Expensive, in other words.
And lovely.
"When would you like breakfast?" Claudia asked, pushing the door open and preceding Mr. MacLeod into the room. "And what would you like for breakfast?"
If he was her only guest, she could spoil him a little. No harm in that.
"Would it be too much trouble to eat around 8 a.m.?"
"Eight works just fine." Plenty of time to do the barn chores and get a meal on the table. "What shall I fix?"
"I'm not particular. Juice and toast will do if the coffee's decent."
Claudia set his briefcase-thingie on the desk. "Now see, that's pure foolishness, neglecting breakfast that way. Maybe in Scotland that's how you do it, but here, you're going to start your day with some protein and a decent meal. No wonder you're not packing any reserves. Big fella like you needs to eat. The coffee is excellent, of course, and so are the eggs, the grits, the coffee cake, the flapjacks, the oatmeal, and fruit crepes. What'll you have?"
Claudia opened the drapes, the better to let in afternoon light. She did likewise in the bathroom, then checked the dampness of the soil in the pot of pansies on the windowsill opposite the bed. The walls were thick, which kept out the heat in summer, but she'd laid a fire in the fireplace, because it wasn't summer yet.
She'd made Mr. MacLeod smile, and that was not good when she was trying to scold him into eating a decent meal.
"I'll have whatever you're having," he said. "I'll be prompt for dinner too."
"See that you are," Claudia replied, but damned if she wasn't smiling back.
Running a spread and a B&B was hard work. Claudia loved the horses, but horses were expensive. One little bellyache could be the end of a valuable animal's existence, or the beginning of thousands of dollars in vet bills. Just cleaning the bunkhouse in anticipation of the spring hiring would take her several days.
Watching Declan MacLeod shrug out of his jacket and hang it on a bed post reminded Claudia of another aspect of her life on the Bar J.
She was lonely.
The scenery was lovely, the neighbors were all good folks, and raising Kara was a sheer privilege, but sometimes, the worries grew heavy, and the nights got long. Declan MacLeod might be leaving at the end of the week, and he for sure wasn't interested in shouldering any of the load at the Bar J.
A small, wistful part of Claudia wondered if he might be interested in sharing a night or two with her, nonetheless.
"If you're thinking to use the wireless, I'd do it now, Mr. MacLeod," Claudia said. "Weather's moving in, and the Internet can go down when that happens. If you need anything, I'll be in the kitchen, which is off the great room. I'll see you at supper."
Claudia wanted to get away from him, away from those broad shoulders and that hey-girlsmile—hey-lass, in his case. Claudia wasn't a girl, hadn't been for years.
"Until dinner, Ms. Jensen, but might I make one small request?"
Oh, of course. He was a damned vegan, and revising a week's menus would mean a trip into Silverton tomorrow when horses needed to be schooled. Or he was allergic to cotton—that was always fun—and had left his credit cards back in Houston.
"Sure."
"Might you call me Declan? Mr. MacLeod sounds like my old grandda has come to stay. I'd rather be Declan, if you're comfortable with that."
This smile was different, a touch bashful, which was worse than charming—far worse. This smile suggested Mr. MacLeod might be a little lonely too.
"Declan, then, and I'm Claudia. See you at supper."
"My thanks."
Claudia nearly scampered from the room and almost tripped over Hotay in the hall. She picked up the cat and hugged him, even though that meant getting cat hair all over her T-shirt.
"I'm in trouble, cat. I haven't been in trouble for the longest time. Not over a guy." Money trouble was a given with ranching, some years, and this was one of those years. Claudia had weathered plenty of money trouble.
She'd never had to defend herself against a charming accent, winsome smile, and call me Declan friendliness.
The cat started purring and rubbed the top of his head against Claudia's chin. She carried him out to the great room and set him on a windowsill. Sure enough, the clouds were barreling across the sky, doubtless bringing rain, or even snow.
