She lifted her gaze to Kirk’s face. “Did Ambrose look after the chickens as well?”
Kirk looked up from his own meal and smiled slowly. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The chickens. Are you . . . ready to take them on?”
She chewed her lower lip. “I don’t know,” she said unhappily. “As I told Lester, I know nothing about them.”
“Mm-hmm.” He nodded. “I remember. I remember you almost turned green when he mentioned them. What’s the matter, city girl? Afraid of a few little chickens?”
She bristled at his light sarcasm and set her fork down with a sharp click. “Of course I’m not afraid. But all I know about chickens is that they appear already cut into serving pieces in the supermarket. What do they eat? And when? And what else do I have to do for them except feed them?”
“Not much,” he said, shrugging as he reached for the pot of chocolate to top off both of their mugs. “Chickens eat grain and mash, get fed twice a day, and have their water replenished at the same time. Whoever’s in charge collects the eggs, and every now and then kills a couple of the older ones for stew.”
Liss spurted a mouthful of hot chocolate back into her cup. “Kills?”
He nodded. “They get their heads cut off.” He piled scrambled eggs onto a slice of toast and took a huge bite, chewing appreciatively, eyes locked on her face. He swallowed and licked his lips. “You never heard of somebody ‘running around like a chicken with its head cut off’? They do, you know.”
As her face went blank, he added, “Run around, I mean. After.”
Liss looked down at her plate and knew she must be turning green all over again. Closing her eyes, she leaned back in her chair, then opened them again at the sound of a soft chuckle.
“Hey, don’t pass out on me,” Kirk said. “I was kidding. At least about your having to do that. I’m sorry,” he added, stroking the backs of her fingers. She jerked her hand away, annoyed with his teasing, yet undeniably relieved there were no chickens.
“We don’t keep chickens,” he went on. “These eggs come from the farm across the river that forms our southwestern boundary—and so do the chickens you’ll find in the deep freeze. Some are even cut up into serving pieces ready for you to cook.”
Embarrassed that he’d gotten the better of her, Liss briskly changed the subject again. “What kind of schedule are you used to keeping? I mean, for meals, since I’ll be in charge of them.”
“What I’m accustomed to—though if it doesn’t suit you, we can negotiate changes—is Monday through Friday, breakfast at six, right after I milk. Lunch when I get in from doing my chores around noon, and dinner somewhere between five-thirty and six-thirty. Weekends, at least this time of year, I sort of let the schedule go and milk when I feel like getting up, unless the cow’s bawling wakes me earlier.”
Breakfast at six? she repeated silently. It was unbelievable to her that anyone would want to eat at that hour. She’d have to be out of bed by five-thirty at the latest. But . . . how early must he get up, in order to do the milking first? “How many cows do you have?”
“A couple of thousand head right now.”
She gaped at him. “You milk two thousand cows before breakfast?”
It was his turn to gape. “No!” he said, and laughed as he spread strawberry jam on his toast. “This is a cattle ranch, not a dairy farm, city girl. I milk one cow for our personal use. We raise Simmental cows that we breed with Charolais bulls to produce beef. You know, roasts? Steaks? Hamburgers? The kind of stuff you find in the supermarket. It originates on the hoof.”
“I know that.” She reached for the jam.
“Of course you do. I’m sorry. I was teasing again.”
“And I’m sorry to be so ignorant about ranch life,” she said. “They don’t teach a lot about cattle in art school.”
“Art school?” He looked interested. “Are you an artist?”
“I have a master’s in fine arts, and I do paint now and then, but my preferred medium is photography.” She patted her smaller camera case, which sat on the next chair beside her. She refused to let that short but extremely explosive kiss knock all the sense out of her.
“I’m sorry,” she said as he rolled to his feet and put two long paces between them. His face was remote, his eyes hooded. His taut mouth had a pale circle around it, exactly the way it’d had when he’d learned she intended to move to the ranch. “Sorry for falling apart, sorry for the way I overreacted.”
