Chief Cook and Bottle Washer

Chief Cook and Bottle
Washer

by Rita Hestand

Published by Smashwords

ISBN # 978-1-4523-0345-1

Copyright© 2009 Rita Hestand

print copy at http://www.ritahestand.com

Smashwords Edition

License Note

This book is licesed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebooks may not be resold or given away to
other people. Please purchase an additional copy for each person
you share with. If your reading this book and did not purchas it.
or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return
it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of the author.

Dedication:

For all the new and would be Mom out there,
this book is dedicated to all the mundane chores and nice things
you do everyday to make your child's day better. God bless you…Rita
Hestand!
 

Other books in this series

Courting Abby

Hannah's Man

Along Came Love

A horn blared, metal crashed, shattering Emma
Smith's concentration and jolting her against the steering wheel.
She scrambled out of her truck, only to find a tall stranger with
an accusing finger pointed straight at her. His flashlight and the
blinding rain made it impossible to see him clearly.

"Are you crazy or something, lady? Didn't you
see me coming?"

When she didn't answer, he rattled on. "Are
you hurt, is your truck damaged?" The man demanded, oblivious to
the raging spring storm. His voice was edged with concern and
withheld anger.

A stupid question if there ever was one. No
one could see in this kind of a storm.

Momentarily blinded by his flashlight, all
she could see now was a tall, broad- shouldered, narrow-hipped dark
shadow with a Stetson, and a condescending voice. A cowboy, she
should have known. Just her luck.

"In case you hadn't noticed," she said,
shaking with indignation, "it's pouring cats and dogs out here. I
couldn't see the hood of my own truck much less yours. I couldn't
see you coming around that bend in the road."

Perhaps he deserved an apology at the very
least, but Emma didn't feel much like apologizing to a man with a
finger in her face. She wished he'd put that flashlight away.

Her hand shielded her eyes from the
glare.

Maybe it was better if she didn't see him.
When he suddenly clammed up, and stared so long and hard, Emma
glanced at herself.

Oh God, in her hurry to get to the store for
milk, she had slipped on that ridiculous t-shirt her brothers had
given her for her last birthday. 'I'm over 21 and up for grabs!'
Not to mention the t-shirt now clung to her like a second skin. She
felt a hot blush bloom on her cheeks.

Damnation!

She hadn't planned on getting out in this
mess in the middle of the night, but the baby needed milk, she had
no choice. Thank God Bertha had enough sense to insist the baby
stay with her. Just the thought of the baby being with her during
the accident made her shudder.

The fact that she didn't have a bra on only
compounded her misery. But dammit it was too late to worry over
something that trivial.

"I hope you have insurance, 'cause I don't."
She flailed her voice at him.

"Well that figures!" he boomed. He didn't
sound too surprised though.

Probably figured her for a real airhead.

He flashed the light first at his truck, then
hers. A headlight dangled from his grill. She heard him draw
breath, as though steadying his next outburst. Her truck was none
the worse for wear.

Emma shook, she didn't want to, but she was
cold, angry, and a tad put out by this ogler. What had happened to
good old fashioned manners?

"Look, I'll be glad–"

"Isn't that Bertha Martin's old truck?" The
stranger interrupted flashing his light toward her truck again.

"It was. I just bought it. You know
Bertha?"

"Sure, everyone around here knows Bertha," he
said gruffly then cast her another glance. "But she wouldn't sell
it. It belonged to her dead husband."

"I don't know anything about her dead
husband, but she did sell it to me. Just yesterday as a matter of
fact. I haven't even had the title changed yet, but I intend
to."

Now the light was back on her face.

"What's your name?"

"Emma Smith."

He made some kind of disgusted grunt and half
turned away, then back to her. "Okay, this isn't getting us
anywhere so let's get back to our problem. Now what are you going
to do about this to make it right?"

"Well naturally I'll pay for it."

"Sure you will," came his condescending voice
again. "Okay, let's get this out of the way and be done with it.
This isn't the kind of weather to be exchanging trivialities. Let's
just exchange names and addresses. You can send me the money."

"You'd trust me?"

"Not exactly, first I'd like to see a little
identification."

He moved closer, and she backed up, within
arms length of him. Without thought she reached out and put her
hand on his chest to stay him. As though he might come closer. She
hadn't thought touching a stranger could affect her in any way, but
the instant her hand came in contact with warm flesh, all her
senses came alive. As though that touch made her conscious of him
being a man.

"Look cowboy," she said gulping and trying to
sound sophisticated but knew she hadn't come off that good. "I
don't have insurance, I'll admit that much. But this ought to cover
it." She whipped out a small wad of bills from her front jean
pocket and thrust them into his big warm hand. "Now leave me alone,
will ya?"

She turned away to escape him when she heard
his voice lower to a husky note.

"Ma'am a little identification and an apology
would have been enough." The cowboy's words followed her to her
truck door. She glanced at the ominous shadow in the rain. The
money had fallen from his hands to the ground and he hadn't even
bothered to pick it up. Her full paycheck, and he hadn't bothered
to pick it up.

"I pay for my mistakes mister."

"I'll take that as an apology, then."

Before he had time to move any closer, she
slammed the truck door, jerked it in reverse and took off, spewing
mud and water all over his truck in the process. She drove at least
two miles down the road, glancing in her rear-view mirror as she
went. The cowboy hadn't moved.

