Читать книгу Lone Star Daddy - Cathy Gillen Thacker - Страница 8

Chapter Two

“What’s wrong?” Rose demanded early the next morning.

How about everything? Clint thought, directing his full attention to the woman striding toward him. Although it was due to heat up later in the day, right now it was damp and cool. Rose had hooked a pair of sunglasses into the neck of her bright-yellow T-shirt and thrown a denim jacket over her slender shoulders. Snug-fitting jeans and boots covered her lower half. Her straw hat hid her cloud of ash-blond curls.

Not stopping until they stood toe-to-toe, she persisted, “Why do you have that look on your face?”

Clint cut a glance at the long line of pickups and tractors driving onto the Double Creek Ranch, then turned back to her, keeping his temper in check. “You really have to ask?”

She shrugged, her expression more innocent than the situation warranted. “I told you I’d get you a loaner tractor delivered today.” She waved a hand in the direction of the tractor dealership flatbed leading the way. “And I have.”

It looked like a nice one, too. Brand spanking new. With an air-conditioned cab, a fact he was sure to appreciate as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Clint jerked his head at the convoy. “And the rest of this?”

“Oh.” Rose spared him a look. “I called in a few favors to get other farmers in the area to help us make the rows. This way we can get it done in one day.”

He lifted his brows. “You didn’t think to ask me first?”

Her pause went on a second too long.

“Or you did think to ask and decided not to.”

Another shrug and a small, mischievous smile. “I might have discovered—after I finished organizing everything last night—that it was too late to call you.”

He narrowed his eyes, not buying that excuse for one hot second.

“Or...I might have had a feeling that you’re one of those gotta-do-it-all-myself types.” She became serious. “With the first of the berries ready to be picked tomorrow, we really don’t have time to waste.”

Uh-huh. Just as he had thought.

“Deal or not, Ms. McCabe, this is still my ranch.”

“Oh, I am aware.” Tossing her head, she lifted a lecturing finger his way. “But that doesn’t change the fact you have agreed to sell those blackberries to me, McCulloch! Or in any way alter the fact that I, in turn, have promised those same berries to a number of local stores, as well as the members of the Rose Hill Farm co-op! All of whom, as it happens, know the importance of bringing a crop in at just the right moment.”

He couldn’t argue. Any berries left to fall on the ground were money down the drain. “You seem to have it all figured out.”

A shadow fell over her face—as if he’d struck a nerve. “You’ll thank me when I cut your first check.”

He supposed he would, at that.

“In the meantime...how about getting off your high horse long enough to come and thank all the neighbors who have so kindly agreed to help us?”

Clint fell into step beside her. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised,” he murmured, nodding at the farmers coming forward to greet him. “Laramie is a place where neighbors help each other out.”

Rose smiled, sweetly this time. “You’re darn right about that, cowboy. That’s how we farmers and ranchers all survive.”

* * *

“LOOKING GOOD AROUND HERE,” Gannon Montgomery told Clint later that evening when the two met at the Double Creek to settle their monthly accounts.

Friends since childhood, both were back on the ranches where they had grown up. Clint paid Gannon a grazing and usage fee for running his cattle and cutting horses on Gannon’s ranch—the Bar M. In return, Gannon paid Clint to keep up the pastures on his land and exercise and take care of his family’s horses.

Moreover, Gannon was a prominent local attorney who was married to Rose’s sister, Lily. So there was little about the McCabe women or Laramie County he did not know.

Clint turned his gaze to the neatly plowed rows between the thick, plentiful six-foot-tall bushes. “More like a blackberry farm or something out of the Napa Valley.” Which was a far cry from the ranch he and his family had always intended it to be, before he and his siblings had been forced to sell during probate, after his parents’ death, years ago.

He sighed. “But it will be easy to get the berry picker through.” Although he wasn’t looking forward to the tedious work of driving that tractor and hauling crates of produce around. He would be much happier on the back of a horse, or even out on the land repairing fence, than trying to care for the delicate fruit.

Nodding in agreement, Gannon followed Clint inside. “Rose seems happy.”

Pushing the image of the feisty woman with the delectable curves out of his mind, Clint cracked open two beers. “Tell me about it.”

They toasted each other silently and then sat down at the kitchen island. “She’s wanted to get her hands on all those berries for years,” Gannon told him. “It was such a shame, seeing them all go to seed.”

