Porcupine Ranch. Sally Carleen
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focused on the road stretching ahead, a dry, colorless ribbon leading to the house. A glance in the rearview mirror showed nothing but a giant cloud of dust roiling in her wake, following her. As omens went, it didn’t seem like a very good one.
Clayton swore under his breath as he tried to herd a group of ten normal cattle plus one rambunctious young bull who seemed to think this was all a game.
Usually he kind of agreed with the bull.
Cattle could be difficult creatures, and trying to raise them in the tough brush country only made it worse. Nevertheless, he loved everything about the life, every ornery cow, every dry bit of sand, every prickly cactus, every twisted mesquite tree.
His mother, born and raised in the hill country of Austin, had hated their home as passionately as he loved it. As a child, Clayton had resented her attitude, had almost taken it as a personal rejection. But he’d come to realize that the land was simply too harsh for her. She’d have escaped years ago if she hadn’t been left alone and pregnant, the despised ranch, belonging to her dead husband and missing father-in-law, her only home and means of support.
Gradually Clayton had taken over the management, but it was only when he reached the age of twenty-one that she’d turned over the books to him. He’d discovered then how badly she’d mismanaged the ranch, even taking out a mortgage on the place.
He’d never blamed her. She’d done the best she could. She’d just been unsuited for the ranch.
He took a great deal of pride in the fact that he was pulling it out of debt in spite of everything.
The long drought was taking a heavy toll. With most of his herd under optimum weight, he desperately needed rain. But even without it, he’d manage. This was tough country, a worthy opponent, and that was what he loved about it.
Normally, working the cattle, mending the fences—any of the necessary tasks—brought him contentment and took his mind off all the problems. But today had gotten off to a lousy start and hadn’t improved a bit so far.
He’d wasted most of the morning hanging around the house waiting for Hannah Lindsay, his taste buds anticipating his first hot meal in three weeks.
Not to mention that he wouldn’t mind seeing a pretty female face after looking at nothing here lately but unshaven, ugly cowboys and hairy, smelly cattle. Even if she couldn’t talk, Hannah was real easy on the eyes.
She was also a no-show. Hadn’t even phoned to say she wasn’t coming. She’d probably realized she wouldn’t be able to hack it out here and had run for her life.
He forced himself to pay attention to the task at hand and finally got the young bull headed in the right direction.
He’d take this group to the corral, then go back to the house and make ham sandwiches again. It was ten-thirty already, and last night he’d promised the over-worked men that they’d have real food for lunch. Now he would have to disappoint them.
As he neared the corral, he saw a cloud of dust rolling toward his house. That was strange. The only visitor he expected today had been Hannah Lindsay.
Irritation and disappointment washed over him anew at the memory of her failure to show up. He’d been right about her. She was too much like his mother, her soft fragility unsuited to the land’s harshness.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the rebellious bull, apparently taking advantage of Clayton’s momentary distraction, had separated from the group again.
Cursing Hannah Lindsay and whoever was stirring up that cloud of dust, he went after the bull.
When he finally got his cattle settled in the corral, Clayton headed toward the house. As he approached, he recognized Hannah’s little white car.
His first impulse was delight. She’d come after all.
Several hours late, he reminded himself, his guard automatically going up. Being late for the first day wasn’t a good sign. Out here they didn’t have the luxury of being late, especially in the mornings.
He tried to push his doubts aside. Maybe she’d had car trouble. Maybe she’d gotten lost. Considering the peculiar way she’d acted yesterday, that was certainly a possibility.
The important thing was, Hannah was here. He had a cook and housekeeper. That was the only reason he was so glad to see her.
Then he saw her slim figure heading across the yard, back toward her car. Was she leaving? No, he couldn’t let her do that! He urged his horse to a full gallop.
She stopped with the car door open and looked toward him, apparently hearing the sound of his horse’s hooves. Her dark, luminous eyes were visible even from a distance.
He reined up beside her and dismounted, amazed at how excited he was to see her in spite of his earlier misgivings. But he supposed that was understandable. He was as tired of eating sandwiches as the men were. Not to mention that he was running out of clean underwear.
“Hi,” he greeted her, smiling as he pulled off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his brow in one practiced movement. “When you didn’t show up this morning, I was afraid you’d decided not to take the job.”
She looked puzzled, pushed the car door closed then checked a large, black-banded watch that was much too big for her thin wrist. At least it was practical; not one of those thin gold things. He told himself that was a good sign.
And with that observation, he realized that he was looking for good signs. He was desperate for good signs, and Hannah didn’t carry many with her.
She lifted her deer-caught-in-a-headlight gaze from the watch to him. “It is,” she said. “Morning.”
Clayton bit the inside of his lower lip and clenched his hands. This was not a good sign.
“I don’t know what kind of a schedule your former employer had, but around here, morning comes quite a bit earlier, like about 5:00 a.m.” He spoke as softly and calmly as possible. He didn’t want to scare her off.
Nevertheless, she flinched as though he’d slapped her.
“Five? Is the sun up then?”
Oh, brother. They were in trouble. And yet he felt like a jerk just for telling her the hours she was expected to work.
That was a dumb thing to feel. If she couldn’t handle it, she had no business being here.
Taking a deep breath, he slid his hat back onto his head, momentarily blocking his view of her. It was easier to scold her when he couldn’t see that vulnerable look on her face.
“No,” he said. “The sun isn’t up at that hour. We have to get an early start. I should have told you yesterday. Never mind. You’re here now. Think you can put together a quick lunch?”
“Lunch?”
Well, he wasn’t hiring her to make speeches. Surely her cooking skills were better than her verbal ones.
“Where are your bags?”
Reluctantly, it seemed, she looked toward the car. “In there.” Her voice sounded as if her throat needed to be oiled.
He took the key from her, opened the car door and hauled out two designer suitcases. He wasn’t paying her what she’d earned before if she could afford bags like those.
But by the end of the season, he should have the mortgage paid off. Then next year he’d turn a profit, and he’d make it up to her.
As though she was likely to be around next year. Mrs. Grogan had lasted for three years. Except for his mother who hadn’t had anywhere else to go until she met her new husband, that was pretty much a record. His father and grandparents were gone before he even arrived on the scene. Most people didn’t fare well out here. Nothing was permanent except the land and him.
But he could hope Hannah would last a year