by Linda Howard
“Oh ho!” Darby grinned at him, though there was precious little humor in the expression. “Got the hots for her yourself, huh?”
Whether he did or not—and he admitted to himself there was a definite physical spark, at least on his part—had nothing to do with the situation, and he didn’t want the men thinking he looked at Carlin as his private sexual preserve. She deserved to be treated with respect, and he’d make damn sure she was. On the other hand, anything going on with Darby was something he wanted to nip in the bud, right now.
“No, what I have is a cook and a housekeeper, and I’ll be damned if I let you cause me to lose this one.”
“That wasn’t my fault—” Darby began, a whiny note entering his tone.
“I never said it was,” Zeke interrupted. “What I’m saying is, I don’t give a shit. Evidently I can find another ranch hand a hell of a lot easier than I can find a cook, so stay the hell away from her or it’s your ass that’ll be put on the road, not hers. That goes for every hand working here, not just you, so you might want to spread the word.”
He’d have to stay on his toes, he thought. Carlin was pretty. Not beautiful, not overtly sexy, but her features were finely drawn and delicate enough to make a man take notice, without even factoring in the pertness of those small, high breasts and the roundness of her ass. Men would always react to her. He’d have to make it plain to the horny single men on his place that she was completely off-limits.
For that matter, he’d have to remind himself. His dick had stood up and taken notice of her the very first time he’d seen her, and under different circumstances—well, the circumstances weren’t different. She was in a difficult situation, and her thorny disposition made it plain she wasn’t looking for any kind of romance, even the temporary kind, which was all he wanted anyway. Too bad. He’d live, though; a lack of sex was damned annoying, but it wasn’t fatal.
It was also too damn bad that he didn’t like walking away from something he wanted. He hadn’t had a lot of practice at it, and he wasn’t a good loser. What was good about losing? Not a damn thing.
What the hell had he been thinking, hiring her and bringing her out here?
Well, that part was easy. He’d been thinking that he wanted a clean house, clean clothes, and food that was worth eating. He’d been desperate enough that he’d deliberately ignored the physical attraction he felt for her. And, face it, he really wanted some long, hot rolls in the hay with Carlin and her sassy mouth, not to mention that fine ass. His good mood abruptly faded a bit, thinking of the months—maybe—ahead when he’d have to deny himself. There was no telling how long she’d stay, but one thing was for damn certain: she wasn’t here forever. The minute she didn’t feel safe, she’d be in the wind.
“What’s her name?” Eli asked. He was single, too, but not a horndog like Darby. Eli was in his forties, had been married once a long time ago when he was rodeoing. He’d go to some of the bars, do some dancing, but seldom actually dated. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t like to date, though. Zeke added Eli to his mental list of men to closely watch.
“Carly Hunt.” Thank God “Carly” was close enough to “Carlin” that if he slipped and said her real name the odds were no one would catch it. “What I just told Darby goes for you, too, Eli. Hell, it goes for everybody.” Even himself. Damn it.
“You don’t have to worry about me, boss,” Eli said evenly. “I reckon I’m as sick of what’s been passing for food around here as everyone else is.” His lips twitched a little, but he knew better than to smirk.
Darby didn’t.
CARLIN PAUSED TO take a breather—a very short one, because she felt as if she’d be crushed under an avalanche of laundry if she rested for too long. The washer and dryer were both running, as they had been almost constantly for the past three hours. The dishwasher was running, too, and she’d washed the worst of the pots and pans by hand. No dishwasher in the world would’ve gotten those burned pots clean. She was beginning to feel better about her job. Not only was she making progress, she hadn’t seen Zeke at all during those three hours. And she knew job security when she saw it; he obviously needed help way more than he’d let on.
Maybe if she didn’t have to see him, she wouldn’t have to worry about her out-of-control hormones misbehaving. Besides, by the end of the day she’d be so tired, even the most insistent hormone would be too exhausted to quiver.
