“If you want references, I can provide a few names for you to contact.”
She jerked her gaze to his. “Why are you here?” she asked, then added, “I don’t mean here on the Lazy F, I mean in this area. It’s pretty barren this far north, and with fall coming, these mountains aren’t going to get any friendlier.”
“Guess I’m what you’d call a wanderer. Can’t seem to find any one place that interests me enough to make me want to stay. I move when I want, work when I can, then move on again. I like it that way.
“Sounds lonely to me.”
“If I want to be around people, I go where there’s people.”
“I didn’t say alone. I said lonely. Big difference.”
“Sounds to me like it might be more your problem than mine.”
His uncanny perception rattled her, but Elizabeth shoved that fact aside and focused on the decision at hand. “So you want to help me because restoring a barn is more interesting than wrangling cows?”
“Didn’t say that. But if you’re asking me if you’re more interesting to me than a herd of cattle, then I’d have to say yes. Yes, you are.”
Elizabeth gripped the beam next to her shoulder, wondering how big a mistake she was about to make. Possibly bigger than the one she’d made the night she’d decided to follow Sam to one of his frequent late-night meetings. A mistake that had forced her to run for her life.
“The only materials you’ll have to work with are whatever you can scrounge up from the outbuildings. I don’t have money to invest in building supplies. I can’t promise to fill your stomach every night, but if I have enough for two, you’re welcome to share.” She turned away and headed toward the barn door, forcing herself to breathe evenly and walk slowly. What was she doing? “Oh, and I do want that list of references.”
She’d walked several yards away from the barn when he spoke from behind her. “I’ll get them to you before nightfall. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to check out the buildings and make a list of the materials—”
She whirled around. “I thought I’d made it clear—”
“You did,” he broke in quietly. “But my bartering skills aren’t limited to getting a stubborn redhead to admit she needs help in exchange for room and board.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to correct him about her hair color. Being a redhead was a new experience. An old adage proved correct. If the life she’d led since the day she’d left Boise was any indication, blondes most definitely had more fun.
She put her hands on her hips, determined to take charge before things got any further out of hand. “Fine. Just don’t trade away anything on this property without asking me first. And you might think about finding a place to sleep before it gets dark. I have running water piped in from an uphill stream, but my propane is limited, so no hot water unless it’s necessary. No electricity, either. I have to pick another couple of quarts of berries, so I can’t promise you dinner tonight. If you need a place to store any of your gear until you get the bunkhouse livable, let me know. I’ll make room for it in the house.” She paused for a breath.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She squinted in the sun, but was unable to determine from either his expression or his tone if he was teasing her. Somehow, she didn’t think he was the type. And to her eternal dismay she found herself wondering just what type he was.
Kane watched Ann Fielding walk away from him. His instincts and his research left very little doubt that she was actually Elizabeth Lawson-Perkins.
So why wasn’t he heading back to Boise with her in tow? A whole lot of money was waiting there for him. All he had to do was hand her over to Sam Perkins, take his fee, and walk away. Walk away. Yeah, he was a real pro at that.
Kane shook his head and turned on his heel, taking off around the old ranch house and heading for the big bay mare he’d left tied to the porch railing. He’d been so distracted by his mixed reaction to Ms. Lawson-Perkins that he’d neglected to mention the horse.
Rubbing her muzzle, Kane spoke to her softly in his native tongue, glad she’d been available when he’d needed to ditch his truck in a hurry. He unstrapped his duffel bag and saddle packs, then loosened the cinch on the saddle. He hung it over the sturdiest section of porch railing, scooped up his gear, and headed around the house. Telling her about the horse was going to be the least of his problems.
Kane didn’t even bother ignoring the jolt his system received from observing her lush backside as she bent on her hands and knees to pick more berries. It was a position that brought an immediate answer to his earlier mental query.
