Running Blind (12 page)

What the hell. Given the fierceness of her attraction to him, the only way to balance it out was to fight fire with fire, and keep needling him. He’d pretty much disliked her on sight—and never mind that, if she thought about it, the idea always gave her a little pang of hurt—so she’d do everything she could to keep that dislike bright and alive.

“Fine. You’re right,” he finally said. “I’ll look for the key tonight. If I find it, I’ll have it duplicated for you.”

“Tomorrow,” she insisted. “No longer. If you don’t take care of it, I’ll call a locksmith tomorrow.” She studied the lock on the door. “Come to think of it, I’ll call the locksmith anyway. Don’t bother looking for the key. You don’t even have a deadbolt. I’ll have one installed on all the outside doors.”

He rolled his eyes up. “You’re paranoid, you know. People out here all tend to have rifles and such, and anyone breaking in would have to assume—”

“I want to borrow one of your rifles, and a butcher knife, to keep in my bedroom until I can get some decent locks installed on these doors.”

He paused, eyeing her, and after a moment said cautiously, “A butcher knife?”

“For close-contact battle. Just in case.” She wasn’t kidding. She might be exaggerating a bit, but she wasn’t kidding. Since Brad, she’d done a lot of improbable, just-in-case things, arming herself with whatever she thought might work and cause some harm, or gain her enough time to get away, or both. She hadn’t slept with a chain saw beside her bed yet, but she didn’t rule it out, either.

“Paranoid, homicidal, and delusional—as in, if you
think you couldn’t stop someone with a rifle, you’d have a chance with a knife.”

“Knives are more scary than guns. Most gunshots miss, you know.”

He gave a dismissive snort. “Mine don’t.”

No, his shots probably didn’t miss. He’d probably been hunting since he could walk. Okay, another exaggeration, but probably not by much. “Well, considering I’ve never fired any kind of gun, I’m betting I’d miss. Maybe I should go for a shotgun.”

“I vote for a straitjacket.”

“Hah,” she replied, wrinkling her nose just enough to imply a sneer, to show him what she thought of his opinion. She gave a swift tilt of her head. “Are you going to show me the house, or keep me standing out here holding these bags until sundown?”

Having insisted on carrying the bags herself, she was fully prepared for him to snap something insulting at her, but instead he just rolled his eyes and gave her a mocking bow, sweeping his hand toward the door. “After you.”

She stepped inside a combination mudroom and laundry. There was a bench to the right, against the outside wall, and in front of the bench was an assortment of boots—regular boots, insulated boots, cowboy boots, even a lone set of sneakers. The congregation of boots wasn’t neat and orderly; it was a jumble, some standing like sentinels, some on their sides like fallen soldiers. One sneaker had sneaked in among the military contingent, while the other lay forlornly half behind the bench. The wall beneath the high window was lined with hooks, which looked to be three-deep in coats and jackets. The man was serious about his outerwear.

To the left were a modern front-loading clothes washer and dryer, mounted on pedestals … she thought. Either that or they were perched atop a truly astounding pile of clothes; she couldn’t tell for certain because the mounds
completely covered the bases of the machines. She could see parts of two laundry baskets, but they, too, were mostly buried.

Carlin didn’t say anything. She couldn’t; she was too busy mentally calculating exactly how many loads of laundry those piles represented, and how long it would take her to get everything washed, dried, and put away. The laundry alone had to afford months of job security.

At the other end of the small room was another door, the top half of which was glass panes. She could see into the room on the other side, which was the kitchen, and she actually skidded to a stop, took a reflexive step back. She wasn’t Catholic, but—Holy Mary Mother of God!

He opened the door into the kitchen and stepped inside, threw an impatient look over his shoulder. “Are you coming, or not?”

“Not,” she replied, her eyes wide as she surveyed the wreckage behind him. “Holy crap! You lied. You lied like a yellow dog, with apologies to the dog.”

Dark brows drew together, eyes narrowed. “Lied?” he repeated softly.

She pointed into the kitchen. “The cows do live in the house!”

He turned his head to give the kitchen a slow, considering look. Then, damn him, a very pleased smile curved his lips. “Should keep you busy for a while,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll bunk.”

