Porcupine Ranch

“Samuel, you know how hard it is for me to talk to people I don’t know.”

“You didn’t know me when I moved in here.”

“But you were so friendly, and you reminded me so much of Granddad. It wasn’t like you were a real stranger.”

“You’ll get to know my grandson even faster since you’ll be living there.”

Hannah shook her head remembering the way Clayton looked in his blue jeans and western-cut shirt, the way he’d crossed one booted foot over his knee, the easy air of strength and masculinity. She’d love to get to know him…in another lifetime, of course, when she’d be a confident, sexy woman whom he could be interested in.

But she couldn’t tell Samuel that.

“You know I don’t even like to go to the grocery store. I’m only comfortable when I’m home with my computer, designing my games.”

“I know that. I also know the company in Dallas wants you to make personal appearances in an advertising campaign to demonstrate the latest game you’re working on and you told them no. That proves it’s time you get out into the world, get away from the computer and experience life. Going to Clayton’s ranch and doing this for me will be a great place to start.”

Hannah shook her head. She’d thought Samuel understood that she was experiencing the only life she wanted to experience.

Opting to change her approach, she turned, walked over to her own door and flung it open. “Look in here and be logical. How can you possibly expect me to clean house and cook for anybody?”

Samuel came to stand beside her and survey the controlled chaos that was her home—stacks of papers, drawings for graphics pinned to chair backs and thumbtacked to walls, books sprawled here and there with protruding bits of paper marking pertinent pages, articles of clothing sprinkled throughout and other odds and ends.

“Look,” she repeated, waving her hand through the air. “Not one empty chair. Clean houses have empty chairs. I haven’t seen my carpet in so long, I don’t remember what color it is. I live on peanut butter sandwiches, chips and dips, frozen dinners and colas because I don’t know how to cook.”

Samuel wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “There you go again, underestimating yourself. You can do anything you want to do. How many times have you told me that everything anybody needs to know can be found in books? I just happen to have a book on cleaning house as well as a cookbook.”

Good grief! He had this all planned out! Just like the call to the bank!

“Even if I could do it, I already have a job! I’m under contract for Unicorn in the Garden. They’re willing to live without me being a part of the advertising, but they do want the game finished in time to feature it in their fall catalog of computer games. I have a deadline!”

Samuel took her arm. “Please, Hannah. I’m counting on you. Let’s go over to my place where I’ve got empty chairs. I’ll fix you a nice cold cola, and we can talk about this.”

“No.” This no wasn’t quite as firm, she noticed with dismay. Surely she wasn’t going to let herself be talked into this insanity.

“It’ll only be for one day, maybe two.”

“Oh, right. Like he’s not going to notice by the end of the first day that I haven’t done any cooking or cleaning.” But she found herself allowing Samuel to lead her into his apartment. Saying no to him was so difficult, just as she’d never been able to say no to her own grandfather.

Beyond that, she realized with a sinking feeling, some perverse part of her actually wanted to go back to Clayton’s ranch and prove to him that she could do everything Mrs. Grogan had done. To see approval in those piercing eyes.

Jeez! She really had lost her mind.

* * *

Shortly after ten-thirty the next day, Hannah’s teeth rattled as she drove over the cattle guard onto Clayton’s ranch.

In the back seat she had two of the outrageously expensive suitcases her mother had given her for high school graduation, the large one full of clothes and the small one containing Samuel’s cookbook and housekeeping manual.

No doubt about it. She’d slipped a gear, gone mental—she was, in the vernacular, nuts.

Especially considering she was halfway—well, maybe a quarter way—excited about this venture, about seeing Clayton Sinclair in his faded denims and scuffed cowboy boots again, even if she could only grunt or gurgle at him.

A giant ERROR message flashed across her mind at that thought. She’d feel Clayton out about his grandfather, tell him how sick with grief Samuel had been, convince him Samuel would never have deserted Clayton’s mother if he’d known he had a grandson on the way, and then she’d get out of there quick. Before night.

