by Claire King
Calla grabbed for the pitchfork she kept neatly hung on one long wooden interior wall, and dropped her chin to her chest in utter defeat when she found it wasn't there.
"Lester," she said grimly.
She reluctantly flipped on the light behind her, sorry to disturb the quiet dark of her barn. Bubba, Benny's old gray, the only horse allowed to sleep in the soft straw of the barn floor, looked mournfully over his stall wall at her.
"Hey, Bubba," Calla crooned in the direction of the old gelding, scooping a coffee can full of whole oats out of a barrel. "What's the matter, sweetheart? You don't like me waking you up?"
She dumped the oats into the grain bin under Bubba's nose. He grunted his approval, blowing at her quickly with his soft, wrinkled lips before nosing into the oats.
"Poor Bubba," she said, stepping up onto the bottom wood slat of the stall. She leaned forward and rubbed Bubba's thick neck with the top of her head, loosening long strands of hair from her careful ponytail to mix with the old horse's mane. "You lonesome, Bubba? You lonesome for Benny? Well, you and me both, boy."
"Who's Benny?" said a voice behind her.
"Geez!" Calla said, as she jumped from her perch and whirled around to face the voice. The boot kicker leaned against the jamb of the enormous old barn door. And smiled at her.
"Sorry, I saw the light on in the barn and thought I might find somebody out here," he said.
"Well, thanks for scaring the living heck out of me for the second time today," Calla said. She smoothed the loose hair back against her head. "Henry, right? What are you doing skulking around my barn in the middle of the night, Henry?"
Henry turned his wrist to her. "It's nine-thirty, and I'm not skulking. I'm looking for the manager of this ranch, and when I saw the light on. I thought he might be out here."
"She is out here," Calla said. "I'm the manager. What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for a job," he said.
"A job? A ranch-hand job?"
"Yeah. You got any work around here? Just for the summer probably."
It was her turn to eye him. He was still leaning against the barn doorjamb, his arms crossed against his chest, one booted foot planted in front of the other. There was that body again, Calla thought. Not ranch hand skinny, but strong and tall. Nice.
"Have you ever done ranch work before?" Calla asked. She looked him up and down. Not entirely for professional purposes, she had to admit to herself after the second or third pass.
She shook her head a little and raised her eyes back to his. She was a little annoyed to see he was smiling at her again, and now his smile held something else. A challenge, maybe? Oh, brother.
"A little," he said.
"A little what? Oh, ranch work. Well, can you drive a tractor? We're putting up hay starting tomorrow. Then I'll need a fence rider through September, when we bring the herd in off the government land. You ever do any fence riding?"
"A little," he answered again.
Calla looked at him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I thought you said you were from California?"
"I did. We've got ranches in California, too, you know. Big ones. You want references from people who will swear I'm not Jack the Ripper?
Calla shook her head. "This isn't L.A., spud. You don't know what you're doing, I'll know it in a week, maybe less. You do know what you're doing, I don't really care if you are Jack the Ripper. I just need someone to help me put up the hay and ride my fences. Got it?"
He grinned at her. "Got it."
Well, she thought, at least he was unflappable. Half the men she'd ever hired quit after her very first sign of temper.
"Fine," she said. "You can start tomorrow. You got someplace to stay?"
"I thought I'd stay up in Paradise," Henry answered.
"And drive thirty minutes out to the ranch every morning? Forget it. I wouldn't see you 'til 9:00 a.m. We start at dawn around here. You can bunk with Lester. Of course," she grumbled, "I don't usually see Lester 'til 9:00 a.m., so I guess the bunkhouse isn't much better than town after all."
"Who's Lester?"
"You'll see."
"Who's Benny?"
"You ask a lot of questions, don't you, Henry?" She smiled at him, cocking her head. "Must be the Californian in you," she teased.
She looked adorable, Henry thought, in her city shorts and cowboy boots. As he'd made his way across the Idaho desert to this ranch, he'd wondered if she could look as adorable as she had—grunting and puffing—changing that tire. Clearly, he mused, wondering at the sharp and unfamiliar punch of lechery he felt, she could.
