by Anna Jeffrey
“Before you go in there,” Johnnie Sue said, “I think I oughtta tell you something you might want to talk to him about.”
Uh-oh. Her tone had a serious note. Pic stopped and turned back to her. “What?”
“I took a batch of brownies over to the bunkhouse late yesterday. I got there just after our guest had left.”
“Left where? The bunkhouse?”
“She didn’t have anything to do yesterday,” Johnnie Sue continued, “so she sashayed around the barns with her camera, taking pictures of everything in sight. She ended up at the bunkhouse.”
Generally, the bunkhouse was off limits to women. No end of trouble could come from a lone female presence in the all-male environment, sort of like having a female wander into an athletic team’s locker room. “Did Dad give her permission to do that?”
“I dunno. You’ll have to ask him. Most of those kids had their tongues hangin’ out over her little bikini top and shorts. They didn’t notice what she was doing. But a couple of them complained to me about her taking their pictures.”
The bunkhouse didn’t afford much privacy, but Pic and his dad respected what there was. “She was taking pictures of the hands?”
“I don’t know if Bill Junior saw how she was dressed,” Johnnie Sue continued. “That girl’s got them big tits and that top barely holds ’em. She might as well be naked.”
Pic had learned not to be surprised by the housekeeper’s frank talk. His brow arched as a visual came to him of What’s-Her-Name’s full breasts and prominent nipples in a bikini top. Thinking about her in the bunkhouse almost sent a shiver up his spine. Dealing with the young cowhands who lived there, most of them having more testosterone than brains, was challenging enough without Dad making it harder. Pic made his way to the den.
****
Pic found his dad sitting in one of the big recliners with the newspaper sections scattered on the floor around him, his half-glasses perched on his nose. “Hey, Dad. What’s going on?”
Dad shook his head. “Same ol’ shit. Commodities prices spiking. Feed prices through the roof. All the damn corn’s going to ethanol. Glad we don’t raise pigs.”
Pic snickered. “Well, in a way, we do. They just don’t happen to eat corn.” He was speaking of feral hogs. The bane of existence of every farmer and rancher in Texas.
“What they eat too damn often is beef, as in a baby calf. Smoky said one of the hands shot one of the bastards yesterday.” He tilted his head toward the sofa. “Sit down. How’s Mandy. You two have a good time?”
Dad looked at Mandy like family. “She’s doing good.” Pic took a seat on one end of the sofa and placed his coffee mug on the coffee table. “Listen, Dad, did you give that photographer permission to take pictures in the bunkhouse?”
Dad put down his newspaper and gave him a direct look over the top of his half-glasses. “I told her she could take some pictures of the barns and the horses.”
“Johnnie Sue said she was in the bunkhouse with her camera.”
Dad’s brows climbed up his forehead. “You’d better clear that up.”
“You’re right about that,” Pic said. “We don’t need crap going on in the bunkhouse. She’s staying in the guesthouse?”
“Where else would she stay? Sounds like her visit is open-ended. The nearest motel is in Camden or Stephenville. Besides, your mother told her you’d take her around and help her get some pictures of the ranch.”
“Aww, Dad, you know what my schedule’s like. When do I have the time to escort some tourist around the ranch? And July Fourth is coming up.”
“Now don’t be inhospitable, Son. Smoky and I’ve got the picnic handled. How much time can it take you to show her around? And you know a lot about photography. You took those classes when you were Tarleton. You could be a big help to her.”
“Dad. A professional photographer doesn’t need my help.”
“Son, she sat around here most of yesterday with nothing to do.” His tone held a flicker of impatience. “I guess that’s why she was wandering around the place. I didn’t have time to take her out myself. I started to tell her to just take one of the Jeeps, but I was afraid she’d get lost. Besides, your mother promised her. You might as well get started on it today. The sooner she gets her pictures, the sooner she’ll go back to Austin.”
So much for kicking back and enjoying a day off.
“Just drive her over to the mesa and let her get some pictures of the valley,” Dad went on, as if that were a short easy trip. “It’s pretty over there.”
