The Cowboy's Double Trouble

With the start of a game plan in place, Elena returned to the kitchen and made a list for her trip to the market, including plenty of fresh fruits and veggies. She’d never wanted to be a chief cook and bottle washer, but if that was on her job description, she intended to be the very best one Braden Rayburn ever had.

* * *

By the time Braden finished up in the barn and headed for the house, dusk had settled over Brighton Valley. He was bone tired and hungry enough to eat a horse—not Chester, of course, who was practically family at the ripe old age of twenty-two. But his gut was grinding and growling to the point that he’d wolf down just about anything else.

He had no idea what Elena had planned for dinner—whether she’d cooked or if she wanted him to take them all to Caroline’s Diner. They hadn’t really talked about what her duties would be at the house. Maybe he should’ve laid out a better job description before hightailing it out to repair a corral this afternoon. Only trouble was, after lifting lumber and hammering nails for the past three hours, he didn’t feel like driving anywhere, especially with a truckload of kids.

Maybe he ought to suggest pizza. The frozen ones weren’t nearly as good as the ones he could have delivered, although neither could hold a candle to the ones made at Maestro’s. Either way, the kids probably wouldn’t complain.

As he made his way into the kitchen, he found Bela and Beto seated at the table, eating spaghetti with meat sauce that had chunks of tomato, zucchini, peppers and onion. They were so busy slurping up the noodles that they hardly looked up or even spoke to each other. But he couldn’t blame them. If the food tasted as good as it smelled and looked, he’d be in heaven before he swallowed the first bite.

His gaze lit on Elena. In a sunflower yellow half apron his mother had left behind, she looked like a beautiful domestic goddess.

She’d pulled those abundant brunette curls up into a twist—no doubt to keep them out of her face while she cooked.

What a shame. He preferred to see her hair hanging loose, the way she’d worn it when she arrived earlier.

She leaned against the kitchen counter—taking a well-earned break, he supposed—and eyed him as closely as he was studying her.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

Yes, but no longer for food. However, there was no need to open that hot topic of conversation. So he said, “Dinner smells amazing.” She was amazing. “Where’d you learn to—” he swept his hand across the kitchen “—to do all of this?”

“Not in college.” She smiled, then pushed away from the counter, turned back to the overhead cupboard and removed a plate.

Okay, so she’d given him a clear reminder that she hadn’t studied to be a nanny, wife or mother. And in spite of what appeared to be a delicious meal and a tidy kitchen, her message came through loud and clear.

In fact, so did her sexy, don’t-call-me-matronly appearance. Had she done that on purpose? Had she planned to make sure that she dressed in a way that kept him from having any domestic thoughts about her?

It would seem so. That gauzy skirt and red tank top that molded to her body set his hormones pumping—even though they were slightly hidden by his mom’s apron.

Elena turned around, and in spite of holding a heaping plate of pasta loaded with sauce that must be for him, he couldn’t help but gaze at her eyes, at her face. He swallowed—hard.

Whether she realized what was going on in his testosterone-loaded bloodstream or not, she swept past him. Her light, exotic fragrance taunted him as she placed his plate on the table. “Here you go.”

“Aren’t you going to join me?” he asked.

“I don’t eat red meat. In fact, I’m practically a vegetarian.”

Seriously? It didn’t make sense that she would cook beef tonight. Most women—well, the vegetarians he’d dated in the past—would have made some kind of tofu-quinoa crap and tried to convince him and the kids how tasty it was. Although, he suspected that an old cowboy boot would have been lip-smacking good if it had simmered in that sauce long enough.

“You didn’t have to make something you weren’t going to eat,” he said. “The kids and I would have been okay with the bean burritos.”

She shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of processed food, either, so I figured you’d rather have beef.”

Sure, he liked it but he usually opted for fish or chicken when he had a choice. “The meal looks great, but what made you think I’d prefer red meat?”

“Because this is Texas. And my father told me that the Bar M will be raising cattle soon.”

“So what are you going to eat?” he asked.

“I just finished a small bowl of pasta, along with some of the veggies and sauce before I added the beef. So go ahead and have a seat. As soon as the kids are finished, I’ll take them upstairs and supervise their baths.”

Braden ate alone all the time, but for some reason, it felt awkward for him to do so tonight. Was this some passive-aggressive attempt to remind him that she was the hired help and they were not to socialize in any way?

But he was too hungry to ponder the thought, so he shook it off and said, “Sounds like a plan.” It also sounded as though she had everything under control.

Yet as she herded the kids out of the kitchen, leaving him to eat in peace and quiet, he couldn’t help watching her go—and wishing she hadn’t sworn off Texas beef and possibly even the small-town cowboys who raised them.

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