She tugged at her sweater, ran the back of her hand over her mouth, wiping away the taste of him. He blinked, looking startled, as if he weren’t accustomed to people apologizing to him. He even 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. His entire body had burned against hers from that one, intense kiss, the close embrace. .She wanted to refuse his offer. She wanted to crawl into her bed and sleep for several months. She shivered. Bears knew what they were doing, hibernating all winter.
“Thanks,” she said, lifting her chin determinedly. “I could do with some food.”
He rubbed a hand down his face, and the rasping sound of his far more than five-o’clock shadow sent a quiver through her insides.
“Then let’s get at it,” he said. “The toast had probably already popped and will be getting cold.”
“I see,” he said, then shook his head. “Actually no, I don’t see.” He remembered the dozen or so little kids who’d come rushing out of her tiny house when he’d stopped to pick her up and drive her to the lawyer’s office. “If you’re a photographer, why were you baby-sitting for a living?”
“It takes money to make money,” she said sharply. It was a trite excuse, but in her case, it was true. Still, that was no reason for her to have snapped at him.
“Since my husband died,” she went on in a softer voice, “I haven’t done much photography. I do better with rural scenery and animals than weddings and graduations and baby portraits, which are about all I’ve been getting recently in the way of work.” She didn’t say that she thought she’d gotten those jobs because the people who’d hired her either couldn’t afford a “real” photographer, or felt sorry for her and offered her the job-at a reduced rate because she didn’t have a proper studio.
“I do—did—what in the trade is known as stock photography, selling my work freelance through an agent to people who produce calendars, inspirational books, greeting cards, and travel magazines. But . . .” She shrugged. “Last year when my washing machine broke down, I had to sell my best camera, and without photographs to sell I couldn’t buy film or pay lab costs. Without equipment, I couldn’t take photographs.” She gave him the first genuine smile he’d seen since she’d arrived. It smacked him right in the solar plexus, as hard as it had the first time she’d aimed it at him a month ago.
“That’s a problem I can empathize with “ he said, struggling to keep his mind on the conversation and not on the memory of the incendiary kiss they’d shared. “We went through a bad spell a few years back and lost quite a bit of stock. Since we had less beef to sell, we didn’t have the cash flow to replace the lost stock. It took a while to recuperate.”
“Exactly,” she said, “except for ‘stock and beef’ substitute ‘camera equipment and lab costs,’ and you have—are you going to hate me for this?—the picture.”
He laughed, and it was a sound Liss thought she could get used to very, very quickly, just as she could become accustomed to the glow in his eyes when their gazes collided and clung for a heart stopping moment. She swallowed her last bite of toast, drained her mug of hot chocolate, and stood. Automatically, she began stacking dishes. She wasn’t quite sure where she’d put them once they were stacked; she only knew that she had to move. It was too risky sitting there looking at him.
Kirk stood also and opened the dishwasher, which he began unloading. As he stepp
ed aside with a stack of clean dishes, she slipped in with a pile of dirty ones. He glanced at her slender form, her profile obscured by her thick dark hair, and recalled the sagging gate outside her house in Vancouver, the cracked sidewalk, the rough neighborhood. He’d known instinctively that she hadn’t belonged in that environment, that she’d been there because circumstances had put her there.
“Things haven’t been easy for you, have they, Liss?” he asked, turning from setting the stack of plates in a cupboard.
Liss shot him a sharp glance, but answered easily. “It hasn’t been too bad,” she said with a shrug and a deprecating smile. “I have two great kids and we’re happy together. That’s what I find important.”
She finished loading the dishwasher with most of the dishes that filled the sink, and he passed her the box of detergent. After pouring the soap in, she straightened, flipping her hair back, then turned to wipe off the plastic tablecloth.
