Wish Upon a Cowboy (6 page)

She stared at the damn broom so long and so hard, even Jonas half expected it to straighten up and answer her summons by gliding across the floor of its own accord. He gave himself a shake as that thought flickered across his mind. Lord, he needed sleep more than he'd thought.

"For heaven's sake!" she said on a disgusted sigh and this time held out both hands, fingers outstretched.

Naturally, the broom didn't move.

He didn't have time for this.

Keeping a wary eye on her, Jonas leaned to one side, snatched up the broom, and thrust it at her. "It works better if you just pick it up."

Clearly disappointed, she ran both of her small hands up and down the thick broomstick. "I don't understand it," she murmured to herself. "It works at home."

Blowing a rush of air from his lungs, Jonas told her, "It'll work here, too. All you have to do is pick it up and move it over the floor."

She ignored him and continued to let her hands explore the length of that damned broomstick. Up and down, she covered every inch of the thing with a soft, gentle touch that began stirring things up inside him. He sucked in a deep gulp of air and with great effort, tore his gaze from those small, white hands and exploring fingers.

Distinctly uncomfortable now, he shifted his stance and asked tightly, "What was that all about?"

"Hmmm?" She glanced at him, then lowered her gaze to the broom again. Then she shook her head and said softly, "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Oh, he thought, it was something. He just didn't know what. But it seemed she was through talking about it. As he watched, she took tight hold of the broom and started sweeping the accumulated dust and dirt into a neat pile. It seemed that once she actually held a broom, she knew well enough what to do with one.

But even as she worked, she went on talking, listing the reasons he should hire her and telling him all about her cooking specialties. Her voice soon became a drone of sound ringing in his ears. Words tumbled over each other in her haste to fill any chance at silence, and Mac had the distinct feeling that even on her deathbed, when she couldn't draw a breath of air into straining lungs, Hannah Lowell would find a way to talk.

She was right about one thing, though. He did indeed need help. The question was, did he need it badly enough to let Hannah stay here at the ranch until Juana was up and around again? It could be weeks. By the look of things last night, Juana's sister was in no hurry to send the woman back to a job that paid way too little.

Now Hannah was humming.

An odd tune, one he'd never heard before but almost seemed to recognize. The thread of the melody settled deep within him, plucking strings of memory and then quieting them before they had a chance to raise up fully in his mind.

Tired, he told himself. Too damn tired for any of this.

Mac frowned to himself as he watched her moving around his kitchen. Even in this, the biggest room in the house, he felt as though she were right on top of him while she worked. The rest of the house was so cramped, they'd be living in each other's pockets for however long she was here.

Which brought up a whole new set of problems.

Idly, his gaze slipped to the swell of her bosom and then down to her narrow waist and the curve of her hips. For a tiny thing, she had a form to make a dead man sit up and shout. "Amen." But it wasn't just what she did to his insides that had him worried. There was the other thing, too. A woman who proposed marriage to a stranger and expected brooms to sweep across the floor under their own steam couldn't be fully right in the head.

No doubt about it, Hannah Lowell was trouble. He felt it deep in his bones. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to get her out of his house now. While he still could.

And then he took a deep breath and inhaled the rich, full scent of coffee on the boil. Even the smell of it was reaching into his brain and giving life to a mind so numbed with fatigue it was a wonder he was standing upright.

She finished sweeping, opened the back door, and swished the flour and dust mixture out into the yard. Then she shut the door, turned to look up at him, and smiled again. Really, the way her eyes lit up when she smiled was as devastating a weapon as a fully loaded Colt.

"So?" she asked, meeting his gaze squarely, "do I get the job?"

Mac took another sniff of coffee and rubbed the back of his neck. He had no other choice and he knew it. But at the very least, he could protect himself, and her, from the strangest of her delusions. "On one condition."

A slight frown twisted her mouth a bit and he fought the urge to smooth over that lip with the pad of his thumb. Cocking her head to one side, she asked, "Which is…?"

He leveled his gaze on hers, telling himself to ignore the swirling, rich deep green of her eyes and concentrate on the slightly off-kilter mind behind them. "No more talk of marriage."

