Rugged (4 page)

She carried the big stewpot to the table, her hands protected inside a pair of scarlet oven mittens. After lowering the pot onto a slate holder, she pulled off the mittens and found an empty spot to lay them down on the glass top.

He reached over to move the padded mittens further away from the candles. She’d realized the danger at the same time and tried to remedy her error. Their hands collided. Jed pulled his arm back, as if scalded.

Careful
, he told himself.
It would just end in tears.

Remaining on her feet, Rachel picked up his empty plate and began to ladle stew into it. “I got into a spot of trouble,” she told him. “Nothing major, but my boss thought it would be a good idea for me to take some time off, so that if things blew up, the situation wouldn’t reflect badly on the firm. I expect to be back at work in the New Year.”

She handed the full plate to him.

“What do you do?” he asked, his eyes following her movements.

“I’m a tax attorney,” she said. “And you? Have you always lived alone?”

“Not when I was a kid.”

Her amused chuckle grated on his nerves. He hadn’t meant it as a joke, but a statement of fact. Those two women he’d eavesdropped on years ago must have been right—he possessed no sense of humor. Perhaps once he had, but it had died over the years. His hand rose to touch the scars on his cheek, but he caught himself in time and instead raked his fingers through his hair.

“I understand you’re a farmer,” Rachel said.

“A rancher.”

She paused, the ladle unmoving above her plate. “There’s a difference?”

“Farmers grow crops. Ranchers raise livestock.”

“And what do you raise? Pigs? Chickens? Sheep?”

This time he spotted the twinkle in her eyes. “Just beef.” His mouth curved into a reluctant smile. “And a few milk cows, and horses for riding the herd. Cats for keeping mice under control in the barns, and a goat for a reason I can no longer remember. When I was a boy, I had a dog, but that was years ago.”

“Never thought of getting another one?”

“I don’t have the time for dogs.”

She fitted the lid with care on the cast iron pot, so that the ladle stuck out through the small notch along the edge, and sat down. “The same way that you don’t have time for women?” she asked quietly.

He grunted a reply that could have meant anything.

In silence, Jed studied his plate, heaped with unrecognizable things in various shades of brown. He speared a forkful of what looked like chicken and tasted. Sucking in a frantic breath, he gave in to the spasm that shook his body.

“What the hell did you put in this?” he growled. “Gunpowder?”

“Huh?” She jerked to attention, picked up a spoon and filled it with stock. Her lips pursed into a dainty circle to blow a cooling stream of air on the tiny portion.

His chest tightened as he watched her mouth pucker, as if for a kiss. All too soon, she stopped blowing and tipped the contents of the spoon into her mouth. “What’s wrong?” she asked, eyes round with innocence. “It’s a Thai green chicken curry.”

Cautiously, he took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “It won’t kill me?”

“You asked for it hot.”

“I meant temperature.”

“Sorry.” She grimaced, looking more amused than apologetic. “Normally, I open tins or heat TV dinners.”

“How did you do this?”

“I threw the chicken and vegetables into the pot and poured a jar of curry sauce on top.” Her face furrowed. “If you don’t want me to cook for you again, I’ll understand.”

“It’s okay.” He shrugged. “If I live, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Her laughter rolled over his skin, light and silvery, like moonlight.

For a few moments, they ate in silence.

When the sharp whinny of an agitated horse broke the calm outside, Jed bolted up. His fork clattered to the plate. “I’ve got to go.”

After checking the handgun and the flashlight in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, he shoved his arms into the sleeves and strode across the floor. “Thanks for the food,” he called out, barely pausing to glance back from the front door.

She stared after him, alarm stamped all over her face.

He hesitated. She would misunderstand, think there was danger. He ought to stay. Her eyes drew him back, as potent as a rope yanking a bull to his knees. The thought sent a jolt of panic through him. With a decisive jerk of his arm, Jed shoved the door open and descended the porch stairs, leaving the staccato beat of his boots ringing in the darkness.

“Georgia, you damn goat,” he muttered to himself as he stalked up the hill, aided by the beam of the flashlight. “When will you learn to leave Nebraska alone?”

He paused at the barn and calmed the big quarter horse. Nebraska occasionally got fed up with Georgia, the pesky little goat suffering from a bad case of hero worship. Jed had understood the fracas to be just a friendly squabble, but he’d seized the excuse to flee anyway. Leaving in a hurry saved him from trying to figure out how a man was supposed to say goodnight to a woman at the end of a candlelit dinner.

Heat arrowed inside him as he imagined kissing Rachel James, or Rachel Goldman, whatever her name was. How would it feel, to press his lips against that soft, rosy mouth of hers? To put his arms around her, drawing her close, and have her melt into him, instead of struggling to break free?

Forget her
, he told himself.
She’s just another slut from the city.

He slammed the door of the stall in frustration, startling both horse and goat.

But even as his mind formed the words, he knew them to be a lie.

Rachel was different.

* * * *

The next evening, Jed paused on the porch of the log cabin. Firelight reflected through the window, painting the snowdrifts in a restless orange flicker. The same restlessness churned inside him. He shouldn’t have come. It had been a hard day, riding the pastures, dealing with problems caused by the early cold snap.

He hadn’t washed, or changed out of the dirty jeans and sweat-stained flannel shirt he’d worn since the morning. Deep inside his mind he wondered if he was trying to show Rachel the worst of himself. Not that there was anything better hiding beneath the surface.

