A Cowboy in Manhattan(36)
“But—”
“This kind of thing happens all the time.” Next, Reed went to the small woodstove between the armchairs. There was a cardboard box nearby with old newspapers, dry kindling and split firewood. He opened the glass-fronted stove door.
“Not to me, it doesn’t,” Katrina huffed to his back.
He heard her make her way farther into the shack. “We’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
He crumpled the paper. “So stop worrying.”
“I’m not worried.”
He laid down a few pieces of kindling. “I can tell.”
“I’m not worried. Cold, maybe.”
“It’ll warm up soon.”
“And hungry.”
“You? Hungry? Who’d have guessed.”
“I eat,” she protested.
“About enough to keep a bird alive.” Not that she was skinny. She had a killer compact figure, smooth curves, tight muscle tone. He set a few pieces of firewood on top of the kindling.
“I guess I’m an easy keeper.”
He grinned at her horse reference, striking a match then tossing it into the stove, watching the paper catch and light before closing the door. “Well, I’m definitely not. I’ll see what I can find us to eat.”
“There’s food here?”
“I hope so.” It was going to be a long night if he couldn’t find a can of stew or a jar of peanut butter.
“What can I do?”
It was on the tip of Reed’s tongue to make a joke about how little she could do out here, but before he could speak, he caught a glimpse of her delicate features. Her soaking, stringy hair, those wet, bedraggled clothes, and he didn’t have the heart to tease her.
“Check the bureau beside the bed. Sometimes the cowboys leave dry clothes in it.”
In reaction to his words, she shook water droplets from her fingertips, and took a long look down at her soaking clothes.
Reed could stand to stay wet if he had to, but he’d much rather dry off and warm up.
She headed for the far corner of the shack while he moved one of the lamps to the small countertop and checked the kitchen cupboard. He found a box of pancake mix and a bottle of maple syrup. Not exactly gourmet, but it would keep them from going hungry.
“Not much here,” Katrina called to report.
He turned, squinting into the darkened end of the room.
She came toward him, into the lamplight, holding something in each hand. “Tops or bottoms?” She unfurled a pair of gray sweatpants and a large, white T-shirt.
He couldn’t help being reminded of his offer to share his pajamas. He nodded to the sweatpants. “Looks like those might be a bit large for you.”
“Unless I want a blanket.” She tossed them his way, and he snagged them out of midair.
She shook out the T-shirt. “Can I trust you to turn your back while I change?”
“Absolutely,” he vowed. “My mama raised me to be a gentleman.”
“My auntie raised me to be a bohemian artist.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
Her blue eyes danced as she obviously fought a smile. “It means I probably won’t turn my back while you change.”
Reed fought the temptation to tease her in return. But that was a dangerous road to go down. Instead, he forced himself to turn away, concentrating on finding a bowl in the sparsely equipped cupboard. It was already going to be a very long night. “Change your clothes, Katrina.”
While he whipped up the batter and heated a pan on the two-burner propane stove, she rustled her way into the dry T-shirt.
“Your turn,” she told him, moving up beside him at the counter. “That smells good.”
He handed her the spatula. “You know how to cook pancakes?”
She took it. “Haven’t a clue.”
He glanced down at her, his chest contracting at the sight. Her hair was raked smoothly back. Her face was shiny clean. And the boxy T-shirt accentuated her slim frame, showing off her shapely legs.
It took him a second to find his voice. “When those bubbles burst, flip it over.”
“I can do that.” She determinedly took up a position in front of the mini stove.
She’d laid out her wet tank top and slacks, along with Reed’s soaking shirt, on a kitchen chair near the woodstove to dry. Reed stripped his way out of his own jeans, stepped out of his boxers and pulled on the soft sweatpants. Katrina kept her back turned. He’d known she was bluffing.