Patricia Johns – Her Cowboy Boss (страница 7)

I liked her a lot. That wasn’t enough. There was a couple of beats of silence between them, and Louis put his hat back on his head.

“Were you one of the heartbroken guys?” Avery asked.

“Me?” He shook his head. “No, no... I knew where I stood. I was just some ranch boy. She had her eyes on the city.”

“So...you and my mother weren’t serious?” she pressed.

“Serious?” He shot her an odd look. “Sorry if I gave the wrong impression there. We were nothing more than good friends.”

That was the story he was sticking with? They’d obviously been significantly more than good friends for a least one night, but it didn’t look like he was going to admit to that—at least not today. Besides, her mind was whirling with this new bombshell he’d dropped on her, and she needed to process it alone.

“I’d better turn in.” She hooked a thumb back toward the bunkhouse. “I’ve got an early morning.”

“Look, I’m sorry to hear about your mom’s passing,” Louis said. “Real sorry.”

“Thank you.” She stood there awkwardly for a moment.

“Well, have a good night.” He turned back toward his truck. “And welcome aboard.”

Avery watched him go. If Louis wasn’t willing to admit to even a casual relationship with her mom, then he might not be too pleased to discover that he’d fathered a child with her. What was it that he said, that some people grew and learned and let go of their mistakes? Somehow Avery doubted that she’d be welcome news. She might very well be one his mistakes that he gratefully set free. It would be wise to find out what she could about her biological family before courting rejection.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Hank awoke at 3:30 a.m. and rolled over with a moan. He’d promised to give Avery a hand with breakfast, and though he was exhausted, he found himself grudgingly looking forward to it.

He tossed back his covers and sat up, rubbing his hands over his eyes. This house had had five years to be brought back down to a man’s level, and all remnants of Vickie’s touch around the place had been erased. He slept in the center of his bed, spread eagle. His bathroom contained soap, shaving gel, deodorant, a toothbrush and shampoo—that was it. His bedroom was clean, but sparsely decorated, just the way he liked it. He had no reason to complicate his life with frills.

He flicked on the TV mounted on the wall opposite his bed as he ambled into the bathroom. He could hear the muffled voice of the news announcer talking about the weather. Mostly sunny, high of eighty, 20 percent chance of showers. The weather mattered on a ranch—rain mattered, heat mattered. There were eight hundred head of cattle that needed to be watered and cared for.

He washed his face and reached for his shaving gel. Sometimes he’d let his scruff go for a few days, but this morning a clean shave felt worth it. Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and he left the house, slamming the door shut behind him. He headed down the gravel drive that led to the canteen. Rocks crunched under his boots, and cool morning air carried the scent of cows and grass. The Harmon Ranch was home in a way that he’d never anticipated when he first took this job. Back then he’d been a young husband looking for a better wage—period—but he and Louis had forged a close relationship over the years through their personal tragedies. He’d never expected the position to last longer than his marriage, but it had, and this familiar land, the cycle of the seasons, a warm, dark summer morning, felt safe.

The sun was beginning to warm the edge of the eastern horizon, but all was still dark and quiet. The canteen door was unlocked, which meant Avery was likely already in the kitchen. He locked the door behind him and saw light shining through the circular window of the swinging door.

“That you, Hank?” she called.

“Yeah, that’s me.” He walked into the kitchen.

She stood by the sink, tying an apron around her waist. She looked up as he came in.

“Morning,” she said, a smile on her lips. Her hair was a little tousled, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup—just that milky white skin and the red fringe of her lashes. “So what’s the plan?”

“We have to put out thirty-five pack lunches,” Hank said. “And get breakfast cooked. I can do the lunches.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a box of hairnets. “You should probably use one of these.”

That should make her a little less appealing to the guys.

“Of course.” She flushed as she pulled her hair back, then twisted it into a bun at the base of her neck. “Give me a hand?”