She focused on the road stretching ahead, a dry, colorless ribbon leading to the house. A glance in the rearview mirror showed nothing but a giant cloud of dust roiling in her wake, following her. As omens went, it didn’t seem like a very good one.

Clayton swore under his breath as he tried to herd a group of ten normal cattle plus one rambunctious young bull who seemed to think this was all a game.

Usually he kind of agreed with the bull.

Cattle could be difficult creatures, and trying to raise them in the tough brush country only made it worse. Nevertheless, he loved everything about the life, every ornery cow, every dry bit of sand, every prickly cactus, every twisted mesquite tree.

His mother, born and raised in the hill country of Austin, had hated their home as passionately as he loved it. As a child, Clayton had resented her attitude, had almost taken it as a personal rejection. But he’d come to realize that the land was simply too harsh for her. She’d have escaped years ago if she hadn’t been left alone and pregnant, the despised ranch, belonging to her dead husband and missing father-in-law, her only home and means of support.

Gradually Clayton had taken over the management, but it was only when he reached the age of twenty-one that she’d turned over the books to him. He’d discovered then how badly she’d mismanaged the ranch, even taking out a mortgage on the place.

He’d never blamed her. She’d done the best she could. She’d just been unsuited for the ranch.

He took a great deal of pride in the fact that he was pulling it out of debt in spite of everything.

The long drought was taking a heavy toll. With most of his herd under optimum weight, he desperately needed rain. But even without it, he’d manage. This was tough country, a worthy opponent, and that was what he loved about it.

Normally, working the cattle, mending the fences—any of the necessary tasks—brought him contentment and took his mind off all the problems. But today had gotten off to a lousy start and hadn’t improved a bit so far.

He’d wasted most of the morning hanging around the house waiting for Hannah Lindsay, his taste buds anticipating his first hot meal in three weeks.

Not to mention that he wouldn’t mind seeing a pretty female face after looking at nothing here lately but unshaven, ugly cowboys and hairy, smelly cattle. Even if she couldn’t talk, Hannah was real easy on the eyes.

She was also a no-show. Hadn’t even phoned to say she wasn’t coming. She’d probably realized she wouldn’t be able to hack it out here and had run for her life.

He forced himself to pay attention to the task at hand and finally got the young bull headed in the right direction.

He’d take this group to the corral, then go back to the house and make ham sandwiches again. It was ten-thirty already, and last night he’d promised the over-worked men that they’d have real food for lunch. Now he would have to disappoint them.

As he neared the corral, he saw a cloud of dust rolling toward his house. That was strange. The only visitor he expected today had been Hannah Lindsay.

Irritation and disappointment washed over him anew at the memory of her failure to show up. He’d been right about her. She was too much like his mother, her soft fragility unsuited to the land’s harshness.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the rebellious bull, apparently taking advantage of Clayton’s momentary distraction, had separated from the group again.

Cursing Hannah Lindsay and whoever was stirring up that cloud of dust, he went after the bull.

When he finally got his cattle settled in the corral, Clayton headed toward the house. As he approached, he recognized Hannah’s little white car.

His first impulse was delight. She’d come after all.

Several hours late, he reminded himself, his guard automatically going up. Being late for the first day wasn’t a good sign. Out here they didn’t have the luxury of being late, especially in the mornings.

He tried to push his doubts aside. Maybe she’d had car trouble. Maybe she’d gotten lost. Considering the peculiar way she’d acted yesterday, that was certainly a possibility.

The important thing was, Hannah was here. He had a cook and housekeeper. That was the only reason he was so glad to see her.

Then he saw her slim figure heading across the yard, back toward her car. Was she leaving? No, he couldn’t let her do that! He urged his horse to a full gallop.

She stopped with the car door open and looked toward him, apparently hearing the sound of his horse’s hooves. Her dark, luminous eyes were visible even from a distance.

He reined up beside her and dismounted, amazed at how excited he was to see her in spite of his earlier misgivings. But he supposed that was understandable. He was as tired of eating sandwiches as the men were. Not to mention that he was running out of clean underwear.

