Passion Flower

“If it means getting to stay in Texas, yes, I am.”

He smiled. “How old are you, schoolgirl?”

“I haven’t been a schoolgirl for years, Mr. Culhane,” she told him. “I’m twenty-three, in fact.” She glared at him. “How old are you?”

“Make a guess,” he invited.

Her eyes went from his thick hair down the hawklike features to his massive chest, which tapered to narrow hips, long powerful legs, and large, booted feet. “Thirty,” she said.

He chuckled softly. It was the first time she’d heard the deep, pleasant sound, and it surprised her to find that he was capable of laughter. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who laughed very often.

His eyes wandered over her thin body with amused indifference, and she regretted for a minute that she was such a shadow of her former self. “Try again, honey,” he said.

She noticed then the deep lines in his darkly tanned face, the sprinkling of gray hair at his temples. In the open neck of his shirt, she could see threads of silver among the curling dark hair. No, he wasn’t as young as she’d first thought.

“Thirty-four,” she guessed.

“Add a year and you’ve got it.”

She smiled. “Poor old man,” she said with gentle humor.

He chuckled again. “That’s no way to talk to your new boss,” he cautioned.

“I won’t forget again, honestly.” She stared at him. “Do you have other people working for you?”

“Just Eddie and Bib,” he said. “They’re married.” He nodded as he watched her eyes become wide and apprehensive. “That’s right. We’ll be alone. I’m a bachelor and there’s no staff in the house.”

“Well...”

“There’ll be a lock on your door,” he said after a minute. “When you know me better, you’ll see that I’m pretty conventional in my outlook. It’s a big house. We’ll rattle around like two peas in a pod. It’s only on rare occasions that I’m in before bedtime.” His dark eyes held hers. “And for the record, my taste doesn’t run to city girls.”

That sounded as if there was a good reason for his taste in women, but she didn’t pry. “I’ll work hard, Mr. Culhane.”

“My name is Everett,” he said, watching her. “Or Rett, if you prefer. You can cook meals and do the laundry and housekeeping. And when you have time, you can work in what passes for my office. Wages won’t be much. I can pay the bills, and that’s about it.”

“I don’t care about getting rich.” Meanwhile she was thinking fast, sorely tempted to accept the offer, but afraid of the big, angry man at her side. There were worse things than being alone and without money, and she didn’t really know him at all.

He saw the thoughts in her mind. “Jenny Wren,” he said softly, “do I look like a mad rapist?”

Hearing her name that way on his lips sent a surge of warmth through her. No one had called her by a pet name since the death of her parents.

“No,” she said quietly. “Of course you don’t. I’ll work for you, Mr. Culhane.”

He didn’t answer her. He only scanned her face and nodded. Then he started the truck, turned it around, and headed back to the Circle C Ranch.

Chapter Three

TWO HOURS later, Jennifer was well and truly in residence, to the evident amusement of Everett’s two ranch hands. They apparently knew better than to make any snide comments about her presence, but they did seem to find something fascinating about having a young woman around the place.

Jennifer had her own room, with peeling wallpaper, worn blue gingham curtains at the windows, and a faded quilt on the bed. Most of the house was like that. Even the rugs on the floor were faded and worn from use. She’d have given anything to be robust and healthy and have a free hand to redecorate the place. It had such wonderful potential with its long history and simple, uncluttered architecture.

The next morning she slept late, rising to bright sunlight and a strange sense that she belonged there. She hadn’t felt that way since her childhood, and couldn’t help wondering why. Everett had been polite, but not much more. He wasn’t really a welcoming kind of man. But, then, he’d just lost his brother. That must account for his taciturn aloofness.

He was long gone when she went downstairs. She fixed herself a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast and then went to the small room that doubled as his office. As he’d promised the day before, he’d laid out a stack of production records and budget information that needed typing. He’d even put her electric typewriter on a table and plugged it in. There was a stack of white paper beside it, and a note.

“Don’t feel obliged to work yourself into a coma the first day,” it read. And his bold signature was slashed under the terse sentence. She smiled at the flowing handwriting and the perfect spelling. He was a literate man, at least.

She sat down in her cool blue shirtwaist dress and got to work. Two hours later, she’d made great inroads into the paperwork and was starting a new sheet when Everett’s heavy footsteps resounded throughout the house. The door swung open and his dark eyebrows shot straight up.

“Aren’t you going to eat lunch?” he asked.

More to the point, wasn’t she going to feed him, she thought, and grinned.

“Something funny, Miss King?” he asked.

“Oh, no, boss,” she said, leaving the typewriter behind. He was expecting that she’d forgotten his noon meal, but she had a surprise in store for him.

She led him into the kitchen, where two places were set. He stood there staring at the table, scowling, while she put out bread, mayonnaise, some thick ham she’d found in the refrigerator, and a small salad she’d made with a bottled dressing.

“Coffee?” she asked, poised with the pot in her hand.

He nodded, sliding into the place at the head of the table.

She poured it into his thick white mug and then filled her own.

“How did you know I wanted coffee instead of tea?” he asked with a narrow gaze as she seated herself beside him.

“Because the coffee cannister was half empty and the tea had hardly been touched,” she replied with a smile.

He chuckled softly as he sipped the black liquid. “Not bad,” he murmured, glancing at her.

“I’m sorry about breakfast,” she said. “I usually wake up around six, but this morning I was kind of tired.”

“No problem,” he told her, reaching for bread. “I’m used to getting my own breakfast.”

“What do you have?”

“Coffee.”

She gaped at him. “Coffee?”

He shrugged. “Eggs bounce, bacon’s half raw, and the toast hides under some black stuff. Coffee’s better.”

Her eyes danced as he put some salad on her plate. “I guess so. I’ll try to wake up on time tomorrow.”

“Don’t rush it,” he said, glancing at her with a slight frown. “You look puny to me.”

“Most people would look puny compared to you,” she replied.