And that unsettles me more than a bad joke would have. Crude, I know how to handle. Decent is harder.
I secure the cage door and wheel around to get another look at him. His shoulders stiffen, eyes snapping to my face.
That’s when I notice the thick thighs perfectly emphasized by his tight-fitting Wranglers, spit-and-polish embroidered leather boots that still look stiff, and big, muscular hands with calluses in all the wrong places. Not rope-burned. Not fence-cut. But at least they’re there.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he drawls. “But thathasnothing to do with cows.” I chuckle, scrutinizing him, trying to figure out what it is about him that’s—off. Can’t think of how else to put it.
“Has to do with animal husbandry, first-aid. Bringing things back to life.”
The last statement has him still as stone, expression puzzled. Clearly, he takes himself too seriously.
“All kidding aside,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “This job’s ninety percent in the saddle with a good dose of homesteading thrown in. Hope you’re good at multi-tasking.”
His face tightens, thick red hair and beard blazing in the light bleeding through seams in the outbuilding. “You could say as much.” His tone is flat, like he’s said that before and meant something else by it.
I nod once. “Let’s get to it, then. Hand me some more of that hay?”
He holds up a clump, eyebrows arching. “You mean, this?”
I shake my head, taking the grass. Our fingers brush for a second, sparks dancing between our flesh.
No, Leonora. Can’t do that. All cowboys are good for is leaving.
“Gonna be a long day if I have to identify hay for you,” I tease.
He frowns, fingers tugging at his shirt collar as if he’s suddenly sweating bullets.
“Gonna be even longer if you don’t know when to take a joke.”
Our eyes meet. God, his irises are stunning, deep and rich like a Sierra Nevada pine forest.
He shrugs, red hair still blazing in the light threading through the building’s windows. “Not here to joke. Here to work.”
“Good. Because I’ve been all winter without a hand, and this place is in rough shape.”
An understatement. But he doesn’t need the full laundry list—yet. Men who know too much start calculating exits.
Fences falling apart. An auction coming too soon. A neighbor circling like a vulture.
“A hundred head of cattle, half a dozen horses, chickens, and rabbits… that’s a lot of work for one person.”
I shrug. “I don’t think too much about it. Just dig my heels in. I’m good at that.”
“Me, too,” he replies a little too seriously.
“Coffee? Grub?”
“Yes, ma’am, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“Part of the deal,” I reply.
“Room and board. Mind pointing me in the direction of the bunkhouse?”
“No need.”
He shifts his weight, face ambivalent.
“You’re my only hand, and the ranch house has plenty of room.” Better to keep him close. Easier to see the leaving coming.
