City Girl

by Judy Griffith Gill

  He blocked her way. “Now, you just wait one damn minute here, lady. How the hell was I supposed to know you were coming today when you didn’t tell me? I’m not a mind reader!”

  She dashed the tears from her eyes. “I wrote to tell you I was coming today.”

  “Yeah? When?”

  Liss had to think about it. The past weeks had been a whirl of activity, of getting packed, of saying good-bye to friends, of one last, horrendous battle with Johnny’s folks. She felt tears well up again and held them back with a conscious effort of will. “On—on Monday, I think.” Or had it been Tuesday before the letter got mailed?

  Kirk stared at her. Her chin trembled! It honest-to-God trembled. How many hours had she spent practicing that little trick in front of a mirror?

  “Oh, for the love of Mike!” he roared. “Where the hell do you think you are, city girl? Letters don’t arrive in an hour or two out here as if they were sent by a courier on a bike! A letter mailed in the city on Monday won’t show up here before Friday at the earliest, and Tuesday was the last day I had time to drive into town to pick up mail. What do you think I’m running here, a nine-to-five operation? I’ve been beating myself into the ground trying to get feed out to my cows before this storm hit. And why the hell were you driving in these conditions anyway? You should have holed up in a motel at the first warning!”

  Hands on her hips, she yelled right back at him, “What warning?”

  “On the radio, of course. Doesn’t that fancy Blazer you and Lester Brown picked out have a radio in it?”

  Liss blinked rapidly, stung by the acidity of his tone. “Are you objecting to the car we chose? Lester said you specifically stipulated a four-wheel-drive vehicle, so that’s what we got. And it’s not all that fancy! It’s used, after all. Besides, it’s not mine any more than it’s yours. It belongs to the ranch, so what’s your problem?”

  “My ‘problem,’ as you so sweetly put it, is that you risked your and your children’s lives by failing to exercise common sense. The weather advisory has frequent updates. What I want to know is why weren’t you listening?”

  She stared up into his furious gray eyes. And to think she’d once thought he was attractive! To think that during the half-hour drive to the lawyer’s office, before any of them knew they were going to have to live together, he’d made her stomach quiver with nothing more than a smile. Now, as during the reading of the will, he was glaring at her as if everything were her fault. Instead of making her stomach quiver, he was making it churn.

  “I was playing my CDs,” she said through clenched teeth. “I hadn’t heard any of them for ages because I had to sell my CD player months ago, and I was enjoying them. Why would I want to listen to some yackety-yacking deejay when I don’t have to?”

  He rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. “Because that deejay might have told you to get the hell off the road if you didn’t have a damned good reason to be there. So, I’m telling you, city girl, from her on you listen to the radio at least once every hour while winter lasts. Failing that, open your eyes and pay attention to the warnings all around you. The minute it started snowing, you should have started looking for a motel. “

  “Look for a motel because of a few snowflakes? Would you?”

  “Damn right I would, if I was driving into unknown territory and unused to the conditions.”

  “How could I know how bad it was going to get? And it was pretty at first. Then—then all of a sudden the road disappeared.” She paused to draw in a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. “And so did all the towns and lights, and all I could do was keep coming until I saw the ranch sign and when I got here there was nothing but that horrible animal out there w-with his teeth bared to keep me away and . . .” She felt a choking sensation in her throat and turned her head away. “And I thought you’d be here.” It was hardly more than a whisper.

  Kirk nearly groaned aloud. Having her hide her tears was worse than letting him see them. Worse, and sneakier, and far more manipulative. He steeled himself. “I have a ranch to run. I couldn’t sit around waiting for you to show up so I could say welcome, especially when you’re not.”

  She looked at him then, and there were no tears, no quivering chin, just a deep, abiding weariness and an ineffable sadness in her face. “I know I’m not,” she said. “But I couldn’t let that matter, you see. I had to come anyway. For the kids.”

  Before he could stop her, she slipped around him and snatched up the suitcase she’d thrown at the dog. Hugging it across her chest with both arms, she left the room without looking back.

