Running Blind

by Linda Howard

“A horse, then.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, I don’t need your attention, either,” she said, and then she literally shooed him toward the mudroom. “Go dig a hole, or something. Put a post in it and call it a fence.” Because the whole point of what he was trying to do was get her to trust him, he allowed himself to be shooed. As he did, though, he noted to himself that she still hadn’t called him a damn thing. At this rate, he’d settle for “asshole.”

  In the mudroom, he stopped to pull on a coat. When he looked down he spotted a pair of small, ugly green boots. He bent down and picked up one, turned it over to check the sole. What a piece of crap. “Please tell me these aren’t your boots,” he called, raising his voice so Carlin could hear him.

  He heard something that sounded like a snort, then she called back sharply, “No, they belong to the other ranch employee who wears a woman’s size seven.”

  Zeke headed back toward the kitchen, one size-seven boot in his hand. She’d wasted her money, because these boots wouldn’t hold up to a Wyoming winter. They were good for rainy weather, at best. He knew what she needed and he’d damn well tell her: a decent pair of boots, a heavy coat, thermal socks and underwear, something to cover her head. Then he stopped. He knew why she’d bought these boots: they were cheap. She was saving every dime she could, so she could continue to hide from the psycho who had her running scared.

  He returned the boot to its place and headed out the door, into a cold wind. He’d taken a few steps before he realized that Carlin had run him out of his own damn house.

  CARLIN WATCHED THE faces of the hands as she placed the cake on the table. They recognized the cake, of course, and the expressions varied from wary to alarmed. She heard a muttered curse word or two, and more than one very sad sigh. It was Spencer who finally said, “Miss Carly, that cake sure is pretty, but I’m not sure I can eat another bite.”

  That got them going. There was a round of very polite “I’m so full” and “I shouldn’t have eaten so much” and one apologetic “I think I’m allergic to white cake.”

  She wasn’t surprised, but she was a tad disappointed. She’d worked hard on the cake, and though the batter had tasted good, there was no way to tell if the finished product was any better than the first one if no one tasted it. It looked as if she’d be the sole guinea pig, and even if it was good and she told them so, they probably wouldn’t believe her.

  She wheeled around to return to the kitchen with the entire cake, when Zeke stood, reached across Walt for a plate and knife, and motioned for her to move closer.

  Brave man. Or foolish—she wasn’t sure which. Still, she couldn’t help being grateful. She placed the cake in front of him, and watched as he cut a big piece. “If everyone else is too full, that just means more for me,” he said without looking at her.

  She turned and hurried into the kitchen for the decaf, poured a cup as Zeke sat down and eyed the huge piece of cake as if it were an obstacle he had to overcome, a task, a challenge. She scowled at him, gratitude turning to ire. He must have sensed he was dragging this out too long, because finally he dug in. He forked a big piece and carried it to his mouth. Everyone watched. Carlin didn’t breathe, and she didn’t think anyone else at the table did, either. Zeke chewed, swallowed, and the relief in his eyes told the story.

  It was good.

  She gave a whoop, and pumped her fist in the air, and everyone except for Darby burst out laughing.

  Zeke washed down the big bite with a sip of coffee. “You guys are missing out on some good cake. Like I said, more for me.”

  Walt cut himself a piece then, and Spencer decided maybe he wasn’t too full after all. One by one, the men helped themselves, laughing and joking but generally having good things to say about the dessert. Well, Darby had nothing good to say, but that wasn’t unusual. Probably everyone would have fallen out of their chairs if he’d given anyone or anything a compliment. Carlin went back toward the kitchen for more coffee mugs, but she stopped in the doorway and looked toward Zeke. She caught his eye, and even though she knew it was a bad idea she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  He acknowledged her thanks with a slight nod of his head. No one else noticed the little byplay; they were all too busy eating.

  Her step was a light one as she gathered more mugs. The white cake was a success! She’d taken it on, and won.

  Next up?

