Foolin'

by Allyson Young

  “Which ones are the bulls?”

  “The biggest ones, generally.” He pointed one out that looked as big as an ocean liner, even far away. “We’re moving to AI for some cows. Artificial insemination. The main herds are sorted, and we turn a bull in at the appropriate times. Which is now.”

  “Are they … dangerous?” She thought about his dad.

  “They can be. But mostly in close quarters. We don’t have issues out here for the most part. If we have to bring them in or separate them, we take care.”

  “I see.” She didn’t want to be anywhere near one of those monsters. They commanded respect.

  “There’s more land that way.” He threw his arm in a wide gesture, apparently unconcerned about the danger of bulls.

  “It’s a lot for you guys, eh?”

  “I really could use another hand,” he admitted, “as well as a housekeeper, but we can keep up if everything runs smoothly.”

  “Does it?”

  “You tell me, seeing the apocalypse in the kitchen.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a radio call from somebody named George who had some issue with a piece of equipment. “He and another man are fencing. It’s an everyday job. I’ll take you back. You can hang out with Becky or watch TV?”

  “Can I go see the kittens in the barn?”

  He chuckled. “Keep your gloves on until you know which ones’ll take a swing. The black momma is a good mouser and raises up good mousers, but she isn’t friendly. There’s a ginger kitten you might find that likes people.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” She loved cats and hadn’t been able to make herself replace Sadie, her Siamese. Maybe she’d take a raincheck on the cats—she’d probably fall in love with a kitten and leaving it behind would sting like… Stop. This is a weekend fling, and I know it.

  “I’ll probably wander around the yard site?”

  “Sure.”

  He kissed her goodbye, like some domestic picture of bliss, and with longing in her heart, she watched him walk away. If nothing else, she was having a mini adventure on a ranch and a hot fling with a handsome, sexy cowboy. Too bad her entire being wasn’t satisfied with the idea of a fling. Stop.

  She found an overgrown garden, perfectly situated, behind the house. Good drainage and lots of sun. A still pipe to water the area. Old frames spoke to climbing vines, and there were raspberry canes marking a border, twisted and forlorn.

  She spent a few minutes yanking weeds and searching for hints of other things that had grown there before the weight of the sun drove her inside to remove the coveralls. At that point, she faced the floors. Sweeping the worst of the chunks of mud and dirt into piles, she put a discarded soda flat in use, the cardboard forming a makeshift dustpan.

  Finding a new head for the yacht mop, she figured out how to replace the old one, making a face as she discarded it. Maybe a soak in bleach and soap might resurrect it, but unlikely. The mopping and constant rinsing became hypnotic once she called up some music on her phone and stuffed earbuds in.

  With the mudroom clean, she folded the dried laundry into a huge, woven willow basket. Probably Carter’s mom’s. And then it was the kitchen’s turn.

  Satisfied she could walk without sticking to the floors, she took stock of the pantry and freezer. She threw together a casserole out of browned stew meat and a bag of frozen vegetables, cutting up some potatoes to add in, making a gravy out of tins of mushroom soup. A topping of biscuit-like dough made from a box sealed the mixture, and she shoved it in the oven before heading up for a shower, manhandling the laundry with her.

  Emerging, she toweled off and resigned herself to dry, flaky skin and then faced the fact her t-shirt was no longer fresh. With a shrug, she pulled on clean underwear and her jeans, and headed into Carter’s room, choosing a shirt to button over her breasts. The snaps were far easier than working tiny buttons through the holes, if the boxy shape and print were unfeminine.

  “Kathleen?” Carter’s shout sounded from downstairs.

  She went to the head of the steps. “I’m up here.”

  He took the stairs two at a time, backing her into the linen closet door. His hands worked into her hair, tugging it in an arousing fashion, and he leaned in to kiss her.

  “I didn’t ask you here as labor, darlin’.”

  Her voice a bit breathless, she said, “I’m not good at sitting around.”

