The Rough and Ready Rancher (2 page)

She closed the door behind her with a quiet click, but only managed to walk a few feet before she stopped to lean against the wall. Her whole body trembled, and her knees had turned to jelly.

She'd learned long ago to deal with a certain amount of animosity from some of the more narrow-minded horse-men. But when McCray attacked her abilities and experience, he'd crossed the line. If he'd explained from the beginning that he would rather not deal with her, or that he felt uncomfortable with the situation, she'd have considered letting him out of the contract. But there was no way she'd back down now. She had a point to prove.

Jenna smiled to herself. This would be a first for her. Along with training a horse for championship competition,
she'd been presented with the golden opportunity of teaching a prized jackass a lesson or two in the bargain.

Her grin turned to a giggle when an enraged curse, then the sound of a receiver slammed onto its cradle, came from Flint's office. Apparently his attorney had just given him the good news. J. J. Adams
would
train his horse and, short of paying her for nothing, there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Smiling, Jenna pushed away from the wall. It was time to get her things from Daisy and find a place in the bunkhouse.

 

Flint rubbed his forehead in an attempt to ease the mounting tension. “Hilliard said he remembered the contract as being one of the clearest he'd ever seen. No gray areas or hidden loopholes. Either she does the job, or I pay through the nose to get out of it. Then I'd still have to find another trainer.”

“I should have checked around and found someone else,” Brad said, his expression dismal. “Cal didn't say anything about J. J. Adams being a woman.”

“I'm not blaming you or Cal.” Flint glared at the closed door. “Miss Adams has obviously practiced this little deception before with her initials and gotten quite good at it. She had ample opportunity to identify herself when you discussed the contract. Besides,
I
should have had the name investigated before signing on the dotted line.” He leaned back, his gaze zeroing in on the glass dome on the mantel. “It might not be a bad idea to have her checked out, anyway.”

Brad rose to leave. “Do what you think is best. Since one of her requirements is a room in the bunkhouse, I guess I'd better get her settled in before supper.”

“No. She's the only single woman under the age of sixty within a thirty-mile radius, and I won't have her causing
trouble among the men.” Flint followed Brad down the hall. “She can have one of the rooms upstairs.”

“I'll tell her.”

Flint shook his head. “From now on, leave Jenna Adams to me. Let's see how she likes dealing with someone who's immune to the distraction of a pretty face.”

Leaving the house, Brad shrugged. “You're the boss.”

Continuing down the hall to the kitchen, Flint called, “Whiskers, I need you to get one of the guest rooms ready.”

In an exaggerated flurry of activity, the old man stirred the contents of a large pot on the stove, then turned his attention to a ball of dough on the counter. “Ain't I got enough to do without you comin' up with more?”

“You sound a little hassled. Has Ryan been keeping you busy?” Flint asked, running his finger along the top of a chocolate frosted cake.

Whiskers picked up a wooden spoon to slap the back of Flint's hand. “Stay outta that cake. It's for supper.” He shook the spoon at Flint. “Ridin' herd on that kid of yours is like tryin' to keep a young buck out of a honky-tonk come Saturday night. It just cain't be done.”

Grinning, Flint put a large amount of icing into his mouth. “You'll have to take a nap before we eat.”

“Now, boy, you know I don't never do more than rest my eyes a mite durin' the day.”

Flint bit back his laughter. Whiskers's snoring, while he “rested his eyes,” could stampede a herd of cattle.

“Where's Ryan?” Flint asked, looking around for his son.

“Outside rustlin' up a peck of trouble, I reckon.” Whiskers again stirred the boiling concoction in the pot. “I heard an awful ruckus comin' from the office a while back. What got your nose outta joint?”

The chocolate flavor in Flint's mouth suddenly tasted like mud. “The woman who's going to train Satin.”

“Woman?” Whiskers turned to stare, openmouthed. “Was that the little gal I saw cross the yard and head for the bunkhouse?”

“Yes.”

“Have you gone loco? That ain't no place for a lady.”

“I never intended for her to stay with the men.” Flint scowled as Whiskers headed for the stairs. “That's why I told you to get one of the guest rooms ready.”

“Don't just stand there bumpin' your gums. Git out there and help that gal in with her things,” Whiskers called over his shoulder. Trudging up the steps, he continued to mutter. “Mule-headed sidewinder ain't got the manners of a day-old jackass.”

Disgruntled by the whole situation, Flint searched for Jenna and found her in front of the bunkhouse. He stood by and watched her pull a scarred suitcase from the seat of an ancient, rusted-out pickup truck. As much as he would like to, he couldn't ignore years of training in Texas etiquette and stepped forward to take it from her. “You'll be staying up at the main house.”

