Return to Paradise

by Carol Grace

  He nodded.

  Her heart fell. "I can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Parker doesn't want me here. We already talked about it. I don't blame him. He says women don't belong here."

  "He's had some bad experiences," the old man said, slowly lowering himself into the chair by the window. "One very bad experience," he added under his breath.

  Christine sat up straight. "I see," she said, hoping he'd elaborate. Maybe it wasn't entirely her fault he was stubborn and hardheaded about her working there. Maybe it wasn't only her he disliked, maybe it was all women because of one certain woman...or something. If only he'd give her a chance.

  "I'd like to stay awhile," she said to Parker's father. What was his name? Emilio, that was it. "I might not be a good cook, Emilio, but I could give it a try, just until Parker finds a replacement," she said, trying to hide her eagerness, her desperation. "I actually think I might do a good job."

  He nodded. "So do I." He rose from the chair by bracing his hands on the armrests. "I'll speak to him."

  Christine wondered if anyone could speak to him. Or if he'd listen when they did. When Parker's father left the room she swung her legs over the side of the bed and waited a long moment with her head between her knees until the dizziness stopped. Then she staggered down the hall to the bathroom and ran a bath for herself. She had to show him, to convince him she was no threat. If he was afraid she'd make trouble being the only woman on the place, he only had to look closely, as she was staring into the bathroom mirror, to see that no man would look twice at the battle-scarred creature that looked back at her with wide eyes under singed eyebrows, cracked lips and hair... The less said about her hair, the better. But it was time to wash it and cut the ends off. In the cabinet she found a pair of nail scissors, shampoo and something called Lanolux the Pomade for Purebreds, guaranteed to put a shine in their fleece. She opened the jar and inhaled a clean, lemon waxy scent. She hoped no one would mind if she helped herself. Because if ever she needed a shine in her fleece it was now.

  Out behind the house Parker was mixing the ration for the lambs. When his father came around the side of the house, he tilted his hat back on his head and rested his pitchfork on the ground.

  "You know if you raised merinos, you wouldn't have to bother with this." His father waved his arm at the bins of grain.

  "I wouldn't have to bother selling my lambs for meat, either, would I? I'd be in the wool business. Which I'm not."

  "Well, it's yours now," his father said. "Yours to do whatever you want, raise Shropshires, Hampshires or Corriedales, if you want. But if I were you..."

  "You'd go back to wool. Pop, eighty percent of sheep money comes from selling lambs. When the pasture was sparse and dry, you had to grow wool. But we've built it up with grass and alfalfa and clover. In a good year we make more money than we can spend. Doesn't it feel good to know you've passed on to me one of the best sheep ranches in the valley?"

  His father nodded, then frowned. "Who're you going to pass it on to, Sarah?"

  "Sarah? Sarah's a girl. Girls—women don't belong on a ranch. You know my feelings on that. Sarah can be a doctor or a lawyer or president of the United States, if she wants. Anything but a rancher. That's one reason I've got her in school in Denver. It's one of the best prep schools in the west. It will open doors for her."

  "Seems like the only doors she wants to open are the barn doors."

  Parker stiffened. "I know that."

  There was a long silence while Parker thought about the whirlwind bundle of energy, the stubborn, determined little girl he'd been struggling to raise since her mother had walked out on them only six months after she was born.

  "It's not too late for you to bear a son," his father suggested.

  Parker didn't answer. They'd had this conversation before and it went nowhere. Parker had no intention of getting married again or fathering another child. His father knew that, and yet he never gave up.

  "Find a cook yet?" his father asked, apparently willing to drop the subject of sons and heirs.

  He scowled. "I forgot about it."

  "More concerned about feeding your lambs than your hands."

  "Maybe."

  "I had an idea," Emilo said.

  "Don't say you want to hire that woman in there," he said, fixing his father with a disapproving look.

  "How d'ya know?"

  "I'm psychic. And she already asked me. I said no."