  Truth to be told, it was like she was nesting again. Cleaning and tidying and providing the way she did after she and Samuel married. Many might look down their noses at her enjoyment in the process, but that had been the happiest time of her life.

  She stilled and retreated from Carter. What was going on?

  “What’s wrong?” He peered at her. “Am I pushing too hard?”

  “Uh, no.” She wanted more kisses. More of everything. But this was becoming too real. And had a finite end. Maybe too much of a good thing wasn’t a good idea. “I think lunch is ready.”

  “I smelled it. I was coming in to put together some sandwiches. Figured the hands could take ’em over to the bunkhouse. I had a different thing in mind with you.” He winced. “Yeah, pushing.”

  And just like that, she wanted to know exactly what he had in mind and if it was what she was extremely interested in. “They’re probably quick eaters.”

  “The quickest. C’mon, I’ll ring the dinner bell.”

  She hurried down the stairs behind him. There was actually a dinner bell, she’d seen it, but he used the radio in his pocket to alert the men.

  “You sit, and I’ll set the table.” He ushered her to a chair and then moved to lift down a pile of plates, balancing them while fishing for silverware. All of his movements were economical and rehearsed. He’d done this for years and hardly needed her help.

  He’d have managed it all, even if the work would’ve been delayed and haphazardly accomplished. She smiled, pleased she’d lifted some of his burdens. After all, it was in her best interests—surely she’d freed up a few minutes of his time for her.

  “Leave your fucking boots in the mudroom,” he hollered when the back door opened. “Coveralls, too.”

  She started at the bellow and realized he was in socked feet.

  Grumbles sounded, followed by thumps as footwear presumably were removed and hopefully stashed on the boot tray she’d shaken free of suspicious objects earlier.

  “This is George, Hank, and Dick. Josh you know, with the boots. Dave is the one on the end.” The hands filed in and took a chair, casting her glances that bordered on curious and resentful.

  She smiled and nodded, receiving nods back, but they were silent.

  “This is Miss Kathleen. She cleaned up our filth and made lunch.”

  Their stares softened and George, much older and wizened, gave her a gapped-tooth smile. “Not sandwiches?”

  “No. A casserole.”

  “With gravy?” His lined cheeks hollowed.

  “Lots of it.”

  Carter pulled the dish out of the oven and set it, bubbling hot, on the table. The biscuit topping was golden brown, and she’d admit it smelled great. He dished it out, starting with her, and she stopped him from adding a second, huge spoonful.

  As he heaped the rest of the plates, Josh got up and padded over to fetch glasses.

  “There’s sweet tea in the fridge,” she said.

  “She gonna work here?” Hank stared at Carter, who tossed an unopened loaf of sliced bread on the table. How much could these men eat?

  “She’s visiting for the weekend. A guest who pitched in.” Carter threw her a look she couldn’t interpret as Josh found the pitcher and brought it to the table.

  Weekend? She cast a look at the clock. If he had business in the city, they had to get going pretty soon, and she chastised herself for wishing for an afternoon delight.

  The hands dove in without further conversation, and Carter was right. Fast eaters. She wondered if she’d made enough when they scraped their plates, mopping up with handf
uls of bread, and drained their glasses.

  Hank asked, “Is there dessert?”

  She choked on a laugh. He sounded like Lisa when she was about five.

  Carter glowered. “Bags of cookies in the pantry. Take one on your way out. After you put your plates in the sink.”

  Obediently, they followed directions, and Dick grabbed a plastic square package of generic oatmeal cookies from the tall cupboard. He tucked them under his arm and headed for the mudroom.

  Kathleen finished her helping as the men dressed and left, the door slamming a final time.

  “That was a good meal, darlin’.”

  “It was a casserole, Carter. I threw it together in half an hour.”

  “It was manna to us.” He paused. “Can I talk you into staying another night? Not to cook! I just feel like we haven’t spent much time together.”

  Hadn’t they? She hadn’t suffered any lack. Probably too busy. Anticipating. She smiled, telling her heart to quit beating so hard. “Okay, but can you get away tomorrow to drive me home?”

