Accidental Heiress

by Lauren Nichols

  Casey exhaled in soft surprise. “I thought that sort of thing went out with Butch Cassidy and the Sun dance Kid.”

  “We wish.”

  “Guess Mr. Jackson doesn’t have much hope of getting his cattle back then, does he?”

  Jess’s eyes widened in surprise, and every muscle in his body seemed to coil in readiness. “They hit Moe Jackson’s place? That’s what you heard?”

  “I’m not sure, no one mentioned his first na—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that right away? The Jackson spread borders Broken straw to the west.” Jess pushed to his feet, gathering the thermos and the remains of their lunch, then strode back to the bay to stuff them back inside his saddle bag. He tossed her a pair of gloves. “Come on,” he said curtly, “we need to get over there.”

  And, to Casey’s chagrin, suddenly she was on horseback again.

  Casey sat on her bed, staring morosely at the friction burns on the insides of her legs. It looked as if someone had taken a reddish-brown marker and drawn two ragged half-inch-wide lines from her crotch to mid thigh, and they stung like crazy. The ointment Jess had given her had helped a little, but she still couldn’t stand to have anything touch the area, and anything that did stuck to the salve.

  A knock sounded at her bedroom door, followed by a concerned male voice. “Is the salve helping any?”

  Casey’s face flooded with embarrassment, and she wondered why. She should be getting used to feeling foolish by now. When she asked Jess if he had anything to ease the sting of her “sunburn,” he hadn’t said a word. He’d just rummaged around in the bathroom for a minute and returned with a tube of salve that had an aloe base. The only thing that kept her dignity from thoroughly deserting her was the hope that, if he knew she’d lied, he’d have the decency to keep quiet about it.

  Wrapping her robe around her and tying it, Casey opened her door a crack and peered out. “Yes, thanks, it does seem to be helping.”

  “Good.” He was trying not to smile, and in that second, Casey wanted to slam the door in his face. He’d known all along what her problem was.

  “Was there something else?” she asked, annoyed.

  “Just that I’m getting hungry, and thought you might be, too. I’m making western omelettes. Want one?”

  A western omelette sounded like heaven—regardless of the fact that Dane had been almost manic about them watching their cholesterol and staying away from eggs and cheese. She didn’t know whether to blame the mountain air or the weird mealtimes, but she was starving all the time now. Unfortunately, every comfortable article of clothing she owned was in Chicago, the jogging suit she’d worn yesterday was in the wash, along with those vile jeans, and she couldn‘t—wouldn’t—go downstairs in something as intimate as a robe. She felt like crying.

  “No, thanks for the thought, but I ate the other half of my sandwich when we got back this afternoon, so I’m really not hung—”

  Jess sighed in exasperation and wedged a pair of soft sweatpants and a shirt through the crack in the door. “It’s going to be a very long summer if we don’t get some honesty between us, Pinocchio. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  Casey entered the kitchen several minutes later, with Jess’s gray sweats tied securely at her waist and ballooning around her hips, and an MSU sweatshirt covering it all up and falling to mid-thigh. She felt incredibly silly. She was a nurse, she’d been married, and brush bums on the insides of her thighs shouldn’t have been a big deal. But they were, because talking about such things made pictures in people’s minds, and she didn’t want Jess...imagining. The way she sometimes did.

  “Ta-da,” she sang weakly, extending her arms to show off her ensemble.

  Jess glanced up from the butcher-block island in the middle of the kitchen, where he was chopping onions. “Nice outfit. Bob Mackie? Chanel?”

  Casey smiled, wondering how a man this far removed from the Vogue scene knew such names. “Ralph Lauren, I think, considering how big these sweatpants are. He’s the guy who brought back prairie skirts.” She sighed wistfully. “Wouldn’t mind having a closetful of them right now.”

  “Well, I did warn you,” he said through one of those rare, deep chuckles.

  He hadn’t showered yet. He was wearing the same shirt and jeans he’d ridden in, and without the hat to keep his hair back, a few black locks fell onto his forehead. His cheeks and jaw were firm and rough, dark with a five o’clock shadow. His mouth...

