by Linda Howard
She logged on to Facebook under her fake name, Zoey Harris. Her sister had suggested the name Zoey because it was unusual enough that someone looking for a bland, unnoticeable name would never think of it. It was a little like the “hide in plain sight” theory.
The fictional Zoey Harris lived in Florida, and was ostensibly no more than a casual friend to her sister. Carlin never posted a private message on her sister’s page, because Facebook accounts could be hacked, which she assumed meant that private messages could be read. She didn’t know for sure, but she wasn’t willing to take the chance. Whenever she did post something on her sister’s wall, she did it right out in the open, where it wouldn’t look important.
She read all of Robin’s posts; nothing out of the ordinary was going on, just the usual family activities. Then she went to her brother’s page, and found the same thing, only Kin’s comments tended more toward sports. Back again to her sister’s page, where she posted a brief message about wishing for summer vacation to end so the kids would be back in school. That kind of innocuous message signaled her family that she was all right.
It was tempting, while she was in front of a computer, to run a check on Brad’s name to see if he’d been arrested. He’d gotten away with Jina’s murder, but maybe he’d moved on to someone else and run into trouble. No matter how tempting it might be, though, she didn’t type his name into the search bar. She didn’t dare. There were programs you could use to find out who’d searched your name. If Brad had one of those set up, he’d know instantly where the search had originated. Maybe right before she left town, she’d run a search and see if anything popped up.
No. She couldn’t do that.
A shudder walked down her spine. She’d never purposely draw Brad here, to a place where people she liked lived and worked, to a place small enough that he could gather bits of information about her. Maybe on her next stop in a big city, wherever that might be, she’d do a search on him. Maybe she’d go to Chicago. Yeah, let him spend a few weeks trying to find her there, long after she’d moved on.
Carlin was back in The Pie Hole in plenty of time to change into her uniform—pink like Kat’s, with a curly “C” embroidered over the pocket—and get the main room set for lunch. The pies and cakes were baking, so the place smelled wonderful. It smelled like … home. Not a home Carlin had ever known, because the domestic arts hadn’t figured prominently in her life, but she didn’t know any other way to describe the scent.
Time passed fast when the place was busy, and as usual she and Kat fell into a kind of rhythm as the pace of business picked up. It was almost like a dance: serving food, talking to the customers, laughing at jokes that were sometimes funny and sometimes not, making sure no one’s drink glass or mug was ever empty, cooking up orders whenever someone didn’t choose the daily special. Maybe it could be classified as menial labor, but Carlin was enjoying herself. She liked the people here, and Kat was gradually becoming a real friend.
They were in the middle of the lunch rush—Carlin behind the counter and Kat making the rounds with a pitcher of tea in one hand and a carafe of coffee in the other, because she could handle pouring on the go better than Carlin could—when the cowboy walked in. Carlin couldn’t help but notice him. What warm-blooded woman wouldn’t? He was tall and muscular, and he moved with an iron confidence that said he knew his strength and hadn’t met much that could stop him. She had to call him handsome, though he wasn’t, not really. His face wasn’t perfect and sculpted, it was on the rough and hard side, but she was going on her reaction to him rather than what her eyes saw. She went warm and breathless, and looked away because staring at him was abruptly too much, too dangerous in a way she sensed but couldn’t quite grasp, at least not consciously. He was every inch the heartbreaker cowboy Kat had warned her away from—and damn if he didn’t charge the air when he walked into the place.
He was bad news all the way around, she recognized that much right away. She ignored her racing heartbeat as she refilled a cup of coffee, smiling at the older man sitting on the other side of the counter while she concentrated on not looking at the new customer.
The cowboy nodded to Kat, who gave him a bright smile. She couldn’t wave, considering she was carrying both a pitcher of tea and a coffeepot, but her pleasure at seeing him was obvious. He took a booth, the same one Carlin had chosen her first day here, sliding into the seat that put his back to the wall and gave him a clear view of the door. So, who was he running from?
No damn body, that was who. She didn’t know him, but Carlin doubted he’d ever backed down from much in his entire life. He just had that look, which meant he was probably a pain in the ass to deal with, but at least the physical scenery was fine.
A couple of the cowboys at the counter said hello, greeted the newcomer like an old acquaintance. Hey, Zeke. He returned their greetings, but that was it. From his slightly grim expression he seemed to be in a bad mood, though that could be his default setting.
Out of the corner of her eye, Carlin saw Kat head in Zeke’s direction. They spoke like old friends, she took his order—without writing it down, as usual—and then she came back to the counter. “A daily special and a coffee, black, for my wayward cousin.”
“Wayward?” And her cousin?
“He doesn’t come to see me nearly often enough. If not for my pies I’d be lucky to see him twice a year.”
The Pie Hole was small, and of course Zeke heard every word Kat said. “I’m busy,” he explained, his voice raised slightly so Kat could hear. “Give me a break.”
Then his gaze moved to Carlin, held, focused, and she gave a quick, involuntary shiver. He might be in a bad mood, but he wasn’t shy. He didn’t look away, the way most of Kat’s male customers did if they were caught looking too long or too hard. No, he just kept staring, steady and still and … lethal. The shiver walked down her spine, a tickle of instinct. Zeke looked at her the way a hungry man might look at a slice of Kat’s apple pie.
