by Ilsa Mayr
"My mother-in-law is babysitting her so I can stay until after lunch."
"Great. We should be able to finish wallpapering the room."
They had cut and hung the second panel when Jennifer sucked in her breath in that audible manner that indicated surprise. "What's this?" she asked, holding up a pair of boots. "And this?" she demanded, picking up a shirt from the love seat.
"That's a flannel shirt," Aileen said.
"No duh, but it's a man's flannel shirt, and don't tell me it belonged to your dad, because he never wore anything this brightly colored."
"No, it wasn't Dad's shirt."
"Aileen, you got a man living in this room, don't you?"
"Yes."
Jennifer dropped the boots.
Aileen had never seen her friend so stunned. It took a good five seconds before Jennifer found her voice.
"Man, if the saying `still waters run deep' weren't so old, I'd swear it was coined especially for you. I can't believe this. You were always so...so straight-laced and proper."
"I'm not straight-laced," Aileen protested. "Careful and choosy. Maybe."
Jennifer collapsed onto the love seat, still clutching the shirt. "Who is he?" she demanded.
"His name is Quinton Fernandez and this isn't what you seem to think it is." Aileen then proceeded to tell the story as succinctly as she could.
"Holy-." Jennifer clapped her hand over her mouth. Now that she was a mother, she was trying to clean up her language. "Holy horseradish! Your dad? Of all men, I'd never have suspected him of having a baby on the side. Just goes to show that you can never tell about people." Jennifer shook her head. "And this Quinton really owns half of everything? Is that legal?"
"He does, and it is."
"What's he like?"
Aileen shrugged.
"Aileen! This is no time to clam up. What does he look like?"
"He looks okay."
"He looks okay? What does that mean? Is he plain? Is he ugly? Is he cute?"
"Your husband is cute. Quint is more... adventurouslooking. Now come on and help me with this panel. We have to get this done. You'll meet him at lunch."
"If I'm not dead of curiosity by then," she muttered.
Despite Jennifer's difficulty in concentrating on the task, they got the room wallpapered by 11:30.
Jennifer, hands on hips, looked at their work. "I must say this room looks great. I wasn't so sure about this green textured wallpaper when I first saw it, but it works in here. You always had good taste."
"Thanks. I need to check on lunch," Aileen replied.
"I'll clean up in here."
Ten minutes later the women had set the table. Jennifer was pouring the third glass of milk when Quint walked into the kitchen. Staring at him, Jennifer kept pouring, even though the glass was full. Fortunately, she was doing this over the sink. Aileen dashed to her side and rescued the carton of milk.
While returning the milk to the refrigerator, Aileen made introductions. Judging by Quint's smooth, gracious response, he must have encountered Jennifer's slack-jawed, undisguised admiration more than a few times before. When she met his green-eyed gaze, Aileen knew he was a little amused as well, but since it was a good-natured amusement, she decided to overlook it. Jennifer had been her friend since fifth grade. She could not allow anyone to be maliciously amused at her friend's expense.
They concentrated on eating for a while. At least, Quint and Aileen did, while Jennifer, with a stunned look on her face, stirred her soup.
"This is great soup," Quint said. Peering closely, he analyzed the contents. "Lots of vegetables, chunks of tender beef and...rice?"
"Barley," Aileen said.
"I suspect this soup didn't come out of a can," Quint said.
"Not in this house. Miss Ruth made everything from scratch and she taught Aileen to do the same," Jennifer said. "My mom, on the other hand, couldn't put a meal together if you took away her cans and boxes. Aileen's been giving me cooking lessons. Andy loves it."
"Andy is Jennifer's husband," Aileen explained. "Help yourself to more soup."
Quint refilled his bowl and took another sandwich. "Do you live near here, Jennifer?"
"I live in town now, but I grew up on a ranch just south of the Triangle B. My folks still live there."
"Must be nice to have lived in one place most of your life," Quint said, his voice musing.
"Or boring. Where did you grow up?" Jennifer asked.