“Hi,” he greeted her, smiling as he pulled off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his brow in one practiced movement. “When you didn’t show up this morning, I was afraid you’d decided not to take the job.”

She looked puzzled, pushed the car door closed then checked a large, black-banded watch that was much too big for her thin wrist. At least it was practical; not one of those thin gold things. He told himself that was a good sign.

And with that observation, he realized that he was looking for good signs. He was desperate for good signs, and Hannah didn’t carry many with her.

She lifted her deer-caught-in-a-headlight gaze from the watch to him. “It is,” she said. “Morning.”

Clayton bit the inside of his lower lip and clenched his hands. This was not a good sign.

“I don’t know what kind of a schedule your former employer had, but around here, morning comes quite a bit earlier, like about 5:00 a.m.” He spoke as softly and calmly as possible. He didn’t want to scare her off.

Nevertheless, she flinched as though he’d slapped her.

“Five? Is the sun up then?”

Oh, brother. They were in trouble. And yet he felt like a jerk just for telling her the hours she was expected to work.

That was a dumb thing to feel. If she couldn’t handle it, she had no business being here.

Taking a deep breath, he slid his hat back onto his head, momentarily blocking his view of her. It was easier to scold her when he couldn’t see that vulnerable look on her face.

“No,” he said. “The sun isn’t up at that hour. We have to get an early start. I should have told you yesterday. Never mind. You’re here now. Think you can put together a quick lunch?”

“Lunch?”

Well, he wasn’t hiring her to make speeches. Surely her cooking skills were better than her verbal ones.

“Where are your bags?”

Reluctantly, it seemed, she looked toward the car. “In there.” Her voice sounded as if her throat needed to be oiled.

He took the key from her, opened the car door and hauled out two designer suitcases. He wasn’t paying her what she’d earned before if she could afford bags like those.

But by the end of the season, he should have the mortgage paid off. Then next year he’d turn a profit, and he’d make it up to her.

As though she was likely to be around next year. Mrs. Grogan had lasted for three years. Except for his mother who hadn’t had anywhere else to go until she met her new husband, that was pretty much a record. His father and grandparents were gone before he even arrived on the scene. Most people didn’t fare well out here. Nothing was permanent except the land and him.

But he could hope Hannah would last a year or two. Hiring and training new employees took time away from work.

“Come on. I’ll show you where everything is in the kitchen. Mrs. Grogan always stayed pretty well stocked up, but if you need anything, you can order it this afternoon and it’ll be delivered in the morning. I know that’s harder than going to the store and getting things yourself, but we’re so busy this time of the year, nobody leaves the ranch unless it’s an emergency.”

“Nobody leaves?” Hannah repeated, somehow managing to fill each word to bursting point with panic.

What on earth was the matter with her? Clayton wondered. She sounded as though she’d been sentenced to life in a maximum security prison. She’d just taken the job. Surely she wasn’t already planning to leave. That would set a new record, even for this ranch.

Chapter Three

Nobody leaves the ranch unless it’s an emergency?

Clayton’s words hit Hannah smack in the gut like a bad case of botulism.

So much for her plans to be out of there before night. Clayton wasn’t talking about just a day or two. Did this emergency thing mean she’d have to burn down the house to get out? Or would a complete nervous breakdown be sufficient?

Hoping for a sudden time warp to fold around her and drag her anywhere but where she was, Hannah followed Clayton’s towering figure across the yard and into the house.

His broad back and denim-clad thighs made her blood run hot on the way to her heart and cold on the way back as she thought of having to face him, talk to him. Or maybe it was all running at the same time, sharing the same vein. The way she felt right now, anything was possible. Except, apparently, that time warp. She remained stuck in the here and now.

Clayton led her upstairs to a large, dark room at the end of the hall. Large dark furniture, including a four-poster bed, loomed at her. She was supposed to sleep in this mausoleum?

He deposited her bags inside the door. “Your bathroom is two doors down. Sorry it’s not private. This house was built before we had indoor plumbing this far out of the city.”