Trouble coming from all directions. Claudia ought to be worried, but worrying was pointless. If a storm was on the way, nothing she could do would stop it, and she still had to figure out what a Scotsman far from home might like for his dessert.
***
A dude ranch, this was not.
Declan expected Thad Brewster to creatively misrepresent the facts. This time around, Thad had done him a favor. The Bar J was quiet, homey, and peaceful. Seemed a shame to turn the place into some corporate training center, but at least Declan would get a week of decent rest, good cooking, and fresh air.
He stretched out on the bed—a big four-poster higher than any traditional hotel bed—propped his back against the headboard and opened his laptop.
The early arrival had been on purpose, the better to catch the owner unprepared and get a sense of how the place operated. The good news for the Bar J: Claudia Jensen was on top of her game in terms of keeping the place ready for arrivals. The ranch house was cheerful, welcoming, and well appointed.
The bad news for the Bar J: No other customers were expected for the week of Declan's stay.
Declan closed his eyes, mentally adding to the same two columns: On the one hand, the accommodations were attractive, well-maintained, clean, and inviting, right down to the blue, white, and maroon pansies on the windowsill. On the other hand, the Bar J was miles from civilization, the wireless connection was unreliable in bad weather, and the owner was too damned attractive.
Claudia Jensen wasn't pretty in the dewy-eyed, beauty-queen sense. She was about five-seven, on the lean side, blond, and her gaze was watchful. Crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes suggested a weather eye on the Texas sky more than laughter.
Declan would like to hear her laugh.
She had a nice smile, though that too had been guarded.
What Declan had noticed were Claudia Jensen's hands. When she'd shaken his hand, he'd felt calluses and a good, strong grip. She'd hefted his rucksack easily, and she walked with the confidence of a proprietor, not merely a hostess. Whether turning a key, opening drapes, or checking the flowers, Claudia Jensen's hands were confident and competent.
What would those hands feel like on his bare skin?
Only an idiot who'd gone too long without female companionship wasted time on a question like that. Declan was on Claudia's property under false pretenses, and she had enough on her plate without a philandering customer.
She was tired, Declan could see that, and as a guy who'd been going too hard for too long, he could sense it in her too. Maybe she'd welcome Thad's buyout offer. She'd be smart to take it. Thad's soft spot for the ladies had been known to cloud his business judgment on occasion.
Declan opened his email and prepared to inform Thad that he'd arrived at the Bar J, and that the initial indicators were…
The initial indicators were that Claudia Jensen worked damned hard, provided good value for her guests' money, and didn't need to be uprooted when she had a teenager to raise. A deaf teenager, who needed more stability and predictability about her environment than most young people.
Declan stared at the screen for long minutes, until the sound of the claw-free variety of cat-pawing came from the door. Soft, rhythmic, utterly un-ignorable.
He shut down his laptop, climbed off the bed, and let the cat in.
Chapter Two
The recipe required only five ingredients—raspberries, cream, oatmeal, honey, and whisky—all of which Claudia had on hand, so she made cranachan for dessert. Kara helped by snitching whipped cream and raspberries.
"Time to set the table," Claudia said. When she could, she signed as well as spoke, both to keep her interpreter's skills sharp and to rein
force Kara's lip-reading abilities. Kara popped a final raspberry in her mouth and gathered up silverware, placemats, and linen napkins from the dry sink.
The Bar J had originally been a larger property, which accounted for its enormous bunkhouse, stable, and outbuildings. Through the generations, some land had been sold, and other acreage had been married away or bequeathed to relatives who'd since sold up and left the valley. The trouble with immigrant roots was that transplanting became part of the family heritage, and ranching wasn't for everybody.
Claudia took the roast from the oven and spooned the juices over the potatoes and carrots tucked beside the meat, then covered the whole with foil. Kara came back into the kitchen and got the salad bowls, salad, and water glasses while Claudia put the individual servings of cranachan back into the fridge.
She and Kara had a routine, and whether the dining room was full, or they had only a guest or two, the routine was the same. Before too much longer, Kara would be looking at colleges, though, and then who would set the table?
