Temporarily Texan. Victoria Chancellor
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held on for a moment too long, before realizing he was pretty intent on dragging her big tote into his house. She let go and he opened the door.
I’m not a rancher, either! she felt like shouting. Instead, she ignored the building’s unwelcome vibes and followed him inside.
“You might not be a rancher, but you look like a cowboy.”
He turned back with an amused look on his face. “Yeah? And how is a cowboy supposed to look?”
That smile could melt butter in January, she thought as she peered at him in the dim interior light. He was definitely handsome. At a little over six feet of lean muscle, long legs encased in the requisite jeans and scuffed boots on what must be size-twelve feet, he sure looked as if he could ride and rope and…whatever else cowboys did.
“I’m not sure, I suppose. I’m from New Hampshire.”
His smile faded and he looked at her as if questioning her response. “Okay, then.”
She wanted to say, Okay, what? but for the sake of getting off on the right foot simply followed him into the eat-in kitchen. The large square room seemed to be the hub of the house where the hallway came together with the living spaces.
The kitchen was just as dreary and outdated as the exterior of the house, with beige vinyl flooring, dull brown cabinets and faded floral wallpaper. The pseudocowboy staring out the back windows appeared far more interesting than the decor.
“Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“I suppose the association mentioned that I have a guest bedroom for you here at the house. Is that okay?”
“Yes, they did say I’d have accommodations on the property.” She’d envisioned a quaint guest cottage surrounded by roses and bluebonnets. They hadn’t explained that she’d be sharing a very isolated house with a handsome cowboy. She wasn’t certain how she felt about that setup in the light of day, much less in the dark of night.
“Is anyone else living here?” Wife and children, perhaps.
“No, it’s just me. Neither Cal nor I are married.”
“I see.” So, they would be alone.
“My bedroom is down the hall,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “You’ll be at this end of the house with your own bathroom.”
“All right.” They wouldn’t be sharing a bath, but she was near to the kitchen and living areas. Not as private as that nice guest cottage she’d envisioned.
“I grew up here in this house,” he said, cutting into her wandering thoughts. “I left for college and haven’t worked on a ranch since I was eighteen.”
“Do you miss it?”
He paused a moment too long. “No.”
“Oh. But—” She hurried to catch up as he turned down the hallway to the left. What did he study in college? Did he miss his job? How long was he taking off?
And why was she so interested in a brooding Texan who was so difficult to read?
“This is your room,” he said, placing her tote bag on the double bed. The brown coverlet had probably been put there before Troy Crawford left for college. The off-white walls hadn’t been painted recently, either, and the dresser and nightstand were of some type of dark wood. Nubby beige drapes hung from a sagging rod.
She looked back at Troy Crawford and found him watching her. “It’s not a five-star hotel, but I imagine you’ve stayed in worse.”
“Oh, I wasn’t…Sorry. The room is a surprise. I wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s just that I’ve never stayed in a ranch house before.”
“What?”
“Most of my work has been done east of the Mississippi.”
“I wouldn’t think there were many ranches that needed your help back there.”
“Ranches? No, but there are lots of homesteads, some with three or four generations still living on the same land that was settled in the 1700s.”
He frowned. “Why would you care about historic homesteads?”
She frowned right back, more confused than ever. “Because that’s how I glean much of my knowledge.”
“About their cattle?”
“No,” she replied slowly. “About their heritage gardens.”
“Gardens? What are you…Wait a minute.” She watched an entire evolution of expression transform his face. “You aren’t a ranch expert, are you?”
“Of course not! I’m a vegetarian. I’m against eating beef. Any kind of meat, for that matter.”
Troy Crawford rubbed a hand across his face. “I knew there was something wrong.”
“Just as I did when I arrived on a working cattle ranch!”
“Wait a minute. Why did you think you were here?”
“To document and restore a heritage garden.”
“A what?”
“A garden used by settlers to provide herbs, fruit, vegetables and beauty.”
“Dammit. I need a cattle expert.”
“Well, the last place I want to be is on a cattle ranch. I’m looking for old roses and tomatoes, daisies and berry bushes. Ranching is against everything I believe.”
“Then you are definitely in the wrong place.”
“What did I just say?”
He turned away and looked up at the dingy popcorn ceiling. “Well, we’ll go call the association and get this straightened out.”
“Sure. There’s probably a simple explanation.”
“The cattle guy is probably in the next town, wondering why there’s an old garden and no stock.”
“Right. And the person who needed my help is probably wondering why the man on their doorstep knows more about feed than seed.”
“Okay then. Let’s get this cleared up.”
She followed him out of the gloomy guest bedroom, relieved she wouldn’t be staying there for two weeks.
TROY SETTLED BACK IN THE desk chair and willed himself to be patient. “I know I’m not the person who requested the expert. I’m the brother. Cal Crawford is in the military, in Afghanistan. That’s Calvin P. Crawford IV for the record. He contacted you via e-mail and requested a cattle specialist to come out to the Rocking C in Brody’s Crossing, Texas.” He’d told this story already, to the receptionist. Sweet girl, but she hadn’t been helpful, either. “The expert showed up today, right on schedule, but she’s a gardener, not a cattleman.”
“Mr. Crawford, we don’t send out gardening experts. Everyone who’s a member of the Farmers’ and Ranchers’ Society deals with livestock and related issues.”
“I know that, but I’m telling you, the person who is here knows nothing about cattle. Do you have a record of Raven York? She’s from New Hampshire, for crying out loud!” Hardly cattle country.
“Let me check.”
Troy wedged the phone between his shoulder and neck while he listened to bad elevator music. He hoped they remembered he was on hold. While he waited, he booted up the computer but then remembered that there was only one phone line in the house, and he was currently using it. He couldn’t get on the Internet to check his e-mail via the antiquated modem and that increased his frustration level.
Dammit, he understood why Cal thought Troy needed help. He hadn’t lived on this ranch—on any ranch—for a