"Must be. So, we've got a deal? About the job?" He pushed himself off the jamb with his shoulder, crossed the distance between them in three long strides and reached out to her with his right hand.
He grinned at her with those perfect teeth. Daring her.
Calla grinned back. She never backed away from a dare. "Deal," she said, slipping her hand into his. Henry shook it firmly. His hand was warm and dry and rough. Ranch hands, Calla thought. He'll work out. She returned his grip with equal firmness. Benny taught her early on that a woman in a man's business had to do most things like a man.
And some things she had to do better.
They held the handshake just an instant too long. They both knew it. And before he could stop himself, Henry began to rub at the pulse of her wrist with his thumb. He could feel her blood beat in her veins.
"Calla?" came another voice from the gloom outside the shaft of light that spilled from the barn door.
"Clark." Calla snatched her hand back. She gave Henry a little shove and slipped past him. "Clark. I didn't know you were here. When did you get back?" Calla reached up on her toes and brushed her lips against the mouth of the slender man who was stepping up onto the wood plank floor of the barn.
"Today. This afternoon. Helen told me you were out here. She didn't tell me you had company." Clark reached his hand out to Henry, who had moved diplomatically over to Bubba's stall when Calla shoved him. "Clarkston Shaw the Third. Dartmouth, Class of '89."
Calla let an exasperated little sigh escape her. Henry glanced at her, then stuck out his hand.
"This is Henry," Calla broke in before Henry could speak. "Um, Henry Something. I just hired him for the summer."
"Beckett," Henry said. It was the name on his new driver's license and credit card, and the name he'd been using for six weeks now, but it didn't yet come comfortably to his lips. He wondered when it would.
"Beckett," Clarkston Shaw ruminated over that for a minute, giving Henry a quick once-over, taking in the worn jeans and boots, the smear of manure already decorating them. "I don't think I know any Becketts. Did you go to Dartmouth?" He shot Henry a condescending wink.
Calla sucked her lower lip into her mouth to keep a second sigh of annoyance from escaping. Henry quirked his eyebrows at her, wondering if she noticed the guy talked like he had a lump of horse crap stuck to the top of his mouth. And if she did notice, what was she thinking?
"Calla—" Clark turned to Calla, dismissing the man and his manured boots before Henry could respond "—we'd better get back inside. I have a lot to tell you. Dad found some lovely property in the Hamptons he thinks would make a wonderful resort development." He looked her over and his eyes rested on her hare legs tucked inside her pointy cowboy boots. "And I'm sure you'll want to get out of those boots."
"Uh, yeah, hold on," Calla said, suddenly a little breathless. Her movements, always sure and smooth in her beloved barn, abruptly became uncertain. "Let me fork a little hay over to Bubba, first."
"I'll take care of him," Henry said quietly as she brushed past him. For an alarming split second, Calla thought Henry was going to reach out and touch her again, but he stood reassuringly still.
"Okay. Thanks. So, I'll see you in the morning?"
"Dawn, right?" He smiled again.
"Dawn," she answered, and turned to catch Clark's outstretched hand. A thought occurred to her and she turned quickly to Henry
again. "Wait, where you gonna stay tonight? You want me to show you the bunkhouse?"
"Nope. I got a bag in the back of my pickup. I've been sleeping in that. See you in the morning."
"Yeah, see you. And thanks—" she jerked her hand toward Bubba "—for the horse, I mean."
"No problem." His easy grin was gone. "Anything for the outfit."
She glanced at him quickly as she allowed Clark to pull her out of the barn. Henry had already located the missing pitchfork and was flaking some hay into Bubba's stall with no regard for her. As she walked outside she could hear him talking to Bubba in a low voice.
* * *
When he was sure she wasn't looking back at him anymore, Henry turned slowly and watched the couple move off into the night. He had that feeling again, he realized. That hit-in-the-chest-with-a-plank feeling. A real regular thing with this lady, he mused.
