Читать книгу At The Rancher's Bidding - Charlotte Maclay - Страница 12

After dinner—such as it was—Cord went into the ranch office with Brianna to check on the quarterly reports she’d finished. He sat down behind the big oak desk that used to be his father’s and tipped back in the swivel chair, making the springs creak. He picked up the forms.

“How’d we do this quarter?”

“After culling the herd, the cash flow looks good. I’d say there’s no reason you can’t reinvest some of the funds in new breeding stock.” In the past year, since she’d moved to the Flying Ace, Brianna had begun to show more confidence in her predictions.

“Good. Glad to hear that.” He flipped through the pages, grateful for her help. Paperwork had always been a drudgery for Cord. “I’ll probably take a trip into Austin early next week for the stock sale.”

“Would you like me to print out the catalog of offerings? It’s on the Internet.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” He handed her back the report and watched as she took her seat at her desk across the room from his. “So what do you think of our new housekeeper?”

“I think if she’s been doing the cooking back in Munir, the sheikh was less than generous to make you a gift of her.”

Cord muttered his agreement, feeling a smile tug at his lips.

“You’ll need to be patient with her,” Brianna warned. “She doesn’t appear to be a very experienced housekeeper.”

“Yeah, I know. But I doubt she’ll want to hang around long.”

Brianna shot him a quick smile, then turned to her computer. “I don’t know, big brother. She may surprise you. And you’ll have to give her points for dinner. She certainly had your attention.”

Cord wasn’t ready to admit anything of the sort, sure as hell not to his little sister.

“I also think if you want to pay her, we’ll have to pay her under the table.”

“How’s that?”

Brianna glanced over her shoulder. “No green card, Cord. My guess is her visa is temporary and doesn’t allow for employment.”

“We’ll work out something.” Frowning thoughtfully, he picked up a copy of the Cattlemen magazine from his desk and thumbed through the pages. But his heart wasn’t in the nutrient levels of various grasslands around the country. Instead he kept wondering what Leila was up to.

The catalog Brianna printed out before she went to her room didn’t hold his interest, either, and it should have. Picking the right bull at the right price with all the right attributes was what made his breeding program a success.

But at the moment he couldn’t seem to concentrate on the expected progeny differences of the bulls that would be on sale.

Yawning, he finally decided to call it quits for the night. He’d check the catalog tomorrow or the next day when he was more alert—and not so distracted by thoughts of his new housekeeper.

The lights were still on in the kitchen. When he went to switch them off, he noticed a movement outside in the halo of the barn light. Frowning, he wondered who or what would be out and about at this hour. Ranchers hit the sack early. He and his ranch hands were no exception.

He stepped outside and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The air had cooled considerably from the daytime high in the nineties, but it still held the moisture so common during the summer months in Texas. The call of crickets filled the air along with the soft sound of horses and cattle settling down for the night. Not a breath of wind stirred.

There was a stream of something else in the still air, however, not just the animal smells he’d grown up with on the ranch. A tropical scent like jasmine. He followed it toward the barn.

The door moaned in protest as he opened it. Across the way, he saw the shadow of a slender woman slip into a vacant horse stall. He should have known she’d be back to check on the cat.

“Couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

She screamed. Whatever she’d been carrying flew up in the air and conked him on the forehead. Cool liquid ran down his face, and he licked his lips. Milk.

“Easy, princess, it’s me. Cord.”

“I am not a princess. I am your housekeeper. And you nearly scared the life out of me. What in the name of Constantine are you doing following me?”

“Trying to figure out who’s sneaking around my barn.”

“Well!” she huffed. “You frightened Mittens, too. And now I don’t have any milk for her.”

“Mittens?”

“The kitten. Her little paws are pure white. It is a good name.”

It was, assuming you wanted to name the offspring of a feral cat that came and went as it pleased. “Its mother—”

“Has not returned.” In the shadows, Leila bent, picking up a handful of fur. “I am going to feed Mittens, unless you refuse to allow me the privilege.”

“Be my guest.” He could only hope the immigration rules in Munir allowed for the admission of cats from the States without months of quarantine when Leila returned home.

“Thank you. You are most kind.”

Imperiously, with the kitten cuddled against her chest, she swept past him, and he grinned. Suddenly he wondered if Brianna was right. Sheikh Rafe might have been well rid of his household servant, the runaway horse rescue only an excuse to ship her off to someone else for a few weeks.

Unexpected sympathy tugged at his conscience. Here was a young woman who’d been virtually torn from her homeland, landing in a situation totally foreign to her, and her biggest concern was for a six-week-old kitten abandoned by its mother. Perhaps there was more depth to Leila than he had imagined.

That arrogant tilt of her head that was so intriguing—and equally annoying—could well be her way to disguise her fears.

