“You won’t insist that they help me?”
“Hell no. I ain’t risking good cowhands up and quitting on me ’cause you don’t know how to swing a broom.”
There came the blush again. It wasn’t a matter of knowing how, she thought indignantly, it was a matter of drawing the line, and this was where she drew hers. She’d hire and pay the maids herself if there were any to be had, but it sounded as if there weren’t. Obviously, he didn’t care that he was risking her up and quitting on him. She almost did. This was intolerable. His house was a pigsty!
It was on the tip of her tongue to confess who she really was and demand to be taken back to town when he looked over her shoulder and said, “Hunter, take our fancy housekeeper to the bunkhouse. Let her find out the hard way that cowboys ain’t gonna scrub floors for her.”
Chapter Twelve
TIFFANY HAD ACTUALLY SEEN out of the corner of her eye a group of men riding from the open range toward the house. They’d been too far off for her to tell if they were cowboys, then they were gone from view toward the back of the house. And while she’d thought she heard footsteps behind her a little later, she’d been too involved in her conversation with Zachary to turn around and confirm it.
Swinging around now to finally see who her fiancé was, she once again saw two men, not one. The teasing charmer was one of them. He was half sitting on the porch rail, wrists crossed over his bent knee, hat tipped low to shade his face. The other man was leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed over his chest. He was almost as tall as the charmer, which was probably still over six feet, and surprisingly, just as handsome. Something unsettling about him caused her to stare for a moment. A distinct air of . . . danger? Surely not, yet for some reason he made her think of an outlaw. The Callahans wouldn’t harbor criminals, would they? Yet she couldn’t help imagining this was what an outlaw would look like when he wasn’t trying to disguise himself for a robbery.
Like the charmer, he also had black hair, though his was a little shorter and a lot neater. His boots weren’t scuffed, they were almost shining. The spurs certainly were. And he wore a black jacket more suited to a city street than a Montana ranch, a white shirt under it, and a thin cravat at his neck rather than a bandanna. His gun belt was much fancier, too, the black leather etched with a swirling design and adorned with silver studs. He didn’t dress like a cowboy, so why was he on a ranch? Was he a visitor from town? Or—was he Hunter? The thought nearly paralyzed her.
Not once, in all her musings about the man she was to marry, had she considered the possibility that she would be afraid of her husband. That was the “something” she sensed about this other man. He was clearly dangerous. And that settled that. If he was Hunter Callahan, she was leaving.
Neither man had yet moved. They both simply stared at her, not quite the way Cole had stared, but it was staring nonetheless. Powder-blue eyes roved over her in a lazy, appreciative manner. Stormy-gray eyes locked on hers and moved no farther. Both men were unnerving her. And she still didn’t know which one was Hunter!
The son should at least have said something to his father when he arrived, but he was probably more interested in listening to his father’s conversation with her. Or had they even heard it? It was a long porch, so maybe not.
Then both men straightened at once, leaving her still glancing expectantly between them, holding her breath.
“Come along, Red. This will be amusing.”
Her breath whooshed out. Hunter was the charmer and her relief was immediate, but only because the dark, dangerous one wasn’t her fiancé. As for Hunter, she wasn’t sure whether she was glad he was the charmer. But she couldn’t think about it now, when he wasn’t waiting for her and was already heading down the steps. The other man didn’t budge, at least not until she rushed past him to catch up with her fiancé.
Hunter glanced back and stopped before he rounded the corner of the house, but it wasn’t her he was looking at or talking to when he said, “Thought you were going to beat me to a bath, Degan?”
“That was before something occurred to break the tedium,” the dark, dangerous man replied in cultured tones.
“You’re just going to make the boys nervous,” Hunter warned.
“So?”
Hunter chuckled. “Suit yourself.”
Hunter didn’t seem to fear him, although implying that the hired hands did confirmed her suspicions that the man standing too close behind her was as dangerous as she’d guessed. She wanted to move away from him. She actually had an urge to run back to the house. Irrational fears, she chided herself. Then she realized Hunter was glancing down at her.