***

Deke Travers moved his hand over his jaw as
he stared at the money at his feet. Damn, the woman put him in one
hellova awkward position. She'd paid for the accident so to speak,
but he was nearly certain she'd stolen Bertha Martin old pickup. He
sensed a desperation in this little gal. But he couldn't really see
her as a thief. Still it looked like she had stolen the damn truck.
He had no choice.

Even if she was the prettiest thing he'd seen
in a long time. He had to forget those perfect pouting breasts, and
the gentle sway of her hips. Somehow.

He spent the entire trip back to the ranch
berating himself for what he was about to do. But Bertha Martin was
a friend and he had no choice. He had to report this to the
police.

He'd have bet his last dollar the woman was
no thief. Something about the look in her face told him that much.
The way she faced him, open and direct. The way she threw that
money meant she had to be running from something though. But
what?

She hadn't shown him any ID and he certainly
didn't buy that name she gave him. Emma Smith. A real phony. Yep,
he'd probably been took in this time. The Sheriff would laugh at
him for that one.

***

Emma shook all the way into town. She prayed
the little store would be open so she could be on her way.

The lights were just going out as she opened
the old screen door to the store, "Mrs. Wharton, could I just get
some milk, please?"

"Why sure honey. What are you doing out this
late at night?" The woman turned the light on again and opened the
door for her.

"I–I, I was making a pie for the cafe
tomorrow and I ran out of milk."

"Well land sakes why you baking' so late,
hon?"

"I guess I'm a night owl. Bertha reminded me
the store would close soon."

"I heard you were staying' with Bertha.
That's real nice, she gets kinda lonely stuck out there in the
middle of nowhere. But you know when her husband died she wouldn't
budge from that place. You'd think with the cafe bein' in town
she'd move a little closer," Mrs. Wharton was saying.

"It's hard to move away from your home, I
guess."

The woman glanced at Emma as she put the milk
on the counter and dug change out of her pocket. Damn, she didn't
have enough money left to pay for the milk. She shifted her weight
and glanced up at the woman.

Mrs. Wharton looked at her a little funny,
then smiled.

"You're only a dime short, honey. Don't fret.
I'll stop by for some coffee, how's that?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Wharton, I'm sorry."

"It's only a dime, Emma. Don't fret about it.
We're all glad to have you here. We don't get many young folks
these days."

"Thanks Mrs. Wharton."

Emma practically ran back to her truck. She
laid her head on the steering wheel and felt a hot tear sting her
eye. She wouldn't cry. She just wouldn't. Things would get better.
They had to. But that thought died the moment she pulled into the
old gravel drive at Bertha's place. The Sheriff's car was there,
his lights flashing.

Dear God, he had come to take the baby away
from her!

________________________________________

"You better get your eyes off that cute
little wiggle and get over to the store, 'cause Rusty's on his way
to tear into Lon," Cal Travers tapped his oldest son, on the
shoulder as he hefted a large burlap sack off the ground and into
the back of his Chevy S-10.

"What cute little wiggle?" Deke Travers
stopped long enough to scowl at his father.

"The one you been gawkin' at for the past ten
minutes. The one Bertha's been talkin' to. That pretty little
red-head by the Cafe." Cal's heavy grey brow shot upward.

"She's the one I was telling you about. The
one that ran into me a couple of months back. I'm sure of it." Deke
slanted a glance toward the Lone Star Cafe again. She did have a
cute little wiggle, but darn if he'd admit it to his dad.

"The one that threw money in your face? The
one you thought stole Bertha's truck."

"Yeah, that one." Deke nodded. "Guess I won't
live that one down for a while. Will I?"

"Not if I can help it."

Deke glanced at his father again. "So why
didn't you stop Rusty?"

"Nope, gave that job to you when I officially
retired. Thirty years of herdin' you boys is long enough. It's not
my fault that none of you married and divided the land, like I
suggested. You're the oldest, so–."

"Can't you see I'm busy?" Deke grunted as he
lifted another sack and shoved it into the back of the truck,
slamming the tailgate harder than necessary. He peered over his
shoulder at his dad and instantly regretted snapping at him.

Cal Travers had once been a tall, muscular,
hard-as-nails cowboy but his long bout with emphysema had taken its
toll. The disease had left him a bent, frail looking man who had
too many coughing spells and not enough stamina to sit in a saddle
all day.

"I sympathize son, but somebody's got to do
it." Cal smiled thoughtfully as he rolled a cigarette paper and
stuffed it in the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," Deke muttered grabbing the short end
of the cigarette and pulling it from his father's mouth with
disgust.

The cigarette hit the hot pavement and
rolled. Cal watched it roll, his forehead wrinkling into a
frown.

"No more of those for you, old man. You know
what the doc said. I won't have you smoking and toting an oxygen
machine."

Deke squared his shoulders, forcing the
tension from his body. Damn, he hated talking down to his father
like that, but it was necessary and Deke always did what was
necessary. "Guess someone should get a grip on Rusty's temper."

The responsibility of his three younger
brothers, his dad and the ranch had taken a toll on Deke nerves,
lately. If it wasn't Rusty playing the town bully, it was Clint
high-tailin' it for the rodeo every time he turned his back. Not
only that, but handling his old man could be a task. The only one
he could depend on was Jake, and he felt guilty about that.
Destined for better things than running a ranch, Jake should be in
law school. It was time the younger two took more
responsibility.

Taking long strides Deke reached the end of
the boardwalk and turned the corner. A crowd built outside Tate's
General Store. Somebody was putting on a good show and he could
just imagine who that somebody was.