“That's not necessary, McCray. I'll be comfortable in—”

“Your comfort doesn't concern me,” Flint interrupted. He slammed the truck's door. “I have a ranch to run, and I don't intend to stand back and watch you turn my men into cowpunching Casanovas. You're here for the sole purpose of training Black Satin, not to fill up your Saturday nights with romantic encounters. You'd do well to remember that.”

“Now, hold it right there, cowboy.” She poked his chest with her finger, the contact making him feel scorched. “I have no intention of socializing with your men, but if I did, it wouldn't be any concern of yours. What I do on my own
time is
my
business.” She wrestled the suitcase from him. “And don't slam Daisy's door. You'll knock off the rust holding her together.”

She started for the house, but spun around to glare at him. “I don't know what your problem is, but your attitude toward me sucks saddle soap. As long as I do my job, you have no reason to complain. And you'd do well to remember
that.
”

Flint watched her march toward the house. It shouldn't matter to him what she did so long as his horse got trained. But the sight of her well-shaped backside and long, slender legs made his mouth go dry. Those legs of hers went all the way up to—

Disgusted with himself, Flint shook his head. Just how could he expect his men to turn a blind eye to something like that, when he couldn't? He, more than any other man, should be immune to Jenna Adams and her considerable charms, after the way she'd duped him into hiring her.

But he'd be the first to admit she was one hell of a sight in a fit of temper. Her sparkling, gray eyes promised a passion that would consume a man when he loved her. And the husky quality of her voice had whispered over his senses like a piece of soft velvet. His body tightened. How would
his
name sound when she cried out as he pleasured her?

Flint took hold of the reins to his runaway imagination. Whiskers must have put locoweed in that damned chocolate icing, he decided, starting off in search of his son. He wanted to get better acquainted with Jenna Adams about as much as he wanted to get up close and personal with a rattlesnake. She would train his horse, then be on her way.

And that's just the way he wanted it.

J
enna placed the last of her clothes in the dresser, then turned to survey her room. Indian print curtains framed the tall, old-fashioned windows and matched the coverlet on the natural pine bed. On the wall above the headboard, a large dream catcher adorned with rawhide thongs and hawk feathers assured sweet dreams for the bed's sleeping occupant. On the polished bedside table beneath lamps made from Native American pots, two Kachina dolls in the images of the eagle and buffalo stood watch.

She smiled. It wasn't a feminine room by any means, but the bright colors against the off-white walls made it seem warm and friendly. “Just the opposite of its owner,” she muttered, heading for the stairs.

She followed a tantalizing aroma, stopping just inside the spacious kitchen to inhale deeply. “Something smells wonderful.”

Whiskers turned to give her a toothless grin. “Hope you
like son of a bit—” His weathered cheeks reddened above his snow white beard. “—gun stew.”

Laughing, Jenna patted his arm. “I've had it before and no matter what you call it, I'm sure yours is delicious.”

He took a tray of sourdough biscuits from the oven. “Your room okay? It's been a while since we've had us a lady round here, and it might not be as purty as what you're used to.”

Jenna swallowed hard. How long had it been since anyone cared if she liked her room, or if she even had one?

“Everything's fine,” she said around the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

“Whiskers, look what I found.” A small boy of about four flung open the screen door and ran into the kitchen.

When the child spotted Jenna, he stopped so fast he almost dropped the box he held. “Who are you?”

“Ryan McCray, mind your manners,” Whiskers scolded. “You didn't even give this here little gal so much as a howdy-do.”

“Sorry,” Ryan said, his smile friendly. “Howdy-do. Who are you?”

Jenna laughed when Whiskers sighed his exasperation. “I'm Jenna Adams.”

“Wanna see what I found, Jenna?” He held out his treasure for her inspection. “It's a kitty.”

Afraid to move, Jenna and Whiskers froze.

“What's the matter?” The puzzled child looked from one adult to the other. “He's kinda smelly, but you can pet him.”

“That's a dad-gummed polecat,” Whiskers exclaimed.

As if in slow motion, Ryan set the box on the floor and the three of them watched the half-grown skunk climb out. Jet-black with twin stripes of white running the length of its back, it waddled around the kitchen sniffing its new surroundings.

“Don't nobody move,” Whiskers commanded, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. When the animal ambled toward the door, he reached for the broom in the corner, eased forward and used the handle to push open the screen. “Get Ryan outta here while I take care of this varmint.”

“I want my kitty,” Ryan protested loudly.

Afraid the child would upset the animal, Jenna placed her hand over Ryan's mouth and backed them from the kitchen. But she'd only gone a few feet when she encountered an immovable object planted in the middle of the hall.

