Running Blind (36 page)

No woman in this particular state should make him hard, but Carlin did. She wasn’t just rumpled, she was flustered, and still amazingly efficient. In less than a minute she had the coffeepot going and a carton of eggs out of the fridge. There wasn’t much time before the hands would start showing up for breakfast. It wouldn’t be a day for pancakes or omelets. He suspected this would be a scrambled egg day. She’d fix something else, too, because she knew they all needed plenty of calories, especially in this cold, but she didn’t have a lot of time.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I must’ve turned off the alarm in my sleep. I never do that! Well, I guess I do.
Normally
I never do that. Coffee will be ready in a minute.”

In an easy and practiced motion, Carlin reached into the freezer and came out with a bag of frozen biscuits. She turned on the oven, grabbed a cookie sheet out of a cabinet, and in the same smooth move she opened the fridge and grabbed a package of ham.

God, forget the biscuits, he thought. He wanted to eat
her
. Fresh from the bed, heavy-lidded and mussed and sexy as hell … he wanted to take that bathrobe off of her, kiss her neck, then peel off those pajamas and fuck her on the kitchen table. And if he didn’t get his mind off that picture right now, the men would know as soon as they came into the kitchen because he’d have a hard-on that would tear out his zipper.

When the first knock sounded at the door, Carlin cinched the sash of her bathrobe tight and ran a hand through her hair. It didn’t help much.

He went to unlock the door. “Guess who overslept,” he said as the men tromped in. There was no doubt who the someone was, given he was showered and shaved and dressed, and she looked as if she’d been chased around the kitchen by the Hounds of the Baskervilles. But she had scrambled eggs, ham, and biscuits on the table in record time, and they all laughed when she heaved a big “Whoo!” as she set the plates down.

“I feel as if I’ve run a marathon,” she announced. “I need coffee. If any of you somehow break every bone in your body and need me to spoon-feed you, yell out, but otherwise I’m going to sit in the kitchen and suck down some caffeine.”

“Just don’t go to sleep again,” Walt said, grinning.

“Hah. As if I could.”

Zeke watched her go. She didn’t know she was gorgeous, didn’t realize how tempting she was. If she checked, she’d definitely see how tempting she was to him. Thank God he was sitting down now, because no way could he hide his physical reaction to her. And, damn, did she have to use the word “suck”? He could barely focus on eating.

When Walt—the last to finish—left by way of the mudroom, Zeke followed him to the door, told his foreman he had a little paperwork to take care of, and once Walt was out of earshot, locked the door.

He returned to the kitchen and—again—just watched Carlin as she piled dirty dishes in the sink. When she saw him, she smiled. “What a way to start the morning! My heart is still pounding. Now that it’s over, I think I’ll have some more coffee before I—” She registered his expression and stopped in mid-sentence. Her smile changed, her eyes growing heavy-lidded. “I’m not going to get that cup of coffee just yet, am I?”

Zeke shook his head and walked toward her.

She tried to argue with him. “I need a shower, and some makeup, and a hairbrush …”

“You don’t need a thing. Except maybe me.” He kissed her neck, her mouth, and while he kissed he untied the bathrobe sash and slipped his hands inside the robe. She was warm and soft, yielding and … his.

She sighed as he kissed her neck, reached between them to put her hand over his erection. “Who knew that frazzled and unkempt was such a turn-on for you?” she murmured.

He slid his hand inside the waistband of her pajama bottoms and pushed them down.

“Zeke!” She ruined the protest with a laugh. She was already breathing hard, her nipples peaking under the thin cotton of her pajama top.

He stopped both the protest and the laugh with a hand between her legs. He found her soft opening and pushed, slipping a finger inside her, then another. She was wet and hot, ready for him, clinging to him and gasping.

“Here?” she whispered, and to answer her own question she unfastened and unzipped his jeans and pushed them down.

He lifted her and she kicked her pajama bottoms aside, wrapped her legs around his waist. He turned and pinned her to the nearest wall, held her while she guided his penis into her hot body, slick and tight and as ready for him as he was for her. She rode him, slow at first, eyes
closed and head back as if she savored every stroke. Heart pounding, he gripped her ass and moved her faster, up and down, going into her deeper and harder.