  “Of course.” He stood and took their plates, rinsing them and the silverware. “Need a dishwasher in here. That’s going on the top of the list.”

  “I’ll check online for you this afternoon.” She assumed he had outside work to do and she loved online shopping. Especially with other people’s money. “Get you some prices and options.”

  “You like doing that kind of thing?”

  “I do.”

  “Done.” He beamed at her. “I have no pride, obviously. Want a cookie?”

  “I’m full. But I’ll make a real dessert for supper.”

  “Hey. I thought we’d go into town.”

  “With all that you have to do? Carter, I like it here. I won’t say I loved scrubbing the floors, but I do love to cook and what’s another six people? It’s not a lot of fun cooking for one.”

  His big body loomed, still and stiff. Then he passed a hand over his face. “I’m gonna have to pinch myself. Wake up. Women like you just don’t happen.” To me seemed to hover behind his statement and something within her responded to it.

  But she was cautious in her response. “I’m like a lot of women.”

  “Nope. You didn’t run screaming.”

  Susan would have had a meltdown. She hid a smile at the thought. A lot of women would have. “I don’t scream easily.”

  “You don’t complain either.”

  “I have one complaint.”

  “What is it?” He straightened and looked capable of fixing any possible grievance.

  “Your guest soap is horrible. Like lye soap or something.”

  He winced. “That bad, huh? I just grabbed something the last time I stocked it.”

  Probably years ago, if she recognized the brand.

  “And mine won’t be much better. Some kind of man soap.” He brightened, and a certain crafty, lascivious look crept over his face.

  Turning to the cabinet above the stove, he sorted through the items stored there. “There it is.”

  It was a large jar of coconut oil. He thrust it her way. “Merry got on a health kick and said we should be cooking with this instead of lard and oil. Or butter. Then she said it was good for hair conditioning—and made you smooth as a baby’s bottom if you used it on your skin.”

  She’d heard that about coconut oil. The cooking part for sure. The look in his eyes suggested a different interest. “And you’re thinking…”

  Taking her hand, he tugged her to her feet. “As good as you look in my shirt, I’m thinking you’d look better out of it while I check out the properties of this oil. For research.”

  Who was she to say no to research?

  Chapter Five

  He’d left instructions for the hands, including an expectation they cover some of his work this afternoon. After that meal, he figured they’d stretch themselves and do it willingly. And if Kathleen made supper—with dessert—they’d be rewarded with something better than sandwiches or charred meat and potatoes on the grill. None of them could even barbeque, with the exception of him.

  “Where?” Kathleen hesitated at the top of the stairs.

  “My bed’s higher for a massage, darlin’.” He guided her into his room, pausing at the sight of order. Maybe he was in the twilight zone. “I see your hand in here too.”

  “Was that okay?” Her striking features were tense with anxiety. “I did the sheets from my room, I mean the guest room, and thought I’d…”

  “Darlin’, it’s fine. Much appreciated. I told you I’m not going to hide behind false pride and get all macho on you. I muck this place out once a month. It’s on the schedule. Besides, I should be embarrassed to think you’d even want to be in here.”

  “I have an idea of the pressure you’re under,” she said quietly. “Like I said, I don’t do a lot of sitting around when there’s work to be done.”

  He sighed, his nefarious plans taking a hit in his head. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  “You don’t? You brought that coconut oil upstairs for nothing?”

  The teasing humor in her voice and the smile on that mobile mouth smacked him into the present. “You strip down and lie on the bed.”

  “Wait one.”

  He watched her exit his room, a yearning for her hollowing out his insides. She was leaving tomorrow… He had barely enough time to push the thought away when she returned with a sheet. A clean one. Of course, his bed had been stripped.

  “Your duvet is still in the dryer. It’ll take a little longer.”

  Duvet. What? Oh, that puffy quilt thing Merry gave him to replace the blanket she swore wasn’t good enough for his horse. “Gotcha.”

  “This sheet can probably be torn up for rags soon, so it won’t hurt if it gets coconut oil on it.”