She sighed, then gave him a soft, knowing smile.

"I mean it, Hannah." Weary to the bone, he nonetheless stood his ground. He wasn't a man to take advantage of a female light in the head. He wanted her to know right from the start that she wouldn't be changing his mind about marrying her. A job was one thing. If she could cook and make coffee, then it didn't really matter if her mind wasn't all it should be. "Lord knows I can use your help, if you're as good a cook as you say you are."

"I am."

"Be that as it may," he said quickly, before she could get going again, "I don't want to hear any more nonsense about you and me getting married."

It was going to be hard enough as it was to be around her in close quarters without having to listen to her talk about marrying all the time. Because to Jonas—hell, he figured, to any man—thinking about marriage led directly to thoughts of the marriage bed. And there was no sense in torturing himself, was there?

"Is it a deal?"

Her fingers curled tight around the broom handle, she thought about it for a long moment before agreeing. "All right," she said. "I won't mention the word marriage. You have my word."

Hmmm… a carefully worded agreement if he'd ever heard one. Mac had the distinct feeling he was being maneuvered. He just wasn't sure how.

Still he was desperate and Hannah was his only way out of this. He already knew for a fact that no one in town was interested in working for him for the pitifully small wages he could afford to pay. In fact, he never had been able to figure out why Juana had taken the job. Except, of course, for the fact that the woman wasn't much hand at working anyway and probably no one else would have hired her.

The solemn word of a crazy woman wasn't much, he guessed, but it was all he had.

"All right. But there's something else you should know. The pay's not much," he felt obliged to tell her. "Only twenty a month, plus room and board, of course," he looked beyond her to the main room, from which two smaller rooms branched off. "Elias likes sleeping in the bunkhouse, so Juana's been using his bedroom. I guess you can move in there now."

She turned her head as if she could see past the wall to her new bedroom beyond. With her swift movement, her fall of blond hair swung out in a wide arc around her head and shoulders. White, gold, wheat, and honey colors blended in her hair to make it shimmer with light. His breath caught at the sheer beauty of it.

Then she looked back at him and smiled. "It sounds perfect."

Perfect. He wouldn't say that. Looking from that smile, to her hair, to those sparkling green eyes of hers, to the swell of her bosom and the narrow expanse of her waist, a chill of misgiving slithered along his spine.

It was one thing to share a house with a woman old enough to be your mother. It was quite another to know that the female on the other side of the wall from you was a woman who looked like Hannah. The only thing that might save him was knowing that she expected him to marry her. And by God, that wouldn't be happening. Damn it, a part of him already regretted this.

"You won't regret this," she said, startling him by unknowingly echoing his thoughts.

Whether he did or not, the deal was done and he'd just have to live with it. Just as he'd apparently have to live with the fact that his body was going to be constantly thrown into turmoil just by her presence.

At that disquieting thought, Jonas countered with, "Maybe I won't, but you might."

"What do you mean?"

Mac glanced down to where the cat was laying across both of his feet. He nudged it off, then lifted his gaze to Hannah's worried expression. Here's where he would find out if she had the guts to stay or not.

"In an hour or two, twelve men are going to be coming in here looking for breakfast. A few hours later, that same bunch will want noon dinner, and after that, supper."

Her eyes widened as she glanced quickly around the messy kitchen. Then, as if listening to a stern inner voice, she inhaled sharply and gave him a brief, determined nod. "I can do that."

Okay, he could give her a point for that. She hadn't quailed at the thought of feeding a dozen hungry ranch hands. But the real test was yet to come. He paused thoughtfully, then went on, "In a couple of weeks, there'll be about forty hungry people here day in and day out for a few more weeks, and they'll all be expecting to be fed."

"Forty?" she said on a gasp and reached up to clasp at the base of her throat as though the word were choking her.

"Roundup time," he said, refusing to be swayed by the horrified expression on her face. "The first week or two, we'll be working on my spread. Some of the ranchers' wives will be bringing food, too, but mainly it's up to us to feed ‘em."