"All over." Quint shrugged. Then, focusing on Jennifer, he asked if she had children.
Aileen noticed that Quint had deftly changed the subject from his past to Jennifer's baby. Why was he so reluctant to talk about himself?
When they had finished dessert, Quint rose. "Thanks for lunch, Aileen. I'm working on the north range, mending fences, so I'll be back late. I can fix myself something when I get back. Nice meeting you, Jennifer."
"Nice meeting you too." Jennifer waited until she heard the back door close before she spoke. "Okay-looking?" she said, her tone incredulous.
"What?"
"You said he was okay-looking. Do you need glasses? Quint's positively yummy. He's hot, hot, hot. Even a happily married woman like me sees that." Jennifer used her hand to fan herself.
"Looks aren't everything."
"No, but they sure don't hurt. Did you notice he was sort of evasive about where he grew up?"
"I noticed."
"What do you know about him?"
"Not much. He works such long hours that we haven't had a chance to talk. He comes in to eat dinner and then he goes out again, working in the tack room or the barns. He certainly is a hard worker; I'll give him that. And Bob says Quint seems to know a lot about ranching. I hope so. I'd sure hate to lose the Triangle B."
"You always did love this place. Me, I couldn't get into town fast enough." Jennifer paused. "He isn't married, is he?"
"Who? Quint?"
"Of course, Quint. Who else are we talking about?"
"He said he wasn't. Or engaged or involved. He told me that right off the bat."
"Interesting," Jennifer mused.
"Why?"
"Did he ask if you were involved?"
"Yes."
"Even more interesting." Before Aileen could ask why, Jennifer said, "He was testing the water."
Aileen rolled her eyes. "We have to get along to hang onto the ranch, so it's better if we keep this strictly business. Ranching hasn't been all that profitable lately. The Triangle B will require all of our attention."
"Or you could get married and make this a doubly solid partnership."
"Like that wouldn't present another set of problems? Besides, I seriously doubt that Quint's the marrying type."
"Any man's the marrying type if he has a strong incentive or if he meets the right woman," Jennifer claimed with conviction. "Now I better go and retrieve my baby. Andy's mom wants to go shopping."
As Aileen walked Jennifer to the door, Jennifer asked, "Do you have any plans for tonight? It's Saturday, you know."
"I have papers to grade and bread to bake."
"You're going to wait up for him, aren't you? And have something hot waiting for him?" When Jennifer saw Aileen's expression, she added quickly, "Hot to eat, I mean. A man who works that hard deserves a hot meal at the end of the day."
"Good-bye, Jennifer. Thanks for the help."
Even though her friend was obviously matchmaking, she was right about a man deserving a hot meal. Aileen decided to cook something that would keep warm in the oven.
By the time Quint got back to the ranch, it had been dark for several hours. He hadn't meant to stay out that late, but fixing the fence had taken longer than anticipated. He was dead tired, cold, and hungry.
The house was quiet. Aileen had gone to bed, or, more likely, she was out on a date. This was Saturday night, after all. He felt acutely let down that she wasn't there. When he identified the source of his disappointment, he called himself a fool. The woman was nothing to him. She could
be nothing to him.
Something smelled temptingly good in the kitchen. A note on the counter informed him that food was in the oven and a salad was in the refrigerator. Aileen sure was big on salads. He filled his plate from the casserole and carried it to the kitchen table. He had almost wolfed it all down when Aileen joined him.
"I thought you were out," he said.
"No, I was upstairs. Reading." She fetched the salad and the dressing and set both in front of him. Then she placed the casserole on a trivet and brought it to the table. "You may as well finish this. It doesn't keep well. The noodles become soggy."
He didn't need urging and scraped the last bit of chicken, noodles, and vegetables onto his plate. He also dutifully ate the salad.
Aileen carried the casserole to the sink and washed it. "What were you doing out there so long?"
"Mending the fence."
"In the dark?"