Clint snorted derisively, aware he’d been able to sidestep Rose’s requests the year before, after acquiring the property, simply by not being around during the harvest season. “Had the birds not been given free rein with them, they might not have spread to the degree they have.”

“I sense you’re irritated with my sister-in-law?”

Clint chose his words carefully. “Let’s just say I have never met a woman so determined to have her own way.”

“Or as likely to get it by whatever means necessary,” Gannon deadpanned. “But, as Lily would say, that’s part of her sister’s charm. Or it has been since she was left with three kids to bring up entirely on her own.”

Clint paused to take that in. “Rose’s ex-husband isn’t involved?”

Gannon shook his head, his expression grim. “Barry walked away clean nearly three years ago, right after their divorce.”

Clint exhaled. “That’s rough.”

“So you can understand, then, why Rose is as single-minded as she is.”

“Because she has to be.”

Gannon nodded.

Clint admired a woman who went all out to provide for her family. That didn’t mean, however, that he had to like the way Rose went about her dealings with him. He’d been down this road before. Almost married a woman who didn’t just love being in the midst of excitement and drama but created it wherever she went. No way was he getting involved with someone like that again. Even if it was a woman as beautiful and feisty as Rose.

The two finished their beers and traded invoices.

“When are you going to get your ranch up and running?” Gannon asked.

“If it all turns out the way Rose is predicting—” Clint was holding his breath on that one “—and I get even half the cash she is promising...I’m hoping for early fall.”

And then it would be bye-bye to the farming he had never wanted to do—and renting out his neighbor’s land—and hello to horse and cattle ranching on the Double Creek, the way it was meant to be.

In the meantime, he had to deal with Rose McCabe.

And the delivery of the berry picker from the tractor dealership the following day. It arrived, as promised, shortly after nine in the morning. Clint half expected Rose to be there, too.

She wasn’t.

While the sunny May morning was unexpectedly quiet, Swifty unloaded the big machine from the flatbed trailer, showed Clint how to use it and took off.

Deciding maybe this wasn’t so bad after all, Clint loaded up the machine with heavy-duty plastic fruit crates, turned the engine on and headed for the field.

He’d barely made it down one row when the next surprise came. And the quiet morning outdoors that he’d been looking forward to vanished. Just like that.

* * *

CLINT SUFFERED THROUGH the day only because he had promised Farmtech, the local dealership and the produce co-op that he would.

As soon as the day’s activity concluded, however, he headed inside his ranch house to get cleaned up.

And then, determined to get a few things straight before anything else unexpected happened, he made his way to Rose Hill Farm.

Until now, he had seen Rose’s seventy-five-acre property only from a distance. As he passed beneath the wrought-iron archway, he could not help but be impressed. The rolling green pastureland was surrounded by neat white fence. Stately oak trees lined the drive that led to a small white Cape Cod–style bungalow with a dark-gray roof, cranberry-red shutters and a pine door. A huge new red barn, emblazoned with the Rose Hill Farm logo, sat behind that.

Rosebushes bloomed on either side of the front walk.

Bracing himself for whatever came next, he moved up the broad stone steps leading to the house and rang the bell.

There was a struggle with the lock on the other side. Then the front door swung open. The smell of something incredibly delicious—cornbread maybe—wafted out. A tyke-size McCabe stared up at him.

“Mommy!” the preschooler bellowed at the top of his lungs. “It’s a man!” He craned his little head back as far as it would go. “And he’s real big!”

Compared to the little one, Clint felt big. Although, at six foot four, he felt that way often.

Something clattered loudly—like a dropped metal pan in the kitchen. “Stephen!” Rose called out, sounding upset. She rushed around the corner, her hands buried in a dish towel. “I told you not to answer the...” She skidded to a halt midfoyer. Swallowed, cheeks pink. “Clint.”

Aware he had never seen her—or imagined her—quite so harried, he moved his gaze over her cloud of chin-length dark-blond curls. She wore no makeup that he could see but was absolutely gorgeous just the same. She had on jeans, sneakers, a flattering peach button-up blouse and a ridiculously frilly and flowery apron over that.

He resisted the urge to tell her about the smudge of flour on one cheek. He was here on business, he reminded himself sternly. “Got a minute? I need to talk to you.”

She crumpled the dish towel in her hand. “Ah...”

Two little girls appeared at her side. “Mommy, I’m hungry!” said the first.

The other complained, “You said dinner was ready.”

Rose assured them with a smile, “It is.”

