Running Blind (15 page)

“Half day,” he said, and then he turned to walk away,
headed for his office and paperwork. The man
did
look good walking away. Tight cowboy ass, in tight cowboy jeans, equaled
yum
. And she needed to get that thought out of her head.

Carlin opened her mouth to shout something after him, but changed her mind. She’d take a half day, for now.

S
HE WOULDN’T LAST
.

He couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.

Zeke tried to concentrate on the payroll before him, but his attention kept drifting off the numbers. His mind kept wandering to the woman who had taken over his house and, evidently, his wits. Desperate as he’d been, it had been a mistake to hire Carlin. She could cook well enough—more than well enough, so far—and she was making progress in the house, but still, it had been a mistake.

He remembered to call her Carly in front of the other guys, but Carlin suited her better. It was different. He’d never known anyone named Carlin; he’d never met anyone like her. And that was where the mistake came into play.

This was Kat’s fault. If she hadn’t suggested Carlin for the job he never would’ve thought of it on his own, because he knew trouble when he saw it, and right now trouble was living in his house. How in the hell had he been talked into this? Here he was now, stuck in the position of employer, when the missionary position was what he really wanted. Carlin, naked, under him, her legs wrapped around his waist—oh, hell yeah. His eyes half-closed, because he could almost feel the wet heat of her body closing tight around his dick.

But he’d screwed up by hiring her. Hell, this whole situation was screwed up. He’d have asked her out the first time he’d met her if she hadn’t hung such a huge
“leave me alone, you jerk” sign around her neck. Now he knew why, but in the meantime their relationship, such as it was, had disintegrated from wariness on her part to something that wasn’t quite downright hostility, but close. It was as if she wanted them to be at odds, as if she used that smart mouth of hers to keep him skating on the edge of his temper. If the stalker story was accurate, he could even understand why she’d have that attitude. His divorce from Rachel had been “amicable,” which meant they were both glad to see the last of each other, but even so it had been a while before he’d wanted anything to do with women. He hadn’t sworn off them or anything stupid like that, but he’d definitely needed some woman-free time.

Was that what she was doing? Had she picked up on how often he mentally stripped her and tossed her into his bed, and was throwing up the attitude to keep him at a distance?

Except Carlin was nothing if not mouthy; if she didn’t want anything to do with him as a man, all she had to do was say so, and he figured she wouldn’t be shy about it, either. The fact that he was her boss wouldn’t stop her. She struck him as perverse enough that she might even get a kick from figuratively telling him to fuck off.

And he was perverse enough to enjoy the push he got back from her. Libby hadn’t taken any shit off him, and Carlin didn’t seem inclined to, either. That was good. He didn’t have the time to mollycoddle anyone’s feelings, and while he was very definitely the boss when it came to ranch matters, as far as he was concerned, it was with great relief that he’d turned over the kitchen and everything pertaining to the house to Carlin. As far as he was concerned, she was now in charge, and she seemed to be on the same page with that.

So in a way they were equals here. No boss, no employee, and never mind that he paid her salary. She was
still in charge. He’d agreed not to fire her, but she hadn’t said she wouldn’t quit if the notion moved her.

He leaned back in his chair and thought that last part over, because it hadn’t occurred to him before now. That little shit! She’d got the upper hand on him, and he’d just now realized it!

What he’d realized from the beginning was how damn tempting she was.

When she’d said she wasn’t going to be his surrogate mother, he’d almost responded, “I’m one baby you’d never wean.” For once, his common sense had jumped in front of his big mouth and won the battle for dominance. Maybe he’d get used to walking into the house and seeing her here; maybe the sight of her would stop hitting him low and hard, once he got used to having her here. Maybe she’d stop glaring at him as if he were a plague carrier. Yeah,
maybe
.

So, what was he going to do? Push her away, or keep her? Try to find a less-stressful solution to his problem, or enjoy the hell out of her while she was here?

In six weeks or so, Spencer would be out of his sling and able to take on the cooking again. All the laundry would be done by then, he imagined, and the house would be set to rights. He’d told Carlin that he wouldn’t fire her until spring, but if she
quit
that would be another matter. She was already annoyed with him over the day-off thing. If she stayed annoyed, would she walk away?

