12-Alarm Cowboys (49 page)

There was a loaf of fresh-baked bread that smelled heavenly. “Shall I set the table?”

He gave her a quick glance over his shoulder. “Drawer next to the fridge.”

She suppressed a sigh. He hadn’t made any similar commitment to get along. These five days were going to be long.

She made herself busy, gathering plates, silver ware and condiments, and pouring ice tea from a pitcher she found in the refrigerator.

When he’d finished heating the food, they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, quietly passing dishes. After she had her plate filled, she glanced up.

His gaze was on her plate. She couldn’t stop her frown. “I’m hungry.” No need to reveal her last meal was ramen noodles at lunchtime back in her apartment in Two Mule.

“So I can gather,” he said, his voice gruff. “There’s more in the fridge.”

Her cheeks burned. “This’ll be fine.” At her first bite of the pot roast, she groaned. “Better than fine.”

He gave a soft grunt.

A masculine sound she found oddly appealing.

“Mayra’s a good cook. She’s been working for our family since before I was born.”

“You’re lucky to have her,” Carly said, taking a bite of the buttery potatoes.

Again, he made that soft chuffing sound.

She glanced up.

Eyebrows lowered, his gaze bored into hers.

Her back stiffened, and she gripped her fork tighter. “I’m just trying to make nice.”

“Well, don’t.”

Her eyes prickled. And she realized with a start that they were filling. She glanced back down at her plate, determined to get through the meal and not say another word. Whatever was going on with her was probably due to stress. For weeks, she’d been dreading this day. Hadn’t she known things would go awry?

“I’m sorry.”

Again, she looked at him. His expression was no less fierce, but there was something different in his eyes, perhaps a little melting of their icy chill.

“Accepted,” she said softly. “Food’s good. Didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Lunch. I eat,” she said, defensively. So she had to budget her meals. Make them stretch. She’d gotten herself through community college living on boiled eggs, peanut butter, and ramen. Definitely nothing as delicious as this meal.

“There’s pie for desert.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Really?” She loved pie.

“Apple and peach. Too much for just one person. I usually have to send leftovers to the bunkhouse. I’ll keep them in the pie safe,” he said, pointing toward a box on the counter. “In case you need a snack.”

“Thanks.”

Apple
and
peach pie. Not something deep-fried and in a box from a drive-thru. Maybe staying here a few days wouldn’t be so bad. At least she’d save money on meals. “So, what sort of chores do you need help with?”

“The men aren’t fond of mucking out stalls or milking goats.”

Barely able to keep her jaw from dropping, she lowered her fork. “You milk goats?”

“Mayra makes cheese.”

“Seriously? You want me to milk goats?”

The corners of his mouth twitched.

Was he going to smile? Her insides knotted at the thought.
Please don’t, Jeremiah. You’re already too good-looking for my piece of mind.
“Fine, I’ll milk goats. Anything else?”

He cleared his throat and leaned back. “Do you know your way around a horse?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t spend much time with horses growing up.”

“But you lived with the Sandersons.”

Irritation flashed, and she lifted her chin. “Horses were for their kids. I helped Mrs. Sanderson when I wasn’t in school.”

He was quiet for a moment, just looking at her. “So, you know how to clean house?”

She snorted. Housecleaning had been one of her jobs while she’d been in college. “Yeah. I can help Mayra.”

He nodded, and then his gaze narrowed. “Saturday’s training day. You’ll stay close to me.”

“Of course,” she said, although again, her anger nearly made her choke on the words. “You know, you don’t have to worry. I’m not the same person.”
I’m not that stupid anymore.

“Glad to hear it. But you’ll still stick to me like glue.”

His distrust hung in his words. She nodded then glanced down at her plate again. The food had lost its appeal. She pushed back her plate. “Guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought,” she muttered. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“You need to eat. You’re too skinny.”

How dare he.
She gave him the look she knew he expected. The same one she’d given him seven years ago when he’d sat behind the prosecutor at her trial. Slowly, she rose, took her plate to the trash bin, and scraped it clean. He could keep his good food. She didn’t need it. Didn’t need a damn thing except to just get through the next few days. Then she’d be free and clear. Her money would come and go, but she wouldn’t give Jeremiah McCord and his fancy house and handsome face another thought.

Jeremiah sat in
the silence that followed her exit and wondered why he felt like he’d kicked a kitten.

Up close and personal for the very first time, certain things didn’t feel right about his long-held view of Carly Lohan.

Sure, she’d acted the way he’d expected from the moment they’d collided at the community center—confrontational and quick-tempered. He’d been prepared for any wobbler the little firebug threw.

He’d fallen into an old pattern. One he’d regretted a time or two. Quick judgments were something he cautioned himself against nearly every day, because his father had ridden him about his temper and stubbornness.

All it had taken was one look at the tilt of her chin, and he’d felt the same way he had seven years earlier, staring at her inside the sheriff’s office after she’d been arrested. He’d been tired after fighting a wildfire all night, and sick to his stomach that he’d nearly lost everything—and she’d had the nerve to raise her chin and pin him with a look that said she didn’t give a damn about his inconvenience or loss.

Tonight, his belly had knotted, and he’d found himself insisting she stay at his place. That invitation hadn’t been planned. He’d issued that edict out of spite, and regretted it the moment his blood had settled to a low boil—or maybe when he’d seen the ragged suitcase and even more raggedy car she drove. Life hadn’t been easy for Carly Lohan. Some might say she deserved a little hardship, but she had been only seventeen when she’d started the fire. And if he remembered correctly from her public defender’s description of her young life, she’d been in and out of foster care since she was ten and orphaned.