He ought to quash any danger of becoming involved right now. No explanations, no excuses. He’d ask her to prepare a bowl of food that he could take away with him. He was busy. That’s all. He didn’t have room in his life for the illusion of feminine grace, or the alluring contrast of his strength and her softness, and how the two might mix in some romantic interlude that would only serve to deepen his solitude.

Raising a fist, Jed rapped on the door and took a step back.

The heavy panel swung open.

Rachel stood before him, holding a wooden spoon in one hand, her slender body silhouetted against the lantern light in the room. She wore the figure-hugging sweater again. Her hair was tied into a ponytail. Without the mass of curls, her features looked more fragile. Small nose, rounded chin, plump mouth, and the bold slash of dark eyebrows that added a hint of determination to the delicate features.

An odd sense of tumbling out of balance seized Jed when their eyes met. Hers were a clear gray that shone in the shadows, as if lit from within. The color of stones in a mountain stream, clean and pure. She should never see anything ugly, least of all the scarred face of a man who had no idea of how to treat a woman.

He should go.

“I’m glad you survived the Thai green chicken curry.” She smiled up at him. “It’s salmon today. I think it’s a lot better. I’ve been experimenting. I seared the fish in a pan first, to seal in the flavor, and I steamed the veggies instead of cremating them to a pulp.”

Chattering away, she stepped aside to let him in.

Despite his intention to leave, Jed found himself following her.

He pulled the door shut behind him, halted, pulled the knit cap from his head.

“You left your hat yesterday.” She pointed to the hooks by the entrance where she’d hung up his battered old Stetson. “I almost came up this morning to bring it to you, but I thought you might not welcome the intrusion.”

“It’s okay.” He twisted the knit cap in his hands. “I had this.”

His eyes followed Rachel as she busied herself transferring a pot and a frying pan from the table back to the stovetop. Then she spun around to face him in the dull glow of the storm lanterns.

“I have to ask, because it’s been bothering me,” she said bluntly. “Why are you trying to be friendly now, after acting so hostile when I first came to ask for your help?” Her mouth pulled into a hard line, and Jed got the impression she did it to keep her lips from trembling.

She was confronting him, despite being a little afraid. Her display of courage felt like another blow aimed to knock down his defensive walls.

His fingers tightened around the damp wool of the ski cap. “I grew up with Frank and Linda Collins living here, and I miss them. I decided it’s time I made an effort to get on with the new neighbors. This place is surrounded by my land.”

She emitted an angry sound. “I don’t think you’ve made any effort up to now. From what I hear, you’ve been equally hostile to everyone. Acting friendly requires a bit more than lowering your shotgun, you know.”

He gave an awkward shrug, unwilling to talk about the fashion models, how they’d played their game of knocking on his door and making fun of him.

“I’m tired,” he said. “Can we just eat?”

“Sorry.” The frown on her forehead smoothed. “Sit down. It’s ready.”

He settled at the table. Rachel dished out the strips of salmon, and the medley of carrots and peas and cauliflower, and poured some kind of creamy sauce on top. While Jed watched her bustling around, words started to trickle out of him, like melt water dripping down a gutter, and then growing into a rippling brook. In halting, awkward sentences, he told her about his day, riding out, taking the tractor from the barn by the lake, distributing bales of hay to the herds, breaking the crust of ice in the water troughs, looking out for injured animals.

“Is it just you?” she asked. “Don’t you have any ranch hands?”

“A family lives down by the lake, near the big barn that I use for calving. Martha’s husband used to be the ranch manager when I was at school. She’s a widow now. She keeps the milk cows and looks after most of the horses, and gets groceries from Jackson once a week. Her sons, Jesse and Gabe, work as ski instructors in the winter and help me with the herd the rest of the year.”

“How many cows do you have?”

“Five hundred cow and calf pairs.”

Her eyes grew wide. “And you do all the work yourself?”

He nodded. “It’s not unusual. Even ranches four times the size only have two or three full time managers. I do staggered calving, mostly late spring and fall, which makes it easier. Cows find a private spot on the pasture and drop the calves. Then it’s just a question of keeping them alive and healthy and fed, until the calves are sold.”

“I thought calves were born in the spring.”

“They can be born any time of the year. It’s up to the rancher.” He lowered his gaze to the plate, grateful for the shadows that hid his blush. “I don’t do artificial insemination, but I can decide when to let the bulls in with the cows. Early calving gives bigger yearlings because they have more time to grow. Late calving saves on shelter and feed, and some people think it’s better for controlling disease and gives a better quality of meat. More gamma globulin.”

“Heavens,” she said. “It’s a science.”

“It’s a business.” He sighed. “That’s the hardest part. Doing the books.”

“Oh?” Her mouth pursed. “That’s my world. I studied law, but I went to work in an accounting firm. I do people’s taxes.” She directed an earnest gaze at him. “Maybe I could help. I need something to keep my mind occupied.”

His muscles grew taut. She was weaving herself around him like a slim thread that could all too easily snare his heart. Cooking for him. Drawing more words out of him than he normally spoke in a month. Offering to help. If he invited her to do his books, she’d need to come up to the house. Would her fragrance linger? Would her voice soak into the timbers and whisper back to him during sleepless nights? Would the house retain the cadence of her footsteps and match it to his heartbeat when he sat alone, thinking of her?