  Casey drew a breath against the slowly thickening air in the kitchen. “Can I help you do something?”

  He glanced up. “Sure. Open the fridge and dig out whatever you want in your omelette. I fried some loose sausage, but there’s more ham in there, and I think some green peppers. Cheese and eggs are already out—coffee’s just about done.”

  Casey crossed to the refrigerator and looked inside for the first time. This morning, coffee and cereal had already been on the table and pancakes had been sizzling on the griddle when she came into the kitchen. Now, checking the shelves, she saw that the ranch’s refrigerator was incredibly well stocked. But, she thought as she pulled out deli-sliced ham and a green pepper, she supposed that made sense. People who lived twenty-six miles from the nearest store didn’t run out for milk and bread at the drop of a hat. Suddenly she experienced a twinge of jealousy. Had this Lydia person stocked the refrigerator? Did this woman who could walk into Jess’s bedroom without knocking take care of all his needs? And why on earth was she still thinking about a muffled name from a dream? Casey rinsed the pepper, grabbed a knife from the sideboard, then walked casually to the island opposite him. “So, who...lays in your supplies?”

  A dark brow rose. “Who lays in my supplies?”

  “Isn’t that what you call it out here?”

  “No, we call it shopping.”

  “Oh. Well, who does it?”

  “Me.”

  “Really?” That surprised her. She couldn’t see him pushing a cart up and down grocery aisles to save her soul; it just didn’t fit the image she had of him. The disbelieving tone of her voice seemed to tell him that.

  “Of course, I don’t spend a lot of time on it,” he drawled, scooping up chopped onions and piling them on a dinner plate. “I generally just lasso a produce truck, shoot a few pigs, and come back home.”

  She smiled. “Sorry.” She added diced pepper to the dinner plate. “Who cleans your house?”

  He sent her a quizzical look.

  “You know,” she persisted. “Who changes the beds, does the laundry, mops the kitchen floor?” Part of her hoped he’d say, “Old, ugly Lydia, my housekeeper.”

  Jess wiped his hands on a towel and started cracking eggs into a bowl. When he spoke, his tone was faintly annoyed. “My, my, you’re just full of questions tonight, aren’t you, Mrs. Marshall?” He grabbed a fork, beating the eggs as he answered her. “I do the shopping, and Ross and I both do the cleaning. Once a year we get Grace Lansky in from town to give the place a good going-over. Anything else?”

  Yes, she still wanted to know who Lydia was. But asking could lead to his questioning where she’d heard the name, and he wouldn’t have liked her answer. “Not at the moment.”

  “Good.”

  Casey watched him carry all the ingredients to the counter by the stove, melt a chunk of butter in a skillet, then pour in some of the beaten eggs.

  “So name your poison. Ham or sausage? Onions or peppers? Cheddar or white American?”

  Going to his side, she gazed hungrily into the pan. The wonderful aromas of warm melted butter, sausage, onions and now eggs filling the kitchen made her mouth water and her stomach clench in anticipation. “I know I’m going to be sorry, but...” She laughed. “Put it all in there. Everything. I’ll worry about my clogged arteries tomorrow.”

  After supper—that was what Jess called the evening meal, not dinner—Casey cleaned up, wrapped the leftover chopped vegetables and put them away. Jess had work to do in the den, so again, Casey did the dishes. She didn’t min
d. It didn’t seem fair that he do all the outside chores, as well as the inside work. She would do her share. Then she shuddered, thinking of her raw thighs. As long as it didn’t involve getting back on a horse tomorrow.

  The laundry room was right off the kitchen, and after the dishes were done, Casey fluffed the clothes she’d put in the dryer earlier. Tomorrow she would have clean, soft jeans.

  It was nearly nine o’clock when she knocked on the open pocket door to the den and peeked inside.

