Windstar (5 page)

Sausage out of the pan, she poured the eggs in and began whisking them, drawing his immediate attention.

“You’re good at that, wench,” he said. “And you’re making me mouth water.”

He’d been doing that to her all morning, she thought as she took the skillet off the fire. “Toast ready?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said. “And dripping with cream as a properly done piece of ass … ah, toast should be.”

Ignoring that deliberate attempt to get a rise out of her, she brought the food to the counter. “Okay, here’s the proper way to eat a good southern breakfast,” she said.

He hiked himself up on the stool again to watch her.

“First, you ladle a blob of grits onto your plate.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” he said, pretending to gag. “I’m not altogether sure I want a blob of anything on me plate.”

She spooned scrambled egg on top of the grits. “Now you mix them together.”

“Whatever the hell for?” he asked. “I like me food separate on me plate, wench!”

“They’re all going in the same place and coming out the same place,” she told him. “What are you complaining about?”

He threaded his fingers together and pursed his lips as though put out with her remark.

“Then you cut up the patty sausage and mix it into the grits and eggs.

“Egads,” he groaned.

“Next, you smear the Mayhaw jelly ….”

“The whathaw jelly?” he countered as she uncapped the small jar she’d taken from her bag.

“Mayhaw,” she replied. “It grows in bogs down south.”

“So does Swamp Thing,” he said. “I’m not eating that! I might turn green or some other vile color.”

“Stop being a baby.” She extended a piece of the pale melon-colored jelly toward him. “Here, try it.”

He gave the concoction a pained look then opened his mouth obediently and took a bite of the toast. His eyebrows shot up. He chewed silently for a second then he grinned broadly.

“Now that is good Mayhaw jelly,” he pronounced.

He dove into the grits-eggs-sausage mixture with gusto, shoveling it into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days, rolling his eyes at the taste, reaching out to bang his empty coffee cup on the counter, enjoying his meal too much to carry on his usual teasing. Before he’d finished, he’d consumed the entire small jar of jelly.

“I’ll have to call my friend in Georgia and have her send me up some more,” she said when he asked if she had another jar.

“A case of it,” he stated emphatically. “No, make that two cases.”

She shook her head at him. It was a good thing the man had a personal trainer and worked out three times a week to work off all the food he managed to down in a day’s time.

“So,” she asked as she began clearing away their breakfast dishes, “did you sleep well last night?”

“No, as a matter of fact I didn’t,” he said. He stared at her with a curious expression on his handsome face. “I dreamed about
stuff
all night. How ‘bout you? Did you sleep good?”

Angela didn’t want to ask what kind of stuff he’d dreamed about for she was afraid he’d tell her. “Not really.” She shrugged. “Guess I was just nervous about my new job.”

He straightened up. “By the way, where are your things?”

“Down in the lobby,” she said. “I didn’t want to wake you up dragging them in.”

“We’ll go get ‘em, then,” he said. “I’ll help you unpack so I can go through your unmentionables and sniff ‘em.”

She groaned.

“Well, I like sniffing women’s unmentionables,” he said. “They stuff them into their drawers with sachets and all that.”

“I don’t,” she said. “Mine smell like fabric softener.”

“Humpf,” he said. “We’ll have to work on that, wench. How can I rummage through your drawers when you’re out and all I get is a whiff of Downey for me effort? Where’s the fun in that?”

“You stay out of my drawers,” she said then groaned again as she realized she’d given him an opening he was sure to pounce on.

And he did.

“There are millions of women who’d love to have me in their drawers,” he said. He puffed out his chest. “Believe me when I tell you that you should have seen the front of me whilst you were ogling me bare rump. What’s in front is a lot more ….”

“Stop it before I take this cast iron frying pan and smack you in the head with it,” she warned, hefting the heavy skillet.

He grinned devilishly and wagged his brows at her. “Which head?”

* * * *

The rest of the morning he’d helped her settle in and when she asked what his other plans for the day were, he told her he had scripts he needed to look through.

“Boring shit for the most part,” he explained. “But my agent is insisting.” He chewed on his lip for a moment. “Would you like to read them, too, and give me your opinion?”

