Cowgirl, Unexpectedly. Vicki Tharp

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СКАЧАТЬ but people call her Lottie. This here is my granddaughter, Jenna.”

      With a negligent wave of his hand, he then introduced the man next to him. “My foreman here is Link Hardy. I expect you to follow his orders as if they came from me. There’s been mischief in the past, but that’s behind us now. Disloyalty to the brand or stealing from me or mine won’t be tolerated.”

      All the men nodded, as Dale, in turn, caught each of their eyes. I bobbed my head as well. After all, loyalty and following orders came second nature to me.

      “Breakfast and dinner will be served at the main house,” Dale continued. “There are groceries in the bunkhouses, so lunches are up to you. You have thirty minutes to stow your gear and pack a lunch. Daylight’s wasting and we have fences to check, cattle to work, and horses to round up.”

      Dale turned and headed to the barn without any fanfare. I figured that meant I, as well as the rest of the men, was hired. The men went to grab their gear from their trucks. Two had their own horses in a stock trailer and they headed over to offload them.

      The horses’ hooves tapped a nervous, deep staccato on the trailer’s wooden floorboards as they backed out and steel clanked on steel as the rear door banged against the shaking trailer.

      The bunkhouses were downhill from the campfire, so I straddled my bike and coasted down the ranch road after Hank, trying to pry my eyes off the firm curve of his jeans-clad ass.

      * * * *

      When asked, I had no cabin preference, so Hank chose the further of the two bunkhouses. I followed. None of the other men did. Then again, Hank didn’t exactly exude warmth and welcome.

      If his foul mood had bothered me, I would have bunked with the others, but after bending Dale over the café’s counter this morning, I figured the fewer people around me at any given moment, the better. And despite our little run in that morning, he didn’t strike me as a man I needed to worry about.

      I’ve met enough of the bad kind to know the difference.

      A small stand of trees shaded one side of the bunkhouse and provided a modicum of privacy from the other one. I assumed because this cabin was farther from the main house—and meals—the other three men didn’t argue our choice.

      The cabin was constructed with rough split logs, the chinking thin and weathered—and light years away from the modern-rustic designs that resembled giant Lincoln Logs play sets.

      There was a hitching rail for a couple horses and a water trough out front. A small covered porch provided enough shelter to take your boots off and stay out of the rain and snow. Though this late into the spring, I didn’t expect snow to be a big problem.

      The door had no lock. I stepped inside with an armload of my gear and dumped it on one of the two double bunks, one on each sidewall. The set of hooks and a small footlocker at the head and foot of each bed provided ample storage.

      Modern conveniences included a bathroom roomy enough to turn around in, but not much more. Since indoor plumbing was a treat for me, you wouldn’t hear me complain about the size. The door leading to the bathroom was off to one side; its long wall was directly across from the front door and supported an apartment-sized refrigerator, a sink with a microwave above, and a two-burner stove. A homemade wooden table with two chairs completed the furnishings.

      I tossed my tarp and two thin blankets I use as a makeshift bedroll onto the top bunk to get them out of the way. I hung my jacket on one of the hooks. My clothes I dropped on the bed’s quilt—a hodgepodge of flannel, blue jeans with the occasional scrap of T-shirt thrown in. Lottie’s handiwork, probably.

      I figured the other cabin was equipped like this one. Which meant the other cabin had an empty bunk.

      “Looks like there’s room in the other cabin for one more,” I said.

      “All yours if you want it.”

      A gentleman would have bunked with the other men and let me have my own place, but that meant preferential treatment. I didn’t need or want that. I respected the fact he treated me like any of the other hands.

      By the time I’d finished stowing my gear, Hank had coffee dripping into the small carafe and eight slices of bread spread out on the table, a generous dollop of mayonnaise spread across four faces.

      “Chicken or ham?” he asked. His hat was off, but that was the extent of his unpacking. His duffel lay untouched on the lower bunk on his side of the cabin.

      “Chicken,” I replied without much thought to the decision. “I can make my own.”

      “I don’t doubt that, but my mother managed to beat a few manners into me. Easy enough to make a couple more sandwiches while the ingredients are out. You get the coffee.”

      I turned to the pot without comment, poured a couple mugs, brought them to the table, and watched as he piled thick slabs of ham on two slices of bread and the shredded pieces of chicken onto two others. Well-muscled arms with large hands made quick work of the job.

      Hands that had wrapped around Jenna’s wrists this morning.

      From deep down, I felt that low-level hum, the slow simmer of anger that has been my constant companion since I’d returned to civilian life. I wasn’t quite sure what fueled it or what made it grow, but it had been a constant battle to keep it from taking over my world.

      Then the relief valve popped, and words flew out of my mouth, circumventing my verbal filter. “Your mother taught you to make sandwiches for others but didn’t teach you to keep your hands to yourself?”

      He snorted out a clipped laugh, then slapped on the top slices of bread and shoved his sandwiches into a plastic baggie.

      “What’s so funny?” I said.

      “Keep your hands to yourself,” he mimicked, even getting my indignant inflection correct. A muscle tensed at the corner of his jaw as if biting back his words. Weak, ambient light leaked through the drawn front curtains, yet the flash of anger in his eyes was blinding. “You’re a fine one to talk. I’m not the one who bent an old man over a counter this morning. You’re outta line.”

      Probably. ‘You’re outta line’ could have been my theme song for the day. I should sell the rights. Taylor Swift could spin it into a hit. I pursed my lips at the truth. “Look, I’m so—”

      “Save it.” He ignored his fresh mug of coffee, stalked to his bunk, grabbed his hat from the hook, and snugged it down on his head.

      When he opened the front door, he turned to me and opened his mouth to say something. He must have thought better of it because he closed it again then he swept his gaze up and down my body—not so much as if he was interested but as if he was taking my measure—before he stepped through the door. Just as well. Some things are better left unsaid.

      His momma had taught him more manners than I’d given her credit.

      * * * *

      By the time I’d made it to the barn, the horses stood saddled, which was fortunate because I’d never saddled a horse in my life. When the time came to unsaddle, I’d pay close attention to what went where and then just do the reverse when it came time to saddle up again.

      Hank untethered two СКАЧАТЬ