Temporarily Texan

“I don’t think your food is toxic. Well, not exactly. In the long term, perhaps.”

“And there we were, getting along so well,” he teased.

Raven sighed. “I’ll get the rest of my food out of Pickles.” She’d brought jars of homegrown food from New Hampshire—beans and potatoes, carrots, squash and vegetable soup—that she’d canned herself, plus bread and cheese she’d made. She’d been on one of these assignments before and knew she might not find any organic or wholesome food to eat.

“Pickles?”

“My car. Her name is Pickles.”

He muttered something that she couldn’t quite make out, and probably didn’t want to.

“Won’t be a minute,” she said, scooting around the desk.

“I’ll give you a hand.”

“No, that won’t be…” And then she thought twice. Those boxes and canvas satchels were pretty heavy, and Troy Crawford looked as if he could carry a lot on his big shoulders.

She reminded herself that she didn’t really like overbearing men who could pick up whatever, whenever they wanted. As if they were superior because they were stronger than nice intellectual males. And she especially didn’t like men who made teasing remarks about important issues!

All right, that was better. She was much more centered now. She and Troy had nothing in common, and even if they did, he wasn’t an academic or an artist.

“Yes, thank you,” she finally said. Being a gracious houseguest was much harder than she’d anticipated. She only hoped they could keep being civil to each other until the mix-up was resolved. Somewhere around here was a garden that needed her help, and she was going to find it before she bid a not-so-fond farewell to Texas—and Troy Crawford—forever.

RAVEN YORK WAS TRYING WAY too hard to be cooperative. Besides, she was too cheerful in the morning. She bustled around the kitchen before dawn making tea and toasting some dark, yeasty bread she’d brought from New Hampshire. As he’d filled bottles with milk for the calves, she’d asked twice how she could help him.

She wanted badly to feed those calves. He knew it, and he was standing firm.

“If you really want to do something, make a decent pot of coffee,” he finally answered as he pulled a flannel shirt on over his T-shirt.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“I do, but I’m not good at making it. So, like I said, if you want to be helpful, learn to make coffee.”

“I can do other things, too.”

Like feeding calves. “I’ve got it covered.” Being personable this early was too tough to handle, especially without decent coffee. He’d never admit it to anyone in Brody’s Crossing, but he missed his double-shot latte with the morning paper at the coffee shop near his condo in Fort Worth. He missed Starbucks in the airports when he traveled. Raven York probably thought he was a cowboy through and through, but in the past fifteen years or so, he’d become downright civilized.

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said, “then I’m grabbing some breakfast and coffee, and heading out for the morning.”

“Are you going to town?”

“No, the ranch hands will be here by then and we’re going to saddle up and check the fences. It doesn’t take much for the cattle to wander off.”

“Oh, that would be a huge shame,” she said with such deadpan sarcasm that he had to smile, but then he remembered why he had to get blisters on his butt.

“Yeah, until they get onto the highway and walk in front of a school bus full of children.”

“Oh.”

“Right. So, I’m checking fence.”

“I’ll attempt the coffee.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

As soon as the door closed behind Troy, Raven tackled the old metal percolator. Despite what she’d implied, she knew how to make coffee, she just didn’t drink it. As a matter of fact, she’d worked for a short time as a barista in a coffee shop in Manchester during college. Of course, the Crawford ranch didn’t have anything similar to the commercial espresso machine she’d used there. Still, a little cleanliness went a long way, and this percolator was proof that only men had lived here for many years. Now if she could just find some white vinegar and baking soda.

When Troy returned thirty minutes later, Raven poured him a steaming mug of coffee that even she secretly admitted smelled pretty good. Perhaps she’d see about some organic coffee beans…

“Thanks. What’s that smell?” He blew on the steaming mug, smiled, then added, “I mean, it smells great.”

“Almond butter on whole wheat toast, and scrambled eggs with a little goat cheese.”

She watched his smile fade. “Oh. Like I said, it smells…great.”

“It tastes great, too. Come on, be adventurous.”

“I’ve eaten goat cheese before. It’s just not my favorite. Give me a good sharp cheddar every time.”

“I brought this all the way from New Hampshire. I make it on my farm.”

“Okay, but it’s still from goats.”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t try to convince him that her goats produced the best milk, and consequently the best cheese, around.

He washed his hands at the sink while Raven watched his back. His wide shoulders and the muscles along his spine moved beneath the soft shirt, making her wonder what he’d look like without it. Which made her angry at herself for getting distracted by a tight body.

“You’re being awfully nice, cooking breakfast for me,” he commented, his back still to her as he dried his hands.

“I’m a nice person.”

“Even to cattlemen?” he asked as he turned around.

“I’m trying to be, but I’m not going to give up on changing your mind—on changing everyone’s mind—that eating meat is both bad for you and for the animals it destroys.”

“That fact is debatable.”

“Not by me.”

He sat at the table and picked up his fork, looking at the scrambled eggs as if they might suddenly jump up and run off the plate.

“You might as well taste them. The eggs have already sacrificed themselves for your breakfast.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! These aren’t fertilized eggs. We don’t even have a rooster.”

“It was a joke. Not a very good one, I suppose.”

“Joking about food is obviously not your talent. You do, however, make a good cup of coffee.”