Back then, he hadn’t had a thought for anything but his own pain, but he’d been raised in abundance—a happy, well-off family, friends whose families had been friends with his for generations. He’d had history and privilege backing his pride.

Carly hadn’t any of that, and still she’d lifted her chin and dried up any sympathy anyone inside that courtroom might have had.

Only now, after sitting across from her at his table and watching her expression as she’d eaten Mayra’s food had he stopped to think about how different their lives had been.

Maybe the years had tempered his hardness, giving him the maturity to finally see the world from her viewpoint. Maybe there was more to her than simply a contentious young woman with a heavy chip on her shoulder. He hadn’t expected her to relent and offer to help out.

And he hadn’t expected to feel physical attraction.

Nothing about her should have sparked his interest. She was thin, barely a curve of feminine breast, but he had noticed the indention of her waist and the flare of her hips. Not a lot, but interesting just the same. Her hair wasn’t particularly noteworthy, falling to the middle of her back without a single wave or curl, and brown. But it was glossy and looked soft. Her skin was pale with a smattering of light freckles across the bridge of her nose. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing noteworthy.

Her eyes, however, stopped him in his tracks. Nearly always a stormy gray, when she’d said, “I’m not that person anymore,” the color had softened to an antique silver. He’d felt a pang in his chest. And then his gaze had dropped to her soft mouth, and he’d felt a tug in his groin. He’d had to steel himself against the inextricable pull.

He couldn’t be attracted to her. She was nothing like the women he’d normally dated, nothing like his wife—not blond and uncomplicated. He’d never liked complicated.

Jeremiah shoved away his plate and slumped in his chair. He’d been an ass, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. Because that would mean he’d have to knock on her door, and the last thing he needed was another look at her pretty gray eyes, staring accusingly.

And what the hell was that about? He’d been the one wronged. He’d nearly lost everything—because of her carelessness.

So why did he suddenly feel guilty about the years of payments he’d received, however paltry? Whenever he had considered them, he’d thought she’d gotten off light. So another ten or so years were needed to pay off the debt. He’d never considered how hard that payment had to be for her to make. Now, knowing her circumstances, guilt dug a pit in his belly.

Jeremiah raked a hand through his hair. He was tired. That was all. Tomorrow, in the light of day, her threadbare jeans and large, haunting eyes wouldn’t bother him a bit.

‡

C
arly wasn’t unaccustomed
to hard work, but she’d never before used a pitchfork. The cowboy who’d set her on her task had called it a “shit fork”—before clearing his throat and explaining the implement was smaller than a regular pitchfork so that the balls of horse dung didn’t fall between the tines.

After mucking out the stalls, she’d forked a mini-mountain of horse manure and straw into the center of the barn. Now she was pitching load after load into the wheelbarrow so she could wheel it out and add it the larger mountain of dung behind the barn. Dung that was used in Mayra’s garden.

Before today, she’d never given much thought to horses, and she’d never had an aversion to the smell, but a day of forking poop had altered her view forever. Or so she told herself. She knew she must be a sight in her dirty jeans and tee. She’d forgotten to take off her gloves a time or two and used them wipe sweat from her face. Meaning she had to have some smeared on her cheek.

But she didn’t dare stop. Not and have the high-and-mighty Jeremiah shaking his head. The night before, he’d been so sure she’d balk at his list of chores. Little did he know, but she was used to hard work. Her foster families had made sure of it.

Still, she’d never mucked stalls, and the repetitive motions had tightened the muscles at the small of her back, and her upper arms until they felt bruised. Pausing to stretch, she reached high, letting the hem of her shirt rise. The slight breeze blowing through the open barn doors wafted against her belly and felt almost luxurious.

“Looks like we’ll make a cowboy out of you yet.”

Carly dropped her arms and glanced over her shoulder. She’d missed Jeremiah at breakfast. Mayra told her he’d been up before dawn, as was his custom, to check on the herd. Carly hadn’t seen him since dinner the night before and dreaded their next encounter.

While her mind was made up to detest the man, her fickle body responded with a wave of heat that swept her cheeks and prickled her nipples. No man had a right to look that good when he was that dirty. “The cowboy who showed me how to muck out a stall asked me what I’d done to piss you off.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rose. “And what did you say?”

“That I’d burned three hundred acres of hay and an expensive bailer. He said that’d do it.”

He gave his signature grunt.

Even though she’d told herself that morning she must have imagined its appeal, she still felt the pull deep in her core.

“You should take a break,” he said, his voice sounding gruff.

“Why? I’m not done.” Did he think she’d jump at the chance to not finish?

“The sun’s out, and the air’s warm in here, Carly. And it’s time for lunch. Someone else can finish up.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll have to bathe again.”

He came closer and picked a piece of straw from her hair. Then he rubbed her cheek.

An action that shocked her to her toes.

“I think you’ve picked up more than a little dirt,” he murmured.

Because she was nervous with him standing so close, she laughed. “I have shit on my face. You can say it.” She swept a hand toward his own dirty clothing. “I’ve been mucking stalls, what’s your excuse?”

A smile stretched across his face.

The first she’d ever seen. Her stomach flipped.

“I chased a calf into an arroyo. He got separated from his mama. Took some doing to get him up on the horse with me.”

“I’d have loved seeing that.” And she meant it. The thought of him chasing a calf on horseback—well hell, now she was romanticizing the surly cowboy.

One dark brow arched. “You would have loved seeing a calf getting the better of me?”

“Yeah.” Feeling breathless because he was still standing close, she had to remind herself he was only being polite. That he’d likely come to see whether she was still hard at work. She moved away to lean her fork against the barn wall. “I better go shower, or Mayra will light into me.”