Oh, crap. That was a comparison she didn’t need to have in her head, even if she hadn’t voiced it aloud. She felt her face turning red.
“I’ll get his order,” she said, turning on her heel and all but bolting for the kitchen. She felt a little like she was making an escape.
Heaven save her from macho men who thought they ruled the world just because they had a penis. Well, penises. Plural, right? And, yes, she was assigning him to that category because the last thing she needed was to let herself get involved. The strength of her reaction to him was warning enough.
She put the order together on his plate: meatloaf; mashed potatoes and gravy; green beans that were too underdone for her tastes, but then again she liked her green beans cooked to the point where they no longer actually resembled a bean of any kind, the way her mom had made them; a soft roll—homemade, which kind of blew Carlin’s mind. Who made homemade rolls when the prebaked ones were fine? Okay, these were extraspecial good, but still. Kat didn’t make homemade rolls every day, but at least once a week the entire place was filled with the scent of baking bread; therefore, if Carlin was never again completely satisfied with a ready-made dinner roll, it was all Kat’s fault. The customers liked them, too; word seemed to spread whenever there were fresh rolls on the menu.
The order was ready; Carlin left the kitchen with the plate on a tray, prepared to hand it over to Kat, who’d waited on Zeke the cowboy-cousin. But Kat was talking to a customer at the counter, and waved Carlin over to her cousin’s table.
Great.
While Carlin had been preparing the order, Kat had placed a steaming mug of coffee and silverware wrapped in a napkin in front of Zeke. All Carlin had to do was set the food before him, ask if he needed anything else, and skedaddle. She didn’t have to look at him, didn’t have to notice whether or not he was looking at her.
But of course he was looking at her. Hard. And it was impossible not to notice.
She couldn’t say the cowboy and Kat shared any strong family resemblance, but there was
something about their eyes. Not in color—his were green, and Kat’s were that arresting blue-gray. It wasn’t the shape, either. But when it came to intensity, there was a definite similarity. Those eyes could look right through her. She approached him feeling as if she were Superman getting closer and closer to Kryptonite.
As she set the food in front of him his gaze never wavered. It wasn’t a particularly friendly look, but it was definitely male and assessing. He didn’t make even a token attempt to disguise what he was thinking; mentally he already had her stripped. If she hadn’t had such a visceral reaction to him she’d have been able to ignore the look, but having to deal with herself as well as him had her nerves on edge.
“Thanks,” he said, but he didn’t even glance at the plate.
With an effort, she kept her expression bland and unresponsive, and her tone the same way. “Can I get you anything else?” That was good; she sounded just like any of a million other waitresses who just wanted to get through their shifts without any trouble.
“No, I’m set.”
Okay. Easy enough. She blew out a mental breath of relief. She was about to make a quick getaway when he said, “You’re new.”
Damn! So close … Annoyance seeped in; she didn’t like feeling as if she wasn’t in complete control of herself, and she resented him for being such a testosterone carrier, resented herself for being susceptible. She didn’t like his interest, didn’t welcome his questions. In another time, another place—but this wasn’t that other time or place, this was here and now, and she had enough of a load already without throwing a hard-ass cowboy into the mix.
“Not really,” she said, her tone just a little curt. “I’m older than I look.”
Zeke’s eyebrows barely lifted. His gaze flickered, got even more intense. Instead of being put off by her response, it seemed to push him further.
He glanced down at her breast. “What’s the C for?”
“Cautious,” she fired back. Whose idea was it to put the monogram on the breast, anyway? Why wasn’t it on the sleeve? Or the collar?
He made a low sound in his throat, a kind of acknowledgment that he’d received the hands-off signal she was sending. He acknowledged it, but that didn’t mean he was giving up just yet. “Where are you from, Cautious? Not from around here, I know that much.”
“Do you know everyone who lives in a hundred-mile radius of Battle Ridge?”
“Nope, but the accent is all wrong, and you’ve got a bit of a tan. It’s fading, but it’s still there. It’s not a fake tan, either, like you’d get from a tanning bed. I saw you on the street earlier and you were wearing a jacket. Lightweight, but more than a local would need, so I’d say you’re used to warmer weather. From the accent, I’m guessing … Texas.”
His accuracy sent a chill down her spine. She didn’t need anyone guessing anything about her, especially not where she was from. This was a heads-up to start work on altering her accent. “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” she said, and managed a tone of supreme disinterest. Then she ruined it by pointing out, “You have a tan.”
“I work outside. You don’t.”
“I don’t live my entire life inside. You need to eat before your food gets cold,” she added, stepping away to make a quick escape before she slipped up again and showed more interest than she wanted.