He tipped his hat back with a finger and said in low tones, “I had a feeling there was a butterfly inside that cocoon of dust, but, damn, woman, you are one hell of a surprise. I suppose you’re married?”
The way he was looking at her was more than a little disturbing, as if she were a meal and he were famished. “Not yet, I mean, I do have a fiancé.”
He gave her a slow grin that set her pulse to racing. “Not yet works for me.”
Tiffany blushed. Was he actually flirting with her? That would be more than just the charming nature she’d guessed at, that would be highly inappropriate, particularly since he’d just been told she had a fiancé and she knew he did, too. Her. Was Hunter Callahan the Western equivalent of a ladies’ man? She didn’t like the thought and pushed it aside and focused on her mission.
“You heard what I require, Mr. Callahan?”
He continued along the path but took her arm gently to make sure she kept up with him this time. “Sure did. And call me Hunter.”
“You may call me Miss Fleming—not Red.”
He actually laughed before he asked, “What goes with Fleming?”
“Jennifer, but—”
“Jenny might do,” he allowed with a grin. “And keep in mind, this ain’t the city. We’re a lot less formal out here, but you’ll get used to it.”
Less formal was an understatement. But she had to admit he had a point. She wasn’t just pretending to be a different person, she was assuming a role, that of an employee. She had to adjust to the Callahans, do things their way, not the other way around. At least, when they insisted, as Hunter seemed to be doing with the annoying nicknames he kept giving her.
When they reached the back of the house, she saw the ranch spread out before her—stables, corrals and holding pens, the bunkhouse where they were heading, the vegetable garden that Old Ed had apparently planted and fenced in before he left. There were other outbuildings, storage sheds, even a washhouse for laundry and lines spread with bedding and male apparel. She wondered if her father’s ranch looked like this, almost a self-sufficient community.
“How many cowboys are available?” she asked, hoping for the small army she was going to need.
“There’s seven hands who just rode in with me from the range. Three other men stay out with the herd at night.”
She was expecting a much larger number. “That’s enough men for a herd as large as Cole said you have?”
“More’n enough when my brothers and I work, too.”
“Does their day usually end this early?”
“It ain’t early, but we do start early. Now are you ready to be disappointed?” Hunter asked with a grin.
Tiffany grit her teeth. His humor, in this case, was annoying. “You said this will be amusing?” she remarked as he reached for the door to the bunkhouse. “That implies you don’t think it’s possible?”
“Sure don’t.”
“You like living in a pigsty?”
“Stop exaggerating. We work outdoors. Can’t help tracking a little mud in the house after a rainy day.”
Yet one word from him would correct the matter before the sun set. He was the owner’s oldest son, after all. The cowboys might complain, but they’d do as he ordered. It was actually Hunter she needed to convince. . . .
“It’s far more than—”
She didn
’t get a chance to clarify her point. The moment Hunter opened the door, he pulled her inside and said to the room at large, “Listen up. The lady here has something to say to you.”
He might as well have added, “Don’t laugh too hard.” The curve of his lips said it clearly. But the cowboys weren’t laughing yet. Some were lying on their cots, some were playing cards in the back of the long building, and some were filling plates from a cauldron hung in the fireplace. There was a cook on the premises? But suddenly all of the cowboys were simply staring at Tiffany. She just needed to be concise—and maybe smile.
She started with the smile. “This may seem like an odd request to you, but I need some volunteers to work briefly at the big house. If everyone pitches in, we could be finished in a few hours.”
“What sort o’ work?” someone asked.
Encouraged, she said, “A lot. The furniture will need to be taken outside, scrubbed with soap and water, and the cushions aired out. The chimney is going to have to be cleaned and then the resulting soot removed from the room. The floors need to be scrubbed until they shine. The kitchen won’t be used until it’s thoroughly cleaned from top to bottom. I haven’t even seen the other rooms yet, but they can’t be in worse condition than the kitchen and the parlor.”