Her first order of the day had been to take stock of the pantry and fridge, see what was available, and make a plan for dinner. Both were well stocked, for which she was deeply grateful. She supposed she should also be grateful that her boss hadn’t expected her to prepare lunch for nine—ten, if she counted herself—the minute she’d set foot in the house. Maybe the men were eating sandwiches in the bunkhouse, or else they’d had an early lunch. The “why” didn’t matter. The end result was she had some time to set things straight before she had to cook.
She threw together a huge but simple tuna casserole; it was ready to go in the oven. The casserole was one of the few things she didn’t need a recipe for, because she’d done it so often, but never before on this scale. It was easy: rice, cream of mushroom soup, lots of tuna, mixed vegetables, some seasoning, and enough cheese to constipate an elephant. Belatedly she wondered if any of the men were lactose intolerant. If so, too bad. Someone should’ve told her if there were any special dietary needs.
She had made a huge casserole, so there would be more than enough left over for lunch tomorrow. She’d decided to make corn bread, because the directions on the side of the box of corn bread mix seemed simple enough, but if that was going to be any good it would have to be prepared at the last minute. There was also brownie mix and ice cream. Would they expect dessert every day? She hadn’t asked, but it would get her off to a good start if she provided something sweet her first day here.
A roast for tomorrow night was thawing in the refrigerator. Planning ahead would be the trick to surviving here. And she would survive, green eyes, mounds of laundry, nice butt, and nasty kitchen aside. Survival was what she did these days.
Carlin heard the insistent knocking on the back door, and wondered how many times whoever was out there had tried to get her attention. Whoever—ha! It had to be Zeke, checking up on her. She dried her hands on a kitchen towel, put a hand to her hair to rearrange a couple of wayward strands, then surveyed the kitchen and assessed her progress. Let him wait. Of course, the longer he waited the more pissed he’d be, and she was the one who had to face him down while he was in that apparently semipermanent state.
But the man on the other side of the double-paned window set in the door was young, blond, and fresh-faced. A combination of shame and disappointment washed over her. It wasn’t Zeke, after all. She’d made someone else wait. Phooey.
She unlocked and opened the door. One good look, and she knew who this man was. “You must be Spencer.”
“The gizmo on my arm gave me away, huh?” He grinned, the wide, unfettered grin of a man-child who had no enemies, no emotional pain, no worries at all, beyond a bum arm in an impressively complicated sling. “What’s wrong with the door? I couldn’t get it to open, and then I knocked and knocked. It must be broken. I’ll tell Zeke.”
Yet another man who was unfamiliar with locked doors. “The door isn’t broken, it was locked.”
He looked shocked. “Why?”
She needed an explanation, something besides the out-and-out truth. “New place, out in the boonies, I guess you could say I’m a little spooked. I’m Carly,” she said before he had a chance to pursue the subject, sticking to the nickname that wouldn’t stand out the way Carlin would. “Sorry I didn’t get to the door right away. With the washer and dryer and dishwasher running, I just didn’t hear you knocking.”
“Nice to meet you, Carly.” As Spencer walked in, he glanced around the mudroom, and his eyes widened. “Wow! You’ve been busy, that’s for sure. That pile of dirty clothes was at least two feet higher last time I was here. The boss doesn�
�t much care for washing clothes.”
“Or anything else, apparently,” Carlin muttered. “What can I do for you, Spencer?” There had to be a reason he was dropping by, and she didn’t have time to visit and chat, not today.
“I thought maybe you could use some help. The doctor told me to rest, and Zeke won’t let me do a darn thing, so I’m kinda going stir-crazy. Did you know there is absolutely nothing good on television during the daytime?”
“I did, yes,” she said with admirable seriousness, while she was wondering what she was going to do with him.
His intentions were good, but Carlin had no idea how a one-armed man would be able to help her. He’d only be underfoot, and the last thing she needed was a man to trip over as she attempted to clean and cook. Spencer was so earnest and friendly, though, she couldn’t very well tell him that. Sighing inwardly, she decided she’d just have to bear with him, because no way was she going to hurt his feelings.