  Jess looked up from the book work he was doing at the massive desk, a gooseneck desk lamp the only light in the room. Though it paled compared to Dane’s lavish den in their erstwhile Tudor home, this room was obviously the seat of power, the place where problems were addressed and decisions were made. The furniture, when new, had been costly—good, sturdy pieces a man might have picked out. A brown leather sofa and wing back chair sat in front of the desk, and behind it, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. An Oriental rug similar to the one in the foyer covered the center of the hardwood floor, and Jess’s love of the West was evident in the Russell prints hanging on the wall. It was suddenly clear to Casey that, at one time, Broken straw had enjoyed some success.

  The dusky silence of the den seemed to lend itself to low voices, and Casey softened hers accordingly. “There’s still coffee left in the pot. I just wondered if you wanted a cup, or if I should toss it out.”

  “Just toss—” Jess sighed, then dragged his hands down over his face in a gesture of weariness. “Never mind, I’ll have another cup before I hit the shower.”

  She started away. “Black, right?”

  “Casey?”

  Casey stopped abruptly, something pleasant stirring in her blood. This was definitely a step forward. Until now, he’d either waited for her to look his way to speak, or called her Mrs. Marshall—a constant reminder that, despite their living arrangements, they were adversaries. She smiled. Mrs. Marshall or Pinocchio.

  Casey wandered back into the den, her arms folded across Jess’s big, baggy sweatshirt. “What?”

  “You don’t have to wait on me,” he said gruffly, his gaze dropping to his record-keeping again. It almost seemed as though he were embarrassed because he’d slipped and used her nickname.

  “I know that. But after your fixing the meal and literally giving me the shirt off your back, I’d like to do this for you.”

  Jess cleared his throat, his gaze moving to the calculator beside him as he punched in several numbers. “Thank you. Is there enough for two cups?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then bring one for yourself, too. If you want.”

  Casey’s smile grew, and she wondered if this backhanded invitation to join him was Jess’s version of extending an olive branch. Could it be he was finally ready to put the bitterness he felt aside, and try to make the best of their predicament? She certainly hoped so. “Be right back,” she murmured.

  Eager to return before his attitude changed, Casey filled their mugs quickly. Friendship was a lot easier on the nervous system than tolerance, and she didn’t want to lose the fragile ground they seemed to have gained since preparing supper together. After adding cream to her own cup, she turned off the kitchen light and carried the mugs down the hall to the den. She’d seen a caddy with wooden coasters sitting at a corner of the desk, so she hadn’t bothered with saucers.

  She was just placing Jess’s coffee on one of the coasters when the front door opened and Ross walked in. In the dark house, the meager light illuminating Jess’s paperwork became a. beacon that drew the younger man directly into the den.

  Casey watched Ross’s sullen expression change swiftly as he took in the dim light, the steaming mugs and the suggestion of intimacy in the room. By the time his evaluating gaze reached the sweatshirt and pants she was wearing, a delighted smile was curving his lips.

  “Gee...cozy. Maybe I should’ve phoned first. Boy, this little scene takes me back—What’s it been, Jess? Six or seven years?”

  Jess stood abruptly, clearly irritated. “What do you want, Ross?”

  The blond cowboy shrugged. “Okay, no trip down memory lane tonight. I just stopped to tell you me an’ Pruitt got most of the new wire strung out by the old line shack, and ask what you want done tomorrow.” He glanced at Casey again. “But as long as I’m here, maybe I should clear out my stuff. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of things.”

  Jess sighed, his lips thinning grimly. He glanced at Casey. “Would you mind giving us a few minutes?”

  “Sure,” she answered, relieved to have an excuse to leave. “I was on my way to bed, anyway.” She nodded to Ross as she left the room with her coffee mug, hoping there wouldn’t be a repeat of what had happened last night.

  She was only upstairs a short time when she heard Ross on the steps, then the sound of drawers and closet doors opening and closing. But he wasn’t slamming things around, so it seemed that the discussion downstairs hadn’t widened the rift between the brothers. Finally, the nearby sounds faded, and Casey heard the muted thud of the front door closing.