  Oh, hell, what had made him say she wasn’t welcome? he wondered as he looked through the doorway toward the stairs, listening to her ascend. It was a filthy thing to say to a woman whose only fault was that, because she resembled a long-dead relation she probably didn’t even remember, she’d been left part of his ranch. She’d likely had as long and exhausting a day as he’d had, and was as tired as he was, maybe even as hungry.

  Hungry? It was then that he smelled scorching food and looked at the stove. A congealed mess that had once been scrambled eggs now smoked in a pan, turning brown around the edges.

  With a growl of disgust, Kirk lifted the pan and shoved it, eggs and all, into the overloaded sink, then sat down at the table and pulled off his boots, leaving them lying where they fell. He was too damned tired to do anything else. Except, not only was he tired, he was also hungry, breakfast having been a long, long time ago and lunch non-existent. Hell, Liss Tremayne was probably tired, too, and hungry. It was clear she hadn’t taken so much as a bite of those eggs she’d left burning on the stove.

  He dumped out the crusty mess, scrubbed the pan, then whipped up half a dozen more eggs. He put some ham on to fry, the slowly poured the eggs into a larger pan, letting them cook slowly with a lid on. After a few minutes, he lifted the edge of the congealing eggs, let the liquid top run into the bottom of the pan, then added shredded cheese. He flipped the thick slices of ham and turned the oven onto warm. When the eggs were ready, he folded the omelet over the cheese, divided it more or less equally onto two plates, added the ham set it in the oven. He dropped four slices of bread into the toaster and forced his weary body up the stairs.

  Liss lay on her bed, tears slowly leaking from her eyes. She was feeling sorry, not for herself, of course, but for poor Uncle Ambrose, a cold, hard man who’d been embittered by his young bride’s death. At least that’s what Liss’s father had told her, and she figured he should know. His sister had been Ambrose’s wife. How sad, Liss thought that her aunt had died in childbirth, along with the infant, leaving Ambrose with this huge, empty house.

  She groaned softly when someone knocked on her door. “Go away,” she said, rubbing hastily at her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater.

  He didn’t. The door opened and he stepped in, still wearing the same damp jeans, but minus his boots and jacket. The three-day growth of beard remained. His eyes were dark and tired, and so oddly compassionate that she had to look away lest the kindness undo her completely and start the tears again.

  When he reached out and touched her shoulder, he felt her flinch then become so rigid, he thought her muscles might snap.

  “Hey, come here,” he said quietly, urging her to turn around and face him.

  She rolled off the bed and slipped away to the window, standing with her back to the room.

  “Come on, Liss,” he said, his voice quiet and deep. “I’m sorry I said you weren’t welcome. Believe me, you’re a whole lot more welcome than our third partner in this venture. I was . . . I guess I was responding in kind to the way you greeted me, but I shouldn’t have. I know you were badly scared and had a lot of adrenaline to use up, and that’s what all the shouting and crying was about. I shouldn’t have said what I did and hurt your feelings.”

  “Please, go away,” she repeated.

  Kirk knew he should do as she asked, but something about the stiff set of her slim shoulders, the guarded quality in
her posture, held him there. Walking away from her right then would be like turning his back on a child in pain.

  Stocking feet silent on the carpeted floor, he approached. He drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “Please, don’t cry anymore.”

  “I’m not crying,” she said huskily.

  The wool of her soft red sweater caught on the rough skin of his hands, making him achingly aware of her fragile femininity and his own masculinity. It was not a difference he wanted to be reminded of. All he’d come for was to apologize for saying something he shouldn’t have said, something that wasn’t true. She wasn’t exactly unwelcome. It was just that he’d need time to get used to having someone like her around. Someone who cried. A woman. Soft. Delicate. Someone who smelled good.

  He felt her struggle to move away from him, but he grasped her other shoulder and held her firmly, turning her into his embrace.