“Why don’t you have a seat and tell me all about this ranch and the men I’ll be cooking for?” She pulled a chair away from the kitchen table, and placed it in the corner where her visitor would be out of the way. “You can tell me what you all like to eat, if there’s anything I shouldn’t cook, if there’s anything I particularly need to know …” Like, why isn’t a man like Zeke Decker married? Why isn’t there a girlfriend, at least, washing his underwear? Nope, no way was she asking that. She might wonder, but she wasn’t asking.
“We’re not picky eaters. Except Darby, but he’s just a complainer, you know? Never happy with anything.” Spencer pursed his lips as he considered his answer. “Truth is, no matter what you make it’s bound to be better than what I cooked when I was doing it, and don’t tell him I said so, but the boss is even worse as a cook than I am. He pretty much burned everything. At the end of a long day we’re usually so hungry it doesn’t much matter what you put in front of us as long as there’s plenty of it, but eating his cooking … gaah. It was bad. So don’t worry; we’ll eat whatever. Just try not to burn everything.”
“I’ll remember that.”
The dryer buzzed, indicating that yet another load was finished. Carlin excused herself, unloaded the clothes from the dryer into a laundry basket, and carried it through to the connecting dining room. It was there that the crew would eat. The long, plain wooden table would easily seat twelve—and it made the perfect place to fold clothes.
She emptied the laundry basket onto the middle of the dining room table and began to fold. In the name of efficiency, she’d folded here and then stacked the clean clothes on the sofa in the next room. When she had a couple of minutes she’d run the folded clothes upstairs to Zeke’s room.
She had no doubt she could identify his room when that time came. It would be the room with the unmade bed and piles of dirty clothes on the floor.
Spencer stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. “Please tell me you didn’t fold the boss’s drawers on the table where we eat our food.”
“Of course not.” It was a small lie, one meant to soothe the boy who watched her fold a load of flannel and cotton shirts. “Why don’t you tell me about the other hands?” she said, shaking out one of many work shirts.
He settled down and did as she asked, telling her a bit about each and every one of the men he worked with. Her heart softened a bit; Spencer saw only the good in everyone. He still trusted those around him completely. He trusted her, even though he didn’t know her at all. She listened, wondering if her impressions of the men she’d be cooking for would be half as rosy as his were.
AS USUAL, IT was dark when they all straggled back to the house. Zeke had to admit to a sense of … gratification, maybe? … when he saw the lights on in the house. The kitchen was brightly lit, the curtains pulled open so he caught sight of Carlin as she moved back and forth. The lamps were turned on in the living room, too, an oddly welcoming touch. The bunkhouse was lit up, as well, though that could be Spencer’s doing.
Then Spencer came out the back door, a big grin on his face as he stood on the porch watching them. Oh, shit, Zeke thought tiredly. If impressionable had a face, it would be Spencer’s. In this case, he couldn’t even tell the kid to stay away from her, because he needed Spencer to show her around and give her a hand—singular—whenever possible. Warning the kid would be like telling the wind not to blow; in this case, the warning would have to go to Carlin, which would probably piss her off. Tough.
“Shit,” Walt grumbled to Spencer as he slid out of one of the ranch pickups. “I had my hopes up we’d have some real food tonight, but instead here you are coming out of the kitchen.”
Spencer grinned, not the least bit offended. He was probably happier than all the rest of them put together that he wasn’t doing the cooking. “I haven’t touched a thing, I swear. I’ve just been showing Miss Carly where things are, keeping her company while she works.”
“You mean there’s real food? Hot?” Micah put in.
“But not burned black?” Patrick asked with real hope in his voice.
The back door opened again and Carlin stepped outside. The porch light gleamed on her blond hair. Her ponytail was looking ragged, dangling off to the side with tendrils of hair hanging loose around her face. She wore an apron that covered her from neck to knees, and the apron was stained with a multitude of colors, though the sixty-watt yellow bulb made it difficult to say exactly what those colors were. If she’d had on any makeup that morning—Zeke couldn’t remember—it was long since gone. All in all, she looked like a woman who’d gone a round or two with the can opener, and the can opener had won. Or maybe not, considering she was still standing.