  The last thing she remembered clearly was Jess trudging up the stairs, the bathroom door shutting, and the shower spray coming on. Then there was nothing for Casey but the warm, floaty fuzziness of dreams. Suddenly, she was too tired to keep her eyes open, too tired to worry about Ross, Jess or anything else. At some point that night, she became vaguely aware of Jess leaving his room and the sound of his truck starting up. But she was too exhausted to question where he was going or why.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning, Casey hummed happily to herself as she carried bacon and scrambled eggs to the table, covered them to keep them warm, then went to check the home fries browning on the stove. Glancing over at the table, she took a quick inventory: steaming cups of coffee, large tumblers of orange juice, white paper napkins and sturdy-stoneware plates. A covered platter of lightly browned wheat toast was positioned between their two place settings.

  She had this country breakfast routine down pat. Of course, a vase of wildflowers would have been a nice, cheery touch, but 5:15 a.m. was a little early to be wandering around in the dark searching for them.

  Jess’s footfalls thudded on the steps as he descended the staircase, and Casey glanced into the foyer, hoping to catch his first surprised smile of the morning. Surprised because there’d been no mention of her preparing their breakfast today.

  Then he rounded the newel post at the bottom of the staircase, and thoughts of how pleased he’d be to see their meal already on the table disintegrated. Instead, suddenly she was dealing with those disturbing little undercurrents that seemed to crop up whenever Jess was around.

  He wasn’t dressed any differently than usual—faded jeans, boots, and a chambray work shirt. But she was used to seeing him in a hat, and without its pressing weight, his thick black hair brushed the tops of his ears, grazed his shirt collar and fell onto his forehead, softening the stern angles of his face. He was clean-shaven, the bruise on his chin fading beneath his tan.

  Casey drew a deep breath and smiled. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” But there was no surprised smile as he ambled grimly to the table and took a seat.

  Casey’s spirits flagged for an instant, but then she rebounded. Perhaps this was just his way. Not everyone was a morning person. Yesterday at breakfast, he hadn’t been overly talkative, either—though she’d blamed that on his frustration at having an unwelcome stranger living in his home.

  Carrying the skillet to the table, she determined to keep their relationship—their friendship—going forward. “Hope you like home fries. I haven’t had these in a long time, and for some reason, they sounded really good to me this morning.”

  Jess took a long swallow of his orange juice, then answered without looking at her. “They’re fine. Thanks.”

  Okay, she thought, he still wasn’t expressing his surprise and delight at her culinary efforts, but maybe he was saving that speech for when he left for the day. She scooped a large h
elping of potatoes on his plate. “Say when.”

  After another scoop, he offered her a curt “When,” then piled eggs, bacon and toast on his plate and dug in without uttering another word. Suddenly it was very clear that there would be no amiable chatter around the breakfast table this morning—possibly any morning.

  This time, Casey couldn’t curb her disappointment. What had happened to change his mood in the hours while they slept? Last evening, he’d been as close to friendly as she could recall since that first night at Dusty’s. And now... now it felt as if they were back to square one. Worse than that, actually, because she sensed a new restlessness beneath his silent exterior, a wired sort of feeling that she couldn’t account for. Dejected, Casey put a few home fries on her own plate, returned the skillet to the stove and retraced her steps to the table. She smoothed her napkin over her lap and took her time selecting foods from the platters. Motion and the scrape of utensils on china were a pathetic way to fill the empty airspace, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She’d always felt uncomfortable with long silences. Obviously, Jess had no such hang-ups.

  Was the strong, silent, Western man alive and well, even in this day and age? Did Montana men speak only when they had something relevant to say?

  As if in answer to her thoughts, Jess cleared his throat, sampled his coffee and frowned. “You won’t be riding today, so I’d like you to clean the tack room and make some phone calls for me. Call the vet first—John Millner. Tell him we have a case of milk fever and I’d appreciate it if he could come by and take a look. Also, I made a list of supplies we need from the feed store and left it in the den. Ask Matt or Colette—whoever answers the phone—to have someone get the stuff together for pickup tomorrow morning. The numbers are in the back of the phone book.” He speared some home fries with his fork. “I’d phone them myself,” he added gruffly, “but Ross and I need to cut out some steers for auction, and we’ll be gone most of the day.”