He wasn’t dragging her to Boise because his brains had gone south for the summer. He’d be lying if he said his reaction to her hadn’t surprised the hell out of him. He’d hardly expected a wild-haired redhead with brand-new freckles, scrabbling around in the bushes for wild berries, sporting sponges for knee pads. He’d also been surprised to learn that on the right woman, freckles could be sexy as sin.
Of course, she wasn’t the right woman.
Not for him, at any rate. She was a wanted woman. A married, wanted woman.
But one look had been enough to confirm his suspicions of three weeks earlier as he’d stood in Perkins’s office. This was no errant wife with a grudge. And until he figured out what the hell was really going on, he was a hired hand on the Lazy F.
Elizabeth cast a wary glance at the barn. After Kane had all but splintered the remains of the bunkhouse door several hours before, he’d dumped his gear inside and headed into the rickety building. She heard several thumps and a few loud crashes, but avoided giving in to the temptation to go inside and find out what he was doing. Being alone with him in that dark, steamy barn again was not a good idea.
She stood and arched her back, massaging her spine with her gloved fingers. She checked the sun and figured she had just enough time to rinse off the day’s harvest in the clear spring that spouted from a tumble of rocks up the hill behind the barn. Groaning as she stooped to grab the bucket, she froze in midpull as a high whinnying sound echoed across the yard.
She could have sworn it sounded like a horse. Not all that uncommon in this area of northern Idaho, but considering the nearest ranch was over the next ridge, it was a bit surprising. The horse whinnied again, and without thinking, Elizabeth set the bucket down and headed toward the front of the small, four-room ranch house.
Beside the rusty old pickup truck she’d gone to unbelievable lengths to purchase, was a huge bay mare with white spots splashed across her rump. She walked over to her, pulled off one glove, and held up her hand. The horse nuzzled her bare palm. “Sorry, girl, I don’t have anything for you.”
Someone, and she had to assume it was Kane, since there was no other car around, had tied the horse to her porch and slung the saddle over the remaining section of railing that hadn’t dry-rotted or fallen apart from neglect.
She stroked the lush black mane. “No wonder I didn’t hear him coming.”
A dark forearm snaked past her shoulder, a hand much larger than hers ran down the mare’s neck.
“I should have mentioned her earlier.”
Elizabeth jumped, then stilled, barely swallowing the shriek that had risen in her throat. She told herself it was his bad habit of sneaking up on her, not his deep baritone voice, that did unnatural things to her blood pressure. “Yes, you should have,” she managed at length.
“She won’t be any trouble, I take full responsibility for her maintenance.”
“Fine.” She didn’t doubt he’d be true to his word. The horse probably wouldn’t be any trouble. But considering the way her heart pounded every time Kane got within three feet of her, she had to wonder if the same could be said of the mare’s owner.
TWO
“I cleared out a place in the barn for her. Hope you don’t mind.”
Unsettled by his nearness, Elizabeth simply nodded.
Kane didn’t say anything else. He slipped the lead from the railing and hefted the saddle to
his shoulder. He’d led the mare halfway to the side of the house before she found her voice.
“I’m making vegetable stew tonight.”
He paused, but didn’t look back right away. She took the moment to admire how straight his back was, how wide his shoulders, how nicely his jeans—Whoa. Maybe Kane had hit a little too close to home with his comment about her loneliness. She’d admit that her prolonged isolation was a part of why she’d accepted his offer, even when she knew the risks outweighed the benefits. But that didn’t mean she was foolish enough to let herself think about Kane in any way other than as a capable pair of hands helping her in a time of need.
He turned slightly, and even from a distance she felt the impact of his gaze. “I’d like to get a few more things done before it gets too dark. If that suits your plans, then I’d appreciate the meal.”
Again all she could do was nod. He nodded in return, and she stared after him until he disappeared around the side of the house. She started to climb the stairs to the sagging porch but remembered she’d forgotten her bucket.
She scanned the field beyond the barn as she crossed the backyard, but found no sign of Kane or his horse. She shrugged off the vague sense of disappointment and retrieved the berries. It was getting a bit late, and she decided to forgo rinsing them in the spring. She’d use some of the water from the tank in the house.