The children’s anxiety allayed, she turned back to Clint and waved him forward. “Come on in. I don’t think you’ve ever met my triplets,” she said, shutting the door behind him.

“Kids, this is Mr. McCulloch. Clint, this is Stephen.” Rose pointed to her son. Clearly all boy, with short brown hair and dark eyes, he was clad in jeans and a Longhorns football T-shirt. He was busy trying to climb up the stairs from the wrong side of the railing.

Rose plucked him off the risers and set him back on the foyer floor. A prodding lift of Rose’s brow had Stephen obediently extending his hand. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Clint noted the boy had a surprisingly strong and confident grip.

Continuing her introduction, Rose pointed to the daughter clad in a denim dress and deep purple cowgirl boots. “Scarlet.”

The little girl holding an open storybook had long, curly, strawberry-blond hair, green eyes and glasses.

Scarlet smiled at Clint sincerely. “Hello.”

Clint grinned back. “Good to meet you, Scarlet.”

“And Sophia,” Rose concluded, gently guiding the shyest of the three children forward. Clad in a ruffled skirt, matching knit shirt and ballet slippers, the little girl had long, dark-brown hair that was straight and silky, and clear blue eyes.

She shook Clint’s hand mutely.

“Nice to meet you-all,” he said.

Stephen muscled his way to the front. Unable to stand still, he put his weight on one leg, then the other, peering up at Clint curiously all the while. “We’re three and a half.” He gestured importantly at himself and his two siblings. “How old are you?”

Rose jerked in a breath and lifted a chastising palm. “That’s not a question we ask grown-ups. Not ever. Remember?”

If there was one thing Clint remembered, it was how insatiably curious he had been at the same age. “I don’t mind.” He looked back at the kids. “I’m thirty-three.”

“Mommy’s twenty-nine,” Scarlet announced.

“And a half,” Sophie said.

Rose blushed again.

Letting their gazes collide, then linger, Clint said, “Good to know.”

Looking adorably flustered, Rose whirled away from him, then made a little shooing motion with her hands. “Just let me get them seated.” Her kids darted through the hall, past the corner, and into the cozy space at the rear of the home. Comprising almost all of the first floor, it was at once kitchen, casual dining and living area. “And then—”

“Do you like mini-corndog muffins, Mr. Clint?” Stephen interrupted.

If the golden-brown confections were half as good as they smelled and looked, heck yeah.

“It’s bite-size cornbread with very small chunks of wiener tucked inside,” Rose explained. “A kid-friendly version of a corndog without the hazard of a stick in the center.”

“’Cause if you do like them,” Scarlet said, taking charge, “we can share. That’s polite, isn’t it, Mommy?”

Rose swiped a hand across her face, spreading the aforementioned flour from her cheek to her ear. “Sweetie, I don’t think we want to put Mr. Clint on the spot.”

Trying not to think how long it had been since he’d had lunch—had he stopped to have lunch?—Clint cut the reluctant hostess off with a smile, knowing it would irritate her. He owed her that. He pulled up a chair at the round oak table. “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do,” he drawled.

“You really want to have dinner. With us?” Rose clearly enunciated every word, giving him time, it seemed, to come to his senses.

He shrugged, figuring laying down the law to her could wait a little while longer. At least until he had part of his appetite sated. “Unless there’s not enough?”

* * *

ROSE COULDN’T PLEAD THAT, much as she might like to. With three kids and herself to feed, and the closest restaurant a good twenty minutes away, she always made enough to feed an army.

“Of course there is.” It was having him underfoot, looking—and smelling—so ruggedly handsome and sexy, wreaking havoc with all her senses that was the problem. A fact he seemed to know darn well, judging by the pure masculine devilry in his smile.

A tingle of awareness swept through her. Firmly ignoring it, she went back to get the rest of the serving dishes. She had promised herself she wasn’t going to ever let her sensual side rule her life again, after her ex-husband had left her and the kids. She meant it.

“What about green beans?” Stephen asked, making a face at the bowl she set in the center of the table. “And celery? Or carrots?”

“Do you like those, Mr. Clint?” Sophia asked.

“Because we don’t like any of them!” Scarlet declared.

Clint looked at Rose. She doled out two muffins per child, as well as a carrot stick, a piece of celery, and two green beans. “Slight aversion to v-e-g-e-t-a-b-l-e-s these days,” she explained.

Wasn’t that ironic, given what she did for a living.