No one else said a word. She glanced at Hunter to help, but he obviously wouldn’t. He seemed to find it too funny that she wanted to put cowboys to work doing a maid’s job. The men pretty much all took their cue from him. The blatant amusement on his face finally started them all laughing.
“I’ll help.”
The laughter stopped immediately. Tiffany was stunned. That had been Degan’s voice. She glanced back and saw him leaning against the wall just inside the door, arms crossed over his chest, just as he’d been standing on the porch. Those stormy-gray eyes were slowly roving over the room, and not a man there didn’t suddenly appear afraid for his life—with the exception of Hunter and the cook in the back of the room, who simply wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the meat he was chopping.
The cowhands rose up in mass and started filing out of the bunkhouse. There were numerous comments, some polite, some complaining.
A short, bowlegged cowboy with a mustache so long the tips of it reached his chin, yelled toward the back of the room, “Jakes, keep the pot hot!”
Another stocky fellow growled at the man behind him, “You tell anyone I did housework and you’re a dead man.”
Tiffany was blushing and smiling in turn. She had her small army—no thanks to Hunter.
She knew very well their fear of Degan had swayed the men, but she still gave Hunter a smug look and whispered, “I’m glad you were wrong.”
He gave her a long, appreciative look. “Not wrong, just outmaneuvered by a pretty smile. You do have persuasive powers, Red. It will be more fun if you turn them on me the next time you need something.”
He was talking about seduction! The way his eyes were roving over her left no doubt about that at all and had her blushing furiously even as she bristled. Her fiancé was flirting with Jennifer!
When the last cowboy had left the bunkhouse, Degan said to Hunter, “You coming?”
“Hell no, I’m going to grab some of Jakes’s stew. I have a feeling Miss Fancy won’t be doing any cooking tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll bring the rest of it to the house later.”
Tiffany glared at Hunter before she marched stiffly out of the building, wanting to get as far away as possible from that infuriating man. Unfortunately, Degan followed her and kept step with her on the way back to the house. Nonetheless, she hurried. It felt strange to be frightened of this man and yet grateful to him at the same time.
Chapter Thirteen
“THANK YOU.”
Tiffany felt compelled to say it. She’d waited until they’d reached the house so she could hurry inside before Degan could reply. She didn’t make it inside the house though before Zachary’s laughter drew her attention.
“Damn, gal, I really didn’t think you’d pull this off. If you can turn cowmen into maids, I reckon you can accomplish anything. I’ll let my Mary know she can stop worrying ’bout that fancy party of hers.”
Tiffany didn’t expect to feel so good about receiving a compliment from Zachary Callahan. A bit embarrassed because of it, she asked him, “Where might I find the cleaning supplies for the house?”
“There’s a closet near the kitchen. Think the brooms and buckets are kept there.”
She went inside to distribute the cleaning supplies and assign tasks before she started on one herself. She would have liked the walls scrubbed down, too, but that would probably be asking too much. Nor would she ask the men to polish the floors. That could be done later by the maid whose job it was. The hired hands were being nice enough to help, she wasn’t going to overburden them. And she couldn’t not pitch in herself. She’d already realized that. Much as she deplored the thought of getting dirty, how could she not do what she was asking the cowboys to do? Cleaning a house was as strange and repugnant a task to them as it was to her.
She started with the long-mustached cowboy. “Please take all the rugs outside and beat them with a broom to get all the dust off them. I suppose you can hang them over the porch rails to do that—on the opposite side of the porch from your boss, though. Let’s not annoy him any more than we have to.”
The cowboy laughed. “He’s letting you get away with this, hell, don’t bother me none if we annoy him a little.”
She handed another man a broom and then gave a mop and bucket to the man standing next to him, saying, “The entire lower floor, please. Soon as one room is swept, mop it. And I’ll need a volunteer to clean the fireplace and the chimney, which will be the hardest job.” That request was met by silence. “Please?”
