His next stop was at the general store, where he chose pants and shirts to fill in his sparse wardrobe, adding socks and drawers to the pile before he nodded to the woman who’d gathered the assortment together for him. “How much?” he asked.
“Let me see,” she told him, obviously adding the total in her head. “That’ll come to four dollars, even.” She took his money and hesitated. “You stayin’ at the Double B Ranch?”
“Word gets around fast, doesn’t it?” he said with a grin. “Yeah, I’m the fella that bought out Pete Biddleton’s share. Just arrived yesterday.”
“That boy’s a scamp,” the woman said, shaking her head in judgment. “Never figured he’d amount to much, even before his pa passed on. Since then he’s been pretty predictable, leavin’ everything up to his sister to tend to.”
“She seems pretty capable to me,” J.T. allowed mildly.
“And it’s a good thing she is,” the woman snapped. “That boy spent more time shufflin’ cards than he did workin’ the ranch. His pa was ready to disown him, according to Mr. Webster, then the old man died real sudden like, and the boy inherited half of everything. Doesn’t seem fair to Chloe, if you ask me.”
“Well, you never know how things will work out, do you?” J.T. said, picking up his package. “I assure you I’ll do my share of work at the ranch. She may be better off with me there, than with the last partner she had.”
“She’s been the backbone of the place since she was sixteen, when her mama took sick and died. Folks around here think a lot of Chloe,” the woman said, her eyes scanning J.T. as if she issued a warning.
“I’m sure they do,” he said agreeably. “She seems like a fine woman.” He headed for the door, aware of listening ears, grinning to himself as he thought of the discussion he would miss once the door closed behind him. He’d given the town a brand-new topic of gossip today and hadn’t offered much for them to base their speculation on.
The ride back to the ranch was long, spanning almost two hours, and he wondered how often Chloe made the trek. Between them, they probably should have picked up supplies, but buying groceries was no doubt the last thing on her mind right now. She’d gone home empty-handed today, with only her frustration and anger for company. By the time she got to the ranch, she’d probably be in a stew, ready to make his life a misery.
He’d have to watch his step, especially when he announced his intention to move into the house. His new partner might be small, but he’d be willing to bet she knew how to handle a gun. And getting a load of buckshot aimed in his direction would certainly put a damper on his day.
“You’re gonna do what?” Hogan’s exasperated query was met by a shrug.
“I’m going to fix up a room for Mr. Flannery to sleep in,” Chloe said quietly. “He owns half the ranch, and that gives him the right to Peter’s bedroom, I’d say.”
“When did you decide to be so easygoin’?” Hogan asked. “Last I talked to you, you were hell-bent on makin’ the man’s life a misery. I thought sure you’d make him stay in the barn or the bunkhouse.”
“I know,” she said. “I thought so, too, but he gave Peter a stake after the poker game and advised him to come back home. At least that’s what he told Paul Taylor. I guess he doesn’t have any reason to lie about it.” She looked toward the town road where the big stallion would shortly appear, and decided she’d pretty well gotten over her mad. Fair was fair, and if J.T. had tried to do right by Peter, he deserved at least the treatment she would offer anyone else.
Hogan was silent for a minute, as he digested J.T.’s generosity. “He seems a good enough man to me,” he said finally. “So long as he doesn’t start throwin’ his weight around, we’ll get along all right, I expect.”
“Don’t count on that,” Chloe told him, remembering J.T.’s remarks. “He may be trying to run roughshod over all of us before he’s done.” She sighed, thinking of the tasks awaiting her in the house. “Once Aunt Tilly shows up, I’ll be free to work with you on roundup.”
“And I’ll feel better about having Flannery in the house with you,” Hogan said bluntly. “I don’t like to think about folks making remarks, with you and your new partner sharing the house. If you’re giving him Peter’s room do you need to be moving furniture or anything?” he asked. “I can send one of the boys up to give you a hand.”