"Kept the headlights of the truck aimed at the fence. I wanted to finish that section. No sense in wasting time driving all the way out there again tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is Sunday. Everyone has the day off." Aileen put the casserole into the cupboard before joining him at the table. "Quint, you don't have to kill yourself with work. No one expects that."
"What did you expect? The south-of-the-border guy with the sombrero pulled over his eyes taking a nap in the noonday sun?"
"That's a terrible ethnic stereotype," she said, her voice and expression shocked. "I didn't have time to form any expectations. You were here before the surprise of your existence wore off. I wasn't able to speculate about you or form any preconceived ideas."
Quint carried his dishes to the sink. He turned the radio on and moved the dial until he found a station playing music.
"How come you're not out on a date?" he asked. "It's Saturday night."
"I got out of the habit of dating, I guess. Dad was sick for so long. When he was home, he needed care. When he was in the hospital, I visited him every evening. And since his death...." her voice trailed off. Then she realized that his voice, his expression held a challenge. Squaring her shoulders, she asked, "What about you? You were out repairing the fence instead of kicking up your heels in town."
"True. Let's fix that," Quint said, and approached her.
What does he have in mind, Aileen wondered, her heart thudding.
Taking her hands, he pulled her to her feet. "Let's dance."
"Dance? I'm not a good dancer."
Putting his arms around her, he said, "Don't worry. I am."
"Why does that not surprise me?" she murmured. "You do everything well that involves women, don't you?"
"Are you accusing me of being a gigolo, or are you asking for a demonstration?"
He smiled at her lazily. His green eyes sparkled. Aileen felt her breath catch. "Neither, but-"
"If you don't want a demonstration, hush up and dance. You think too much."
"I don't believe that's possible."
"Yes, it is," he insisted. "Sometimes you have to listen to your instincts. Feel instead of think."
"That could be dangerous."
"Your life could stand a little danger."
His words, his voice, soft and husky, sent a shiver down her spine. She ought to pull out of his arms and run upstairs and lock her door. But she didn't. She would wait until the music stopped. After all, she didn't want him to think that he was dangerous to her. He wasn't.
The music changed to a slow beat. Immediately his arms tightened around her and he drew her close.
Aileen smelled the fresh, clean, cold air of the range clinging to him. She felt the hard muscles of his arms, felt the intimate warmth of his breath against her temple, and could no longer lie to herself. This man was dangerous to her.
The week passed so quickly that Quint didn't realize it was Friday night until Aileen dumped the thick folder of weekly compositions on the kitchen counter. She brought a huge stack home each weekend to be graded.
Early Saturday morning he was scheduled to participate in a rodeo. He was tempted to cancel, but since he had already paid the entry fee, he felt obligated to go. He could also use the money he was confident of winning in at least two of the events. Quint didn't tell Aileen where he was going or what he was doing in the note he left for her on the kitchen table.
He knew Aileen was asleep the moment he returned late Saturday night, for the house had that muted feel to it that it assumed once the echoes of human voices and movements had been absorbed by the walls. Quint knew that silence well, having crept regularly out of windows of the many foster homes of his teenage years to roam the night, seeking something, anything, to calm the rage hammering inside his skull.
When Quint entered the kitchen on Sunday morning, he knew immediately that Aileen was upset with him. Although she answered his greeting in a quiet, polite voice, the rigid stance of her body signaled unapproachability. He poured himself a cup of coffee.
She was all dressed up, wearing a belted, long-sleeved dress the color of pine needles and high-heeled brown pumps. She had tamed her bright hair into a complicated knot that rested against her slender, elegant neck. It was the sort of knot a man's hands itched to undo. Did women fix their hair deliberately like that, knowing it drove men crazy?
"Going somewhere or coming back?" he asked, watching her over the rim of his cup.
"Coming back. I went to early service." She turned the page of a spiral-bound notebook.
"Grading?" he asked.
"No. Planning the menu for the coming week."
"You're a very organized woman."
"Is that a criticism?" she asked, looking at him for the first time since he had come into the kitchen.