Kirk watched her neat, deft movements as she swept crumbs into her hand and brushed them into the sink. It hasn’t been too bad? he repeated silently. Who did she think she was kidding? He knew, better than most men, the trials of the single mother. On their way to pick up Mrs. Healey, she’d mentioned having once driven a taxi, and quitting only after she’d been robbed at gunpoint. She was a widow, that much he knew. Had her husband left her with nothing at all? He frowned, remembering the way her chin had lifted, the quick, sharp way she’d corrected Lester when he’d called her Mrs. McCall.
“I’ve never used my late husband’s name,” she’d said. “Please call me Liss, Liss Tremayne.” The Liss, she’d explained, was short for Phyllis, another name she preferred not to use, since it was her mother’s and it saved confusion at family gatherings. At the time, her pride and independence had somehow irritated him, even though he normally admired both characteristics. Did those attributes keep her from accepting help from her parents, he wondered, or were they also as poor as she appeared to be?
Liss cast a glance at Kirk’s face as he filled the sink with water and started to wash the overload. He was familiar with the task of washing dishes, she could see. Yet she was troubled by the introspective look on his face. This couldn’t be easy for him, sharing his house with two strangers, she thought as she started to dry a pot-lid. She had understood his shock at the will reading and believed he had a right to be angry-but with Ambrose, not with her. Then he’d calmed down and agreed to the terms of his father’s will. Like Liss, and perhaps even Mrs. Healey, he’d had no choice.
“I never knew Uncle Ambrose,” she said, “but I’m grateful for what he did, making it, possible for my kids to have a better life. Can you tell me something about him?”
He glanced at her, his eyes unreadable, then turned his attention back to the dishes. “There’s not much to tell. He was a big man, tall, broad shouldered, good-looking, I suppose, in a craggy sort of way, but stooped and thin toward the end.” He gave Liss a crooked smile that lasted only a second. “He also had all his hair and most of his teeth and a low opinion of nearly everybody he ran into. I don’t think you’d have liked him much.”
She eyed Kirk’s tall, broad-shouldered physique and his craggy face, and decided that he might have gotten his own good looks from his father. “Do you resemble him?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Some. I have my mother’s coloring. Brose was dark.” His quick smile flashed again. “Every woman’s dream, tall, dark, and handsome. Like my mother says, she fell for that, didn’t see the personality that went with it, and paid the price.”
Liss had wondered why Ambrose and Kirk’s mother hadn’t married. Now, she wondered if Ambrose had refused, even though the lady was pregnant. Kirk’s age told her that his parents had known each other long before her aunt had come on the scene. “Where does your mother live?” she asked, and then cringed, wondering if maybe she no longer lived.
“Outside of Edmonton,” he said to her relief, but his closed expression told her he didn’t want to talk about that. “Your parents?” he asked. “Are they . . . They . . .?”
“Alive?” She nodded. “Oh, yes. They split up when I was fourteen.” He raised his head and his hands stilled in the water as he gave her a questioning look. She smiled brightly. “They both remarried almost at once and started new families, so I have plenty of little half-siblings running around. Some in Halifax, some in Kentucky. A couple of them are younger than Ryan.”
He frowned. “Who did you stay with?”
She gave a half shrug. “I sort of went from one to the other and back again as was convenient.” Convenient for whom? Kirk wondered, but didn’t question her on that. “How old are your kids?” he asked instead.
“Ryan will be five on January sixth, and Jason turns four exactly a month later. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
He shook his head, and they finished the rest of the dishes in silence. As she hung her wet tea towel over the oven door handle, he poured the rest of the hot chocolate into their mugs.
“Thank you,” she said as she took her mug from him. “And thank you for this.” She gestured at the much tidier kitchen. “I was dreading facing it in the morning.” She glanced uneasily at the window where the snow still pelted. She was simply dreading morning. “Will this be over by then?”
He met her worried gaze with a sympathetic expression. “I can’t tell. The system bringing it in is stalled over the mountains and we’ll have to wait for it to move on.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out her keys. “I put your car in the garage for you,” he said, setting the keys on the table. “Even in the wilderness, it’s a good idea not to leave the keys in the ignition. When the snow stops, I’ll plow out the yard and the driveway, and the highway crews will be working all night to keep the main road open.” He smiled faintly. “It won’t snow forever, and the roads, even my ‘stupid country roads’ are normally clear.”