Chloe shook her head. “No, he’ll get Peter’s room just as it is. Clean sheets is about as far as I’ll go to get it ready for him. And as far as propriety’s concerned, I’ve been doing a man’s job for a lot of years already, Hogan. Folks quit talking about me a long time ago. I don’t think half of them even consider me a woman. I’m just a rancher. And that suits me just fine.”
Hogan shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not, Chloe. This might be a good thing for you, set you to thinking about woman stuff, instead of pushin’ yourself so hard. And another thing. You gonna be doing the cooking for Flannery, or send him out to the bunkhouse for his grub?”
She hesitated and then, casting another long look at the town road, made her decision. “I’ll feed him in the house. If it was Peter, I’d cook for him. The man is half owner, no matter whether I like it or not. And once Aunt Tilly gets here, she’ll be cooking for everyone anyway.”
“Chloe?” From the bottom step of the long, curved stairway, J.T. called her name, then listened as light footsteps moved overhead. A door opened and closed and he watched as Chloe hesitated at the top of the stairs. “Hogan said you were fixing up a room for me.”
“Did he?” Her foot touched the top step, and she grasped the banister as she made her way toward him. Pausing two steps above him, she hesitated, looking down at his upturned face. “I’d begun to think your hat was a permanent part of you,” she said idly, her gaze lifting to where dark waves cascaded almost to his collar.
“I take it off every once in a while,” he told her. “When I eat and sleep anyway.” Refusing to give way, he watched her patiently, waiting for her response, and then nudged her with another query.
“What changed your mind?”
“About the room?” Her shrug lifted one shoulder. “You own half the house. The least I could do was let you have one room to sleep in.”
He stepped back, allowing her passage past him, and then followed as she moved down the wide hallway to the kitchen. Leaning his shoulder on the doorjamb, he watched as she snatched an apron from a hook near the pantry, halting at the sink to wash her hands.
“I’m heating up chicken soup from last night, if you’d like to have a bowl,” she told him. “I’ll cook supper after a while, but this ought to hold you over for now.”
“I appreciate that.” For some reason she’d changed her tune, and he searched her profile for a clue to her mood. Women were usually a puzzle, and this one was no exception. “Some reason why you’ve decided to allow me in the house?” he asked, noting the subtle hesitation in her movements at his words. She paused in the pantry door, cans of fruit in her hands.
“I already explained that.” The cans hit the table with a thump. “You own half of it,” she said simply. “Or at least half of the part that isn’t mortgaged.”
J.T. ambled toward the round table in the middle of the room. “I didn’t know there was a mortgage on it. Peter didn’t tell me that.” He shot her a sidelong glance as he pulled a chair from beneath the oilcloth-draped table, then hesitated. An offer of help might be appreciated. “You want me to get out the dishes?”
“All right.” She pulled a kettle from the back of the stove, lifting the lid to inspect the contents. “This is almost ready. We’ll have shortcake with it. I made biscuits.” The tinned peaches sat on the buffet and she pulled out a can opener from a drawer, offering it in his direction. “You know how to use one of these?”
“I reckon I can figure it out,” he said, tossing the utensil in the air and catching it by the handle. “I’ve kept one in my saddlebag ever since I discovered all the different things I could do with it.”
�
�Those saddlebags looked pretty flat to me,” she said, lifting an eyebrow as she glanced again in his direction. “You travel light.”
“Doesn’t pay to haul too much around with you, I’ve found,” he said, working at the cans of peaches. “Where do you want these?”
Chloe pointed at a blue bowl on the buffet. “Pour them in there. Soup bowls are in the left hand door, spoons are on the table in the jar.” She picked up a ladle and lifted the lid of the kettle, watching as the steam rose. “Why don’t you hand me the bowls?”
Abandoning the peaches for a moment, J.T. did as she asked, reaching to accept the hot vessel from her hand. Beneath his callused fingers, the back of her hand was soft, and he thought she slid it from his touch with haste. But not rapidly enough to dispel the effect of warm skin and the faint scent of soap wafting from her hair.
He placed the bowl on the table with care, reflecting on the woman behind him. This wasn’t in the plan, this sudden awareness of her as a female. He’d assessed her yesterday, viewed her with an eye to getting in her good graces, hoping to ease into the running of this operation without any amount of hassle. That alone had been a futile thought, he decided, recalling her eyes spitting fury in his direction.