Flint tensed, every nerve in his body alert to the soft warmth of the female bottom resting against his thighs. His hands came up to hold her there. He told himself he was only trying to steady her, to keep her from falling. But turning to glance over her shoulder, her body shifted to brush the most vulnerable part of his anatomy and the jolt of awareness coursing through him felt as if he'd walked into an electric fence.

He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the urgent signals pulsing through his body. He had to focus on the way she'd maneuvered herself and Ryan from the occupied part of the house. A mixture of anger and suspicion overtook him. Had she been trying to kidnap his son?

“What in blazes are you doing?” Flint demanded, his voice echoing through the unnaturally quiet house.

An acrid smell suddenly permeated the air, followed by a vehement curse from Whiskers.

“Skunk,” she said, covering her nose.

Flint brushed past Jenna and Ryan to enter the kitchen. He coughed several times, then pinched his nose shut and scowled at Whiskers. “How did it get in here?”

“You're gonna have to sit down and teach that young whelp of yours which critters to leave be,” Whiskers said angrily. “He thought the dad-burned thing was a cat.” He limped over to turn off the simmering stew, a colorful string
of curses accenting his steps. “Now we ain't got no supper, and we'll be takin' meals outside on the picnic table for a month of Sundays. And it's all your fault. If you hadn't started your bellerin', I'd a had it outta here before it had a chance to spray it's stink.”

“Daddy, I want my kitty back,” Ryan wailed from the hall.

“When was the last time you took a bath, Whiskers?” Brad asked, stopping just inside the back door. The other ranch hands piled up behind him.

Tom Davison fanned the air with his hat. “Whew-ee! This place smells like a cross between Jed's feet and a damned old billy goat.”

“Whiskers, did you finally die and somebody just forgot to tell you?” Jim Kent choked out.

“Outside,” Flint gasped, bolting for the door. He stood in the yard taking cleansing gulps of air. When Whiskers came to stand next to him, Flint moved upwind. “Do you mind?”

“Consarnit all. It weren't my fault that kid got hold of a polecat.” Whiskers pointed to Ryan when he and Jenna joined the group. “I cain't figure out how he kept from gettin' bit when he picked it up. Those things can have the hydrophoby, you know.”

Worried, Flint knelt down in front of his son and searched for any signs of an open wound. “Did it bite or scratch you, Ryan?” he asked, his voice sharpened by his concern.

Ryan's chin quivered and he shook his head. “No. What's hydo…hydotrophy?”

“Hydrophobia. It's another name for rabies,” Flint explained gently. He gave Ryan a reassuring hug. “It's a dangerous disease some wild animals carry. That's why I don't want you trying to catch any more of them. Understand?”

Ryan nodded, the matter forgotten. The wind shifted, and he wrinkled his nose. “You stink, Whiskers.”

Clearly exasperated, the old man opened and closed his mouth several times in search of epithets suitable for ladies and young ears. “Well, you don't smell like no rose, yourself, boy.”

When his stomach rumbled, Jed asked, “What are we gonna do about supper?”

His complexion a sickly green, Jim swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed up and down several times. “How can you think about your gut now? I'll be off my feed for a week.”

“I can't help it,” Jed complained, his stomach growling again. “I'm hungry enough to eat that danged skunk.”

Whiskers folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I ain't goin' back in there till the place airs a mite.”

Jed pointed to Jenna. “What's she doin'?”

Flint turned in time to see Jenna take a deep breath and head back toward the kitchen door. Several minutes later, tears streaming down her face, she deposited an armload of luncheon meats, condiments and two loaves of bread on the picnic table at the side of the house. She coughed several times, but to his amazement she didn't stop. She headed right back inside.

When she returned to add a six-pack of beer, several cans of soda and a bottle of tomato juice to the pile on the table, Whiskers elbowed Flint. “Don't that beat all you ever seen?”

She wiped her eyes with her shirtsleeve and slumped down in the dappled shade of an oak tree. He and his men stared in awe.

Tipping his hat, Jed broke the silence. “Thanks, ma'am.”

“Whiskers, you…and Ryan need…to wash off…with the tomato juice.” She coughed several times, then leaned
back against the trunk of the tree. “It should take care of the smell on your skin, but you'll probably have to burn your clothes.”

Admiring her in any way was the last thing Flint wanted, but when he washed Ryan with the juice, he had to give her credit. She'd braved the pungent odor when the rest of them wouldn't.

After helping Ryan into the clothes Whiskers had retrieved from the clothesline, Flint walked over to hand her a sandwich and can of soda. “Here. You've earned this.”

She took the soft drink, but refused the food. “Thanks, but I don't have much of an appetite right now.”