“I know. It was fear talking when I said that.”
“With reason. I’m sure this is the first blizzard you’ve ever experienced.”
She nodded. “Of course, we get snow on the coast, but never this much. I’ll get used to it, though.” She sipped her chocolate. He didn’t say anything more, and she started for the door, carrying her mug. “Well, then,” she said awkwardly, “I’ll say good night.”
“Liss.” She stopped, and he approached, coming to a halt only inches from her. “May I do it right this time?”
She frowned, too tired to figure out what he meant. “What?”
“This.” He caught her chin, bent, and kissed her softly on the mouth. “Welcome to Whittier Ranch.”
She swallowed the sudden thickness that sprang up in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered, then said again, “good night.”
* * * *
Liss lay in bed listening to the howling wind. In spite of Kirk’s welcome, she still felt alone, still shivered with doubts of what the future held. She slept restlessly that night, and when she awoke in the morning, the storm continued to rage indoors and out.
As she listened to Kirk arguing loudly with Mrs. Healey about her treatment of the dog, the boys scurried into her room, their eyes wide. They climbed in to chill her with their small, icy feet and warm her with their tight hugs. Jason giggled as Kirk bellowed something about how he didn’t care how Brose had treated his animals, no dog of his got tied outside in a blizzard to repel nonexistent burglars.
“Wow! He’s mad,” Jason said, seeming impressed. The slamming of a door echoed through the house, quickly followed by the sound of a loud engine starting as Kirk went about his “chores,” whatever they might be, beyond milking the cow. That, it was clear, he’d already done, as there was a large bucket of milk in the cool pantry, with thick cream rising to the top. She bottled it, put it in the fridge and began frying up more of the ham they’d used the night before. She also cooked a large pot of rolled oats, served that to the kids, invited Mrs. Healey to join them for breakfast, and received nothing but a sneer for her efforts. Of Kirk, there
was still no sign. He didn’t come in for the breakfast she cooked and she snorted with disgust. What was wrong with the man? Didn’t he think she was up to the task? Or didn’t he care to discover if she had even made the effort? Whatever. To her relief, he’d taken his dog with him.
Then, a few minutes later after her rude refusal of breakfast, Liss intercepted the old lady in the hallway, carrying a large bowl of oatmeal liberally laced with fresh cream and brown sugar on a tray with a pot of coffee, a large mug, and a glass of orange juice. Mrs. Healey kicked her bedroom door shut on herself and her loot, and didn’t reappear for hours.
The storm continued all day while Liss unpacked their clothing and personal items and made their bedrooms truly their own with familiar and favorite objects she’d managed to cram into the back of the Blazer. Other things, including her furniture, would be delivered in a few days. She had a couple more encounters with Mrs. Healey, who glared sullenly, but mostly the older woman kept either to her bedroom or to the office until mid-afternoon when she came out demanding cake, of which there was none. She was forced to settle for tea, crackers and cheese.
Liss chose one large, obviously unused room adjacent to the kitchen and decided—since Mrs. Healey had noisily objected to the boys’ presence in the living room, where they were watching television—that it would become the family-room and the boy’s playroom. With a little work, it could be a bright and cheerful place, with its big corner windows and one wall that was almost all bookshelves. The fireplace, made of stone with a broad, slate hearth, would make it cozy despite the room’s size, especially when she had her sofa and a couple of chairs to place before the fire. A piano would be a nice touch, she thought with a sigh, but shrugged off the notion. A piano was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
She dragged out the few pieces of lumber that were stacked there, cleaned it from top to bottom, put in the children’s toys, books, and games, and plugged in the small TV she’d brought from home. She considered lighting a fire on the hearth, but decided to hold off on that until she knew the chimney was safe. Instead, she cranked up the thermostat and tossed some pillows and blankets from upstairs on the floor for the kids.
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