beeves he passed, judging their weights, mentally adding the tally of what he could expect come sale time. Thoughts of Hannah Lowell were put aside as he lost himself in plans for the future.
In his mind's eye, he could already see the ranch as it would be in just a few more years—barring, of course, floods, droughts, Indians, and the price of beef falling.
He half turned in the saddle to look back at the ranch house. His imagination conjured up a tree-lined graveled drive leading to the three-story house with its wide front porch. He could even see himself, lounging in a chair in the shade, talking to –
He scowled as the image of Hannah joined his dream self on that imaginary porch.
Damn it. Now she was invading not only his kitchen, but his mind, too.
"She's a pistol, all right," Elias said as his horse meandered toward Jonas's.
Turning his head, he looked at the older man. "How'd you know I was thinking about her?"
Elias snorted a laugh. "Hell, that look on your face meant either thoughts of Hannah or you're fixin' to kill somebody. Since I ain't heard you're at war with anyone in particular, I figured it had to be Hannah."
"She's a thorn in my side," Jonas admitted in a grumble. "I never should have hired her."
"Maybe not," Elias said, drawing his mount to a stop and looping the reins through his fingers. "But she sure can cook. Beats the hell outa the slop Juana sets out."
"Yeah." One small consolation. He'd even heard the men raving about the breakfast they'd been served by that hot-tempered woman. It seemed they were willing to put up with her shouts if she kept the grub coming.
"Why's she here, you reckon?" Elias asked, his gaze sliding to the ranch house some few hundred yards off. "A woman looks like her is usually married by now. Why's she want to come out to the middle of nowhere and be a ranch house cook?"
Married.
That word sure was getting a lot of use here lately.
Jonas folded his hands on the saddle pommel and rubbed the worn leather reins between his fingers. No reason not to tell him, he thought. Hell, even though she'd agreed to let the whole subject of marriage drop, he had a feeling she'd start talking about it sooner or later. Might as well let Elias in on it now, so he'd be prepared. Besides, the old coot might even get a laugh out of it.
"She says she's here to marry me," Jonas told him and waited for a smile that didn't come.
Instead, the older man simply stared at him, his face expressionless, his eyes wary. "To marry you."
"Yeah."
"She's from Massachusetts," Elias muttered, his gaze now locked on the ranch house, "and she's come to marry you." The man's voice, deep and slow, blended in and was swallowed by the muffled roar of hundreds of hooves stamping into the dirt. He rubbed one gnarled hand across whiskery cheeks and swallowed heavily.
Jonas frowned at the man and shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He hadn't expected the old badger to go spooky on him. "Jesus, old man," he said on a short bark of laughter. "I only told you 'cause I figured you'd think it funny."
"Did you?" Elias asked suddenly, cocking his head to one side. "Find it funny, I mean."
"Funny? No." Jonas inhaled sharply. "Damn strange. Crazy, even. But funny?" He shook his head. Memories, old and cobweb-covered, rose up in his mind like a dust cloud on a hot, still day. Not only did he carry snatches of images of parents he couldn't really remember, but other, more recent memories were always there in the shadows, waiting for their chance to ambush him.
The problem, he told himself, is that he was a man with too much past and not enough future.
Muttering under his breath, he narrowed his gaze, focusing on his herd. The here and now. Hoping to keep his mind too busy to race into the past.
But once prodded into life, those dusty images wouldn't be silenced so easily. As if conjured by his reluctance, the first glimpses of blurred faces flickered across his brain. A man, black-haired, blue-eyed. A
woman, with a sweet smile and a dimple he knew he carried in his own cheek. His parents, he guessed, though he couldn't be sure.
He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, trying to stem the tide flooding past hastily constructed mental barriers. But they kept coming. Images, pictures. A town he didn't know. Lightning. Someone laughing. A scream.
A muffled groan lodged in his throat. Always the same. Bits and pieces. Snatches of a past long gone. Gritting his teeth, Jonas turned his back on the child he'd been and braced himself for the other, more recent images that, even after ten long years, still had the power to tighten his chest and close his throat.
Wide brown eyes, soft laughter, whispers in the night—then one day, a silent house. And red. So much red.
"Mac? Mac, boy." Elias's voice dragged him from the drowning pool of mind shadows and back to the sunlit range.
Opening his eyes, Jonas took a long look around him.
The familiar landscape soothed him. Cattle. Cowboys in the distance. The mountains, caps covered in snow that glistened like quartz crystal in the midday sun. He pulled in a deep breath, letting the cold, crisp air clear his mind and settle his spirit.
This was what mattered, he told himself firmly. The past couldn't be changed. The future couldn't be known. It was this moment, this time he had to concentrate on. Work at. All the rest was no more substantial than the morning mist that clung by wispy fingers to the mountainside and was gone again by noon.
"You all right, boy?"
He slanted a look at the man beside him. Concern etched itself into Elias's lined, weathered face, reminding Jonas that the older man knew what memories drove him, haunted him. And he wondered if Elias, too, was visited by ghosts.
They'd never spoken of it—as if silently agreeing that talking about the past would only serve to keep it alive, fresh in their minds. But Jonas had discovered that silence didn't protect him from the remembering. The pain of knowing he'd failed the one person who'd needed him the most.
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