In silence, her eyes wide, she followed him through the kitchen piled high with dirty dishes, pots and pans, empty grocery bags, spilled flour … or salt … or sugar … or all three—and yet more dirty clothes. Ye gods, this man owned enough clothes to fill a department store, as long as the department store dealt in not much else besides denim, cotton, and flannel.

From the kitchen they went down a short hallway to the left; she could tell they were still in the added-on
part of the house. “These were Libby’s rooms,” he said, opening a door. “It used to be two bedrooms, when her daughter lived here, too, but after Jen grew up and left I remodeled it so Libby had her own living space and privacy. You have your own bathroom, too, of course. It isn’t fancy, but it’s private.”

Under other circumstances she’d have been ecstatic, but she was still shell-shocked by the condition of the laundry and kitchen.

The first room they entered was the sitting room, definitely on the cozy side, but nice. Well, once she got rid of the boxes he’d stored in the room it would be nice. Empty boxes, half-empty boxes, unopened boxes. Compared to the mess she faced in the kitchen, though, this was nothing. She’d have it set to rights in no time.

The walls were painted a neutral beige, just dark enough to edge into the warm tones. There was enough space for a small sofa and a chair, two end tables that each held a lamp, a coffee table, and a surprisingly up-to-date flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, which she supposed was almost necessary given the size of the room. An entertainment center, even a small one, would have eaten up most of the remaining floor space. There was even a small gas fireplace, which she imagined would be extremely welcome during the winter.

“The bedroom’s back there,” he said, pointing to a door. “And the bathroom attaches to the bedroom. That’s it.” He adjusted his hat on his head, his expression so satisfied she wanted to slap him. “I’ll leave you to it. There are nine of us. You’ll be feeding nine for breakfast and lunch. There will just be seven for supper. Two of the hands are married, and they go home at the end of the day.”

“As they should,” Carlin said, dropping her bags on the floor. Her bedroom could use a dusting, but at least there were no boxes stored here.

“You can cook and serve everyone here or in the bunkhouse,”
Zeke said. “Your choice. Spencer always felt more comfortable in the bunkhouse, but when I cooked I did it here, in the house.”

She shot him a dirty look. “So that mess in the kitchen is yours.”

He grinned. “It’s yours, now.”

She thought about the mess seven or nine men would make, a mess she would have to clean up no matter where it was made. And then she thought about making the short trip between the house and the bunkhouse three times a day. Not so hard now, but when winter arrived it would be a different story. “House,” she said simply.

Zeke nodded once. “We’ll be back at dark, so have supper ready.” His tone mirrored his expression, which meant she now wanted to slap him twice.

Nine. Nine. She could do this. She’d just pretend she was cooking for a crowd at Kat’s. But tonight for supper, there would be seven hungry men, and she had so much to do before then! Somehow she was supposed to get that wreck of a kitchen organized enough to actually cook something, not just slap sandwiches together.

Daunting as that seemed at the moment, it was far from the toughest job she’d ever had.

On the way out of the room Zeke paused and looked back. “Oh, yeah—don’t forget to cook enough for yourself, too.”

A
GRIN SPREAD
over Zeke’s face as he drove away from the house. A huge sense of relief spread through him, one so strong he had the urge to stop, throw his hat in the air, and run around the truck whooping with joy. Thank you, Jesus! He didn’t have to cook supper tonight!

It didn’t matter if Carlin could or couldn’t cook even half as well as Libby. All she had to do was put edible food on the table, and she’d pretty much beat both his own and Spencer’s efforts. Now he didn’t have to try to remember to put a load of clothes in the washer before he rushed out to put in a long day on the ranch, or after he dragged himself in from the same long day. Now he didn’t have to figure out what he’d done wrong with the dishwasher, why suds were running every fucking where, because as far as he could remember
that
had never happened before. Dishwashing detergent, dishwasher, dishes; what about that equation would cause a Vesuvian-type eruption? Damned if he knew, and now it was Carlin’s problem.

Food he hadn’t cooked, clothes that were clean, not having to fight his way through the house because he hadn’t had time to even halfway pick stuff up since Spencer had gotten hurt—if that wasn’t the definition of heaven, he didn’t know what was.

If he hadn’t enjoyed so much the look of horror on Carlin’s face when she’d first seen the kitchen, he might have been embarrassed—but he had, and he wasn’t. In fact, he’d gotten a great deal of pleasure out of leaving the mess for her to handle.
That
had stopped her smart mouth.