Claudia nearly dropped the water pitcher as a sound came from the dining room.
Laughter—Kara's laughter, which was as hearty as it was rare. Hotay could make her laugh, or Boo. When Claudia emerged into the dining room, Mr. MacLeod was slowly finger spelling and Kara was suffused in mirth.
"They're not the same," Claudia said. "British Sign Language and American Sign Language have different roots. If you know British Sign Language, you and Kara share about a third of your vocabulary. American Sign Language was based on the French system in use in the late-eighteenth century."
"So I could get my face slapped fairly easily," Mr. MacLeod muttered, making a symbol for apology.
Kara went off into reassurances, most of which probably went over Mr. MacLeod's head. He tried to respond anyway, and what followed was a sort of back-and-forth Claudia had seldom seen.
She was a certified deaf interpreter whom the county court called upon when legal proceedings involved a deaf party or witness, and yet, she'd never had to deal with the sort of translation Kara and Mr. MacLeod were engaged in. They silently traded signs, Mr. MacLeod with the ponderous care of the rusty conversationalist, Kara with the fluency of one who'd been signing for years.
Claudia watched the conversation, and felt both touched and…extraneous.
Dinner was more of the same, with Kara and Mr. MacLeod cobbling together a dialogue while Claudia tried to facilitate without intruding.
"That was a surprise," Mr. MacLeod said as Kara disappeared into the kitchen with a stack of dishes in hand. "I have a deaf cousin, and so I've picked up a little signing over the years. I had no idea there were different sign languages."
"There's an international version that's of limited use. Shall we move to the great room?" Claudia suggested. "You can eat dessert while I get the fire going."
Cowboys were polite when there were ladies present, and yet, Claudia was still taken aback when Mr. MacLeod held her chair.
"You don't need to make a fire for me," he said. "If it's your custom, you must suit yourself."
"The temperature's dropping." Outside, the temperature was dropping. "I'll start a fire in case the power goes out when the storm hits. We have generators, but I try to save them for true emergencies."
Mr. MacLeod followed her to the great room, which was dark but for the motion-sensor night-lights near the front door.
"Have you lived here all your life?" he asked.
Hotay was on the mantel, a feline alligator waiting to bask in the warmth of the nightly fire.
"I went off to Texas A&M for a bachelor's, and I've seen Washington, DC, because I took some courses at Gallaudet University. I take it you like to travel?"
The small talk came easily for Claudia, but Mr. MacLeod wasn't as glib as she'd first thought. He considered his answers and chose his words.
"I did like to travel," he said, passing Claudia the long matches. "Then I saw Texas, and that was that. I want to make my home here."
Claudia lit the kindling and tinder beneath the logs. "Have you been through one of our summers?"
"I've been through three, two of them in Houston. I've also been through Scottish winters, when the sun goes down at three in the afternoon, and Scottish summers, when the sky is still light at midnight. Both places have their charms, but here…"
He waited for Claudia to find a place on the sofa, then came down about a foot away before continuing.
"Half of Scotland is owned by a few hundred people. The whole country isn't any bigger than South Carolina. If I walk down the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, I will run into at least one person who knows me by name, though I haven't lived there for ten years. In Texas, there's room to breathe and to dream."
Rain spattered hard against the windows as the fire caught and the first sparks sailed up the flue.
"You're a romantic, Mr. MacLeod." Claudia had meant to tease him with her observation, but she'd also spoken the truth. What kept her on the Bar J in good years and bad, what got her out of bed on the frigid mornings and sweltering mornings alike, was the dream of building her ranch into a legacy for Kara and the children Kara might have.
"I'm Scottish," he said. "Part poet, part barbarian, my grannie used to say. What about you? Would you leave here if you could?"
Ranch life was so relentless, from the chores, to the financial challenges, even to the socializing on Sunday in the churchyard, that Claudia would never have asked herself that question.