She glanced around the loft. It needed a thorough cleaning although everything was neat and tidy. She had already come to the conclusion that there were certain areas in his life that were important to him. He liked order. He liked to talk, and laugh, and he intended she take all her meals with him. She suspected he didn’t like eating alone.

“That can wait until tomorrow,” he said as though reading her mind. “Spend today laying with me on the bear rug and reading really bad scripts. Okay?”

She nodded. “What would you like for lunch? I’ll fix it first and then we can recline decadently on the rug and read.”

“Samitch would do fine,” he said as he went in search of the scripts. “Salami on rye with dill pickles and chips and some of that tea you said you could make.”

She’d already steeped a pan of tea on the stove and made the simple syrup to go with it, instructing him to squeeze lemons to keep him from under foot. Another thing she’d learned about him was that he was constantly near her, watching her, keeping up a running conversation that more times than not was aimed at making her blush or sputter with laughter.

He was already stretched out on the rug with pillows propped behind his head, script in hand, when she brought their lunch tray over. He glanced over at her, frowned when he saw the old-fashioned glasses on the tray. “What is that?”

“That’s the bloody Mary mix from yesterday,” she replied.

“No booze?”

“None. Just good stuff in it.”

“Yeah,” he said with a secret smile. “But what is that green shit floating in it?”

“Green beans, asparagus, green onions, and wedges of the dill pickles you ordered with your samitch.”

He stared at the red liquid suspiciously. “And you expect me to put that in me mouth and do what with it?”

“You chew food, you drink liquid. Aye, boss, that I do.” She stuck her fork in his glass and brought up a spear of asparagus, extending it toward him with the palm of her other hand under the dripping vegetable to keep the liquid from his bare chest.

He reluctantly took a bite, chewed silently, swallowed, and then obediently opened his mouth again.

Angela grinned. “See? I won’t steer you wrong.” She pierced a green bean and fed it to him.

“You’ll do, wench,” he said and reclined there opening and closing his mouth, chewing quietly until he’d finished the vegetables in the glass then drank the liquid. He closed his eyes as though he’d tasted heaven. “What do you add to it?”

“Lime juice, celery salt, Worcestershire, a few splashes of Tabasco, and a bit of the liquid from the dill pickles.” She smiled. “Like it?”

“No,” he said, taking the sandwich she handed him. “I love it and I want yours, too.”

“Can’t have it,” she said.

He gave her a wicked look. “Wanna bet?”

“Eat your samitch,” she ordered. “I’ll make you some more later.”

He cocked one shoulder and took a large bite of the salami on rye, chewing thoughtfully. “This is really gonna work, wench,” he said and took another bite. “Me and you. It’s really gonna work.”

She hoped so for she hadn’t smiled and laughed so much in months—maybe years. Rory Keith was good for her and she suspected she was good for him.

* * * *

“Tripe!” he exclaimed and threw the script across the room. “God-awful, fucking tripe!”

“I used to like fried tripe,” she said as she looked up from the western she was reading.

Rory swiveled his head on the pillows he had insisted she lay on beside him. “Are you kidding me?”

She shook her head. “No, I really did when I was a child until I found out what it was.” She lowered the script to her lap. “Used to like sardines and fried fish roe, too. Now, just thinking I gobbled that stuff up like ….”

“Stop saying stuff, wench,” he said, wincing. “You’ve no idea what that word does to me coming out of your mouth.”

She stared at him a moment then lifted the script up and started reading again. “Do you eat haggis?” she asked.

“Damned straight I do,” he replied. “It’s good.”

“Well, don’t expect me to try it. I’m not into sheep.”

“Me, neither,” he said and chuckled. “Other animals, maybe, but definitely not sheep.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“What else did you eat when you were a kid that you don’t eat now?” he asked.

She lowered the script again and stared into the fireplace with longing. “Salt fish,” she said, sighing deeply. “Lord, I would give anything for a good piece of salt fish.”

“What is salt fish?” he inquired. “What kind of fish was it?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “But it was so good.”

“The Vikings did salt cod,” he said. “That’s damned good.”

She shrugged and picked up the script. “You should do this one,” she said.