  "How come?"

  "I don't want any—"

  "Women on the ranch, I know, but dinnertime's comin' on and you got nothin' to feed ten or eleven hungry men tonight."

  "What about leftovers?"

  "They ate 'em for lunch."

  "We got a freezer full of meat," Parker suggested.

  "You gonna cook it?"

  He threw up his hands in disgust. "Okay. One dinner. But I doubt she can remember how to boil an egg."

  "Not gonna have eggs."

  "No, we're probably going to have osso buco or chicken Veronique," he said dryly.

  His father scratched his head. "What's that?"

  "Damned if I know."

  "You gonna tell her?" Emilio asked his son.

  Parker sighed loudly and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Guess I'd better. You'd probably give her a long-term contract and promise her a retirement package in the bargain."

  His father smiled faintly. "I'd at least give her a chance."

  "I am. I'm giving her a chance."

  "She might be a fine-looking woman, underneath it all."

  "That's what I'm afraid of," Parker said grimly, and went inside the house.

  The kitchen door banged behind him and when his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside, he saw Christine, wearing a pair of large jeans cinched at the waist standing at the stove stirring something that smelled like wine and mushrooms. His mouth fell open and he stood stock-still staring at her.

  Startled, she turned to look at him, her gray eyes wide and surprised. But no one was more surprised than he was. First, that she was standing. Second, that she was standing at the stove, and third, her hair. Her once-dry, scorched hair was a lustrous mass of short brown curls framing her face. The sight of her and the smell of whatever she was cooking affected him in the most basic and sensual way. He wanted to break eye contact with her, but he could only stand and stare and imagine what her hair would feel like between his fingers. How she'd react if he suddenly kissed her.

  She licked her lips, lips that were once dry and parched and were now moist, full, desirable. Then she spoke. "I, uh, I don't know if he told you, but your father thought I might fill in for you, just temporarily of course." She twisted her fingers together. She was nervous. She ought to be nervous.

  "He did? Did he tell you it was just for one night?"

  "No, but that's probably all I can do. I mean, the doctor was here this afternoon. I'm fine now. And raring to go." She tried to smile but it came out more like a grimace. "So I will. Go, I mean."

  "Where?"

  She shrugged. "I'm not sure really."

  "How?"

  "How? I'll figure it out." She picked up a spoon and turned back to the stove. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to get this sauce right. For the lamb chops. Is lamb all right? You seem to have an ample supply." She glanced at the door of the walk-in freezer.

  "Fine," he said through stiff lips, and walked through the living room and out the front door, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that this was the worst mistake he'd made since his first marriage. He could have said no. He could have said she couldn't cook, not even once, not even one dinner, but what excuse could he give? "You've overstayed your welcome already... I don't want any women on my ranch, especially those who arouse my sympathy and admiration at the same time... And I really don't want any women who arouse my lust, who remind me of what's missing in my life."

  No, those were things he couldn't say, but he couldn't keep from thinking them.

  Dinner in the bunkhouse, that
two-story structure only yards from the sprawling ranch house, was an unexpectedly jolly event, at least for the ranch hands. All ten of them had gotten the news of the new cook and had shown up at least a half hour ahead of time, hair slicked down and clean shirts despite a hard day rounding up stray lambs and pregnant ewes. Once seated around the table Christine served a green salad dressed with olive oil and lemon, then immediately retreated to the kitchen. Parker barely glanced up at her, hoping the men would follow his example, but that wasn't likely. Their heads swiveled, their mouths fell open, they stared, first at Christine, then when she left, at the pile of green leaves in front of them.

  "What's this?"

  "Rabbit food."

  "Shut up and eat."

  "Hey, she the one got hit by lightning?"

  "Can't remember what hit her."

  "Good lookin' lady anyway."

