The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (Burnt Boot, Texas #2)(6)

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I needed a job.”

“Ranchin’ jobs can be found anywhere in the state of Texas. Why did you come to Burnt Boot?”

“For a brand-new fresh start.”

But his eyes said more. Disappointment was written there. Someday, when they knew each other better, she intended to play poker with him. He was one of those open-book men who couldn’t hide anything. Whatever he felt was written plain and clear in those mesmerizing dark eyes, and there was a story in there. If they were playing for clothes instead of dollars, she could win everything from that shirt to his pretty belt buckle to his scuffed-up boots. Did he wear boxers or briefs? Hopefully, he went cowboy, which meant neither one, and she would have it all when he peeled those jeans down.

Crap! She really did need to get a hold on her thoughts. It had to be because she was so tired and he’d been so nice after she’d started things off like a first-rate bitch.

“Well, it looks like we’ve both got a job,” she said. “I haven’t been here since I was a little girl. Is that the other bathroom?” She pointed to one of two closed doors.

“No, that’s a tack room. That one”—his finger went to a door right beside what would be her office—“is yours. It’s got a tub. If you are nice, I’ll loan you my shower when you don’t have time to run a bath.”

“Thank you, and when you’d like to soak away the aches and pains, you are welcome to use my tub,” she said.

She grabbed a broom and headed back to her room, but she could feel his eyes on her, creating a faint flutter in her heart. Oh, yes, she definitely had to get control of herself!

It was late when things were clean enough that she could take a quick bath and fall into bed, but Aunt Gladys was a night owl and she would still be awake. If a person looked up “night owl” in the phone book, Gladys Cleary’s picture would be there. It would show an eighty-year-old woman with a strong chin and lots of jet-black hair with just a hint of gray in it. Jill propped two pillows against the iron headboard and reached for her phone. The old metal springs squeaked under the mattress every time she moved. She hit the speed-dial button and leaned back.

“You got them cows sorted out?” Gladys asked.

“And my bedroom and bathroom at least livable,” she said.

“And Sawyer, is he alive?”

“We buried the hatchet and made a treaty.”

“Well, hot damn! I knew you’d see that he is a good man. What’s the treaty say?”

“That we’ll have each other’s backs after Sunday,” Jill said.

“Sunday?”

Jill told Gladys about how both Brennans and Gallaghers had blindsided her and Sawyer and now they had to go to dinner and then supper with them. “But you can’t accuse me of taking sides,” she said.

“Sounds like you’ve both done stepped in a fresh shit pile.” Gladys laughed. “But it will be good for you.”

“One of those things that makes you stronger if it don’t kill you?” Jill asked.

“Something like that. Now get some sleep. Y’all meet me at the barn at eight tomorrow, and I’ll show you how I want the feeding chores done.”

“Yes, ma’am. Good night, Aunt Gladys. And thanks for the job.”

“Honey, it’s only a job until I’m dead, then Fiddle Creek is yours. Good night and good-bye. See you kids in the morning.”

Jill said good-bye and poked the “end” button, but it was a while before she went to sleep.

*

Sawyer awoke with a start, sun warming his face through a dingy window and the smell of coffee filling the bunkhouse. He sat straight up and inhaled deeply. It took a few seconds to get his bearings. He hadn’t slept past daybreak in years, much less until seven o’clock, but then he hadn’t gone to bed until three that morning. He fell back onto the pillows, pulled the clean flannel sheets and down comforter up to his neck, and listened to the sounds of a lonesome old coyote howling somewhere outside.

The aroma of coffee drifted under the door. Evidently, Jill was already up and around, which meant she’d gotten into his stash, since that was the only thing in the kitchen. There wasn’t even a stray ice cube in the refrigerator freezer, much less a quart of milk and stale doughnuts. That also meant she’d used his coffeepot.

He sat up, slung his legs over the side of the bed, and his feet hit the cold tile floor all in one motion. He might tolerate someone dipping into his stash of dark-roast coffee, but nobody messed with his pot. Not even if she was cuter than a bug’s ear, with that faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

He made a mad dash for the top drawer of the dresser and yanked out a pair of warm socks first and pulled them on as he tried to keep from putting his entire foot on the floor. The room was so cold that ice had formed on the inside of the window. He glanced up at the ceiling to make sure the vents were on, but there were no vents. Evidently, the only heat in the place came from that wood-burning stove in the living area, and the fire he’d built when he arrived the evening before had gone cold. He’d have to remember to leave his door cracked from now on, which meant no more nights of sleeping in the raw.

He jerked on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, oatmeal-colored thermal shirt, and stomped his feet down into boots. He shivered as he shaved, brushed his teeth, and ran a comb through his thick black hair. He needed a haircut, but it could wait another week.