ALLIE SLIPPED BETWEEN the sheets in her bedroom, but she suspected sleep would elude her for some hours, and it would not be entirely the fault of the kitten, who was so fascinated by her toes, pouncing on them.

Through the open window she heard the night sounds of the ranch. A horse moving in its stall. Crickets chirping. And in the distance, the occasional lowing of a cow. Pleasant, restful sounds, if only she could relax.

She had thought no one had seen her enter the barn, and Cord had nearly frightened her to death. He was so tall, as much a giant as the guards who protected the palace in Munir, and so broad shouldered, he’d given her quite a start. But his voice, a rich baritone, had a far different effect on her than any palace guard. One she hadn’t previously experienced. Her heart had taken off like a drummer in the palace marching band. Her breath had grown as shallow as an aging woman about to faint in the heat of midday.

Allie sighed and tried to snare Mittens, who was determined to burrow under the sheet and find her way to Allie’s bare feet, where her tiny teeth could gnaw at will. A few laps of milk in the kitchen had turned the kitten into a frisky pest.

“Behave yourself, Mittens,” she admonished, not quite able to keep the smile from her voice.

Whatever was she going to do about Cord? She had so little experience with men that she had no idea how she should act around him. Particularly since she was supposed to be his servant. Humph! If the truth were known, she was his match at every level.

Except in the kitchen. Which was an entirely different matter.

She curled onto her side, and Mittens found a nest on top of the sheets behind her crooked knees. She heard little licking sounds as the kitten bathed herself, and finally, silence.

At last Allie’s eyelids grew heavy and she slept, only to be rudely awakened by an irritating rapping on her door. Mittens flew off the bed as though she had been launched.

“What!” Allie exclaimed.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead. It’s past time to be up and at ’em.”

Blurry-eyed, she peered out the window. “The sun is barely up.” She never rose at this hour. The servants did, of course, to prepare her morning meal, but she had no intention of—

“Come on, get yourself some breakfast and let’s get going if you want to do some shopping in Bridle,” Cord said.

Shopping. Now that was a task for which she had a great deal of experience.

She hopped out of bed, grabbed her wrapper and opened the door a crack. “Would you mind bringing me a cup of coffee to sip while I prepare myself for shopping?”

Looking mystified by her request, he leaned a hand on the doorjamb. “Maybe I better clear up something here. In this country, the housekeeper fixes coffee and brings a mug to the boss, not the other way around.”

“Oh. Well, if such a simple request is too difficult for you to perform, then I shall get my own coffee.” Pulling her wrapper modestly around her, she flounced past him. Surely he didn’t expect her to do any work before she had consumed her first cup of coffee.

Cord’s jaw went slack, while other parts of his anatomy got an early wake-up call. Sleepy eyed and wearing her hair in a thick braid that hung halfway down her back, Leila was resplendent in an ornate, royal-blue silk gown embroidered in gold and red swirls. Barefooted, so he could see her delicate ankles and arched insteps, she padded from her doorway across the width of the kitchen floor to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup.

Cord didn’t know quite what he wanted to do first—slip off Leila’s gown and take her back to her bed, where he could explore her slender body, starting with her sexy, shocking-red toenails, or read her the riot act for not behaving like any servant he’d ever met.

Before he could decide, the kitten pounced on his leg, burying her claws in his calf. “Hey, cut that out!”

Coffee mug in hand, Leila sailed by him, snatching the kitten from his leg. “Please do not speak so curtly to Mittens. You will hurt her feelings.” Stepping into her room, she closed the door behind her.

Cord opted not to bang his head against the thick adobe wall. It wouldn’t do any good. And he sure as hell was likely to hurt himself—or the wall.

But maybe he could bribe Sheikh Rafe with a couple hundred acres of Texas grassland to take Leila back.

The woman acted nothing like the meek servant who had gotten into his truck yesterday at the Desert Rose with the sheikh watching her. The moment they’d been out of sight of the Coleman’s place, her subservient mask had slipped.

It made him wonder what game she was playing—and if he was the one being taken for a ride.

THE TOWN OF BRIDLE was little larger than a village in Munir, although Allie conceded the surrounding farmland was more lush and interesting than the date trees and oil derricks of her desert country. While seeking to purchase stock from the Desert Rose, her brother had insisted they stay as close to the horse ranch as they could. The accommodations they found at the Bridle Motel had been barely adequate for their needs.

Allie wondered if the shopping facilities, which she had not had an opportunity to visit, would be any better. Given the small size of the town and the cracked sidewalks, she would have preferred to shop in Austin. Or better yet, in Dallas.

Still, Bridle was quaintly American and right out of the Old West as she’d seen it on television.

Driving with his elbow on the truck’s windowsill, Cord asked, “What do you want to do first? Get the forms at the post office or go shopping?”