Not private? Hannah gulped at the thought of sharing a bathroom…and sharing it with this overwhelming male person.

“Of course, the only visitors we ever have are my mother and her husband. So, except for the fact that you have to go out in the hall, it’s pretty much private.” Hannah released a soft sigh of relief mingled with a tiny hint of disappointment that Clayton apparently had his own bathroom. “Clothes closet through there, linen closet in the hall,” he continued, obviously unaware of her personal drama.

Clayton checked his watch, and her gaze followed his, noting the sunbleached hairs curling from his shirt sleeve, surrounding the leather band.

“Ready to fix a little lunch for six hungry cowboys?” he asked.

She nodded, wondering if a lie had to be verbalized or if movement counted. Lying by omission, lying by nod.

She was ready for a lot of things—to run screaming from the house, to murder Samuel, to press the hairs on Clayton’s wrist and watch them spring back, but she was in no way ready to fix a little lunch.

Wondering how the heck she was going to get out of this one, Hannah went downstairs with him to the big kitchen. As he pointed out the location of all the unassembled food components, she made an effort to memorize everything he said.

Flour in the big canister, sugar next, then coffee. Cans of food in the pantry.

The peanut butter jar greeted her like an old friend in a world of strangers. She wanted to embrace it. She didn’t see any blackberry jam, but there was a big jar of strawberry preserves. That would do. She could make lunch after all.

“Through that door is the laundry room and a big freezer with plenty of meat and vegetables.”

She could check that for the possibility of froze, dinners.

“I know it’s late,” Clayton said, standing behind her, his warm breath stirring her hair. “You don’t need to come up with anything elaborate. We’ve been eating sandwiches so long, anything else will be welcome.”

Anything else? So much for her lunch plans. Back to square one.

For a long moment he didn’t move, just stood there behind her so close she could smell his leather, sunshine and warm earth scent that teased her senses and somehow made her feel even more confused.

He needed to leave so she could catch her breath. So she could go upstairs and look up lunch in the cookbook. Surely he didn’t plan to wait around for her to make the meal? How in the world was she supposed to look it up then figure out how to do it with him watching?

“So,” he said, “what do you need to get started?”

She turned to look at him. He was planning to wait around and watch her.

In desperation she pointed upward. “I need—”

“Oh, sure,” he said, stepping back. “You do remember where the bathroom is?”

The bathroom? Oh, well. It didn’t matter what he thought she was doing as long as she could get to that cookbook. Hannah nodded, then darted away and charged upstairs.

She opened the small bag and hurriedly flipped the cookbook open to the index, to the L’s.

Liver…surely they wouldn’t expect her to make that.

Lobster…oh, she loved lobster thermidor. When she’d lived at home, she’d frequently asked their cook to make it. This wasn’t going to be so tough after all.

Lunch dishes. There it was! She turned excitedly to the page.

Soup and sandwich. No, that wouldn’t do. Clayton had nixed the sandwiches.

Pasta salad. Perfect! She loved the colorful curly pasta and all the little bits of goodies.

If she could program a computer, surely she could do this. Other people cooked all the time.

She winced at that thought, her parents’ oftrepeated statements playing again in her head about what other people could do. All your friends have learned to dance. All your friends can make small talk with the guests at parties and dinners. All your friends make their parents proud of them.

Being able to understand advanced calculus and quantum physics or program a computer hadn’t helped her then.

But now she had specific directions, and she could follow directions, she told herself reassuringly.

The recipe purported to be adequate for four people, so she’d better double it to feed seven. She read it twice, carefully doubling and memorizing every measurement, every detail.

Clayton smiled eagerly at her when she came back down to the kitchen. He had a nice smile. His white teeth made his tan look even more golden and turned the crinkles around his eyes into sunbursts. For a brief, unreal instant, she fantasized that the sparkle in those eyes was for her, but she knew it was only because he was hungry, and he expected her to feed him. Her own lips turned upward at that ridiculous thought.