She had her hand tucked into the hand of Dartmouth, Class of '89. Henry wondered what it would feel like to shove a fist in that guy's smug, skinny face. Not a Dartmouth family, huh? He hadn't hit anybody since he was a teenager, but he'd make an exception in this case.
He moved his gaze from Calla's hand to her swinging hips. She was practically dancing next to Dartmouth.
Boom, another plank.
Big trouble, he thought. Big. He'd known it when he'd driven into Paradise earlier that evening and asked at the tiny grocery about the woman with the chestnut hair and the old Chevy pickup. He didn't know why he asked exactly, but when he found himself following the directions to Calla's ranch, he knew he was jumping into trouble with both feet.
Henry wasn't accustomed to trouble. Calla kind of trouble. Order was the rule of his life. Until six weeks ago, anyway, when he'd bought the new truck and took off for points unknown.
And as he watched Calla Bishop and Dartmouth, Class of '89, go off together into the night, and puzzled over the heavy feeling in his chest, he knew he'd once again tossed his ordered existence to the wild winds.
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Calla awakened the next morning with a thick headache. Clark had brought a bottle of wine from his father's cellar and they'd stayed up too late talking about the Hampton development. She could listen to Clark for hours. Which was a good thing, because he sure could talk for hours.
Calla was instantly ashamed of that nasty little thought. Clark was fascinating, she reminded herself. It was the hangover talking. Clark was perfect for her. There was nothing about him that wasn't just what she wanted. Just what she needed. Clark was smart, smooth, savvy. All the things every man in Paradise was not. All the things she'd need if she was going to save her ranch.
Of course, she thought as she stretched and yawned, running her fingers through the tangled mass of her hair, she could also use a couple aspirin and a giant cup of coffee.
After a quick bath, Calla pulled on panties and a bra and T-shirt, trying to ignore the pounding behind her eyes, and glanced out her window, checking for clouds or wind or anything else that might ruin her plans for haying. A light was on in the shop. Lester forgot to turn it off last night, she thought wearily. She ought to take the electric bill out of his hide.
Then she saw a small movement inside the shop. Her breath caught in her throat and she moved quickly to the window. Lester was never awake this early, and she hadn't heard the door to the house, so it wasn't her dad. She opened the window and leaned out.
"Hey," she shouted. "Who's out there?"
Henry poked his head around the shop door. Calla exhaled in relief. Between the wine and the Hamptons and the headache, she'd forgotten about him. She made out his smile in the strong light of the shop. How did a girl forget that smile? she wondered.
"Hey. It's dawn." He stretched out his wrist, even though she was at least fifty yards away.
"Very funny. I'll be down in a minute." She shut her window and flicked off the light switch in her bedroom. He probably wasn't looking up at her, but just in case, she didn't want him to see her in her underwear. She grabbed her jeans and a pair of socks, putting them on as she went down the stairs. In the kitchen, she started the coffee and stamped into her boots. When she stepped off the kitchen stoop onto the stone steps, she noticed the Idaho sun, fire-bright and hot already, coming fast from behind the rimrock. She strode out to the shop.
"This place is a mess," Henry said, his back to her. Determined to forget the tantalizing little glimpse of his new boss in her T-shirt and panties he'd just got, he was tossing wrenches and screwdrivers into their separate compartments in a huge, antique toolbox that probably had belonged to Calla's grandfather. "I thought by the look of that barn last night, you'd have kept a cleaner shop. I couldn't find anything in here this morning."
"The shop is Lester's responsibility," Calla said, reaching around him to pick up a grease-and-dirt-encrusted Vise-Grip. "I've got enough to take care of. Besides, he and Dad seem to be able to find everything, and since they're in charge of the equipment around here, I try not to fuss about it."
"Hmm." Henry opened another drawer in the toolbox and began to rummage around.
"What're you doing out here, anyway?"
"You said dawn. It's dawn." He pointed out at the strengthening daylight.
"I meant, what're you doing in the shop? Why didn't you come to the door?"
