The Rancher And The City Girl. Kathy Douglass

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ as amusing as he did. When the dog spotted her, he abandoned the squirrel and ran over, wagging his tail a mile a minute.

      “Where’s your master?” she asked. The dog cocked his head, barked twice and sat on his haunches. He lifted his paw as if offering to shake. Clearly there was a failure to communicate.

      She patted his head briefly. Shadow considered her for a moment, then raced around the yard as if searching for the squirrel so they could continue playing. Although she found the dog’s antics amusing and could have watched him for hours, she was on a mission.

      As Camille stepped into the stable, she inhaled the sweet smell of hay mingled with leather and pine. She expected to see horses, but the stalls were empty. Perhaps they were in a pasture or corral or whatever it was called. She needed to learn how to speak country.

      She walked down the center aisle that separated the stalls until she reached the back of the building. Jericho was in a small room rubbing soap on a saddle. From the intense way he was scrubbing, she wouldn’t be surprised if he rubbed a hole into the leather. The muscles on his arms bunched and flexed beneath his shirt.

      She must have made a sound because he turned and looked up, one eyebrow raised. He stared at her without speaking, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. Instead of flinching the way she wanted, she raised her chin and spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just wanted you to know I made breakfast.”

      He grunted, nodded toward a ceramic mug and turned back to his work. “I had coffee.”

      “Pancakes. And omelets.” She twisted the hem of her blouse, unsure if she’d made the right decision. Naturally she started to babble, a habit she thought she’d overcome in finishing school. “Well, the pancakes are in the oven staying warm. I haven’t made the eggs yet. But I did grate the cheese and dice the onions. It’ll only take a minute to throw them together.”

      He was silent for so long she didn’t think he was going to answer. Finally he looked at her again, his eyes unreadable. “You don’t have to cook for me.”

      “I don’t mind,” she rushed to assure him. “I like to cook.”

      He frowned, and her heart sank. Obviously she’d said the wrong thing. “I should have said I don’t need you cooking for me.”

      She swallowed her hurt. She didn’t like him, so why did it bother her that he didn’t like her either? She’d never been the sensitive type. Apparently the stress of the situation was getting to her. “Okay. But since I already have, maybe you can eat this time? I would hate for good food to go to waste.”

      He stared at her so long it took monumental effort not to squirm. “Fine. This time.”

      She felt his eyes on her as he followed her to the house. Part of her wished she could throw away the food, but she’d been raised to know that wasting anything was sinful.

      She cooked the omelets, pleased that she hadn’t lost her ability to make them perfectly. After he washed his hands, he removed the platter of pancakes from the oven. He placed half on her plate and the other half on his own. She added the omelets, poured juice and joined him at the table.

      “There’s only butter. I couldn’t find syrup.”

      “Don’t have any.” He cut his pancakes with the side of his fork. “I guess you’ll have to make do, something new for a spoiled rich kid like you.”

      She swallowed the snarky reply on her lips. She wasn’t going to fight with him so he would have an excuse to put her out. Besides, she’d been insulted before. She’d endured slights both subtle and blatant. Women didn’t make it to the top of her male-dominated field if they were shrinking violets. Most men resented her brains and her success. She’d shot down those she could and ignored those she couldn’t.

      She tucked into her breakfast, pleased to see that he was eating his without further comment. Now that she had a closer look at him, she realized he’d lost weight. He was still muscular and no doubt strong, but he could stand to put on a few pounds. Perhaps grief had stolen his appetite. Or maybe he didn’t like to cook.

      He’d told her he didn’t need her to cook for him, but maybe he’d said that only because he was annoyed that she’d disturbed him. He certainly seemed to be enjoying his breakfast. Or maybe later on he planned to accuse her of being a pampered princess. Whatever, she wasn’t going to give him an excuse to kick her out. She’d pull her weight while she was here.

      They finished the meal in silence. When he’d eaten the last bit of eggs, he carried his dishes to the sink, gave her one last glance and left without saying a word.

      She heaved a heavy sigh. At least he hadn’t told her to leave.

       Chapter Three

      Camille washed the dishes, wiped the counters and table, and sat down. Now what?

      She’d cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom, trying to distract herself from her situation, but it hadn’t worked. No matter how busy her hands were, she couldn’t keep her mind from circling back to her problem. People wanted her dead. Would they change their minds if they couldn’t find her, or would they keep searching? Did the authorities have enough information to arrest Donald Wilcox and his hit men? And how would she find out?

      She and Agent Delgado had been communicating by email. In the last one he’d sent, he’d told her not to write to him until he reached out to her. Although he didn’t believe she was in danger, he’d wanted her to lie low. And then he’d been in that car accident. So now what should she do? What could she do? Nothing. She couldn’t lie any lower than she was now.

      But she couldn’t just twiddle her thumbs. After a lifetime of being busy, Camille found the quiet and endless hours looming ahead of her a little disconcerting. If she didn’t do something physical she would go out of her mind with worry. She would clean Jericho’s house for him. But how would she manage to do it without studying the pictures or the various knickknacks and dredging up memories?

      She searched through the kitchen cabinets until she found all the cleaning supplies she needed. Unwilling to stain her skirt, especially since it was all she had to wear, she tied a towel around her waist and set to work. She started in the front room, waxing the tables, careful to place every picture and lamp where it belonged. Her heart pinched with regret as she wiped the dust off pictures of Jeanette.

      Camille had planned to forgive Jeanette and reconcile with her at some vague date in the future. Lately she’d begun to wonder whether there had been anything to forgive. Jeanette hadn’t done anything wrong to Camille. If anything, Camille had been the one in need of forgiveness. But it was too late. Jeanette was gone so Camille couldn’t make things right.

      Regrets churning in her stomach, Camille finished cleaning the front room, then moved on to the dining room. Moving with precision, she dusted and wiped every nook and cranny, scrubbing until the room shone. Then she moved to the last room on the first floor, a study. She dusted the bookshelves and then proceeded to the writing desk.

      “What are you doing in my office?”

      Camille spun around, grabbing the top of a leather chair. She’d never been a particularly nervous person, but the stress of the last couple of days had rattled her until she was jumping at every little thing. She could understand being СКАЧАТЬ