  “No?” He ran a finger up one side of her face, collecting tears to show her. Her skin was silky and warm. He hoped his frost-roughened finger hadn’t hurt her. Damn, but she was petite. And vulnerable, seeming to lack the strength to fight off bullies, among whom he counted himself at the moment. “What’s this?” he asked, showing her his wet finger.

  She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and shook her head. “All right, so I’m crying. But not because I was scared or because you hurt my feelings. I always cry when I’m mad, and I lost my temper because of the blizzard coming up without warning, and the dirty house and the dangerous animals and that fat old lady sleeping down the hall with her hearing aids out and not hearing me honk and honk and . . . and . . . I was so sca-a-ared, Kirk! So damned scared that my b-babies . . . were going to die in the cold and . . .”

  Instinctively his arms went tight around her, offering solace and protection and— He shuddered at the delicate warmth of her, the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the scent of her dark hair, the silky feel of it under his chin. “Hush,” he murmured, “I know, I know. But you got here, Liss, you did it, and your children are warm and safe and the dog wouldn’t have hurt you. He’s noisy but gentle, and I didn’t tie him out there. It wasn’t me, I swear that. Everything will be okay. There, now, rest on me.”

  Liss didn’t know why, but with a huge sigh, she leaned on him, burrowing closer and sliding her arms around his waist as he stroked her hair. The heavy, steady beat of his heart drowned the sound of screaming wind and hard snow pelting the window in an unending stream. Oh, heavens, it felt so good, being held like this, she thought dimly, her head swirling with weariness and sensual reaction.

  She was a sweet, warm armful, Kirk thought, feeling his exhaustion fade away as her heat penetrated his clothing. No, only half an armful. Lord, but she was little. His hand skimmed over her cheek, drying her tears, and he felt how small and delicate the bones were. He squeezed her shoulder through her thick sweater, then slid one thumb inside the ribbing at its neckline and stroked her skin. His index finger on her throat encountered a pulse point, and he felt the fluttering throb of her blood. He filled his hand with her soft, scented hair and tugged gently so she raised her head. She looked up at him with her damp, exotic eyes, and he bent low, his lips brushing hers. Need slammed into him, and without thinking he parted her lips with his tongue. The steady yet slightly accelerated pulse in her throat went wild under his touch. She returned his kiss with incredible sweetness, giving and trusting and coming with him as he backed up to that inviting bed behind him, eased them both down onto it.

  Chapter Two

  Suddenly, Kirk realized what he was doing, and with whom. He jerked erect and set her from him. No damn way! he told himself. Dammit, he’d had no intention of responding to Liss in that way. He refused to submit to any kind of from-the-grave matchmaking Brose might have intended. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what the old man had been up to and he wasn’t buying into it! Throwing a woman like Liss into his path, setting him up with a soft, feminine person to tempt him right under his own roof. Lotsa luck, Brose! he said silently. The ones I want, I bring in myself. And then I send them away when I’m done.

  Liss nearly groaned aloud with shame as Kirk pushed her away from him, away from the warmth she’d snuggled into as if she had a right to be there. He rubbed a hand over his heavy growth of beard, and the rasping sound sent a quiver through her insides. She’d even liked the way those whiskers had felt on her face.

  “Sorry,” he said gruffly.

  She lifted her gaze to his face. His expression was remote, his eyes hooded. His taut mouth had a pale circle around it, exactly the way it had when he’d learned she intended to move to the ranch.

  She stepped back, wiping her hand over her mouth as if to erase the feel of him. “I apologize, too,” she said stiffly, “for falling apart.”

  He blinked, looking startled, as if he weren’t accustomed to people apologizing to him. He ever sounded surprised. “You didn’t do anything to be sorry for. I—I came to tell you that I’ve scrambled a bunch more eggs. Would you like some? Yours burned.”

  More than her scrambled eggs had burned, she thought. Her entire body burned from that one short yet extremely explosive kiss. She wanted to refuse his offer. She wanted to crawl into her bed and sleep for several months. Again, she became aware of the pellets of snow hammering the windows, of the wind whistling in the eaves. She shivered. Bears knew what they were doing, hibernating through winter. But in only a few hours, she’d have two active little boys needing her, to say nothing of a house so dirty it would take a team of workers a month to get it back in shape. Only she didn’t have a team. She had herself. She’d need her strength, and she wouldn’t get it starving herself because she was scared of a little bit of snow.