Quint noticed that she was trying to keep her expression disinterested and indifferent, but he thought he detected hurt lurking in the blue depths of her eyes. He had some fence-mending to do, and it wasn't just the fences out on the range.
"Being organized is good," he said, "provided you leave a little room for spontaneous action."
"Such as?"
Quint shrugged. "Watching a sunset. Listening to the song of a bird. Smelling the new grass on a spring morning. Taking in a movie on the spur of the moment. Going dancing. Stuff like that."
"Or stuff like going off for the weekend without telling anyone where you could be reached?"
"Ah. So that's what's bothering you," Quint said. "I thought it might be." Involuntarily, he rubbed his aching shoulder.
"What's the matter? You got hurt? Or is it a hangover?"
"I got thrown."
Thrown on his rump over a woman, Aileen suspected. Out loud she asked, "In a barroom brawl?"
Anger flared in him, but he beat it down. "Why is it women always assume the worst about me?"
"Do they? I'm sure you'd know the reason for that better than I."
Quint set his cup down forcefully. Had it been fragile porcelain, it might have cracked. He took her arm and forced Aileen to face him.
"Look at me, and let's get this out in the open."
"You don't owe me an explanation," she claimed quickly, trying to sound convincing.
"The heck I don't."
"No, really-"
"Aileen, be truthful. Don't pretend indifference. You know as well as I do that if I don't explain, the atmosphere in this house will be cold enough to hang a side of beef."
Aileen opened her mouth and snapped it shut. Somewhat shamefaced she said, "I'm just used to everyone on this ranch telling if they're going to leave, where they're going, and when they'll be back. Last year this saved the lives of a couple of men during a snowstorm. Of course, if you had a hot date for the weekend-"
"My date was with a cantankerous bull that didn't want to be ridden and some ornery calves that didn't like being roped."
Aileen blinked, sorting through this information. "You went to a rodeo? I mean, you took part in it?"
"You sound as shocked as if I'd told you I robbed the bank in town."
"Why wouldn't
I be shocked? What if you'd broken your arm, or your leg, or-"
"I didn't. And this was my last rodeo appearance. I only went because I'd already paid the entry fee. No sense in forfeiting it. And it was a way to earn some quick cash."
Aileen stared at him. Though Quint was good at reading women, he wasn't quite sure how to interpret her expression. She was different. Educated. Classy. Not the sort of woman who hung around rodeos or frequented honky-tonk bars. Not the sort of woman he usually met. Her steady blue-eyed stare unnerved him a little. "What?" he finally demanded.
"Quick, easy cash? Is that what you're after?" she asked. "Is that what you want from life?"
The unspoken criticism in her words sliced into his pride. Wounded, he said, "First of all, there's nothing easy about earning money rodeoing. And second, by quick I meant extra. Additional. If you don't already know it, what ranch hands earn doesn't rank on top of the pay scale."
Aileen blushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that rodeoing is easy. I know a number of men who've been hurt, including Jennifer's dad. He's been a semi-invalid since a bull gored him. It made life for the family very hard. I know rodeo work is dangerous. I think it's quite...." She broke off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
"It's what?" Quint asked, his voice challenging.
"You really want to know?"
"Spit it out."
"I think it's stupid. Why ride an animal that was never meant to be ridden? Why risk being crippled or killed? This makes no sense to me." She paused to study his face. Defensively she added, "You wanted to know what I thought."
"I did. I suppose most women feel the same way. Except the groupies. They-" Quint swallowed the rest of what he'd almost blurted out, realizing by the widening of Aileen's eyes that mentioning the groupies had been a mistake.
Aileen folded her arms across her chest. She pictured sexy young things wearing tight jeans and push-up bras hanging on his arms, gazing at him adoringly. She didn't particularly like the image. "Groupies? Of course. Every male activity that has some glamour to it, even if it's shoddy, will have a female following. And I bet they were all over you."
Quint shrugged, his expression as sober as he could manage. It was obvious that Aileen didn't like the idea of groupies surrounding him. That pleased him. "I never encouraged them," he claimed.
