Redeeming the Rancher. Deb Kastner
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Of course she had. Or at least, she thought she had, since her ranch was also technically a nonprofit ministry. Out of habit, if nothing else. Oh, Lord, please let there be a rational answer. But how else would someone have gotten in? Only her twin sister,
Vivian, had a key.
Vivian.
Alexis let out the breath she’d been holding and her shoulders sagged in relief.
Of course. It had to be Vivian, even though Alexis hadn’t expected to see her. Vivian was busy in Houston trying to get her new business off the ground and didn’t have time to make the commute home more than a few times a year, but it was the only explanation that made sense.
For about one second.
Until she remembered that Vivian could not and did not cook.
At all. Ever. Period. Exclamation point.
Alexis dearly loved her sister, but she had no qualms admitting that the woman couldn’t even boil water, much less cook bacon.
Then again, house thieves didn’t pause to cook themselves a meal, either; at least none that Alexis had ever heard of.
Rational explanation, Alexis, she coached herself. Don’t panic. Don’t freak out.
Despite her efforts to be quiet, she couldn’t contain the shaky laugh that tittered from under her breath, more nervous than amused, as she pictured a thief cooking breakfast in her kitchen. Barefoot and silent against the hardwood floor, she crept down the hallway toward the kitchen. The light was on, bacon was crackling on the stove and someone was humming.
A male someone.
Definitely not Vivian, then.
Alexis plastered herself to the wall, her breath coming in short gasps, her skin burning as if it was on fire. Even though she’d doubted the mystery intruder was Vivian, she’d still held out hope that there was nothing more sinister at work here than her sister fresh off a cooking class. But there was a man in her kitchen. And he appeared to be making himself at home.
What on earth?
Her pulse was pounding in her ears, nearly drowning out the sound of the mystery man. She was going to be in full-out panic mode if she hesitated much longer. Before she could think better of it, her fist circled around the makeshift weapon in her pocket and she sprang forward, brandishing the flat-iron wand in front of her like a sword.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” she demanded with a good deal more bravado than she actually felt. If her voice came out a little high and squeaky, who could blame her?
The tall man hovering over the oven had been humming a pleasant tune to himself, but when he heard her voice he jumped back in surprise. He dropped the tongs he was holding and they clattered into the pan, spraying grease over his exposed left hand. He howled in protest and shook his wrist, then nursed his knuckle between his lips.
“Who am I?” he growled as he swiveled around to face her. “The better question would be…” The man’s sentence drifted off into a strained silence and his dark brows lowered over gray-blue eyes. He shook his head, clearly bewildered.
“I asked you a question.” Alexis lifted her weapon and took a defensive stance.
“Vivian? What are you doing here?” He hesitated a moment, his head tilting as he scrutinized her features. Uncertainty flashed in his eyes. “You’re not Vivian.”
Alexis sighed in relief and let her posture relax a bit. If the man knew her sister, then he probably wasn’t a thief, although what he was doing making breakfast in her kitchen was still a mystery.
That said, she was impressed that he could tell her apart from Vivian. Most folks couldn’t, at least not right away. It wasn’t the first time she’d ever been mistaken for her twin sister and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But she reminded herself not to give him too much credit. Since this man knew Vivian, he’d probably realized his mistake in calling Alexis by her sister’s name as soon as he saw the complete lack of recognition on her face.
He was clearly out of his element, and not just because he was cooking up a meal in her kitchen as if he owned it. She guessed him to be in his mid-thirties and well-to-do. Thick dark hair threaded with the occasional touch of silver lent him a sophisticated air. Everything about the guy screamed city boy, from the spit-shine of his black cowboy boots to the designer scarf draped around his neck.
Designer clothing. On a guy. In Serendipity, Texas. He might as well have a Kick Me sign on his back. Men around here wore the scuffs in their boots like trophies.
“Alexis,” she corrected. “Grainger. Vivian’s twin sister.”
“Alexis? A-Alex?” he stammered. “I… I’m, uh…”
“Confused, obviously.” No one ever called her Alex, for one thing.
He nodded adamantly. “Yes, there is that. Were you—” he gestured toward her hand, one corner of his lip rising “—planning to stab me with your curling iron?”
Heat flooded her face as she hastily lowered her “weapon.” She stuffed the flat-iron wand back into her bathrobe pocket, frantically looping the uncooperative tail around her palm. The cord stubbornly refused to follow and it took a humiliating length of time to complete the action. Her cheeks were positively burning by the time she finished.
“Yes. No,” she stammered, shaking her head and scowling at the unwanted intruder. So he wasn’t a random stranger but rather a friend of her sister’s. That didn’t mean he was welcome to barge into her home at a ridiculous hour of the morning. “Maybe. I thought you were a burglar.”
Alexis didn’t like the way the stranger flustered her with his sharp gaze. She liked it even less when he burst into laughter at her expense.
“Lady, if I was intent on swiping your possessions or causing you bodily harm, you would have been a lot smarter to sneak out the front door, get yourself to safety and call the cops on me. I’m guessing most criminal types wouldn’t be deterred by your curling iron, no matter how bravely brandished.”
His eyes flooded with amusement, but there was something else there, too.
Admiration.
The nerve of the man.
“Well, you’re not here to steal my things or to hurt me, now, are you?” she demanded, annoyed that she continued to wrestle with the ridiculous inclination to defend her actions. Why should she? He was the one who was trespassing.
“No, ma’am, I’m not.”
“It’s a good thing for you I didn’t call the police or you’d be in handcuffs right now. You should be thanking me, not giving me a hard time.”
“Thank you,” he said, sounding as if it were more of a concession to her than a heartfelt expression of gratitude. His lips quirked as he wiped his greasy palm against the black denim on his thigh. He extended his hand. “Griff Haddon, at your service.”
“At my service? Really? I was under the impression you were helping yourself to breakfast.” She ignored his outstretched hand and crossed her arms, not caring if the gesture looked defensive. Why should she care what he thought?
“I brought my own food.” He gestured to a canvas bag tipped flat on the counter, spilling a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread.
“How reassuring.”
He frowned. “Obviously there’s been a misunderstanding here.”
“Oh, I believe I understand just fine, or at least I can take a good stab at it. If I don’t miss my guess, you’re making yourself at home in my house because of something my ditzy sister said or did. What’s lacking here is communication, a fact I’m going to rectify at my earliest convenience. I have a few words to exchange with my dear sister. I’m assuming she loaned you the key to our house?”
He scoffed and shook