He had to admit, though, he’d kind of enjoyed all the sass. Despite her stalker troubles—assuming her tale was true, and Zeke didn’t ordinarily take everything he was told at face value, so he was withholding judgment on that—she didn’t show the least bit of fear. Some women might have turned timid, but not Carlin. She wasn’t afraid of him at all, and he liked that. He liked it almost as much as he liked that heart-shaped ass of hers.

Nope, on second thought, it was no contest: her ass won by a landslide.

Half an hour later he reached the site where Darby and Eli were repairing a water pump station that had been damaged by one of the tractors while they were cutting hay. Eli was the best on the ranch with mechanical stuff; Darby was a good all-around hand, which was why Zeke kept him on despite the man’s nonending litany of complaints about any- and everything; when tempers got short it was hard listening to him, but some people were never satisfied no matter what, and Darby was one of them.

As he got out of the truck, both men straightened from where they were bent over the pump. Eli swiped a greasy hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat but leaving a black smear in its place.

“How’s it going?” Zeke asked, pulling on his gloves to help, if needed.

“We’ve about got it done,” Eli replied. “Another half hour, maybe.”

“Good.”

Darby arched his back to relieve the strain in his muscles. “Got the new cook settled in?”

“She’s there. I don’t know if she’s settled in or not.” Thinking of the expression on her face when he’d left her to it made him want to smile again.

“I hope to God she can cook better than Spencer,” Darby grouched. “But then, almost anybody could cook better than Spencer—except for you, boss.”

That was the literal truth, so Zeke didn’t take umbrage. Then Darby continued, “How old is she?”

Just four words, but they were enough to set off Zeke’s alarms. Darby had been involved in the situation that caused him to lose the last cook. “She’s young enough,” he said sharply, “and you stay the hell away from her.”

“Oh ho!” Darby grinned at him, though there was precious little humor in the expression. “Got the hots for her yourself, huh?”

Whether he did or not—and he admitted to himself there was a definite physical spark, at least on his part—had nothing to do with the situation, and he didn’t want the men thinking he looked at Carlin as his private sexual preserve. She deserved to be treated with respect, and he’d make damn sure she was. On the other hand, anything going on with Darby was something he wanted to nip in the bud, right now.

“No, what I have is a cook and a housekeeper, and I’ll be damned if I let you cause me to lose this one.”

“That wasn’t my fault—” Darby began, a whiny note entering his tone.

“I never said it was,” Zeke interrupted. “What I’m saying is, I don’t give a shit. Evidently I can find another ranch hand a hell of a lot easier than I can find a cook, so stay the hell away from her or it’s your ass that’ll be put on the road, not hers. That goes for every hand working here, not just you, so you might want to spread the word.”

He’d have to stay on his toes, he thought. Carlin was pretty. Not beautiful, not overtly sexy, but her features were finely drawn and delicate enough to make a man
take notice, without even factoring in the pertness of those small, high breasts and the roundness of her ass. Men would always react to her. He’d have to make it plain to the horny single men on his place that she was completely off-limits.

For that matter, he’d have to remind himself. His dick had stood up and taken notice of her the very first time he’d seen her, and under different circumstances—well, the circumstances weren’t different. She was in a difficult situation, and her thorny disposition made it plain she wasn’t looking for any kind of romance, even the temporary kind, which was all he wanted anyway. Too bad. He’d live, though; a lack of sex was damned annoying, but it wasn’t fatal.

It was also too damn bad that he didn’t like walking away from something he wanted. He hadn’t had a lot of practice at it, and he wasn’t a good loser. What was good about losing? Not a damn thing.

What the hell had he been thinking, hiring her and bringing her out here?

Well, that part was easy. He’d been thinking that he wanted a clean house, clean clothes, and food that was worth eating. He’d been desperate enough that he’d deliberately ignored the physical attraction he felt for her. And, face it, he really wanted some long, hot rolls in the hay with Carlin and her sassy mouth, not to mention that fine ass. His good mood abruptly faded a bit, thinking of the months—maybe—ahead when he’d have to deny himself. There was no telling how long she’d stay, but one thing was for damn certain: she wasn’t here forever. The minute she didn’t feel safe, she’d be in the wind.