  His mother did that—the rags part for dusting and shit. So other women did too. Not his ex—he slammed that door shut. “Give me one side, and I’ll help.”

  Together, they floated the fabric across the mattress and then Kathleen commenced on opening the snaps on the shirt she’d borrowed, one slow pop at a time. He matched her, only with less restraint, figuring this massage guy would do better bare-chested.

  Her gaze swept over his torso, appreciation of the muscles only hard work could bestow making her eyes flare. And then her naked breasts came into view, and he forgot to watch her response. Holy shit. He thought he’d seen a certain swaying, an unfettered movement behind that shirt, but he’d tried not to ogle her.

  Jealousy bloomed hot in his gut, wondering if the hands had noticed. Of course, they’d noticed. If he hadn’t been so busy riding herd on them, he’d—

  “Carter? My jeans too?”

  “All of it.”

  She raised a brow, her fingers halting at the button on her jeans. “What’s that tone about?”

  Jesus. “Thinking about you and no bra downstairs. I’m like a caveman.”

  She laughed and her cheeks pinkened. “I’m not sure about that kind of … possessiveness. But then you don’t know if you can trust me.”

  He blinked. He wanted to tell her about Carolynn but fought the urge. It was like a ride on a runaway horse, and he needed to regain control. “I think it’s how I’m wired.”

  She shook her head. “I was out of line, talking about trust and such.” She looked away. “I can’t get over how open I am with you.”

  He’d been pretty open with her, too. The T-word had thrown him for a loop was all. With an effort, he infused humor into his tone. “I’ll try not to revert.”

  She lifted a shoulder, and the bobble of her breasts dragged him to the task at hand. The one without all those complications and inferences.

  “Strip, darlin’. And don’t tease me. I expect you want your massage first.”

  With quick movements, she opened her jeans and jacked them over her full hips. A far more staid pair of blue panties greeted his stare as she peeled them down, but the sprinkle of white flowers added to their allure. “How d
o you want me?”

  On my dick, cowgirl style. Maybe reverse cowgirl so I can watch that sweet ass rise and fall, clench… “On your belly.” His voice came out all raspy, and he cleared his throat.

  With a knowing, flirty gaze, she slipped past him and lowered to lie flat on her stomach, long legs parting slightly to give a teasing glimpse of the peach between her thighs. She seemed so comfortable in her own skin—he bet she was a great mentor for her daughter, none of that body image crap girls put up with. The thought of a child darkened his mood for an instant, so he grabbed the coconut oil and pried the lid off.

  “I’ve always had a fantasy about a naked masseuse.” Her voice was muffled a little by the pillow.

  “Your wish, darlin’.” He slammed the container on the nightstand and dropped his jeans and briefs, now in too much of a rush to bother with his socks.

  She turned her head, and one eye peeked through the strands of her hair. “Nice. You’re hired. Please continue.”

  He was ragingly horny and having fun. Sex could be fun, a game, and he intended to fit as much of it into his goddamned schedule before he had to take her home. A dollop of the creamy oil filled his palm, and he smoothed it over her back, down the length of her spine, stopping short of her buttocks. She shivered, and he didn’t think the substance was cold.

  With sweeping movements, he worked the oil into her skin, focusing on her back, enjoying his hands on her, soaking in the tiny, appreciative moans she made when his thumbs pressed on a tight spot on her shoulder. He looked forward to amplifying those moans when he fucked her later.

  Her arms were lax and unresisting as he worked her biceps, a surprisingly coiled strength, considering her profession. Maybe all the cooking and baking she did, the stirring and lifting those heavy pans? Her forearms were equally firm but her wrists thin, like a child’s. He frowned. She was delicate too, and he needed to remember that.

  Turning his attention to her legs, he massaged the long thigh muscles, teasing his thumbs at the top of her inner thighs, grazing her folds but resisting a deeper foray. Despite the blatant invitation when she parted her legs a trifle. He was going to build the need until she was begging for it, even if he suffered right along with her.