Going up to the mesa would require a four-wheel-drive rig, which usually meant one of the work Jeeps, and would take several hours. “That’d take the rest of the day. I’ve got to—”
“Okay, then show her the old homestead house down on Little Salt Fork and let her take some pictures of it. That’s historical.”
Pic saw no way out. He ceased grumbling. “What time does this excursion take place? I’d like to get it over with before the thermometer hits a hundred.”
“Just make your own schedule.”
Pic sighed.
“That little gal’s all woman, I’ll say that,” Dad said, returning his attention to the newspaper.
Pic gave his father a look. The man would have an eye for a good-looking woman until the day he died. Pic had no intention of even acknowledging how What’s-Her-Name had affected him in their first encounter out on the driveway. He picked up his mug and left the den.
Back in the kitchen, he asked Johnnie Sue, “What time are you planning dinner?”
“It’s about ready. You want to go over and wake up our guest?”
“What do you mean?”
“The guest. I don’t think she’s an early riser. She missed breakfast yesterday. I finally rousted her out of bed for dinner at noon and she ate supper with your dad and me last night, but I didn’t go over there this morning. From now on, if she expects to eat with us, she’s gonna have to make it over here on her own at our meal time.”
“She’s eating with us?”
“Where else would she eat? There’s no groceries in the guesthouse. Nobody’s stayed in it for months. Besides, Bill Junior said we always feed guests.”
Pic had to acknowledge that they usually invited their guests to dine in the ranch house with the family if they wanted to. But when had they last had company that stayed overnight? Guests didn’t come around and stay like they used to.
“Now that her car’s fixed, she oughtta go into town and buy some vittles,” Johnnie Sue said. “Otherwise, we’re gonna be feeding her three meals a day. That ain’t a problem ’cept that she don’t seem to like what we eat.”
“Humph.” Pic set his mug on the counter. “Okay, I’ll go over and wake her up.”
“While you’re at it, you might tell her we don’t have maid service. She’s gonna have to police up that guesthouse herself. That girl that does the cleaning won’t be out here ’til Tuesday.”
“Why’d you bring that up? Did she mess up the guesthouse or something?”
“She dragged the sheet off the bed and used it for a robe. I guess she must’ve put the bed back together herself so she could sleep in it last night because I didn’t go over and fix it.”
Pic had no intention of discussing making up the bed with What’s-her-Name. “Humph,” he said again and stalked out of the kitchen. This guest was already annoying the hell out of him.
The main guest house was a three-bedroom cottage hunkering a quarter-mile away from the ranch house. It had been built originally in the forties, but remodeled and brought up to date by Mom when she still lived at the ranch. Its solid stone walls and Mexican tile roof were shaded by several old live oaks. Pic has always seen it as a cool, pleasant escape. He sometimes used it when he wanted to read or draw uninterrupted. Johnnie Sue and her helpers kept it spotlessly clean and ready for a guest or guests.
He drove one of the work Jeeps down to it and found it quiet as a church, but the bright green VW was parked in the
single-car carport attached to one end of the cottage. He pushed the front door buzzer. No response. He rapped with his knuckles. Rap, rap, rap.“Hey, anybody in there?”
The door popped open and there stood Miss What’s-Her-Name, wearing a…a sheet. Her shoulders were bare and her small fist held the sheet wadded together over her breasts. Her coal-black hair was a disheveled mess of curls and ringlets and tangles. His blood rushed south.
She looked at him with those midnight eyes. He stepped back and off the small porch so quickly he almost stumbled. Standing in the yard, he planted his hands on his hips. “Uh, Dad said you want to take some pictures today.”
“What time is it?” Squinting against the outside light, she licked her plump lips.
Pic’s eyes locked on her wet mouth. “Damn near noon.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll take a quick shower and get dressed.”
She turned and started toward the bedroom, the sheet dragging behind her. And if Pic had had any doubt that underneath it she was naked, those doubts disappeared. The sheet made a deep dip all the way past her waist. Her bare back was covered only by her thick hair that hung to the cheeks of her ass. One of those tribal-looking tattoos spanned her back just above the cleft of her bottom, punctuated by two sexy little dimples flanking her spine. The ends of her hair touched it.