She picked up speed as she crossed the yard and went through the back door into the small antiquated kitchen. She pulled down a colander from a hook on the wall, gently dumped the berries inside, and pumped enough water to half fill the bucket. After carefully rinsing them, she wiped her hands on a towel and set about quickly chopping vegetables and tossing them into the iron kettle on the propane stove. It wasn’t until she’d dumped in some herbs and turned to lift a handful of berries that she realized she was rushing so she’d have time to make dessert before Kane arrived.
She rationalized that she’d more than earned the treat as she gathered the ingredients for cobbler. She certainly wasn’t trying to impress her newly hired hand. But she’d also be lying if she said she wasn’t looking forward to sharing a meal. The novelty of cooking for one—of cooking at all—had worn off after her first week here.
Her smile faltered as thoughts of Sam entered her mind. He’d hated finding her in the kitchen the few times she’d ventured into that gleaming chrome room in his posh home. He said the job of a bank president’s wife was to be the hostess, not the chef, even if they were the only two dining.
Elizabeth shivered for the third time that afternoon, only this time the reason was pure dread. It seemed so clear to her now. It made her stomach churn when she thought of how flattered she’d felt by Sam’s constant attention. After her initial panic had receded and she’d fled Matthew’s apartment for the Lazy F, she’d spent long hours trying to convince herself that any woman would have responded to Sam’s lavish care that way, would have taken his small, but constant suggestions about everything from her clothing to cosmetics as a sign of his devotion, as she had. Instead of as the early warning signals they really were; signs that something wasn’t quite right.
The back screen door slapped against the wood frame, and Kane Hawthorne stepped into the tiny kitchen.
“Sorry if I startled you. I knocked but I guess you didn’t hear.”
Elizabeth wasn’t sure why this man, a dark stranger with the most compelling eyes she’d ever seen, made her suddenly feel safer than she’d felt in a long time. She didn’t bother to analyze it, not wanting to ruin her first shared meal in months. “You seem to have a talent for catching me with my head in the clouds. If you need to wash up—”
“Done. I found a spring up the slope behind the barn. I let the mare loose on the far side of the barn. There were no bramble thickets around, so your crop should be safe.”
“Thanks, that was very considerate of you. Everything’s just about ready, if you want to have a seat.” She gestured to the small wooden table. It canted a bit on one side, but it was scrubbed clean and otherwise was serviceable enough.
“Smells good in here.” His large frame dwarfed the wooden chair.
She turned back to the stove, unable to keep the small triumphant smile from creeping across her face. “After being in that musty barn, I imagine anything would smell better.”
She turned in time to catch him staring at her again. She averted her gaze and set two small salads and a basket of bread on the table next to the crock of butter. She watched him stare at his salad for a moment, then at the bread, then finally up at her again.
“I know it might seem redundant to have a salad before vegetable stew, but …” She shrugged uncertainly as he continued to stare at her. It should have made her feel uncomfortable, and in a tingling, warm sort of way, she guessed it did.
She finally turned her attention to the rolls. “Help yourself. I wish I could say I made them, but I traded some jam for them at Dobs’s store.”
Kane’s hand reached out and engulfed the small glass jar sitting next to the butter crock. He lifted it and inspected it. “So, this is the legendary jam everyone’s raving about?”
She felt the warmth in her cheeks as he looked at her. “I don’t know about raving. But people seem to like it enough to buy it.”
“It must be something, if you need room to make more. Boundary Gap isn’t exactly overrun with tourists, or residents in need of jam, for that matter.”
“It was sort of a fluke. I, uh, noticed that the thickets bordering the fields were a goldmine of berries. So far I’ve found wild raspberries, huckleberries, lingonberries, even some wild plums—” She stopped short when she realized she was babbling. The man asks a simple question, and I sound like Peterson’s Guide to Edible Fruit. “Anyway,” she said, forcing a more casual note, “I scrounged around in here and found Grandma Fielding’s recipes for preserves. I took some to Dobs to … well, to trade.” She faltered for a moment, suddenly uncomfortable with just how much her story was revealing about her predicament.