He stretched out a hairnet and stepped closer so he could put it on her. She smelled good—that feminine mix of scents that a man never could identify. When he put the hairnet over her shining hair, his fingers brushed her neck. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman, and he steeled himself to her softness, then took a step back.

“You’ll probably want to start with corn bread,” he said, trying to keep on task. “The old cook used to make it in batches—at least that’s how he explained it to me before he left. The ovens hold eight pans at a time, and he did two batches...” He relayed what he’d been told, and showed her the recipe book. Avery gave him a quick nod.

She picked it up easily, which was a relief, because he wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing, either. They needed to feed thirty-five men before they left for the fields, and that was a bigger job than he’d imagined. But they’d have food out there in an hour’s time, and that was the goal. He worked on turkey sandwiches and cream cheese bagels, the results less than attractive but definitely edible.

“So tell me about you,” she said as she cracked eggs into the mixing bowl.

“Not much to tell,” he said.

“There’s always something to tell,” she replied. “Is your family from Hope?”

“Born and raised.”

“You said your parents are in Florida now, right? Do you miss them?”

“I’m thirty-five,” he said with a short laugh. “I’m a grown man.”

“I didn’t ask how old you were,” she retorted. “I asked if you missed them.”

Did he? Sometimes. But he could pick up a phone and call them whenever he wanted. They texted him pictures of geckos and potted cactus plants from their stone-covered yard. Not the life for him—he liked the fields, the cattle. When he retired, he wanted to own a little cabin somewhere with a fireplace and a dog.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But we keep in touch.”

“Shoot...” She dropped an eggshell on the table. “I’ve lost count and the yolks are broken. Okay, I’m quadrupling the batch—” She was silent for a moment, then continued, “No, I’m good... I think... We’ll see.”

What was it about her, standing there ruining a perfectly good meal—he could feel it happening, like lightning in the air—that she still managed to be so blasted likable?

“My mother always said a man expects a woman to be able to cook,” she said, shooting him an amused look. “I’m a walking disappointment.”

She fiddled with a few switches on the mixer until it turned on, the motor whirring softly as the large bowl turned.

“My ex-wife could cook like a pro,” he said with a shrug. “And she was still impossible to live with.”

He suppressed an oath. He hadn’t meant to mention Vickie. That was personal, and this woman was a virtual stranger.

“What happened?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips while she watched the mixer spin.

“We grew apart.”

That was the BS line most people used—the explanation that covered a hundred tiny betrayals before the ultimate one. Sometimes the ultimate betrayal wasn’t even that big—it was just the last one before both parties gave up. No one just up and got divorced; they crept toward it at a snail’s pace and pretended everything was fine until one day it wasn’t.

“I don’t believe that,” Avery said, her tone unchanged. “My mom got divorced when I was seventeen, so I’ve seen it up close and personal. No one grows apart—they’re pushed that way.”

“And what was their problem?” he asked, trying to divert that attention away from his life. She seemed to like to talk, so it was better to focus it on her, in his opinion.

“He wanted to be the man of the house and call the shots,” she said, reaching into the bowl with a spatula. “And he was terrible with money, but he wouldn’t let her handle the finances because he was the man. She couldn’t just watch him spend them into the poorhouse, and he couldn’t just watch her take care of the banking. It was a no-win situation.”

“Okay.” She seemed to have a pretty good grasp on her mother’s failed marriage.

“So what happened to yours?” she prompted.

She was turned away from him, focused on pouring flour into the mixing bowl. He didn’t really mean to start talking about himself, but when he opened his mouth, it came out before he could think better of it.

“Vickie was more social than I was. She was a flirt, and I didn’t like it. I loved horses and cattle, and she liked the Honky Tonk and dancing. There wasn’t much overlap in our interests.”

“That was it? Different interests?” She turned toward him, as if this really mattered to her.

“Well, that and Vickie thought that finally having a child together might solve our problems, and I’d disagreed. Babies bring more stress. They don’t fix problems. Turns out not having a baby didn’t fix it, either.”