A part of him—the part in his pants—wanted her to stay until spring. By then he should be able to find a man or an older woman to take the job, and Carlin would be more than ready to move on. Until then everyone on the ranch would be well fed, he’d come home every day to hot food, a clean house, and no laundry waiting for him. Spencer would be available when calving season began, when every able hand would be
needed. It made perfect sense to attempt to make it work.

Too bad that same part made him wonder if he’d really be able to share a house with Carlin for months without trying to get her into bed with him, or going crazy because he knew damn well he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Except why shouldn’t he? As to whether or not he
could
 … that was yet to be determined.

All he knew for sure was that he wanted to get his hands on her worse than he’d ever wanted any other woman, and that she was beyond a doubt going to be a lot of trouble either way, in bed with him or not.

He took a long sip of the cooling coffee. Damn it, even her coffee was better than his.

T
HE MEN, ALL
seven of them, dug into the huge roast and devoured it. There were potatoes and green beans, too, and like the roast those were all gone. Tonight’s bread had been simple—frozen rolls. Maybe it was cheating, and maybe they weren’t as good as Kat’s homemade rolls, but they were obviously okay with the men because not one of them whined about the rolls while they were grabbing them from the basket.

And using the time she’d saved by using the Crock-pot and frozen bread, Carlin had rummaged through the pantry and come up with the ingredients for a dessert recipe she’d found in one of the cookbooks. The page itself was clean, uncreased, so this was probably
not
one of Libby’s recipes: Never Fail White Cake. The recipe seemed to be tailor-made for her.

She didn’t eat at the table with the guys. Instead she made herself a small plate and ate in the kitchen. A couple of the men—Zeke included—had asked her to join them, but she’d declined. She was more comfortable in the kitchen, by herself, and besides, while the table was long enough to seat a dozen there were only nine chairs there. She would’ve had a choice of sitting next to Zeke or Darby, and she really wasn’t in the mood to be too
close to either. Zeke made her jumpy. Darby had wandering eyes.

Sitting alone in the kitchen was just more peaceful.

But when it came time to serve dessert, she proudly carried the white cake into the dining room. It was a layer cake, homemade top to bottom. And it was
pretty
. The white frosting was fluffy and sweet; she hadn’t been able to taste the cake, but she’d sneaked a bit of the frosting onto the tip of her finger and tested it.
Yum
. She’d never thought herself much of a cook, but the training at Kat’s had been superb, and the men she’d been feeding seemed to like her cooking. She could do this, and do it well.

The men
ooh
ed and
ahh
ed when she placed the cake on the table. While they admired her work, she hurried back into the kitchen for dessert plates, coffee cups, and clean forks. A pot of coffee—decaf, since she didn’t want to be accused of robbing any of the men of their sleep—was ready.

Walt took a clean knife and began to cut the cake while Carlin poured coffee for everyone who wanted it. Plates were filled with big slices of cake and passed around, until everyone, including her, had one. It was Walt who insisted that she sit with them for dessert, and because it would be rude to refuse—and because she wanted to watch them enjoy the cake—she agreed. She took the chair next to Zeke because he seemed to be the lesser of two evils. Maybe he was annoying, but he didn’t stare at her unimpressive cleavage, and not once had he winked at her. She probably would have fallen out of her chair if he had.

Almost simultaneously, all the men cut into their wedges of cake. Carlin watched them before doing the same.

One by one, expressions of delight turned to confusion and then dismay. The men all chewed, and chewed, and chewed. And chewed.

Carlin put a piece of cake into her own mouth. The
taste on her tongue was great. What was their problem? And then she chewed. Once.

The cake had the consistency of a sponge. Not just any sponge, but an old, tough sponge. “Never Fail,” my ass! She glanced around the table in horror. To a man, the guys who’d wolfed down the meal and began eating their dessert with relish wore expressions of surprise and dismay. Six of them continued to chew. Only Darby grabbed a paper napkin and spit the cake into it. He opened his mouth to say something—she could only imagine what—but Zeke interrupted him.