He frantically willed his burgeoning hard-on to settle down. For lack of knowing what to do next, he stuffed his hands into his jeans’ back pockets and stepped backward a couple more steps. “You want to eat?” he yelled.
“Sure,” she called back.
“Johnnie Sue’s almost got dinner ready,” he hollered. “When you get ready, come on up to the house, okay?”
She didn’t reply. The sound of the shower began to thrum from the bathroom. Pic’s mouth went dry. He swallowed, stepped back onto the porch and pulled the front door closed. He had a hard-on the size of a ball bat. Jee-zus Christ. What the hell was wrong with him? He had just left a session of blazing sex in Mandy’s bed and shower a few hours ago.
Chapter 12
Back in the ranch house, lest Johnnie Sue see his dilemma, Pic beelined to his bathroom. Before returning to the kitchen, he changed into old jeans.
“She still in bed?” Johnnie Sue asked as he entered the kitchen.
“Uh, yeah, but she’s coming on over to eat dinner.”
Johnnie Sue’s mouth twisted into a horseshoe scowl. She shook her head and dragged another plate out of the cabinet with a clatter.
Time passed. The wall clock showed one o’clock. The thermometer mounted beside the window over the sink and connected to a sensor outside, showed ninety-eight degrees. Delicious smells filled the house. Johnnie Sue had set another place at the table and Pic was ready to eat. Toaster pastries went only so far.
Dad paced between the kitchen and the breakfast room. “What the hell is she doing?”
Pic made no comment. Johnnie Sue continued to bang and clatter in the kitchen. A good half hour later, the doorbell chimed.
Pic answered the door. What’s-Her-Name stood on the porch, wearing shorts and another one of those tight little tops—bright orange today—that showed plenty of skin, unmistakable nipple impressions and ample cleavage targeted by the glass-like bauble that lay on her chest just above it. Her golden skin glowed with a sheen of perspiration. Pic led her toward the kitchen.
“I walked over,” she said in a breathless voice. “Am I late?”
“No more than an hour or so,” Johnnie Sue snapped.
Dad eyed What’s-Her-Name up and down. Her hair was pulled back and held by a clip, but tendrils and ringlets had escaped. A pair of huge gold hoop earrings hooked in her earlobes. She looked just about as sexy and exotic as any woman Pic had ever seen up close. Dad’s inspection stopped at her feet. “Darlin’, don’t you have any better shoes? You’re going out into a pasture.”
She looked down at her strappy sandals.
“You got any boots she can wear?” Dad asked Johnnie Sue.
Before the housekeeper could answer, What’s-Her-Name piped up. “I have some jogging shoes.”
“That’d be better than what you’ve got on,” Dad said.
“Chow’s on,” Johnny Sue said and there was no mistaking the edge in the announcement.
Dad herded all of them to the breakfast table and they took seats. Johnnie Sue set a big bowl of steaming, taste-bud-teasing chile verde in the middle of the table. She followed that with a basket heaped with chunks of hot cornbread, a divided bowl with shredded cheese in one half and sour cream in the other and a plate of sliced fresh tomatoes and avocadoes and green onions.
What’s-Her-Name cast a baleful eye at the bowl of chili verde. “Wha—What is this?”
“Chile verde,” Johnnie Sue answered.
What’s-Her-Name nodded once. “Oh.”
“You don’t like pork?” Dad asked, picking up her plate.
“Well, uh—I don’t eat much of it.”
He ladled a generous helping of chili verde onto it. “Want some cheese and sour cream?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Is it fat-free?”
“I doubt it,” Dad said and plopped a heaping spoon of cheese on top of the chili verde, followed by another of sour cream and handed it back to her.
What’s-Her-Name set it before her and stared down at it.
“Last night, we had steak and you didn’t eat much,” Dad said. “We try to accommodate our guests. What do you like to eat?”