"This is my home, Mr. MacLeod."
"Declan, please. Scotland was my home."
"Do you miss it?"
"I love it, and I go back frequently, but that's not the same thing. How did Kara lose her hearing?"
An abrupt change of subject, suggesting Scotland wasn't a topic that held his interest. Visiting with Mr. Mac—Declan—was all too interesting. He didn't overshare, and he didn't play keep-away.
Kara brought out the cranachan and ate hers with them. Even over the course of the evening meal, Declan had picked up a few signs, and his finger spelling was coming more fluently as Kara told him about liking biology and being passionate about riding.
All very lovely of him, but instead of appreciating his efforts, Claudia was resentful. Declan was charming without being too smooth, and he had a scrumptious accent, but did he have to look so damned good gobbling up his dessert too?
***
Why must Claudia Jensen look so wistful when eating her sweet? She nibbled a dessert that reminded Declan of home, family meals, and fuzzy cows at a time when he ought to have his mind on business.
The girl, Kara, went bouncing back to the kitchen with the dirty dishes, exhibiting the limitless energy so frequently wasted on the young.
"You asked about Kara's hearing," Claudia said. "Kara was four. Her parents were in Africa, doing some sort of research on the sociology of tribal women. They'd been there about six months when Kara got meningitis, and proper medical care took a long time to reach. Too long. She's lucky to be alive."
Declan asked, even knowing the answer wouldn't be happy. "And her parents?"
"Killed in a car accident coming back from some study of regional conflict in the Basque area of Spain. My sister and her husband loved to globe-trot, and the more obscure the destination the better. You ask if I'd leave if I could, and the answer is probably not, but I haven't done traveling enough to know. Leaving the ranch for any length of time takes more coordination than a lunar landing, so it's a good thing I love it here."
Well, damn. Better for Declan if Claudia resented her home and chafed against its limitations as he'd chafed against the suffocating weight of history and tradition in Scotland.
"What about Kara? Does she like ranch life?"
Claudia drew her legs up, so she sat tailor fashion on the couch. Her knee brushed Declan's thigh, and he nearly bolted from the room.
"Kara loves the horses, and horses go with the ranch. The horses have spared us the usual teenage rebellions, so far. I'm dreading the f
irst boyfriend."
"Why? My siblings tell me the first one is usually just a starter model. It's the ones a child takes up with at college who deserve a parent's worry."
How much of Claudia's dread was because she'd be alone on this ranch she professed to love if Kara found a young fellow to start a family with?
"Everything is so much harder when a child is deaf," Claudia said, leaning her head back against the cushions. "Deaf children are perfect marks for all kinds of predators, because the children are at once isolated and overprotected. Some people don't even teach their children the words to describe the harm that can stalk them. We don't realize how ignorance leaves a child vulnerable. There's more cranachan in the fridge if you're in the mood for a midnight snack."
Declan was in the mood to kick his boss's arse. Hard.
"All parents worry, Claudia. The idea isn't to wrap our children in cotton wool. It's to teach them what they'll need to correct their mistakes, make sense out of their failures, and learn from experience. Tell me about the horses."
Declan liked horses well enough, but what he really wanted to know was how Claudia's hair stayed up in that French-braided bun without visible support. The engineer in him wanted to understand a complex structure, the barbarian in him wanted to unravel all of the lady's mysteries.
"Kara rides jumpers, which is one of the equestrian sports where the clock decides who gets a ribbon. Fastest clean time wins. A rail either stays up or comes down. No points for style, turnout, gaits, or flirting with the judge. It's as close to fair as a competition can be, and she loves that. I love it too."
Claudia's whole demeanor had subtly shifted, from weary and introspective to quietly animated.
"Do you compete?"
"Not anymore. I did all through college and considered doing the pro thing, but then Kara needed a home and my dad got sick. I coach, I teach, I train, but I don't compete."
Because leaving the ranch to chase a horse show circuit was out of the question.
The Cowboy Wore A Kilt Page 2