  “Thanks,” she said, lifting her head. “I could use some food.”

  * * * *

  Liss eyed the big dog warily. Apart from getting up and gobbling the food Kirk emptied into bowl, though, it lay in the entry-cum-utility room, its chin on its paws, watching as she and Kirk cleared off the kitchen table and set places for their late supper.

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  Kirk took a plate of toast from the oven and set it on the table, then poured hot chocolate from the potful Liss had made, slopping some on his thumb. She had to smile as he licked it off exactly as one of her children would have. “Marshal,” he said, “Marsh for short. Right from the start, he marshaled his littermates, even his mother, keeping everyone in order. He took on the geese on the ranch where he was born, too. Later, he did it with Brose and me and the hands, even before I trained him to herd cattle.” Kirk grinned. “Don’t be surprised to find him herding your kids. Just remember, he won’t harm them.”

  She sat down, giving the dog another wary look. That remained to be seen, she thought. She wasn’t prepared to trust the animal for one millisecond. She had seen those teeth of his bare inches from her ankle, and had never forgotten the one time a dog sank its fangs into her. Well, one fang. She had a scar on her chin to prove it. “If you say so. How many hands—uh, workers—do you have?”

  “We,” he said pointedly. “Remember, we’re in this together now. But at this time of year, I run the ranch alone. In March, when calving starts, we hire a full-time man and keep him on till fall roundup is over, and bring in part-timers as needed. “

  She paused with a forkful of eggs halfway to her mouth. “Roundup? Really? Like in the movies?”

  He grinned at her wide-eyed reaction. “Exactly. Horses, lassos, branding, the works. Do you ride?” Apprehension swept through her as she pictured herself on horseback, trying to rope a steer. His grin broadened as he appeared to read her mind, or maybe simply her face. “You don’t like horses?”

  She shrugged and ate her eggs. They were deliciously fresh. “It’s not so much that I don’t like them. But they’re awfully big and, well, the only time I was ever aboard one, it put its head down to eat and I slid right off over its nose.”

  He laughed, a warm and pleasant sound she found herself r
esponding to much too readily. “I’d love to have seen that.”

  In spite of herself, she laughed with him. “My dad thought it was pretty funny, too, but I didn’t. I was sure the horse was going to start chomping on me when I fell into its hay. I got up and ran like the blazes back to where we were camping, so my mother could save me from girl-eating equines. I was six.” She fixed a leery gaze on his face. “I won’t have to learn to ride, will I?”

  He shook his head. “No, not unless you want to, but come spring, when we get ponies for the boys and they’re learning, you might change your mind. Remember,” he added before she could dispute his assumption that her boys would be learning to ride in the spring, “under the terms of Brose’s will, your concern is the house. I won’t call on you to do any ranching chores, like roundup or branding. “

  Ah, yes, she thought. No ranching chores, just the cooking, the cleaning, the kids . . . Clearly, Uncle Ambrose had never come fully up-to-date in the division of labor, although Mrs. Healey, his former housekeeper and, Liss suspected, lover, had been given the task of keeping the books as her contribution to the three-way inheritance. “Who did the housework before?” she asked. “I mean, in the years between Mrs. Healey’s leaving and the present time?”

  “Brose, mostly.” She saw a flicker of emotion cross his face. Of course, she mused. He must miss his father. From what she’d learned in the lawyer’s office, Kirk hadn’t met Ambrose Whittier until he was thirty. Naturally, in the seven or eight years they’d been together, real affection would have united them. She wished she hadn’t asked about the housekeeping and sought a new topic of conversation. Unwillingly, she remembered something else Lester Brown had said when describing her contribution to the ranch, something she’d succeeded in putting out of her mind because she hadn’t wanted to think about it until she had to. All those eggs must mean . . . chickens.