He grabbed a rag from the top of the toolbox and used it to clean some of the ancient grease from the handle of a claw hammer. "No lights on. I didn't want to wake anybody up. You Idahoans sleep in. Not like us Californians."
"Huh," Calla grunted, tossing the Vise-Grip back into the box. "Well, I'm going to the barn. Breakfast is at six. You can meet everybody then, except Lester probably. We'll discuss your wages."
"I'll come with you. I'm done here for now," Henry said. He closed the now tidy toolbox and wiped his hands on the rag.
They walked in silence out to the barn. Calla swung the big door open. It creaked familiarly.
"Needs grease," Henry said absently. They walked inside. "And I noticed last night the floor needs a little work, too. Good winter project."
"Yeah, well, you're just here for summer projects, remember? But thanks so much for your advice. I just love it when new ranch hands give me advice about my own place on their first day on the job."
Henry grinned. "Sorry, ma'am."
"Ma'am? Oh, brother." She reached for the pitchfork. It was back on its hook. A good sign.
"You want Bubba out?" Henry asked, unlatching the stall door.
"Yeah, he goes out to the barnyard during the day. He just stays in here at night. Better for his old bones."
She watched Henry as he looped a lead rope around the horse's neck and led the big gray gelding outside to the wide, shady yard that surrounded the barn. He gave Bubba a gentle slap on the rump and watched him until he joined the other dozen or so horses that stood across the fence in the horse pasture. The animals nickered soft recognition at one another.
Henry turned and walked back to the barn. He hung the lead rope back on the hook on the wall. Calla bent to her work, scooping grain into a large metal bucket. Henry took a flat-bottomed shovel from another hook and walked into Bubba's stall.
"Nice horse," Henry said, shoveling straw and fresh manure into a pile.
"Uh-huh."
"A good old ranch horse is hard to find."
"That's true."
"I saw a couple horses out there this morning that look older than he does. Why does he sleep in the barn?"
"He belongs to Benny," Calla said simply. Henry worked quietly for a minute more. "Belonged to Benny," she amended softly.
"Who's Benny?"
Calla stopped her work and looked at him. "Do you always talk this much? 'Cause I don't think I can stand it."
"Sorry, ma'am."
"Ma'am?" Calla chuckled in spite of herself and scooped another can full of grain into the bucket. "Don't be a knothead."
Henry looked up at her. "You sure have a mouth on
you."
"Yeah, I've been told." Calla smiled. "Too bad for you."
"Not really." He smiled back. "I kinda like it."
"Oh, brother." In spite of herself, Calla turned a nice, embarrassing shade of pink.
They worked together for a while, Calla moving carefully past him to toss fresh hay in Bubba's tidied stall.
"So, who's Benny?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake. You don't give up, do you?"
"Not usually."
"Benny was my brother. He died nine years ago, and left me and Bubba behind. I take care of Bubba, Bubba takes care of me. That enough information for you?"
"Sorry."
"Whatever. I'm outta here." Calla brushed bits of straw from the front of her clothes and walked briskly out the barn door. "Close it when you come," she shouted over her shoulder.
She walked into the house a minute later and found herself face-to-face with Lester and her father. Lester looked at her accusingly.
"Well?" Lester drawled. Calla's teeth set on edge. "I reckon you can explain this?"
"Explain what?"
"Explain about that fella what slept in the driveway last night," Lester said.
"I thought he slept in his pickup," Calla said, pulling a mug from the cupboard and pouring herself a cup of coffee.
"Calla?" Her father was unruffled, as always. Calla occasionally wondered how such a hotheaded girl could have come from such an unflappable father. "You know what Lester's talking about?"
"Yep," she answered, taking a slurp from her cup.
"Well?" Lester's voice was brisk now. Brisk for Lester, anyway. "You hire that fella or not? Strolled in the bunkhouse this morning, didn't even knock, and took himself a shower. Said you'd hired him on last night."
"I wondered what got you up so early this morning, Lester," Calla said over the lip of her cup. "Can't think of the last time I saw you before nine o'clock. You look good. Bright as a penny."