She smiled at him. “Shopping is always a priority with me.”

“Somehow I thought that might be true.” He angled the pickup into a spot in front of a Western clothing store. “What kind of duds are you looking to buy?”

“Duds?”

“Clothes. Not ball gowns, I trust.”

“Oh, no, I wish to wear clothes like those your sister wears. American jeans. A cowboy hat. Boots. That is what women wear here.” Even out in public, she thought in amazement. Although some of her countrywomen wore such things in the privacy of their own homes, she had never had that luxury. She had her position to think of, an image to maintain even among the servants. But now she was free to choose clothes on her own. Temporarily.

“So you’re going whole-hog Western style, huh?”

“Have you heard the expression, when in Rome—”

“I have.”

“Then surely it applies in the same way when in Texas.”

“I believe it does, Leila.” His amused smile sent her heart fluttering. “I believe it does.”

Once inside the store, Cord hung back while Leila circled the merchandise like a pack of coyotes picking out a weak heifer to attack. She fingered jeans and shirts, tried on hats, examined leather boots, looking as though at any moment she was going to close in for the kill.

Sherianne Wilcox, a teenager from one of the nearby farms who worked part-time at the store, walked over to Cord.

“Can I help you find something, Mr. Brannigan?”

“Nope. I’m just waiting for the young lady to make up her mind.”

The teenager glanced toward Leila. “She’s real pretty.”

“That she is.” Leila had whipped her long hair into a knot that rested at her nape, a target a man would aim for with a kiss. And then he’d untie that knot, letting her hair stream through his fingers.

“Is she your girlfriend?”

He jolted at Sherianne’s question, yanking his attention back to the youngster. “Nope. Housekeeper.”

The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, her smile revealing a shiny set of braces. “Well, she’s sure lots purdier than Maria is.”

Despite the air-conditioning, heat raced up Cord’s neck. “I’ll just go see how she’s coming along.”

He jammed his hands in his pockets and strolled to the back of the store. By now, Leila had gathered an armload of clothes and had a totally impractical white Stetson perched on her head.

“You about done here?” he asked.

“I need to try these on to see if they fit. Then I will be ready to go with you.”

“Okay, but I’ve got to get back to the ranch sometime this year. Can you move it along a little faster?”

She did that funny toss of her head thing, suggesting she’d do as she pleased, then vanished into a dressing room.

Little wonder men didn’t like to go shopping with women. When he needed a pair of jeans, he came into the store, picked out a pair of 32-34s, paid for ’em and was done with it. Leila was making a damn career out of this shopping trip.

He checked his watch, then paced around the store. Obviously her view of shopping—and his view of work—were in direct conflict.

“What do you think, Cord?”

He turned and got what amounted to a visual punch in the solar plexus. Standing in front of the arched doorway to the dressing room, she took his breath away. Like a fashion model, she pirouetted in a full circle so he could get a good look. She’d picked out a tank top that bared her arms and dipped low toward her delicate breasts, then tucked in at her narrow waist. Her jeans were as snug as tights, molding to her attractive rear end like a man’s hand. The expensive leather boots made her legs look like they went on forever.

He cleared his throat. “Great. You look like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.”

“This cheerleader business is good?”

“Very good.” For her. Or the football team. Very bad for Cord, if he had any hope of keeping his hands to himself and his head on straight. “So, you’re ready to go, huh?”

“Oh, no. I have many more outfits to try on.”

He rolled his eyes. Thank goodness his men were more than capable of separating the calves from their mothers in order to wean them. At the rate Leila was going, they wouldn’t get back to the ranch until past dinnertime.

Allie made her selections, and with her arms full of clothes, stepped out of the dressing room. Cord ushered her to the cash register with ill-disguised impatience. He really needed to develop more regard for a woman’s need to dress appropriately, whatever her role in life. Even a servant wanted to look nice.

She placed the clothing and boots on the counter, topping the pile with her bright new Western hat.

“Will that be cash or credit card?” the young woman asked.

Allie stared at her blankly for a moment. Dear heaven! She’d left her Visa card at the ranch, but even if she’d brought it along she wouldn’t have been able to use it, not if she had to sign her real name—Aliah Bahram. And she certainly didn’t carry enough cash with her to pay for all of this. In Munir, she purchased whatever caught her eye. Either a servant paid for it or the merchant sent the bill to the palace—for Rafe to grumble over and eventually pay.

Sensing her dilemma, Cord stepped up to the cash register. “Charge it to the Flying Ace account. They’re sort of her work clothes.” He gestured vaguely to the mountain of clothes on the counter. If nothing else, it seemed as if the only way he’d get back to the Flying Ace in this century would be to pay for the goods himself.

Leila wasn’t a woman who could be easily denied anything she wanted. He didn’t have the time or inclination to argue with her.