“I’ll do it,” a skinny cowboy spoke up. “My ma made me clean the chimney when I was this high, so I know how.”
He’d put his hand down to his knee to show how small he’d been at the time, obviously an exaggeration, but it got the other men laughing. Tiffany even grinned before she tasked the last three men with carrying out the furniture for scrubbing and handed one of them a jar of beeswax for polishing the tables.
With all the cowboys busy now, she decided to tackle the kitchen herself. It was apt since they expected her to work in it. She just had to count to ten first. And get up the nerve to pick up the first dirty dish.
“You might want to fill the sink with water first,” said a deep voice behind her.
She swung around in the doorway, but Degan was already stepping around her and entering the kitchen. She was still glued to the spot. He’d said he’d help, but somehow she didn’t think he’d meant that literally, which was why she hadn’t dared to assign him any tasks. Besides, he’d already helped by getting the hired hands to do the heavy cleaning.
He started pumping water into the sink, then threw in a handful of soap chips from a box sitting on the windowsill above the work area.
“Some of this will wash up easier with a little soaking first.”
Dirty dishes were piled high on the worktable in the center of the room. She shuddered at the thought of touching them and didn’t reply to his suggestion. Although she had dozens of questions she’d like to ask him, she just couldn’t get up the nerve to talk to him. All she could do was picture him robbing trains or a stagecoach or even a bank. Were outlaws that versatile?
Degan took off his jacket and hat and hung them on a hook by the back door. Then he rolled up his sleeves. The man looked so out of place in the kitchen with his wide shoulders, bare, muscular forearms, and the gun still on his hip. He started scraping what was left on the dishes into a large pot and slid the dishes into the soapy water. Seeing him do menial kitchen work made him seem less intimidating—for the moment—and loosened her tongue.
“Mr. Degan—”
“It’s Degan Grant.”
“Mr. Grant—”
“Degan’s fine.”
“Humor me, please. I
can’t abandon the etiquette of a lifetime overnight. Mr. Grant, I know this is a long shot, but do you know anything about cooking?”
He almost smiled, she could have sworn he was about to, but he didn’t. “I know once water boils, you should do something with it. I know that bread requires yeast, but I have no clue what else.”
“Neither do I,” she said with a sigh. “When I told Zachary Callahan that I don’t cook, I wasn’t just pointing out that it’s not part of my housekeeping job, I meant it literally. I’m not sure if he heard me or if he just chose not to hear me, more likely the latter.”
She took the hint that he didn’t really want to talk when he filled another bucket with water and set it on the wide work board next to the sink, then told her, “You wash and rinse, I’ll dry.”
She pushed up her own sleeves as far as they would go, which wasn’t far with her tight cuffs. Her yellow dress was going to be ruined. She already knew it.
If Rose could see her now, she’d think Tiffany had lost her mind. Was getting to know Hunter on the sly worth this drudgery? Maybe not, but not knowing the man who’d caused her so many pointless tears did make it worthwhile. Two months. Just two months and she’d go home without meeting her father.
Gritting her teeth over what she was about to do, she came forward to accept the cloth Degan was holding out to her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a wooden box—a bread box—on the table in the corner. That gave her an idea of how to solve the cooking problem. “Bread! There was a bakery in town. I can have bread delivered!”
She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud until Degan replied, “I highly doubt the Callahans are going to buy something they expect you to make. Besides, you can’t just feed them bread.”
Cringing at his response, she stuck her hands in the water and lifted a dish to scrub before saying, “I’ll look for a cookbook tomorrow in town.”
“Good luck with that.”
She didn’t think he was being sarcastic. She glanced at him to be sure, only to find him standing much too close to her. She wanted to put a little more space between them, but she was afraid he’d notice and be insulted. Heaven forbid she insult an outlaw!
One Heart to Win Page 8