Sophia rested her chin on her hand and stared at Clint, warming up to him with surprising quickness despite her shyness. “Yeah, we don’t like veggies.”

“So much for spelling it out,” Clint quipped.

Rose mugged at him comically. Then she brought an extra place setting for Clint. Serious once again, she told her children, “You may not remember it now, but all three of you did like veggies when you were little. And you would again if you would just try them with an open mind.”

“Nope. We won’t,” all three kids said, their heads shaking stubbornly in unison.

The doorbell rang again.

Not exactly unhappy about the reprieve—she didn’t know what it was about Clint that had her tingling all over every time she saw him—Rose lifted a hand. “I’ll get it.”

Leaving the kids and Clint to entertain each other, she rushed toward the door. And was surprised to see Miss Mim and Miss Sadie on her front porch, from the Laramie Gardens retirement-home complex.

“We heard about the berries,” Miss Mim enthused. As always, she was dressed in an outrageously colorful outfit that clashed with her flame-red hair. “Any chance we could get some tonight?”

Looking as elegant as always, Miss Sadie smiled. “We’re having an ice cream social.”

Rose grinned. “No problem. If you want to head for the barn, I’ll catch up with you.” She dashed back to the kitchen.

Clint was sitting with the kids, mischief gleaming in his eyes. Rose didn’t know what had been said, but they were all laughing as if he were the most charming guy on earth. Relieved, as well as a little peeved she had missed out on the hilarity, she asked him, “Would you mind watching them for a couple of minutes while I take care of something?”

He smiled genially, as relaxed as she was stressed. “Sure.”

She raced out, still a little stunned to find the four of them getting along so well.

The lonesome cowboy was always so grumpy and contentious around her! Who would have thought he would enjoy being around her kids?

* * *

NO SOONER HAD the front door shut behind their mother than the kids jumped down from the table. Clint watched as two of the triplets ran toward the fridge. The other disappeared into the pantry. “Whoa now,” he said, beginning to feel a little alarmed. Especially since he sensed they wouldn’t be doing whatever this was if their mother were still on the premises. “What’s going on?”

Stephen yanked open the fridge door so hard he nearly fell over. “I’m getting the ketchup.”

Sophia stuck her head out of the pantry just long enough to declare, “I want honey.”

Scarlet shoved her brother aside. “I want mustard.”

They carried their trove back to the table.

Clint got up to shut the refrigerator, then the pantry door. By the time he returned to the table, they were struggling to get the squeeze bottles open. Because Stephen was closest, Clint moved to assist him first. “Let me help you with that.”

The tyke jerked away, the bottle clutched firmly in his small hands. “I can do it!”

Clint eyed the red bottle. It seemed pretty full. “Really, I—”

Squirt.

A spray of red flew past Stephen’s plate and hit the center of the table instead.

“Ah...” A word that shouldn’t be used around children nearly slipped from Clint’s lips, but thankfully did not.

Determined to react as calmly and patiently as he was sure Rose would, Clint started to reach for the bottle. Before he could get it, Scarlet squirted the mustard with all her might, with equally messy results. Sophia was no better at dispensing the honey.

This time Clint did swear silently to himself.

Grimly he regarded the streaks of red, yellow and gold mingling on the center of the table. “Hand ’em over.” Before your mother sees this.

“No! We do it ourselves!” the trio chanted in unison, rising up on their knees and clutching their bottles even more tightly. Unfortunately, though they initially aimed down at their plates, the force they put into squeezing the bottles pushed the bottoms of the containers down, toward themselves, and the tops up—straight at him. Before he could do more than take a breath, a spray of red splashed across his nicely ironed shirt. Another messy arc of yellow followed. The plastic honey bear squirted sticky goo.

And that was, of course, the moment Rose chose to walk back in.

Clint looked at her.

But she was staring pointedly at her children.

Abruptly chastened, the triplets sat back down, evidently prepared to use perfect manners now that their mom was back.

“Really?” She put her hands on her hips and asked sternly, “Is this how we treat our guests?”

All eyes lowered. “Sorry,” the three mumbled.

Their apology accepted, Rose collected the condiment bottles and took them over to the sink. She deposited the sticky mess with a sigh. “Kids, please eat your dinner.”

Pretty chin set, she pivoted and crooked an authoritative finger at Clint. Clearly she was not about to let him off the hook anywhere near as easily.

“While you,” she said, locking eyes with him, “come with me.”