The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (Burnt Boot, Texas #2)(11)

“Cooking is one thing. Baking is another. I have a terrible sweet tooth, and I don’t like store-bought cakes, pies, or cookies.”

Sawyer looked over his shoulder at her. “How are you at apple pie?”

“One of my specialties. Granny Cleary taught me to make the crust when I was a little girl.”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “I’ll keep the real food on the table if you keep sweet stuff in the bunkhouse, and we’ll share. I’ll buy staples. You buy baking goods each week.”

“Sounds fair enough to me. Move aside so I can pick out six good cooking apples. I’ll start this afternoon with an apple pie and a chocolate cake.”

“But you have to work here until five o’clock.”

“There’s an old cookstove with a perfectly good oven in the storeroom. Aunt Gladys often heats up soup for her lunch on it,” she said. “And truth is, I’ll be thankful for something to do.”

“Then I’ll be here at five to take you home,” he said. “Even if the pie is mediocre, I don’t want to have to eat it off the ground with a spoon because you stumbled and fell with it on the way home.”

“Cowboy”—she smiled brightly—“my pies are not mediocre.”

“I’ll save my opinion until I’ve tasted it,” he declared. “But believe me, darlin’, I will be here at five to protect that pie.”

Neither of them heard the truck park outside. Not until the bell above the door jingled did they turn away from the meat counter where they were discussing whether he should buy two or three pounds of hamburger for his chili and soup.

“Hello. Where is Gladys?” Quaid Brennan said.

Jill left her cart sitting beside Sawyer’s and started forward. “Aunt Polly broke her ankle this morning, and Aunt Gladys is at the hospital with her. I’ll be taking care of the store for her for a while.”

“Hello, Quaid.” Sawyer waved.

He gave a brief nod toward Sawyer. “Gladys is lucky she’d already hired him before I knew he was lookin’ for a job. I’d have given him a job in a second.”

His big beautiful blue eyes never left hers. His shoulders were broad. His jeans fit right. His boots were scuffed and worn, showing that he was a real cowboy. His blue-and-black-plaid flannel shirt peeked out from under a work coat and hugged his body like a glove. With his blond hair and blue eyes, light skin and square face, Quaid was the exact opposite of Sawyer, but he was a damn fine-looking specimen all the same. He picked up her hand, brought it up to his lips, and kissed the palm. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

She pulled her hand back and tucked her thumbs in her hip pockets.

“So did we decide on two or three pounds?” Sawyer asked.

Quaid raised an eyebrow.

Jill spoke up before Sawyer could catch his breath. “He’s going to do the cooking, and I’ll do the baking. You know that we are sharing the bunkhouse, don’t you?”

“Of course I did know that.” Quaid smiled.

“What can I help you with today?” Jill asked.

“I need”—Quaid looked around the store—“ten apples.”

“Making a pie?” Sawyer asked.

“No, eating them,” Quaid said.

Jill picked up a paper bag and set it on the produce scale. “You must love apples.”

“Not for me. I’m taking them to my Sunday school class in the morning, so pick out good eating apples, not cooking ones.”

“You’ll want these pretty red ones. They’re firm but still sweet. I wouldn’t buy them for a pie, but they are wonderful for eating,” she said as she loaded up the bag.

“So you know how to make a decent apple pie?” Quaid asked. “Since you like to bake, maybe when you get settled in I’ll talk you into bringing cookies to the class some Sunday?”

“We’ll see.” She smiled.

Sawyer cleared his throat to get her attention and pointed at the hamburger.

“Be there in a minute,” she said.

She handed the bag to Quaid and followed him to the front of the store.

Quaid settled his black felt hat back on his blond hair. “Put it on the River Bend Ranch bill.”

Truck tires crunched on the gravel outside, a door slammed, and Tyrell Gallagher pushed the door open, bringing a blast of cold air with him. “Hello, Miz… What are you doing here?” He glared at Quaid.

“Buying apples and talking to Jill,” Quaid said.

“Where is Gladys?”

Jill stepped out around the counter. “Aunt Polly broke her ankle this morning. Aunt Gladys is with her, and I’ll be takin’ care of the store for a few days.”

“You are still coming to Wild Horse tomorrow, aren’t you?” Tyrell asked.

“For supper, yes, I am,” she answered.

Quaid picked up his bag of apples and started out the door, stumbled over the cart he hadn’t put back in the corner, and blamed it on Tyrell. “You tripped me, you son of a bitch.”

He threw the apples across the store and swung at Tyrell, who wasn’t about to back down or talk sense to a Brennan. The first punch landed on Tyrell’s cheek. He spit blood and hit Quaid right between the eyes with a heavy fist. Then they were on the floor, rolling around like a couple of schoolboys. One long leg kicked over a display of corn, and cans fell like snow, landing and rolling everywhere. Tyrell tried to get away from the cans and fists peppering down on him, but he stepped on a can rolling across the floor and landed smack in the middle of Quaid’s back. He got a couple of punches in before Quaid picked up a can of corn and hurled it over his shoulder, hitting Tyrell in the left ear.