This Hero for Hire. Cynthia Thomason
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She jumped down from the cab. “I want to look around. And I’m happy to help you.”
Gee, what job should he give her? Let her handle two sixteen-hand horses, lift heavy shovelfuls of hay or muck out smelly stalls? Which one would she like? He was pretty sure she’d never done any of those things, but he could appease her if she really wanted to lend a hand.
“Sure,” he said, joining her at the front of the truck. “How about gathering the eggs from the coop? A basket is hanging just inside the barn door. If you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll make sure the layers are outside having their breakfast before you go in.”
“Why should that matter? I think I proved yesterday that I’m not afraid of chickens.”
Without thinking, he raised one of her hands. “Have you ever tried to take eggs from under a chicken before?”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“Well, they don’t like it. If you don’t ease in from the side without the chick seeing you, she’s likely to leave a trail of peck marks on this delicate hand.” He grinned. “And a few feathers on this clean jacket.”
“My hands aren’t so delicate,” she said, and he had to agree. She had long, slim fingers and blunt-cut nails. But the knuckles were wide, and her skin was just the slightest bit calloused.
She took her hand from his. “But I don’t think I’d like to test the ladies’ patience. I’ll wait until you get them outside. And I can do more than gather eggs,” she said, removing her rain jacket and tossing it into the truck.
“That should be fine for today,” he said, noticing the bright yellow T-shirt she wore tucked into her jeans. She was a ray of sunshine on this cloudy day. He shook his head. He had no business thinking of her in terms of stupid metaphors. She was his job and, on this day, his mysterious companion...one with a soft, semi-delicate hand that had felt surprisingly good nestled in his own.
“While you get the chicks outside, I think I’d like to walk out to that level field over there,” she said, pointing to an enviable stretch of flat land that his grandfather had farmed for years. Unfortunately, age had caught up with Gramps, and the land had lain fallow for almost a decade.
“Sure. Go ahead.” Boone started to go to the barn but stopped and turned back when his curiosity got the best of him. Now was as good a time as any to get to the bottom of this concern for Braddock land.
“Susannah, what’s your interest in this place, that field particularly?” he asked. “You didn’t ride this far merely to get to know me. There’s plenty of time for that. We’re going to be sharing the same house.”
Her eyes widened. “Well, yeah. But it’s like you just said. We’re going to be living together. I don’t think it’s too soon to get to know someone who’s going to be my roomie.”
“Okay, but that’s not the full story. And before we leave here this morning, I’m going to find out what it is.”
She frowned at him. “Now you sound like a cop. I didn’t think you were on duty, Boone.”
He brushed his hair off his forehead and settled his hat low on his brow. “I’m starting to think I’m never going to be off duty again as far as you’re concerned.”
“Fine. Obviously you think I have some secret plan, so when the chores are done, we’ll talk.”
He smiled. “So I’m right? There is a secret plan?”
“Something like that. And you’ve got to know some time. But go on and do what you have to do.”
The mystery deepened. Boone walked into the barn and relaxed when he heard the familiar and comforting sounds of his horses. Pawing sounds, recognition sounds, whinnies of hunger. He picked up a pitchfork and got to work. This was natural. This he understood. Even if he didn’t understand Susannah Rhodes. Yet.
* * *
WITH THE EGG basket draped over her arm, Susannah stood at the entrance to the barn and peered inside. The rain had stopped for good, and the sun was now hot and bright slanting through the cracks in the old wood siding. “Boone, are you in here?”
“Out here,” he answered. “Come on through the barn and out to the paddock.”
She walked down the wide aisle, her footsteps kicking up bits of dust and straw. The barn was old but tidy. She expected to wrinkle her nose at smells every bit as offensive as the odors that had clung to her yesterday. But no. She only sniffed leather tack, fresh straw and the fertile scent of grains. Boone had obviously finished cleaning the stalls and replaced the soiled hay with new.
Coming into the open again, she saw Boone leaning against a weathered, wooden fence. One booted foot was on the bottom rail. His arms were crossed on the top. The felt cowboy hat remained low on his forehead. He turned when he heard her approach. “How’d you do with those eggs?” he asked.
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