Taking a liking to the woman was a far cry from being attracted to the female element. And why that was a fact was beyond his reckoning right now. He only knew that for a moment, there’d been a recognition of that subtle warming within him that signaled desire.
“I’ll get the biscuits from the oven,” Chloe said from behind him, and he turned, grasping the second bowl, only to find she’d slid her hand from contact with his, her eyes avoiding him. Her movements were brisk as she retrieved the biscuits, as if she were more than familiar with the kitchen and the tasks inherent in providing meals. Yet, who had she cooked for, he wondered. The boy had taken his leave months before, apparently.
Chloe had been alone. Alone with a handful of ranch hands, and the awesome responsibility of turning a profit from a ranch that was struggling along without a bank account to dip into. Damn. Peter Biddleton had a lot to answer for.
“Who’s Aunt Tilly?” he asked idly, picking a spoon from the jar in the center of the table.
“My father’s sister,” Chloe told him. “Where did you hear about her?”
“Hogan told me she’d be here soon.” He grinned. “That was when he told me there’d be a chaperon to keep me in line.”
Chloe turned a sharp look in his direction. “You’ll mind your manners or end up in the bunkhouse, Aunt Tilly or no.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the fragrant soup. “She came to us after Pa died, pitched in and took care of things. I ended up working the ranch, taking Pa’s place. When cold weather came that year, she took a train south to her daughter’s place for the winter. Did the same thing before the first snowfall back before Christmas. I got a letter from her last week, saying she’d be back as soon as the weather broke, probably within two weeks.”
“Did you ever think of offering her a permanent job here?”
Chloe looked up at him as she buttered a biscuit. “She may decide to stick around, once she sees you here. She’s a real stickler when it comes to respectability, and she won’t like the idea of our sharing the house.”
“I pretty much expected a battle over that,” he said quietly. “You surprised me, Chloe.”
“I’ve learned there’s some things you’ve just got to live with,” she said. “It seems you’re on my list, J. T. Flannery.”
The youth named Willie was cocky. There was no other word to describe the toss of his head and the arrogant look he offered as Chloe entered the barn. “Ma’am?” His single word caught her attention and she turned at his bidding. “You need anything?” he asked, his gaze sweeping her length.
“No,” she answered sharply. “I’m just looking for Hogan.”
“He’s out back, talking to Lowery.”
J.T. watched, noting the appraising look the boy cast on Chloe’s backside, bristled as the grin reappeared once she was out of sight and inhaled sharply. His fist clenched as he stepped noiselessly from the tack room. Willie glanced in his direction, and the grin vanished. “You need me, J.T.?” he asked smoothly. “I was just fixin’ to clean the stalls.”
“Sounds like a good job for you,” J.T. answered. He watched as Willie snatched a pitchfork from the wall and turned to the closest stall. “I’d suggest you remember your place, young’un. I’ve watched you for three days.”
Willie looked back over his shoulder. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Defiance edged his words.
“Miss Chloe is the owner of this spread. She’s way out of your class.”
A sly grin curved one corner of Willie’s mouth. “Can’t help it if I admire a good-looking female, can I?”
“You make any move toward my partner, son, and you’ll be in more trouble than you can imagine.”
“Kinda slick, the way you rode in here and took over, mister,” Willie said, leaning indolently on the pitchfork.
“I’m legally half owner of the place. You want to challenge my authority here?” J.T.’s voice deepened, and his clenched fist opened against his thigh. Poised, he ached for the younger man to dispute his words. But it was not to be. The boy’s gaze wavered and he shook his head, sliding the pitchfork beneath a section of soggy straw.
A nearby wheelbarrow received the load, and Willie turned back to his chore.
J.T. strode past him, catching a glimpse of Chloe’s checkered shirt beyond the far doorway. Two men stood before her, arguing heatedly, and J.T. grinned, surmising the dispute in progress.