Flint squatted down beside her, plucked a blade of grass and began to twirl it between his fingers. After what she'd just done for Ryan and his men, she deserved some sort of appreciation. But the words wanted to stick in his throat.

Damn. Eating crow wasn't something he had to do often and it didn't come easy. “I…appreciate what you've done.” He cleared his throat. “And earlier—in the hall—I guess I might have been a little harsh. But I'm sure you can understand, since my ex-wife died and I gained custody of him, I'm very protective of my son.”

Jenna gave Flint a suspicious look. He did seem to be trying to establish a truce, although it wasn't exactly a gracious one. “Don't worry about it,” she said. “I've always been that way with my brother, Cooper, even though he's older.”

Flint looked thoughtful. “Cooper Adams is your brother?”

Not surprised he recognized the name, she nodded.

“He's one of the best bull riders I've ever seen. I watched him score a ninety-four at the rodeo in Mesquite and a ninety in Amarillo. Didn't he make the National Finals a few years back?”

Jenna nodded. “Year before last he took second place in bull riding and fourth in the all-around competition.”

Ryan's eyes grew round and he plopped down between them. “Wow! He must be real brave.”

Remembering another bull rider and the two thousand pounds of enraged beef that had ended his life, a shudder ran the length of her spine. She stared off into the distance. Forever etched in her memory, the image would haunt her until the day she died.

“Bulls can be very dangerous,” she finally managed.

“Daddy won't let me go down to the bull pens.” Ryan glared at his father. “I'm not allowed to go around any of the animals without a grown-up.”

“Maybe he's afraid you'll get hurt,” Jenna offered, grateful for the distraction.

“Not my daddy. He's not afraid of nothin'.” When he gazed up at Flint, Ryan's expression instantly changed to admiration.

Jenna smiled at the pride in the little boy's voice. She remembered thinking much the same about her own father. She reached out to ruffle Ryan's hair. “I'm sure he isn't.”

Flint watched with a trace of envy. How would it feel to have her run her hands through his hair?

Try as he might, Flint couldn't erase the memory of how she'd felt when she backed into him in the hall. He glanced down at his callused hands. Her curves had filled them to perfection, and they itched to hold her again.

“I wanna be a bull rider when I grow up,” Ryan said, jumping to his feet, his face animated.

Snapped back to reality, Flint smiled and caught his son in midhop to swing Ryan up onto his knee. “Last week you wanted to be a Jedi knight. The week before that you were going to play a guitar and change your name to Garth.”

“I can still do all that stuff, too. But I wanna be a bull rider and go to all the rodeos.”

“I'll clean the kitchen while the men finish eating,” Jenna said suddenly, rising to her feet.

Flint shook his head. “No. We'll—”

“Are any of you willing to volunteer for Purge Patrol?” she asked the men gathered around the picnic table. Gazes darted off to the distant horizon and boots shuffled, but the men remained silent. She turned to walk toward the house. “I rest my case.”

What kind of game was she playing now? Flint stared after her. If she thought being helpful would pardon the way she'd tricked him with that contract, she was in for a big surprise.

He gave himself a mental pat on the back for a lesson well learned. Now that he knew how she operated, there wasn't any kind of scheme she could think up that he couldn't deal with.

 

Jenna stepped out onto the front porch to watch the golden glory of the setting sun fade into indigo darkness. Like a comfortable quilt, a wondrous tranquility began to settle across the land, and pinpoints of light dotted the vast heavens above. The chirp of crickets soon introduced a chorus, and bass-throated bullfrogs down by the creek joined in. Somewhere in the distance, spotlighted by a full moon, the mournful solo of a lone coyote completed the lullaby, transforming the evening into a hymn of praise by nature's wild creatures.

Despite the warm temperature, Jenna wrapped her arms around herself to ward off a chill. This time of night always reminded her of her solitude.

It wasn't supposed to have turned out this way, she thought sadly. Life should be shared.

“Nice night, isn't it?”

Startled, she spun around to find Flint leaning against one of the support posts in a shadowed corner of the porch. “I didn't know anyone was out here.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.”

Embarrassed that he'd witnessed her pensive mood, she dropped her arms to her sides and turned back to watch the last glimmer of light slip below the horizon.

Several minutes stretched between them before Flint spoke again. “The smell has cleared out of the kitchen. Thanks.”

Jenna shrugged. “The skunk didn't bless us with a full dose, and what he did spray missed the porous surfaces. Nothing the tomato juice and ammonia couldn't take care of.”

“That's all it took?”

She smiled. “A large amount of elbow grease and a can of air freshener helped.”

“How did you know what to do?”

“Just something I picked up along the way.” She walked over to the swing and sat down. “When you've traveled as much as I have, you learn things without remembering how or when.”