“You know, I’m just stuffed. I can’t possibly finish this cake.”

“Yeah,” Walt said. “It’s … good, really, but I just can’t …”

Eli and Bo both swallowed long swigs of decaf behind an inedible chunk of cake before they nodded their heads in agreement.

Patrick and Spencer each scraped off a forkful of icing and downed it with relish.

Darby looked at the men around him and shook his head. “If it was anybody else but a pretty girl who made this cake you all would be raising the roof.”

“Darby,” Zeke said simply, and in a low, almost threatening voice.

“It’s okay,” Carlin said. All eyes turned to her. “I’m so sorry. This cake sucks.”

“It’s not that bad,” Spencer said. “It’s just a little …”

“Rubbery,” one cowboy supplied when Spencer faltered.

“Chewy,” another chimed in.

“Tough as old saddle leather.” Everyone laughed at that one.

Carlin was embarrassed, and angry that she’d wasted so much time on the blasted cake, but at the same time … With one notable exception, the men had all been concerned about hurting her feelings. Six out of seven had
swallowed a piece of that awful cake, and if she hadn’t acknowledged its suckiness, they wouldn’t have said anything.

It was very possible that she found herself surrounded by gentlemen, of a sort. Rough and tumble, yes, but still … gentlemen.

If she’d learned nothing else in the past few months, she’d learned how to roll with the punches. This was a culinary setback, but it wasn’t a disaster.

“For your information,” she said as she lifted some icing onto the tines of her fork, “the name of this luscious dessert is Never Fail White Cake.”

They laughed at that, as she’d known they would. “Feel free to pick off the icing, if it suits you. It’s actually pretty good. And believe me, the next time I make this cake it
will
be better.”

The laughter died. A couple of them stared at her. It was Spencer who said, kindly, “There doesn’t have to be a next time, Miss Carly. I think Libby used those cake mixes. She just added eggs and water and viola, she ended up with a cake that was pretty darn good.”

Carlin bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Viola?
Surely he meant to say
voilà
, but she wouldn’t embarrass Spencer by correcting him at the table. After all, he’d gone out of his way not to embarrass her. Maybe sometime when they were alone she’d use the word correctly and maybe, just maybe, he’d take the hint. “We’ll see,” she said. “I’d hate to let some flour and shortening and eggs get the best of me. I just need to figure out what I did wrong.”

“The brownies you made last night were good,” Walt said.

“And you know,” Eli added, “you can always buy some pies from Kat.” He looked at Zeke. “Before you came to work here, those pies were the only decent food we’d had for …”

“Hey!” Spencer interrupted. “I did the best I could. I didn’t see your sorry ass in the kitchen trying to help out.” The words might’ve been harsh, but there was no real animosity there. Then he looked at Carlin and his face turned red. Sheepishly he said, “Pardon my French.”

It struck her that these men had formed a family, of sorts. From what Zeke had said earlier, Libby had been a big part of that family. Carlin didn’t think she’d ever be accepted that way, not into the heart and soul of this place. Maybe if she stayed for years instead of months, but … she was temporary; welcomed and needed, at the moment, but temporary.

She stood and started gathering dirty dishes. “Well, you’ll be happy to hear that I called Kat this afternoon and ordered a couple of pies for tomorrow night.”

The announcement was followed by several wide grins and at least two hoots.

As Carlin walked into the kitchen she added, “But I
will
make that Never Fail White Cake again, and it
will
turn out the way it’s supposed to.” By golly, by the time she left this ranch she and her Never Fail White Cake would be as famous as the perfect Libby. After months of doing her best to be invisible, she was determined to make her mark.

Z
EKE LOCKED UP
after Walt, who’d been the last to leave since they’d spent some time in the office discussing the next day’s chores. He shook his head at the
two
new locks Carlin had had installed that afternoon. One replaced his apparently unacceptable doorknob and lock, and the other was a heavy-duty deadbolt, set up high—he supposed so no one would be able to reach it from a broken window. The front door had gotten the same treatment.