  Biscuits.

  Chapter Fifteen

  CARLIN SWISHED THE brush around the inside edge of the toilet bowl, then flushed. The bathroom smelled piney fresh now; the shower had been cleaned, the bathtub had been dusted—she doubted the tub had seen any water since Zeke had moved into the master bedroom—and now the john itself, in its private little room, was finished. She’d mopped the tile floors, polished the mirrors over the double vanities, polished the faucets and handles.

  Maybe it was overkill, but she’d also lit scented candles in there and in the bedroom while she worked. It wasn’t that the rooms stank; in fact, she liked the smell of man—of Zeke—that came from his choice of clothes, the leather boots and belts and felt hats, the flannel shirts, the jeans, the man himself. A closet full of silk suits would have smelled completely different. And could the pheromones of a diplomat ever compete with those of a man who did hard physical work? Maybe for some women, yeah, but Carlin had discovered her own cavewoman core that definitely preferred the hard-muscles/hardwork variety. So: scented candles to overpower the pheromones. That might work. Maybe. Couldn’t hurt.

  It was a measure of how bad her case of Zeke-itis was that she didn’t mind swabbing his beard shavings out of the sink, or cleaning his toilet. Okay, it helped her feelings that she was being paid to do those chores, but even if she’d rather have her toenails pulled out than be honest with him about how she felt or even who she really was, she had to be honest with herself, and that meant admitting she liked being in his bedroom, liked doing his laundry and hanging up his clean clothes, liked stripping off the Zeke-scented sheets from his bed and remaking it with fresh sheets.

  At least she could honestly say that, though she didn’t mind cleaning his toilet, no way did she like it, so maybe there was still a shred of sanity left in her pheromone-drunk brain.

  She hung fresh towels and washcloths on the racks, then put all her cleaning stuff in the bucket she used to cart it all from one location to another. In one arm she gathered the used towels from the floor, opened the bathroom door with her free hand, then did a quick dip to pick up the cleaning bucket. Head down, preoccupied, both arms laden, she hurried out of the bathroom and barreled straight into a solid obstacle.

  The flood of adrenaline through her was like being electrified. It was akin to panic, but somehow different. Seeing someone in the grocery store who reminded her of Brad had been one thing; the terrifying realization that someone was in the room with her was something else entirely. She shrieked, her body reacting before thought could form, before any semblance of logic could kick in. There was no logic, there was only the jarring knowledge that someone was in the house, that this supposedly safe haven had been breached.

  Going from safe to unsafe in a nanosecond literally jarred her out of her wits. She had a weird sensation of leaving reality, of drawing deep inside herself where she was safe even while her body reacted in a primal bid to survive. Everything was distant, blurred. She could hear herself screaming, though the sound was oddly muted; there was a deep voice, the words indistinguishable. She had a brief glimpse of bare flesh, but her instincts didn’t give her time to put two and two together and come up with a logical identity for the half-naked man in the bedroom. Before her synapses could click and the name Zeke form in her brain, she was already moving, dropping everything to the floor and swinging her right fist with everything she had behind the punch.

  Existing on two different planes was so disorienting she couldn’t tell what she was doing until she’d already done it. Here was her body, moving, acting, and her brain was somewhere
else, scrambling to make sense of what was happening. It was as if her thoughts were lip-syncing two beats behind the music, and she couldn’t catch up, couldn’t make the two come together. Just about the time she was beginning to think instead of simply react, he ducked to the side to avoid losing a tooth or maybe getting his nose broken, then came in low, catching her middle with his shoulder. The impact was solid enough to jar her; the world turned topsy-turvy, her feet off the ground, nothing making sense, then she was flat on her back on the carpet and he was holding her down, both wrists caught in one big hand and held above her head. Dazed, she stared up into green eyes gone narrow and dark with some emotion she couldn’t read, didn’t want to read.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted, zooming from terror to outrage at warp speed. Getting outraged at his intrusion was absurd, she fully recognized that, but again she couldn’t catch her mental balance. The shock of panic, anger, sheer survival instinct—whatever it was, and in whatever mixture—had left her brain still scrambling to catch up, not just with events, but with her mouth as well.