“Sounds as if I’m not the only one with bartering skills around here.”
He didn’t smile, but his comment sounded sincere and went a long way toward easing the sudden tension.
“Well, to make a long story short, Dobs sold some to a woman who was traveling in the area looking for local crafts to sell at some of the fairs farther south, around Sandpoint and Coeur d’Alene. She liked it and thought it would be a good seller. Dobs knew I needed … well, he was nice enough to pass the word on to me. Then there’s Kootenai River Days later this month, and Bonners Ferry has a Boundary County Fair. So now I have less than a month to come up with as many jars of jam and preserves as I can.”
She realized he had been listening politely to her excited rush of words instead of eating. Her cheeks colored slightly, and she gestured to the basket of rolls. “Why don’t you try some and let me know what you think?”
“You going to join me?”
Elizabeth ignored the ridiculous spurt of pleasure his innocent request caused and lifted the stew to the table. Sitting down across from him, she said, “Yes, of course.”
She noticed he waited for her to take a roll and butter it before he did the same. He began eating as soon as she’d taken the first bite. She swallowed and said, “Your mother raised a gentleman, I see.” The words had sort of tumbled out. She wasn’t prepared for the storm clouds that crossed his face as the fork he was holding paused in midair. After a moment he continued the motion.
He was silent as he ate, the frown less visible now. He laid his fork down and picked up a roll, buttering it lightly before spreading on the jam. Elizabeth couldn’t seem to stop staring at him. She realized she wasn’t even making a pretense of eating. What had she said to make him tense up? Did she dare come out and ask?
He made short work of the roll. “This is really good,” he said quietly as if nothing had happened. “I understand the demand.”
“Thank you.” She finally looked away and tried to eat. May
be she’d imagined his reaction earlier.
“My grandmother was famous for her dried sweet fruit. It was known on the reservation that receiving a gift of a fruit basket from Cloud Dancer meant good luck would follow,” he said.
“Cloud Dancer. Pretty name. Which reservation? Wind River? Duck Valley?”
“Fort Hall. I am half Shoshone on my mother’s side. My father was British Columbian.”
“Was? He’s gone?” she asked, then quickly said, “I’m sorry, that was rude. It’s just, well, my folks died when I was a teenager and so I know how it feels …”
After a long pause, he said, “He’s not dead. Not as far as I know, anyway. He left my mother before I was born to go work pipeline in Alaska. I’m pretty sure she never expected him to return.”
“So, you grew up at Fort Hall?”
Now he concentrated on his stew. “For the most part. I left when I was seventeen.” And never went back.
He hadn’t spoken the last part out loud, but Elizabeth could hear the words so clearly, he might as well have. “It must have been hard for you on your own.”
“I managed well enough.”
“Still, I don’t know what I’d have done without Matthew after my folks died.”
“Matthew?”
“My older brother.” She smiled as she spoke of him. “He stuck with me, worked so I could go to school. Now he works for the government. Hush-hush stuff, he calls it.”
“Sounds like you both did okay. Do you see him much?”
“Not as often as I’d like. But he devoted so much of his life to me, I can hardly complain.”
“Nothing wrong with admitting you miss someone you love.”
She looked up, but his dark eyes were trained on his food. She wondered what he was seeing, doubting it was her stew. Did he miss someone he loved? “No,” she said softly, tamping down her sudden interest in him. “I suppose not.”
Her throat burned for a moment as reality came crashing back in around her. Kane’s sudden arrival in her life pointed out to her just how far she had yet to go in accepting her forced isolation. She was undeniably intrigued by him, found herself wanting to ask him questions about his past, his heritage. But was it Kane, the man, she was interested in, or did she simply want someone to talk to?
Bounty Hunter Page 2