She climaxed, a cry tearing out of her throat, and her hot inner muscles clamped down on him like a soft fist, milked him as he came with her, fast and hard, and damn, at that moment life was good.

Life was good because he had Carlin in his kitchen, most nights in his bed, and right now wrapped around his body. And, shit, he hadn’t even made it as far as the kitchen table.

“L
IBBY
’
S COMING TO
visit,” Zeke announced one morning in January. “I just got off the phone with her.”

Carlin kept her expression calm, but panic squeezed her stomach. Libby! The famous, perfect Libby—here. In what was now Carlin’s domain. She couldn’t have been more terrified if the ranch were being invaded by the Huns.

“That’s nice,” she managed to say. “When?”

“Next week. I’ll pick her up at the bus stop in town.”

Men
. “Exactly when, next week? Monday? Thursday? I need to plan the meals, so I’ll have to time the grocery shopping.” That sounded reasonable, didn’t it? “And how long is she staying?”

“A week, tops,” he replied, answering her second question first. “And she’ll be here on Tuesday.”

Today was Thursday. She had five days to prepare. Suddenly, five
weeks
didn’t sound like enough time for all she had to do. The place had to be perfectly clean—good luck with that, considering she had to deal with Zeke the Laundry-Making Monster—and, please God, don’t let her burn anything when she was cooking!

The days passed in a frenzy of preparations. She went over menus, new dishes, and finally rejected everything
new because now was certainly not the time to be experimenting! She was as nervous about meeting Libby as she would’ve been if she was meeting Zeke’s family. He’d said his mom and sisters and their families usually came for a visit in the summer, so she didn’t worry about them; she’d be gone by then, and because she wouldn’t be around for much longer she really shouldn’t be worried about meeting Libby. What did it matter if Libby liked her or not?

Because it mattered to Zeke, that was what.

Because it mattered to him, it mattered to her. Never mind that if she stuck with her plan, she’d be gone in two months.

“If?” When had it become “if”?

She had to stop thinking that way. She still didn’t know where she’d go, but it didn’t really matter, did it? What mattered was that whenever she tried to think about her next step, she faltered. She didn’t want to leave—not in the spring, not ever.

Falling in love with Zeke hadn’t been part of the plan. Some nights she had to bite her lip to keep from saying the words.

The winter had gone by too fast. She tried to hold on to the good times, had tried to make Christmas and even New Year’s Eve as special as possible so she—and maybe even Zeke—would have something to remember when days were not so bright. They’d laughed together, they’d spent hours making love in his big warm bed upstairs, they’d spent other hours snuggled in front of the fireplace just enjoying each other’s company. The men felt like family. This felt like home.

Now it was January, the weather was as ungodly cold as they’d warned her it would be, and spring was too damn close.

When she’d given herself a deadline for leaving, she hadn’t specified
late
spring or
early
spring, and from all
she’d heard could she really leave Zeke in the middle of the very busy calving season? He’d need her then, even if he did work from before dawn until well after dark and she didn’t get to see him nearly as often as she’d like. She was talking herself into staying, and that scared the hell out of her because she didn’t have to put a whole lot of effort into it.

But now Libby was coming to visit, and Carlin was beginning to wish she’d left yesterday, spring or no spring.

Tuesday came way too fast. Zeke went into town to meet Libby’s bus. Carlin stayed behind to prepare a big dinner: roast and potatoes, green bean casserole, corn pudding, soft rolls, and white cake for dessert. With the crew down to winter level and the married men eating their evening meals at their own homes, she’d been cooking for a smaller crowd lately. There were usually seven for breakfast and lunch instead of ten, since Patrick had returned earlier than expected, but it would be eight while Libby was visiting. Dinner would now be for six, instead of five. It was amazing what a difference the absence of three men made when it came to cooking and grocery shopping!

With the cake finished and everything else in the slow cooker or the oven, Carlin ran back to her rooms—Libby’s old rooms—to freshen up a bit. She could say all she wanted that she didn’t care what Libby thought of her, but the woman was important to Zeke, so like it or not she
did
care. She brushed her hair, put on a touch of pale lipstick, and changed into a blouse that didn’t have a single food stain on it. She almost always wore an apron when she cooked, but she was a messy cook and no apron covered everything.