Finally he looked down at his plate, and he heaved a big sigh. It was so unexpected, so … human, that it stopped her. “Stone cold, this would be the best meal I’ve had in weeks.” Then the laser beam gaze came back to her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Carlin gave him a fake smile. “Not gonna.” She turned away from him then, went back to the counter where she grabbed a carafe of coffee and refilled a few mugs even though Kat had made the rounds just a few minutes ago. She looked at everyone in the place except Zeke. She smiled at those men she already knew as regulars, but her thoughts were churning. Was Zeke with the hard green eyes and way too much interest going to force her to leave a good situation before she was ready? Possible. Maybe even probable.
She’d always known Battle Ridge, Kat, and The Pie Hole wouldn’t last; she’d never had any intention of staying. Even though she’d stumbled onto room and board and nice people, Carlin had been poised to leave, possibly in the middle of the night, without saying goodbye, without offering explanations. It was as if she’d been standing on the edge of a canyon, knowing that sooner or later she’d have to jump.
But she didn’t want to jump, not yet, and it made her angry to think that she might have to leave because some cowboy started asking too many questions. What business was it of his where she came from, anyway? None, that’s what.
Stubbornness was a character flaw, but in that moment she mentally dug in her heels. Maybe she couldn’t stay here forever; maybe she couldn’t entirely let down her guard, but she was damned if one nosy cowboy was going to run her out of town before she was ready to go.
Chapter Five
ZEKE ATE TOO fast, his gaze staying on the new waitress—“Cautious,” my ass—as he shoveled in the hot meal. Something about her didn’t ring true, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the problem. Maybe there was no problem. Maybe his dick was getting in the way.
When she finished waiting on the men at the counter, Kat headed his way with two boxed pies in her hands. After eating Spencer’s cooking for a while, the guys were going to inhale those pies tonight.
She placed the boxes on the other side of the table, then slid onto the opposite bench. “How’ve you been?”
“Busy.”
“I know summer is a tough time on the ranch.” She sounded almost … sympathetic. That wasn’t like her. Kat was a no nonsense “buck up and do what you have to do” kinda girl. “Have you had any luck finding a new housekeeper?”
The sparkle in her eyes, the unusual attempt at sympathy—why did he think this wasn’t just a casual question from a caring cousin who was merely concerned about his home life?
“Nope.”
Kat’s mother, Aunt Ellie, had moved away from Battle Ridge years ago, after remarrying—to a decent man, this time around, one who didn’t need to have his ass kicked as he was being run out of town. Kat looked a lot like her mother, and she had also inherited Aunt Ellie’s touch in the kitchen.
“You can always leave this behind and come work for me.” It wasn’t the first time he’d made the suggestion, or the first time she’d laughed at the very idea. He wasn’t serious, anyway. She had her own business, her own life, and while blood might be thicker than water that didn’t mean she was going to throw away everything she’d worked for just because he couldn’t find a combination cook/housekeeper.
“In your dreams. But I did have a thought …” There was that sparkle again, the one that made him wary. For as long as he could remember, that particular twinkle in her eyes had always meant trouble. “The new girl, Carly …”
“No,” Zeke said decisively.
“You didn’t even let me finish the sentence!”
“Not necessary. You’ve picked up a stray and you can’t afford to keep her on through the winter, so you want to pawn her off on me. How close is that to the truth?”
Kat frowned. “Carly’s not a stray,” she snapped, then lowered her voice. “She can cook well enough to cover the basics, she needs the work, and you’re desperate.”
“Not that desperate.” He knew better. Cautious Carly would be trouble on the ranch. He’d already been through that once, with three of the hands going after the youngish, unattached woman he’d hired, and he’d almost had to fire all three of them just when he needed them most. Being shorthanded in the middle of haying would have been disastrous. He wanted a male cook; failing that, a woman who was at least middle-aged was his second choice. One of Kat’s strays, and an attractive one with a sassy mouth to boot, was dead last on his list; he could only imagine the trouble she’d cause.
Besides, if she worked for him that would complicate things. Even a moderately pretty
woman on the ranch was a bad idea, he knew that now. A young, pretty woman who made his dick stand up and salute? Disaster.
As it was, he couldn’t get that extra-fine ass out of his mind; when he had more time he might do something about it.
Kat slid out of the booth, and keeping her hand low so no one but him could see, she shot him a quick but decisive middle finger. He laughed and returned to what was left of his meal, which wasn’t much; he’d eaten most of it on autopilot. It was no wonder the male customers lingered after their lunches were long gone, drinking coffee, talking to one another and eating dessert, watching the two women who all but danced around the place. This place was like a male fantasy: Kat and Carly—one brunette, one blond; both good-looking. Good food. Hell, the only thing missing was a stripper pole—okay, forget the stripper pole, because Kat was his cousin. Or reserve the stripper pole for Carly. Yeah, that worked for him.
Kat disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Carly working the counter. Zeke caught her eye and said, in a voice just loud enough to carry, “Hey, Cautious, how about a piece of pie and a refill on my coffee?” He lifted his half-empty mug. The Pie Hole was a casual kind of place where customers thought nothing of calling out comments to each other or to Kat, and now Carly was part of it.
“Sure thing, Sherlock,” she shot back. “Blueberry or caramel?”
Either one would be good, though he’d been kind of hoping for apple. “Surprise me,” he answered, then settled back to see what she brought. As long as it wasn’t a cow pie, he was good.