He took off the glasses she hadn’t known he needed to read when she first met him and rubbed his eyes. “What’s it about?”

“A gunfighter who’s out to avenge his little brother’s murder.”

“Is there sex?” he asked. “It’s in me contract there must be wild, monkey sex.”

“He kidnaps the daughter of the villain and has his way with her,” she said on a long sigh. “I’ll probably dream about that scene tonight.”

“Does she fight him during the seduction?”

“At first but then she gives in to the inevitable.”

“Probably liked the way he slung his gun,” he declared with a chuckle. He was staring down at her bare feet, seemingly fascinated by the cherry red toe polish.

“What evil thing are you thinking now, boss man?” she asked, seeing where his attention had gone.

He sat up, scooted down on the rug, and lifted her foot. “I wanna do this ….”

Angela just stared at him as he took her big toe between his thumb and index finger.

“This little piggy went to market,” he said and she laughed as he moved to the next toe. “This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had roast beef. This little piggy had none.” He gently took her little toe and caressed it. “This little piggy got broken.” He looked up at her. “How’d that happen?”

“A brutal encounter with the leg of one of our kitchen chairs,” she replied.

“Ouch,” he said and stroked her toe softly. “I broke my big toe once and it hurt like a motherfucker.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Stubbed it on the stairs.” He slid his hand to her bare ankle and rubbed her flesh absently. “Ever notice how hard it is to walk with a broken big toe? It throws your balance off, you know?”

She watched him scoot back up until he was sitting beside her. He surprised her by taking the script out of her hand, turning around so he could lay his cheek in her lap, the back of his head pressed against her belly.

“What are you doing?” she asked quietly.

“Gonna take a nappie now, Granny,” he said. He was lying on his side and he slid the arm on which he was resting under her crooked knees and curled his fingers around the lower part of her raised thigh and closed his eyes.

Angela looked down at him as he lay there with his knees drawn up, his bare feet crossed at the ankle and of their own volition, her fingers spiked through his soft hair to massage his scalp.

“Umm,” he groaned and his other arm went over her thigh, the fingers of each hand threading together to hold her captive in his embrace.

This man was doing things to her that was driving deep into her heart. A part of him was childlike and trusting and she was beginning to realize he was a very lonely, needy man. As she smoothed his thick hair back from a perfectly sculpted forehead, she noticed a small scar on his right temple and traced it with a fingertip.

“Snotty older brother,” he mumbled. “Tonka truck thrown at high velocity. Collision with six-year old flesh that bled like a stuck pig. Two stitches for little brother and very satisfying ass-whipping for older.”

She ran her free hand to his shoulder and just held him, stroking his hair until she heard the steady, even breathing that told her he was asleep.

* * * *

Sloan Harper watched the rolling cloud of dust thrown up by the stagecoach as it rumbled over the open plains. His gloved hands were crossed over the saddle horn as he flexed his thighs to hold in check the high-spirited roan stallion upon which he sat. He moved his right hand to the deadly six-shooter strapped to his thigh and caressed the pearl handle. A brutal smile tugged at his lightly whiskered cheeks, then he pulled on the reins, turning his mount to maneuver it down the small rise and to the place he’d picked to waylay the stage.

With his black Stetson shielding his steely eyes from the blistering sun, he gently kicked the horse into a slow gallop to gain the ambush point before the Wells Fargo coach. His black duster flapped in the wind behind his legs and his silver spurs flashed as he kept the heels of his dusty boots down. He rode easily, his mind on his objective, a muscle jumping in his sun-darkened jaw. When he reached his destination, he reined in the stallion and threw a long leg over the horse’s back and slid to the ground, his spurs jingling as he landed. Tying the horse to a piece of deadwood, he pulled his rifle from its leather scabbard, worked the lever and stepped out onto the roadway over which the coach would soon be traveling, knowing the vehicle would have to slow significantly to take the sharp turn that skirted the boulders of the rocky canyon. With the rifle up and pointed, legs spread wide in a deadly stance, he waited for the rumbling, jangling, squeaking stage to approach. As soon as the two men appeared sitting high on the wooden seats, he fired a warning shot and cocked the rifle again.