"Forty," she repeated, her voice a little hoarse.

"For right now, it's just the twelve of us. Well, thirteen, counting you."

"Thirteen," she muttered quietly.

"If you can't do this," he said, giving them both one last chance to escape this situation—although if she backed out, he didn't know what the hell he would do about finding another cook—"say so now."

She actually appeared to be thinking it over and Jonas wasn't sure what he'd prefer she decide. If she left, Lord knew, he'd sleep easier at night, though he surely wouldn't be eating well. If she stayed, his stomach might be satisfied, but another part of his body wouldn't be happy.

What in the hell had happened to his legendary luck?

A long moment passed and he counted several heartbeats before she looked him dead in the eye and said quietly. "I can do it." Hearing her own words seemed to put some steel in her spine because she straightened up and lifted her chin. "I'm not leaving until I've finished what I came here to do."

Which brought them right back where they'd started, he figured. Tightly, he reminded her, "No more talk about—"

"I promised I wouldn't say the word marriage," she said firmly. "Not until you have."

He snorted a tired laugh. "Then you'll have a long wait, lady."

"I'm patient, as well as stubborn."

"So am I," he warned her.

She smiled at him and it felt as though someone had slugged him in the stomach. All of his air left him in a rush. Fighting down the feeling, he said, "Keep a pot of coffee going on the stove all day, every day. The men will come in and help themselves when they want some."

She nodded and set the broom down to lean against the wall. At least, he told himself wryly, she hadn't expected it to put itself away. He could almost see the wheels turning in her befuddled brain as she tried to decide where to begin her new job.

Dislodging the cat again, he walked across the room, poured a cup of coffee, and headed for the door. He had to take a couple of pretty fancy steps to avoid the blasted cat, but he managed. Before he went outside, though, he couldn't resist adding, "See you at breakfast."

Then he stepped into the yard, closed the door, and tried to put Hannah out of his mind.

*  *  *

Hannah had never been sorrier that her witchcraft abilities were so dreadful. She'd only meant to give Juana a cold, or some other small malady that she would recover from fairly quickly. She winced, thinking about the poor woman wracked with pain.

On the other hand, she thought as she did a slow turn, inspecting the disaster of a kitchen, perhaps Juana had gotten the better end of this deal. After all, that woman was lying in bed being waited on by a doting sister. While Hannah, on the other hand… She groaned quietly and shook her head.

"It's a wonder, Hepzibah," she said on a sigh, "how men manage to run the world when they can't seem to pick up after themselves."

Briefly, she thought about using her powers to help her with the day's daunting tasks. But in the next instant, she recalled Eudora's most frequently used admonition: Witchcraft is not to be used lightly. The older woman herself didn't rely on her abilities in her everyday work, and those abilities were far superior to Hannah's.

Besides, she thought as she tossed a quick glare at the broom, it was obvious that being so close to a powerful warlock hadn't improved Hannah's witchcraft in the least.

Then, because she really didn't have time enough to stand around and complain about the very situation she'd worked to put herself in, she got busy.

Chapter Four

Two hours later, she was seriously rethinking her plan.

If breakfast was an example of what life with the Mackenzie would be like, she didn't know if she was strong enough to survive it without killing him.

As soon as that thought presented itself, she wondered absently how one would go about doing away with a warlock. Her musings ended as she became caught up in the unbelievable scene unfolding in front of her.

Hannah stood open-mouthed at one end of the long table. She watched as the ranch hands rushed into the kitchen like a swarm of locusts. No one wiped their boots. Her gaze dropped to the veritable parade of large black clumps of dirt and who knew what else tracking across her freshly swept floor. Outraged, she looked at the men again, but they paid as much attention to her as they would have a cigar-store Indian. None of them removed their hats or lowered their voices as they straddled the ladder-backed chairs surrounding the table heaped high with steaming-hot food. Her mouth opened and closed again before she could utter a host of words that would have horrified Eudora. Tight-lipped, she watched a dozen pairs of hands reaching for the breakfast she'd spent the last hour preparing. With disgust, she noted the grime encrusted on their palms and fingers.