  She came back to collect the salad bowls, every one licked clean, then brought a mound of seasoned rice and lamb chops swimming in the elegant sauce Parker had seen her making, and a platter of green beans garnished with chopped nuts. Where she'd found the ingredients for this dinner Parker had no idea. Of course he hadn't looked into the freezer for some time, either. Again the men were stunned into momentary silence. But only momentary.

  "Hey, boss, what's it take to make this lady stay?"

  Parker looked up. "I thought you liked plain food."

  "Thought I did, too, but damned if I'm not changing my mind," Russ said, mopping up the sauce with a crust of French bread.

  "So, tell her we want her. Tell her we gotta have her," Jake implored.

  "She might not have a memory, but she's got what it takes otherwise," Randy observed with a low chuckle.

  Parker frowned. Was the man talking about her cooking, or... Oh, Lord, why had he ever let her cook this dinner? Now he was caught. He glanced at his father who was watching him with a half smile on his face and reaching for another helping of rice at the same time. His father gave him a conspiratorial wink and Parker's heart fell to the soles of his boots. He knew what his father was thinking. See, see how good she is? See how she fits in? Let's keep her. Make her an offer she can't refuse.

  Parker also knew it wasn't going to happen. Not if he had anything to say about it. Because a woman like that on a ranch would bring more trouble than they could imagine. He knew. He'd been through it all before.

  Chapter Three

  After dinner the men eagerly carried their plates to the kitchen while Parker stayed at the table, his elbows propped in front of him, staring off into space. His father, too, stayed where he was absently feeding scraps of bread to the old retired sheepdog who sat at his feet.

  "Not too bad, was it, for a first time?" his father asked finally.

  "Not bad at all," he admitted. "If she was just a little older, a little…”

  "Uglier?"

  "That would help."

  "Help her get the job?"

  "You know where the men are now, don't you?" Parker asked his father. "They're hanging out in the kitchen."

  "Givin' her a hand with the dishes. What's wrong with that?"

  "Nothing. If it stops there, but you know it won't. Next thing you know they're following her down the hall to her room, taking her into town on Saturday nights, getting into fights over who dances with her, hanging around the kitchen instead of working... Yes, I can see it now."

  His father looked up. "She don't look like the type who'd encourage the men."

  Parker shook his head. Had his father forgotten already?

  "I know what you're thinkin'. Neither did Cheryl. But this is not your wife, this is a cook."

  Parker stood. "That's not what I was thinking. I haven't thought about Cheryl for years. I'm thinking of what's best for the ranch. For the men. For my sanity."

  "Food's important," his father noted.

  "Of course it's important. I'm not going to let the men starve. The agency promised me someone tomorrow. I'm going in to interview him, whoever it is, and if he's halfway decent, I'll bring him back with me."

  "What about her?"

  Parker exhaled loudly. "What about her? She's not my responsibility anymore. I've done all I can for her. Found her, fed her and got her well. Now it's time for her to move on. To go home. She has a home you know."

  "You saved her life," his father noted. "You know what that means when you save someone's life. They belong to you."

  "Pop, what's gotten into you? She doesn't belong to me, she belongs to somebody else, somewhere else. For all we know they're out of their minds with worry over what's happened to her."

  "You would be, wouldn't you?" his father asked.

  "How do I know? She doesn't belong to me. And she doesn't belong here. I saved her life, she cooked us dinner. Now we're even."

  "One fine dinner," his father added. "You have to admit that."

  Parker exhaled loudly and rocked back on his heels. "You want her to stay, don't you? You want me to call the agency and tell them we've got a cook. But I'm not going to do that. I've got to do what's best for the ranch. And having an attractive woman around is definitely not it." He met his father's gaze head-on. It was not the first time they'd disagreed and it wouldn't be the last. He recognized the stubborn set of his father's chin, the determined look in his eyes. "I'm not always right, Pop, I know that. But you've got to trust me on this one. Women make trouble. They may not want to, it may not be their fault at all, but sooner or later it happens."