  “I’m pretty sure I still live here,” he bit out.

  At least that cleared up her confusion about his emotion. He was annoyed. No, he was pissed as hell.

  She blinked, caught her breath, waited for her thoughts to settle. At least they were settling now, instead of darting around like crazed squirrels. “No. I mean—what are you doing here now? I would say I’m sorry but—no, I am sorry, I’d never have tried to punch you out if I’d recognized you in time. Wait. Maybe I don’t mean that. Never is too final. Someday I may really want to punch you out. But today I didn’t mean to, so I’m sorry.”

  He cocked his head a little to the side as he navigated that warren of sentences, then he squeezed his eyes shut and heaved a put-upon sort of sigh. The movement of his bare chest momentarily pressing on her breasts slammed her with a sudden jolt of self-awareness, and there was an almost audible click in her head as her brain and body realigned in perfect sync.

  Oh, damn, this wasn’t good. She’d tried so hard to keep him at a safe distance, to not touch him even casually because she’d known, instinctively, that he was too attractive to her, too much of a temptation. Letting him become important to her wasn’t fair to either of them, given her situation. With those boundaries in mind even a touch on her hand had been rebuffed … and now here he was, lying heavily on top of her, his muscled weight hot and confining and so exciting her stomach, her entire body, tightened in response.

  Hunger gnawed at her, hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with being a woman. Because of Brad she’d not only been prevented from forming any romantic relationships, she’d come to doubt her own instincts when it came to men. She’d held herself in emotional solitary confinement, not letting herself enjoy the normal flirtations or even casual dates, much less anything more serious.

  And yet, despite all her precautions, here she was, flat on her back on the floor, with Zeke heavy on top of her—and everything about it thrilled her. Her muscles tightened, her body seizing control and arching upward of its own volition, seeking that for which she was so starved. Desperately she caught herself, tried to turn the arch into a squirm as if she was trying to free herself.

  He was too close, close enough that she could see each individual whisker on his jaw, his five o’clock shadow coming in several hours early. His face was right above hers, those green eyes going even darker. She could see her own tiny reflection in their black centers, and the striations, both dark and light, in his irises. The heat from his body, especially his bare upper torso, seared through her clothes. She could smell him, the scent of hot skin, the somewhat acrid smell of the horse he’d been riding, hay, leather, the outdoors—so many smells mixing together and forming a signature that was his alone. A pinching, aching sensation in her nipples told her they had hardened, were standing taut. Could he feel them? Her cheeks burned at the thought, but at the same time she was excited by the idea.

  Even more exciting, as far as feeling went, she could very definitely detect the hard length growing in his jeans, pressing into the softness of her crotch. Maybe getting an erection was nothing more than an automatic reaction for a man when he was on top of a woman, but she was the woman he was on top of, and from his expression there was nothing automatic about it.

  Oh, God! She wanted so much to open her legs, wrap them around him, pull him closer. She clenched her teeth against the moan of wanting that rose in her throat. She wanted to be a normal woman again, live a normal life. She wanted him.

  But she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. This must not happen. No matter what it cost her, she had to push him away, both mentally and physically.

  Mentally, she could manage—just barely. Physically, though she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed, it was a useless effort. Helplessly she clenched her fingers on the thick pads of muscle in his shoulders, delighting in the strength she could feel there, the heat and power and life. She stared up into his face, her breath coming shallow and fast, panting against his lips.

  “Let me up,” she managed to say, the words faint. If she’d meant them her voice would have been stronger, but if she’d meant them she’d already have shoved him away and gotten to her feet. She knew it, he knew it. There was a long pause, so long that her heartbeat leaped into double-time because his gaze had gone heavy-lidded and was focused on her mouth. He was going to kiss her. Oh, God, he was going to kiss her. And she was going to let him. Despite everything, despite all of her very good reasons for not letting anything develop between them, in that moment the temptation was so close and raw that she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop either him or herself.