His expression seemed to soften as if a haze settled around his face. “Nice.” He spoke the single word quietly, almost indistinctly. It sounded like nice, but that made no sense. It was completely out of context.

“Ice?” she questioned. That would be logical since they were dealing with food.

“Huh?”

“Rice?” she guessed desperately. “Mice?” Surely not.

He shook his head and cleared his throat. “What do you need first?”

“Pasta,” she said, hoping he’d forget about the rice…or those mice. “A sixteen-ounce package of pasta.” Maybe he’d leave once he was sure she knew where things were located.

“Pasta?” He opened the pantry door, reached behind some boxes and came out with a huge package of spaghetti. “Like this?”

She shook her head. “No. Curly, colored pasta.” She moved to check in the pantry herself, but he moved at the same time…directly into contact with her. Her hands went up in automatic defense and encountered soft, warm denim with the feel of solid muscle beneath—Clayton’s chest. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she felt his hands on her shoulders, steadying himself.

The hot blood rushed to her face, to her hands where they touched him, to her shoulders where he touched her. Every one of those spots felt much warmer than 98.6 degrees. Was this how cases of spontaneous combustion occurred?

“Sorry,” he mumbled, backing away, taking his odd heat-producing properties with him. “I’d, uh, better go check on the guys. Tell them lunch is on the way. In, what, half an hour? Forty-five minutes?”

“Forty-five minutes. Sure.” She had no idea if that would be long enough, but she’d have agreed to anything to get him to leave.

His going made the kitchen seem much larger and more open. She could breathe deeply now. She’d surely be able to get through this cooking ordeal a lot more easily.

So why did the large, open kitchen feel so empty?

Shrugging off the inexplicable feeling, she started scrounging through the pantry, looking for pasta. She couldn’t find any of the colorful, curly kind, but she did unearth a couple of packages of macaroni. A monochrome start, but the bits of olives and other components should liven it up.

Following the advice of the recipe, she checked the package directions for the pasta and carefully measured enough water for both packages into a pan, then set it on the stove to boil.

This was easy. Why had she worried? She was going to be able to do this.

In her mind’s eye she could see Clayton sitting at the head of the big oak dining table they’d passed on their way to the kitchen. She could see a big smile spreading across his face, tilting the corners of his eyes, as he tasted his first bite of her pasta salad.

Stop that! she ordered herself. What was the matter with her? She was no longer an insecure teenager, falling all over herself in a vain attempt to please everybody she met. She had only to please herself. Clayton’s opinion wasn’t important.

She focused on the macaroni package directions. Cook six to nine minutes or until tender.

Six to nine minutes or until tender? What the heck kind of direction was that? A thirty-three and one-third percent variance with an open-ended conclusion? She could just see herself writing instructions for her computer games like that. Click left mouse button six to nine times or until something you like happens.

This cooking certainly was an inexact science. In fact, anything that nebulous could hardly be called science at all. It was more like alchemy.

But somehow she had to figure out these ambiguous instructions.

After all, if she didn’t prove herself competent, why would he listen to anything she had to say about his grandfather? That was absolutely the only reason she wanted to impress him.

Clayton washed up at the outside faucet down by the barn with the rest of the men.

“Okay, fellas,” he said, trying to locate a semiclean spot on the community towel to dry his own hands, “the new cook got here a little late, so lunch won’t be anything spectacular, but at least it won’t be sandwiches.”

Mugger and Dub threw their hats into the air, Bear punched Cruiser on the shoulder, Bob slapped his knee and yelled “Hot Damn!” and everyone cheered.

“And one more thing.” They quieted immediately, and Clayton realized he’d used his this-is-important-so-you’d-damn-well-better-listen-close voice. Well, it was important. “Hannah—Ms. Lindsay—is a little different from Mrs. Grogan. She’s, uh, quieter, younger, prettier—”

Cheers broke out again, interspersed with whistles.

“The first one of you gets out of line with her, I’ll break your face.” The words came out loud and harsh.