A Cowboy Christmas. Janette Kenny
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I’ll leave you to your supper,” she said, and left the dining room with as much aplomb as she could muster.
Ellie fanned her hot face and tried to tell herself it was the heat bottled in the kitchen that had her flushed and squirming. But it was a lie. How could one man evoke such intense longing in her with one look?
She didn’t know, but she had to put a stop to this attraction. She’d made that mistake before. She surely wouldn’t do it again, and with an affianced man at that.
Why, if Reid Barclay was a gentleman, he wouldn’t make such an intimate overture to her. But he had, and that confirmed what she’d glimpsed in Mallory’s Roost.
Reid Barclay wasn’t a gentleman.
After putting on a pot of coffee for the cad who employed her, she slipped into the pantry. The pitiful remains of her pie sat cooling on the sill, looking more like charred wood than dessert.
She bit her lower lip to still its telltale quivering. She wasn’t one to bawl at the least provocation, but, dammit all, it hurt something fierce knowing her pa wanted her to fail—wanted Reid Barclay to dismiss her. It broke her heart that her own father didn’t want to grasp this opportunity to spend Christmas with her.
Did he fear she’d say something and expose him for who and what he was? Or was he more interested in rustling than in spending time with his only daughter?
She shouldn’t be surprised if both worried him. Though he’d visited her at the holidays when she was little, she hadn’t seen him or heard from him in the past five years. She’d feared he was dead, and with his death went any chance he’d redeem himself.
On her last birthday she’d shared her secret with Irwin, for she believed the man she was to marry should know about the past she’d kept hidden. She’d never dreamed her confession would show her Irwin’s true colors in all their garish glory.
Oh, yes, she understood betrayal well.
She dropped onto the short bench with her warm pie cradled in her lap. Clearly this bench was more of a stool, and the only comfortable way to sit on it was to extend her legs out and let her stockings show. Not that she cared one whit what image she presented in this little corner of her temporary world.
With Irwin she was relieved to know what kind of man he really was before the vows were spoken. My, but she’d gotten an eyeful of a very vindictive sort.
Despite what he’d done—and that man had done plenty to ruin her reputation in his effort to shore up his own—she’d found the gumption to rally on. Yet now she felt as if time was conspiring against her.
Mr. Barclay expected her to cook a fine feast for his wedding. Her pa wanted her long gone. And all she wanted was the chance to spend what could be her last holiday with her ornery pa.
Men! She broke off a piece of burned crust and stuck a finger into the warm filling, scooping up a bit to taste. She would not think of Reid Barclay beyond the role of her employer. In fact she didn’t want to think at all right now.
She scooped a bit of filling in her mouth like a lad who’d just filched a pie off a windowsill. As soon as the pungent taste exploded in her mouth she moaned her pleasure.
Past the telltale charring, it was a cross between mincemeat and raisin. Far better than she’d hoped to achieve. Why, if she’d been able to add a meringue to it—and if it hadn’t scorched—this pie would rival one of Grandma Kincaid’s molasses pies.
“You all right?” Reid asked, startling a gasp from her.
How could this man sneak up on her unawares? Not that it mattered. Now that she knew he was an arm’s length away her entire body began that unwanted tingling again.
There was no dignified way she could get to her feet, so she remained seated. “Other than smoking out your kitchen and burning dessert, I’m just dandy.”
She poked two fingers into the pie again and stuffed the sticky filling into her mouth. Hopefully her uncouth manners would prompt Reid Barclay to leave her in peace. Or in this case, leave her to wallow in her personal misery.
“You’re doing that all wrong,” he said. “Let me show you how to make short work of that pie.”
Reid plopped down beside her on the small bench, his bootheels scraping the floor as he extended his long, jean-clad legs the same direction as hers. She’d expected his black boots to have fancy stitching, but they were plain and the leather looked supple, thanks to the shine, evidence of frequent polishing.
Like an exuberant kid, he poked his long fingers into the sticky filling and scooped a large finger-full to his mouth.
Though she was typically quick to instruct others on proper etiquette, she couldn’t seem to get her mind and mouth to work together. Reid Barclay was to blame, for each time he stole another bite his broad shoulder brushed hers and sent energy jolting through her.
Energy of the most titillating kind.
Heavenly days, the fact he was her boss and affianced didn’t penetrate her mind. Neither did the fact that her pa had recently rustled Reid’s prize stallion and was holed up right under Reid’s nose, or that Reid would sooner see the old man hang.
Right now as he sat beside her helping himself to another taste of her charred molasses pie, he looked for all the world like a cowpoke. A very tempting cowboy.
Oh, this was dangerous sitting here in the pantry with this man. She started to get up just as he reached over to scoop up more filling, pressing the warm pan on her lap.
“Perhaps you should hold the pie plate,” she said and made to pass it to him.
She accidentally bumped his elbow just hard enough to jar loose the wad of filling poised on his fingers. The gooey mass slipped off and dropped onto his jeans.
“Now look what you did,” he said.
He didn’t have to tell her to look. She couldn’t drag her gaze away from the sticky brown mass resting close to his crotch. And were her eyes deceiving her or was that part of him shifting and lengthening?
Nope, she wasn’t imagining things. Her heart pounded and the place between her legs began pulsing.
She tore her gaze away from his obvious erection and stared at the pie safe, forcing to mind one of Headmistress Halsey’s dictums. A lady never glances at a gentleman’s private parts.
Yet here she was, staring at Reid Barclay’s crotch as if he were a randy cowpoke fresh off the range and she was a cow-town Cyprian leaning over a brothel balcony, ready to welcome him to her bed. Even knowing she had behaved brazenly, she was tempted to take another peek.
And what did that say about her? It certainly wasn’t the image she’d honed all these years, nor was it the one expected of her at the Falsmonte Ladies Academy in California.
She had been certain she could handle such a delicate situation because she knew the pitfalls that awaited an unsuspecting miss. If learning by example were a prerequisite, her experience with Irwin certainly made her the perfect teacher for the young ladies of quality—a position she was to start in less than a month. What would Headmistress Halsey think if she saw her now?
That depended on how Ellie handled this situation. A lady with her experience should be able to extract herself from such a touchy predicament without undo embarrassment to herself or the gentleman. As for doing so gracefully—
She gave up all hopes of that. Without a doubt, her cheeks must be as red as the handles on the sad irons stored on the shelf beside the ironing board.
“I was doing fine as long as you were holding it,” he said, the warm pie pan pressing into her thighs and rubbing shockingly low on her belly as he filched another piece. “This is a mighty fine pie, Miss Cade.”
With effort, she found her voice. “The crust has the consistency of charcoal.”
His warm breath fanned