  Then he planted his hands on either side of her shoulders and levered himself up, jacking to his feet with a lithe, athletic movement so easy she could almost overlook the amount of strength it required. Almost.

  Reprieve. Or rejection. She couldn’t decide which, but she could decide that it didn’t matter; what mattered was that he’d saved her from her own stupidity.

  He reached down a big, work-hardened hand, and automatically she put her right hand in it. With a quick tug he had her standing on her feet, but he didn’t release her hand. Her heart leaped and once again she was certain he was going to kiss her, once again her body sent her head spinning. Instead he pulled her close, his head bent down as he glared directly into her eyes. “That’s twice you’ve panicked,” he said sharply. “The first time you tried to run. This time you managed a swing that a ten-year-old could have ducked. Considering your situation, why the hell haven’t you taken some self-defense lessons?”

  What he said was so far from what she’d been expecting that, for a few seconds, she scrambled for a reply. She opened her mouth, couldn’t think of an answer, closed it again. Then she shook herself, literally. There were reasons, a couple of very good ones.

  “Money. Time. And knowing how to punch someone won’t protect me from a bullet.”

  His head jerked back, green gaze going dark again, and abruptly she realized that he hadn’t been angry because she’d swung at him, he’d been angry because she’d missed. “The bastard has shot at you?” he barked.

  Not at her. At Jina. But he’d thought he was shooting at Carlin, and Jina had paid with her life. She shook again, this time as the horror washed over her again, horror and grief and bone-deep regret. She didn’t go into the details, simply said “Yes,” because Brad had thought he was shooting at her and the outcome didn’t change his intention.

  Zeke’s jaw set, his mouth as grim as she’d ever seen it, which was plenty grim. “You need shooting lessons.”

  “Why? I don’t have a gun.” And she couldn’t buy one, either, because the background check could possibly alert Brad to her location. She didn’t know enough about background checks, whether they were state or federal, or how easily accessible the data was. She could find out, using Zeke’s computer, but buying a gun would still be problematic.

  He ga
ve a cold smile that in no way alleviated the grimness of his expression.

  “Getting you a weapon isn’t a problem.”

  “But the background check—”

  “Doesn’t apply to private sales.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly faced with an option that a second ago had seemed impossible, all she could do was swallow. Not having a gun kept her from having to make some hard decisions, such as whether or not she would actually use one. She wasn’t a violent person; Brad had forced her into a lifestyle that was so far removed from her natural inclinations that sometimes she didn’t recognize herself. Or was she simply discovering facets of her personality that, under less drastic circumstances, would never have come to the fore?

  “Don’t worry about getting a weapon. I’ll see to that. And you’re also going to learn how to protect yourself. Before I’m through with you, you’ll not only know how to shoot, you’ll know how to fight.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  IT WAS TURNING cold. Not just chilly, but definitely cold. Zeke and the men had just about caught up on all the maintenance that needed doing; another week, and it would be done, and he’d cut back on the number of employees for the winter. Darby and Bo would head south for the rodeo circuit, Patrick and Eli would look for work farther south to tide them over until next spring—or maybe not, he never knew for certain whether or not they’d come back, though they had for the past few years. Kenneth and Micah would be here; as married men, they stayed put, and were available if he needed them during the winter. Walt was a permanent fixture, and Spencer was almost one, though the kid would take some time off during the winter to visit his folks.

  Their employment schedule was no secret from the men. Ranch work was seasonal. As they were finishing up repair on a pumping station, Darby straightened and rolled his shoulders. “This is about it, right, boss?”

  “Looks like it. Another week, maybe.”

  “Reckon you could do without me? There’s a rodeo in Tucson I’d like to hit before I move on to Texas.”