  His father sighed heavily and got to his feet. "Your mother never made any trouble," he said, "but it's your ranch now. Not mine. You make the decisions. I was only trying to help."

  "You do help," Parker insisted. "I value your advice, your experience. But..."

  "Never mind," the old man said with a wave of his hand. "Do what you think is best."

  Parker nodded and left the dining room. He headed off in the opposite direction from the house toward the barn where he went through the motions of checking pregnant ewes for irregular fetal positions, spreading fresh straw in the pens, but his mind was back at the house, thinking of Christine, going over his conversation with her. She knew she was leaving tomorrow. She said one night was all she could do, she said she was "raring to go." She didn't want to stay any longer. That's what his father didn't understand. And neither did the boys. After he killed some more time adding protein supplement to the animals' feed, he ambled back toward the house.

  The kitchen was dark, the house was quiet. He breathed a sigh of relief. Why should he care if the boys wanted to hang around the kitchen after dinner one night? It's not like it was going to be a problem. She'd leave tomorrow and he'd get a new cook, a man. No women on the place, no problems. Of course, his mother hadn't made any trouble. It was just the two of them in those days, the two of them working together and a small herd of sheep. Then he was born and his mother died. He never knew her, maybe that's why he had such a hard time with women. He'd grown up with men, his father and the ranch hands. The only exception in all these years was Sarah's nanny, a fifty-something, good-hearted woman named Mrs. Dodge, who was five feet two inches tall and weighed about one hundred seventy-five pounds. When Mrs. Dodge finally left to care for her ailing mother, Sarah went off to boarding school. And things had been fine ever since. Until now.

  He found himself walking down the hall toward the den. He rapped lightly on the door and when she didn't answer, he pushed the door open. The room was empty. He stood staring into the darkness, at the empty bed, his heart beating just a little bit faster.

  He turned and walked briskly back down the hall, through the living room and out into the cool night air onto the wide, old-fashioned front porch. She was there. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he heard the creak of the old wooden swing as it swayed back and forth. She didn't turn, but she dug the toe of her shoe into the floorboard and the swing came to a stop.

  Casually, so she wouldn't think he'd been looking for her, he sauntered across the porch and leane
d against the post that supported the overhang.

  "You don't need me to tell you," he said with a glance in her direction, "that the dinner was good, very good."

  "It's always nice to hear a compliment," she said.

  "You must have heard many," he said with a glance at the oversize white shirt she wore and the faint outline of her features he made out as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.

  "Not really," she said with a rueful look at the jeans held together by a belt tied at the waist. "Oh, you mean in my other life. I don't know about that."

  "Nothing yet? No clue as to what you were? If tonight is any indication, you've had some experience cooking."

  "I suppose so. It came to me as I was doing it—what to put in the sauce, how long to cook the meat, but I don't know how I knew." She frowned.

  "I was thinking," he said after a brief pause. Might as well get it settled tonight. "I could give you a ride into town tomorrow. There's an afternoon bus to Denver. I'll get you a ticket, of course."

  "I can't..."

  "You can pay me back," he continued. "You'll need something to wear, too. There's a dry goods store in town, nothing fancy, but it'll be better than nothing."

  "I guess so, but isn't there another way to town?" she asked. "I hate to take you away from your work."

  "I have to go in anyway, pick up the new cook."

  "Oh... yes, I see. Well in that case..."

  "If you're well enough to go," he said, feeling a sharp prick of conscience. What if she fainted on the bus? What if she forgot to get off at the right stop?

  "Of course I'm well enough," she said brightly. "I'm as good as new. In fact, it's like being new, having no memory. Everything I do, it's as if I'm doing it for the first time, and yet..."

  There was a long silence while he waited for her to continue her thought, but she didn't. "It was fun cooking. I felt useful for the first time since... you know... It got my mind off myself... what mind is left that is," she added with a half smile. Then she stood. "Good night," she said abruptly, and she went into the house.