“I’m the new cook,” she announced to the men. “My name is Carly. I’ve spent most of the day raking out the kitchen and hosing it down, but there’s food. Tomorrow I’ll have more time. Tonight there’s tuna casserole and corn bread, with brownies and ice cream for dessert.”
“Tuna casserole?” Bo muttered.
“There was plenty of tuna in the pantry. I figured it wouldn’t have been there if someone hadn’t liked it.”
Her logic was unassailable. Zeke liked it okay; he made the occasional tuna sandwich and Libby had sometimes made some stuff that had tuna in it, but Zeke suspected Spencer had simply bought a bunch of it on sale. He manned up and said, “I like it,” because he was damned if he’d let the men mutiny and run his cook off just when he thought he could see daylight—and clean underwear, as well.
But having said that he liked it, now he had to eat it. He hoped like hell it was good. He’d settle for okay. Or even edible. As long as he didn’t gag, he’d eat it or die. Or eat it and die.
“Cheer up,” Carlin said, evidently having caught on that tuna casserole wasn’t a raving hit. “The ratio of cheese to tuna is two to one.”
Okay, that was more like it.
The men trooped into the bunkhouse to wash up, and Walt went into his own little cabin to do the same. Carlin zipped back into the house, followed by Spencer. Zeke figured he’d better get started on his own quick shower, or he’d be sitting down to dinner smelling like cow shit. Stepping into the mudroom, he toed off his dirty boots and set them aside, then opened the door into the kitchen.
The warm aroma assailed him, and he stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t say exactly what it was, but the smell was homey and welcoming. Chocolate—yeah, he could smell the brownies. A napkin-covered bowl on the kitchen counter held a huge pile of corn bread muffins. He could just see the edge of one golden brown muffin peeking out beyond the napkin. The corn bread wasn’t burned black. Hallelujah.
The second thing he noticed was the lack of dirty dishes stacked everywhere. There were cooking utensils and other things in the sink, but nothing like the god-awful mess that had been there before.
Carlin opened the oven door and peeked inside. Her back was to him but she must have heard him come in. “It’ll be ready in seven minutes,” she said crisply. “You’d better hurry.”
He ran upstairs in his sock feet, taking the stairs two at a time. His shirt was off by the time he cleared his bedroom door, and he sort of tossed it toward a chair. His jeans hit the floor in front of the dresser. His underwear and socks came off right in front of the bathroom. Fewer than thirty seconds later, he was standing under the spray of water. It was barely lukewarm, the hot water not having had enough time to reach him yet, but the shower got warmer by the second.
He had four minutes left when he turned off the water and gave himself a fast, rough toweling. He raked his hand through his thick wet hair, threw on some clothes, and was heading back down the stairs with almost two minutes to spare. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this anxious to eat something that might make him gag. What the hell; even if he didn’t like the casserole, there were brownies for dessert!
The men must have been following the same rough logic, because they came filing in almost at the same time.
When she saw him, Carlin said tersely, “I need help.”
God almighty, what had happened? Had she burned supper, after all? His heart sank. “What’s wrong?”
“The casserole. I managed to get it into the oven, but it’s too heavy for me to handle while it’s hot. I should have made two smaller ones, but I didn’t think about it until it was too late.”
This was a manageable crisis—and no crisis at all, from his point of view. The oven mitts never had fit his big hands every well, so Zeke got two kitchen towels and folded them, then opened the oven door and pulled out the huge casserole pan. Golden cheese bubbled on the top, crisping brown around the edges. The smell was … God, if it only tasted half as good as it smelled, he was happy.
She hurried to put two big pads on the dining room table, and he set the casserole down on them. The table was already set with plates, silverware, and tall glasses filled with ice. She darted back to the kitchen, came back with a tray loaded with a big pitcher of tea and the bowl of corn bread muffins. “I didn’t know what any of you wanted to drink, so I made tea,” she said. The tray held two more items: two big, long-handled spoons, which she buried in the tuna casserole like arrows in a target.