What she really needed was a smock, like the ones chefs wore on the cooking channels she’d been watching since coming here. Since she’d learned to cook maybe her
next job would be in the kitchen, too. At least she’d expanded her capabilities.

Her next job
. It was a concept so vague she couldn’t hold it in her head for more than a few seconds.

She was back in the kitchen when she heard the key in the lock, followed by a bewildered female voice saying, “Why on earth have you started locking the door in the middle of the day?”

They’d decided not to tell Libby any details about Carlin’s situation. Only Zeke and Kat knew the truth, and it was better that way.

She couldn’t hear Zeke’s explanation, which was delivered in a lowered voice that didn’t carry from the mudroom.

Libby walked into the kitchen, took a long, deep breath, smiled at Carlin and said, “Something smells good.”

The perfect Libby was short, plump, had dyed dark brown hair, and a wide beaming smile that didn’t disguise the shrewdness of her gaze. She might be smiling, but she was reserving judgment.

Zeke was right behind her, two suitcases—one large, one small—in his hands. “Libby, this is Carly Hunt.”

Libby’s smile remained firmly in place, just as her assessing look didn’t change at all. “Glad to meet you. Zeke told me all about you,” she said, leaving Carlin to wonder whether Libby thought what she’d heard was good or bad. “Of course, I’ve heard a lot about you already, from some of my old friends around here.”

Oh, no. That couldn’t be good! Could it? What had she heard, and from whom had she heard it? She and Zeke had tried so hard not to let anyone realize that their relationship had changed. Kat had seen it, but she didn’t think anyone else was the wiser. She instinctively didn’t like that people in Battle Ridge had been talking about her, though thank God she’d covered for herself by not using her real name. Everything should be okay.

Zeke carried the bags through the dining room. “Libby, I’m going to put your bags in my old bedroom, if that suits you.” His old bedroom was on the first floor.

“That’s perfect,” she answered. “I can still handle the stairs, but my knees don’t like it much these days.”

“If you want your old rooms while you’re visiting, I can take the other bedroom,” Carlin offered. She didn’t have that many clothes or toiletries to move. It would be a pain, but she was willing.

“That’s okay, I’m fine with Zeke’s old room,” Libby replied. “I’ll just be here for a week, or two. No need to run you out of your quarters.”

Or two?
What the hell? Zeke had said Libby would be here a week, tops. “There are fresh sheets on the bed in Zeke’s old room,” Carlin said.

Libby’s smile said that she certainly hoped so, that anything else was unacceptably sloppy. Carlin felt put in her place, even though Libby hadn’t said a word of criticism. Dang, that was an art she needed to cultivate, herself.

“Fresh towels, soap, and shampoo, are in the downstairs bath. Is there anything else you need?”

“No.” Libby’s gaze moved to Carlin’s hair, and the line between her brows deepened as she squinted. She pursed her lips. “I’ve been thinking about going blond,” she said, changing the subject without warning. “This brown is way too dark, but I’m not ready to go back to red yet. I love the color of your hair. What shade do you use?”

“Uh, this is my natural color,” Carlin said as Libby leaned closer.

“Really. Hmm. I change my hair color a lot. I get bored with seeing the same thing every time I look in a mirror—not that changing color takes any of the weight off my butt,” Libby said, and laughed. “But I’ve gone back and forth between brown and red so many times I’m tired of it.”

Okay, that laugh had been genuine. Carlin relaxed a
little. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. If you’d like to settle in before we eat …”

“No, I’m fine.” Libby walked around the big kitchen, peeking in the slow cooker, turning on the light in the oven and peering inside. She even checked out the silverware drawer, and the junk drawer where Zeke threw odds and ends. Carlin kept expecting the woman to pull out a white glove and check the top of the fridge.

“I spent years in this kitchen,” she said softly, more to herself than to Carlin. “It’s mostly the same way it was, but it’s different, too. It isn’t mine, now.”

Zeke returned to the kitchen. Hands now empty, he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the dining room. And he smiled. He did that a lot, these days. He smiled at
her
.