A few minutes later, feeling like a pack mule, he carried a half-dozen sacks out to the truck, squeezing them behind the seat.

“Do you want to get the forms from the post office now?” he ask.

“I think I am too weary to deal with so many details right now. Perhaps another day.”

Right. He was happy to put off that ordeal, too. “How ’bout lunch before we head home?”

She brightened. “Yes, that would be nice. If I don’t have to prepare the meal,” she qualified.

“My treat.” His finances had already taken a big whack. A few more bucks at the local diner wouldn’t hurt him, and maybe the delighted smile she gave him was worth it.

Man, he was losing it. Big time.

By the time he’d consumed half of his burger and fries—and Leila had daintily eaten about a quarter of a Cobb salad—Cord asked, “How is it your accent sounds British?”

“It does?” Looking surprised, she stabbed a bite of ham with her fork and chewed thoughtfully. “I suppose it is because my tutor was from England.”

Taking another bite of burger, he studied her a minute. “You mean your sheikh boss hires tutors for his servants?”

Her head snapped up. “Oh, no, not that. I meant, my mistress’s tutor was from England. I was permitted to sit in on her lessons.”

“Ah, I see.” Something about the flare of color on her cheeks suggested she wasn’t telling the entire truth, though he couldn’t figure out why she’d lie. “Guess we Texans sound different to you.”

“Not unpleasantly so.” She smiled again, and he lost track of what he’d been puzzling over a minute ago.

Not that it mattered. According to Brianna, with only a tourist visa Leila would have to go home soon. That was fine by Cord. He wasn’t sure how much more strain the fly of his jeans could take.

ALLIE STEPPED BACK from her closet to admire her newly purchased wardrobe, which she’d hung with great delight. Studying the array of jeans and tank tops, cotton blouses and denim skirts, she gnawed on her lower lip. She’d spent extravagantly for clothing her betrothed husband would never approve of her wearing. Her throat tightened at that reality. She had so little time to enjoy her liberty before being forced back into the role demanded of a princess.

The kitten wove her way between Allie’s feet, meowing.

Allie scooped her up. “What is it, my precious Mittens? Are you hungry?” Fortunately, she had thought to have Cord stop at the grocery store in Bridle to buy cat food on their way home. He’d also wisely purchased a precooked roasted chicken for their evening meal.

She carried Mittens into the kitchen, found a dish and opened the box of cat food.

Coming through the open window, the racket of ranch operations seemed inordinately loud. Cows were bawling and carrying on as though they were in great distress.

Allie looked up from pouring the cat food when Cord walked into the room, hooking his Stetson on a peg near the doorway.

“Why are the cows so upset?” she asked.

“It’s weaning time. It takes a couple of days for the heifers’ milk to dry up, and they miss their calves. Same thing for the calves.”

“You have separated the mothers and their babies?” she gasped.

“Have to. Most of the heifers are pregnant again and they need their strength for their next calf.”

“But that is so cruel.” Allie remembered the night following her mother’s death. She had thought her own heart would break. While visiting some of the poorer villages in Munir, hoping to improve the conditions in which her people lived, Allie’s mother had contracted a dreadful disease. Day by day she had wasted away, the doctors unable to help. And then she had simply stopped breathing. Allie had wanted to die, too.

“Leila.” He shoved his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “This is a working ranch, not a zoo or a pet farm. We raise animals that are turned into steaks and short ribs and rump roasts, and we do it as efficiently as we can. The calves are old enough to graze on their own and their mothers do better this way.”

He left her standing in the kitchen puzzling over his words. From the sound the cows were making, Allie did not believe Cord that all was as it should be. And when she stepped outside, she knew she was right. From the porch she could see the first pasture where calves were lined up on one side of the fence, cows on the other, desperately trying to get to each other.

Tears blurred her vision as memories of her mother swept over her, memories of loss. “Poor babies. I wish I could help you.”

BY EVENING, the racket had increased in volume. Neither Cord nor Brianna seemed disturbed by the noise. But it set Allie’s teeth on edge and gave her a dreadful headache.

In bed, she covered her ears with a pillow. Nothing blocked out the noise—or the image of herself as a five-year-old child, sobbing uncontrollably with no one to hold her, to tell her all would be well.

At her mother’s funeral, Allie’s father and brother had been clear-eyed and strong. They’d told her she must be, too. But she could not help herself. She’d failed, shaming her family, and was sent to the women’s quarters alone.

So alone…

Gasping for air, she sat up. Sweat edged down her neck and between her breasts. She could not endure the racket, the pain of those poor animals.

Tugging on jeans and her new boots, she hurried out into the darkness of night. No one had been there to console her when she had needed it. The least she could do was help these poor helpless animals.

No matter what Cord had said.