“Uh…sometimes I eat chicken. And sometimes fish.”
“You won’t get much of that around here,” Johnnie Sue said. “The Double-Barrel raises beef….And hogs.
Pic and Dad exchanged glances. They had learned that Johnnie Sue, as well as being a hell of a good cook and an unparalleled manager of the Double-Barrel house and bunkhouse, was a plain-spoken woman. But Pic had never seen her be quite so downright snarky.
“I’ll just eat some vegetables,” What’s-Her-Name said. “And maybe some bread.”
“Most people like chile verde,” Johnnie Sue said. “If you never ate it and it’s already on your plate, you oughtta at least taste it.”
What’s-Her-Name picked up her fork and picked at it at first, but ended up eating most of it, including the cheese and sour cream. Johnnie Sue’s cooking was hard to resist, even when somebody thought she wanted to be a finicky eater.
After the meal, Pic said to their guest, “You ready to go?”
“I need to get my camera. I left it at the guesthouse. And I need to change my shoes.”
“Fine. I’ll drive you back down there.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Just let me get my rifle.”
She half stood, a wide-eyed expression on her face. “Ri—rifle? Are we—are we going to be in danger?”
Pic’s brows crunched together. Could she be that dense? “Of course not. But if I see a hog, I’m gonna shoot it.”
“Oh,” she said, her expression blank. Did she have a clue what he was talking about?
He walked into the den, grabbed his .06 from the gun cabinet and clipped his .22 pistol onto his belt.
When he returned to the kitchen, What’s-Her-Name was waiting near the table. Her gaze volleyed between the rifle and the pistol. “You’re—you’re wearing a gun?”
Johnnie Sue spoke up with exaggerated patience. “Zoshi, guns are common around here.” She began to clear the table. “At times, they’re even a necessity. If you’re gonna stay here a spell, you might as well get used to it.”
“I’ve—I’ve never been in a car with—with guns.”
“If you come face-to-face with a rattlesnake, you’ll be glad he’s got that pistol.”
What’s-Her-Name’s eyes widened. Pic winced inside and arched a look at the housekeeper. “Johnnie Sue. Just cool it, okay?”
At the same time, he made a mental note. Zoshi. Johnnie Sue had called her Zoshi.
He turned to Zoshi. “Let’s go.” He refrained from adding, And get this over with.
He ha
d parked the Jeep near the back door. He opened the passenger door for Zoshi. Before getting into the Wrangler himself, he unclipped his cell phone, called Marcus and told him it wasn’t necessary to follow him, despite Marcus’ argument that most of the ranch was isolated and remote. Having security people following him and Dad around the ranch was absurd
He climbed behind the steering wheel, checked the gas gauge and cranked the engine. “Sorry, but we don’t have air conditioning in our work rigs. We’ll have to just tough it out. We might need the four-wheel-drive to get up to the mesa. I haven’t been up there in a while, so I don’t know what the road is like.”
“Why don’t you have air conditioning? Seems like it would be easier on your workers.”
“You mean the ranch hands? Darlin’, ranch hands are used to working in the heat. They spend their days outdoors, either horseback or on some kind of ATV. The work Jeeps aren’t much different from ATVs.”
They arrived at the guesthouse and Zoshi disappeared inside. Long minutes later, hot and out of patience, Pic checked his watch. She had been in the guesthouse fifteen minutes. What the fuck was she doing?
Just about the time he was ready to leave the Jeep and go knock on the guesthouse door, she came out. She was wearing the big straw hat with red flowers and the huge black sunglasses that hid half her face.
Pic’s gaze followed her as she carried a tripod and a backpack to the Jeep’s back door. He stepped out and hurried to open it for her. “What’s this, camera equipment?”
“Yes.”
He stowed her equipment in the back of the Jeep and they set out, grinding their way across pastures of coastal grass. The temperature now was probably even closer to a hundred. “We should’ve started this earlier,” he groused.
“I had to wear these pink shoes,” she grumbled. “They don’t match my clothes. I really hate wearing things that don’t match.”