“Hell, I’ve worked with worse than this,” the redheaded cowhand thundered, waving a bandaged forearm in the air.
“Not for me, you haven’t,” Hogan countered, his jaw thrusting forward.
“How about some light duty?” J.T. asked, approaching the trio.
Chloe’s mouth closed with a snap, and her eyebrows lowered. “I can handle this.”
J.T. shrugged negligently. “I imagine so, ma’am. Just thought I’d mention that the tack room needs some attention. Enough work to keep a man busy for a couple of days, I’d say.”
“I earn my keep,” Lowery said, pale beneath his freckles. Frustration rode each syllable, and J.T. nodded agreeably.
“I’ve heard that,” he said, a bold-faced lie, to be sure, but one he didn’t think either Chloe or Hogan would dispute. “Nobody’s saying otherwise, Lowery. Just makes sense to me to let the thing heal properly, give the cut a chance to mend.” He tilted his hat back and faced the man head-on. “Every job on a ranch is of equal value, far as I can see. It takes well-tended tack to work with horses, and clean stalls to keep them healthy.”
His shrug was offered to Chloe. “What do you say, partner?”
Her eyes still glittered with subdued indignation, but she stifled it, earning a grin. “I won’t argue with that,” she replied, then turned back to Hogan. “Are you picking up more hay from the Winters’ place today?”
His glance encountered J.T.’s as he hesitated. “Thought maybe you might want to talk to him. If you take the wagon, he’ll have his men load it for you.”
“Why don’t I go with you?” J.T. asked smoothly, taking her arm and leading her back toward the barn. “Do we pay cash on the barrel, or wait till the next trip into town?” It seemed not a subject to discuss in front of hired hands, even though Hogan was obviously privy to financial dealings.
“He’ll wait,” Chloe said quietly, snatching her arm from his grasp. “I don’t care if you go along. You might’s well know the bottom line, anyway.” She turned to face him, and a glance over her shoulder told him that Willie stood just inside the door.
“Let’s take a walk,” J.T. said, his glare sending Willie into motion.
“All right.” Chloe set the pace and they headed for the corral fence, climbing in unison to perch on the top rail. Before them, three young steers moved aimlessly within the confined area. “How muc
h you think they’re worth?” Chloe asked as J.T. settled beside her.
“How much do you need?” he countered, placing his hand careful inches from hers.
“Right now, enough for a couple loads of hay. I can sell these three in town.”
“That’s not good business,” he said flatly.
“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But I won’t take advantage of a neighbor.”
J.T. nodded, judging the weight of the animals Hogan had penned. He looked down, considering his options, his fingers gripping the rail he perched on. His quick gaze noted the hand beside his own, and measured the contrast, hers narrow, tanned, yet feminine, his own broad and scarred from numerous encounters. One slash, from a broken bottle swung in his direction, had merited a line of stitches. Another pale nick told of a knife blade that he’d barely escaped.
She lifted her hand, and her index finger lightly traced the raised scar, its ragged edges pale against his bronzed skin. “You’ve been pretty battered in your time, haven’t you, cowboy?”
“Never had anybody like you around to mend my bruises,” he said with a grin. “Old Lowery doesn’t know how lucky he is.” And then his mouth firmed. “I’m not a cowboy. Maybe a sometimes gambler, and I’ve spent my share of time on the range, riding herd when I needed a grubstake. But never a cowboy.” Spoken aloud, he gave the word a distasteful sound.
“Didn’t mean to insult you,” she said. “I just figured you’ve been riding for someone, somewhere, to come up with the usual assortment of scars a man collects.”
His look was long, and she glanced aside. “How much do you need?” he repeated.
“I told you. Enough for a couple loads of hay.” Her hand lifted to rest atop her thigh, and he mourned its absence. He’d enjoyed its presence, basked in the warmth of soft flesh against his callused skin, there for a moment.
“Seems like a pity to sell off a steer that doesn’t have enough weight on him to bring a good price.”
“Think I don’t know that?” Her words were sharp-spoken. “We all do what we have to, Flannery.”
A Marriage By Chance Page 3
