Courtship, Montana Style. Charlotte Maclay

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      “Normally they avoid every chore I give them until I threaten them with mayhem or no TV for a week. The no TV part works the best.”

      She imagined so. Despite Walker’s rugged appearance, she didn’t think his physical threats would be credible. Beneath his rough exterior, he had a gentle spirit. That’s what she had sensed in the article and why she’d sought refuge here.

      “I’ll get the boys out of your hair so you can get settled. It’s about time they started fixing supper anyway.”

      “I imagine cooking will be part of my job duties?” she asked with more than a little trepidation. No matter what, she was determined to not sit back and let others wait on her. She’d lived that way long enough.

      He waved her off. “They’ve got the routine down pretty good but don’t expect five-star restaurant grub. It’s more likely to be sloppy Joes.”

      Given her limited cooking experience, the adolescents would probably do a better job than she could. Which didn’t mean she couldn’t learn. “I’ll take over tomorrow, then.”

      He frowned. “Whatever.” He looked down at his shirtfront and started to unbutton it. “Meanwhile, I’m going to get out of this shirt before it starts to reek any more than it already does.”

      “If you show me where things are, I can do the laundry.” Not that she had any more experience at that chore than she did at cooking. Growing up in a house full of servants plus attending a string of boarding schools, she hadn’t been highly motivated to develop her own domestic talents. But from necessity she had become acquainted with Laundromats during her college years.

      “Not necessary. We’ve got it covered.”

      And he didn’t need her around mucking things up, she could almost hear him say.

      She watched with curious fascination as he tugged his shirttail from his jeans, letting the shirt hang open. A white V-neck T-shirt pulled tautly across his chest and she chided herself for the shimmer of regret that he wore an undershirt at all.

      With a final, “We’ll call you when supper’s ready,” he followed the rest of his cowhands into the sewing room to sort out the continuing bickering about the playpen—an easy-opening playpen she had managed with little effort the two nights she’d stayed in motels en route to Montana.

      Smiling to herself, she walked around to the far side of the room and placed Suzanne on the bed. “We’re going to be fine here, Susie-Q. You’ll see. And it will only be for a short while, just long enough for me to decide what to do next.”

      When she looked up she saw Walker across the hall in his bedroom, the door standing open. He’d shed both his shirt and T-shirt, revealing a smooth back with well-defined muscles that rippled as he moved. His physique hadn’t been built in the airless confines of an upscale gym somewhere in the middle of a big city, she realized, but by years of hard work on his ranch. He’d earned every sculpted inch of his lean body.

      Elizabeth had never earned a damned thing, including her own keep. The best she’d done was work as an unpaid gofer for the charitable foundation her family supported. They’d offered her a small salary but she hadn’t wanted to take money away from people who truly needed it.

      With a raging sense of self disgust, she turned away from the tempting view across the hall. Why on earth hadn’t she noticed how stunted her life had become?

      WALKER COULDN’T BELIEVE his eyes.

      Every one of the boys was scrubbed clean and had their hair slicked back like a bunch of cowboys ready to whoop it up in town on Saturday night. Even Speed looked like he’d spiffed up for the evening. In this case, however, he suspected the sudden interest in cleanliness had more to do with their houseguest than the day of the week.

      “You boys have supper ready?”

      “Yes, boss,” they chorused.

      Lined up in front of the kitchen counter, they looked like soldiers standing at attention ready for inspection. They’d even hung their hats on the mudroom pegs, an event that only happened under the threat of dire punishment if they wore them while at the table.

      “I made baked pork chops,” Fridge announced.

      “I did the mashed potatoes,” Scotty added. “And the baked apples are in the oven now.”

      “I figured she might like some veggies.” Bean Pole dipped his head. “My mom used to—when she was sober.”

      Walker glanced at Speed, who lifted his shoulders in an easy shrug. “Biscuits.”

      Apparently Walker was the only one who hadn’t contributed to the meal preparations. He’d been searching out the current price of beef, a project that had been interrupted earlier. The news wasn’t good. Evidently a lot of ranches were selling off their stock due to the drought, and the prices reflected a downward spiral.

      He eyed the boys. “Well, are you gonna ask her to join us, or do you plan for us to eat it all ourselves?”

      He’d seen a few stampedes in his life. But nothing like the boys jockeying for position as they raced out of the kitchen. For a moment, he thought Bean Pole was going to make it into the lead. No such luck, though. He bashed into a chair, spinning it around, allowing Scotty to squirt past him.

      Shaking his head, Walker said, “It might be worth it to keep Lizzie around if it meant the boys would wash behind their ears more than once a year.”

      “That it would,” Speed agreed. His weather-worn face shifted into a grin, and he looked far younger than his sixty-some years. “She is a pretty thing, ain’t she?”

      Walker wouldn’t deny it. “She doesn’t belong here.” Not with her shiny long fingernails, her enticing scent or her designer jeans. Or the way she made him feel he’d been missing something.

      “Cain’t hurt the boys to have a female around for a while.”

      “I got along fine without a woman hanging over me all the time.”

      “If you say so, boss.” Leaning back against the counter, Speed crossed his arms over his chest.

      Walker’s foreman had the most irritating way of telling him he was full of beans without saying a single damn word. He’d been doing that since Walker was a rebellious, snot-nosed fourteen-year-old who’d showed up at the Double O with no prospects and nowhere else to go. Sometimes Walker wondered if it had been Oliver Oakes who’d adopted him—or Speed. The answer was probably some of both.

      A hushed sound came over the room. Almost magical.

      Walker shifted his attention to the entrance to the kitchen, a swinging door he always propped open.

      She’d spruced up, too, as if that were possible. She didn’t look like any housekeeper he’d ever seen as she moved into the room as smoothly as a dancer arriving on stage. The summery dress she wore had a full skirt that floated at her knees, revealing calves that were both firm and smooth. The capped sleeves and scooped neck of her top showed off ivory skin that had rarely been blessed by the sun but looked just right for a man’s caress.

      Walker’s СКАЧАТЬ