The Reluctant Rancher. Leigh Riker

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      “And we have a laundry setup on the back porch.”

      “No, it’s in the basement.” Logan was standing by the door now.

      “I guess I can figure out a washing machine,” she said, giving in to a smile, “as long as it’s not the old-fashioned wringer kind or a washboard. And takes quarters.”

      Sam cackled. “You got a good sense of humor. I like that.” He glanced at Logan. “This house could use a few laughs.” His sharp gaze pinned her like a butterfly to a mounting board. “How old are you?”

      “Twenty-nine last month.”

      He sank back against his pillows. “You want babies?”

      Logan shifted his weight. “All right, Sam. Time for you to sleep.”

      “I don’t need a nap. I’m ready for supper.” He paused. “As long as it’s not more canned stew—and I don’t want some TV dinner tonight either. No one ever called me picky but...” He pointed at her. “While you’re at it, make me some decent lemonade.”

      “If life hands you lemons...” she said, which was the story of her life.

      Blossom actually believed the old saying, but she’d think about the disaster she’d made of things so far, and about her dubious future, later.

      She was already half in love with Logan’s grandfather. Better still, the isolated Circle H offered a temporary hiding place.

      * * *

      “WHAT IS THIS stuff I’m supposed to eat?”

      Logan stared at the yellow glop on his plate. After calling the Mother Comfort agency to say Blossom could stay temporarily but to keep looking for a male replacement, he’d left her to Sam for the rest of the day. Because bison rarely had trouble giving birth, Logan had watched half a dozen cows safely deliver the first spring babies in six far-off pockets of the ranch. He’d brooded the whole time.

      That haunted look in Blossom’s eyes was enough to bring a man to his knees. Determined to suppress the disturbing thought, he’d ridden home near sundown hoping for some peace of mind and a hot, home-cooked meal. Not too much to ask, was it?

      He could hardly blame Sam for complaining about the stew. Logan had fixed too many skimpy frozen dinners in the past few days, too many cans of mediocre chili. He’d had to admit it would be nice not to have to rustle up something himself.

      Now he couldn’t identify anything on his plate except the rice, if that’s what it was, under all that goop. The two cowhands who lived at the Circle H were eating dinner here tonight. Another pair had gone home to their families, and another couple worked only as needed. Seated at the long plank table that, to his surprise, was set with his mother’s best china, Willy and Tobias made curious sounds.

      “Madras curry,” Blossom finally said from behind a pitcher of flowers at the opposite end of the table, her head bent over her dish, her russet curls shining in the overhead light. She wouldn’t look him in the eye, which seemed to be a habit of hers whenever things weren’t going well.

      “You mean like a plaid shirt?”

      “It’s a province in India.”

      Logan didn’t consider himself to be an ignorant man. But in his regular job as a test pilot he flew mostly local flights around Wichita and it had been a long time since geography class. Still, he’d also served time in the military and now watched Jeopardy some nights to keep aware of the world beyond this place.

      “I know where India is,” he said at last, glancing at the two cowboys, who were trying not to laugh. They kept sneaking looks at Blossom, too, but for some reason he didn’t want them to notice her like that.

      “You know about Madras, do you, Willy?”

      “Sure. I’ve ate curry. Before that restaurant in town with the bead curtains closed last year.”

      Willy, a rough-hewn six foot four with dishwater blond hair and hands like shovels, hadn’t lifted his fork. Any other night he would have been done by now, his plate all but licked clean. Logan had assumed Willy was a meat-and-potatoes man like him. He was clearly lying to please Blossom Kennedy.

      She raised her head. “Try it,” she told Logan. “It won’t kill you.”

      Tobias, the other cowhand, eyed his plate.

      “Your cooking come with a guarantee, Miss Blossom?”

      She half smiled. “I guarantee it’ll fill your stomach.”

      “Good enough,” Tobias said, then dug in to his food.

      His balding crown glowed like a pearl on his lowered head. Both men were eating now. What about Sam? Logan cocked one ear but heard only silence from the second floor. It wasn’t like his grandfather to remain so quiet. Frowning, he pushed rice around. “Did Sam eat this?”

      “Without a word,” she informed him.

      “You don’t say.”

      “Yes. I am saying, Mr. Hunter.” So they were back to that again. Two bright flags of color appeared on her cheeks, but her voice stayed soft as if she was afraid of offending him too much. “I should think, after the day’s work you put in out there—” she waved toward the darkened window “—you’d eat anything that didn’t move, especially when you didn’t have to heat it yourself.” Despite the brave words, her eyes held that uncertain look again. “If you don’t like it, there’s sliced turkey in the refrigerator, a ripe tomato and some bread. You can make yourself a sandwich.”

      Or go hungry, her tone implied. Like a traitor, his stomach grumbled. At the sound, Willy snickered and Logan glared at him. His men hunched over their plates, forks flying. Tobias even smacked his lips. If he said one word, Logan would fire him. Or think about it anyway. He’d taken enough jabs in the past three years since his divorce. He wouldn’t be laughed at.

      He picked up his fork and took a tentative bite then another. If he didn’t look at the stuff, he could get it down at least. With an audible gulp, he swallowed. Fire hit his throat, and he grabbed his water, which Blossom had served in his mother’s wedding crystal. Logan emptied the glass, certain steam was coming from his ears.

      “What’s in here?” he managed, eyes watering.

      “Curry powder, of course. The hot kind, too.”

      Logan glanced around the table but didn’t see the same reaction from Tobias or Willy. Both men were shoveling in food as if they’d skipped breakfast and lunch, which Logan knew they hadn’t. Wait a minute. Had Blossom given him an extra dose of curry powder?

      “What makes it so yellow?” It looked almost orange.

      “The turmeric—it’s one of the spices—and some saffron, too.”

      “I thought that was a color.”

      “It’s also a spice, from which the color got its name. It comes from the stigmas of crocuses.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