Читать книгу Counting On The Cowboy - Shannon Vannatter Taylor - Страница 14

Chapter Three

Devree drove past the ranch house and pulled into the cabin parking lot. Maybe she could do this. Once the ranch hands had removed all the dead animal heads yesterday, ideas for the cabin’s decor took shape. A mix of rustic and shabby chic. This morning, her visit to Rustick’s Log Furnishings had been productive.

Resa—store owner, neighbor and friend—had been extremely helpful. And, so Landry wouldn’t feel useless, Devree had texted her pictures of her choices. With her sister’s approval, she’d purchased a back seat full of curtains, pillows and a bedspread while the furniture would arrive next week.

Arms laden with goodies, she stepped up on the porch and reached blindly to insert the key into the lock. But the door opened.

Brock. “Here, let me help you.” He tugged the bags out of her hands.

“Thanks.” Why did his accidental touch send a shiver through her? Even after he’d called her typical just yesterday.

“You’ve been busy. Me too. I caulked all the plumbing and popped all the trim to seal the joints. Where do you want this stuff?”

“On the couch. New furniture will arrive next week. Will it be in your way?”

“I should be done with the messy stuff by then.” He stashed the bags, then grabbed a putty knife, scraped a spot on the log wall and wiped the area with a cloth. “What about the old furniture?”

“Chase is sending ranch hands. Most of it will go in his man cave at the new house. What doesn’t will go to charities. Will you be doing any work in the bedroom or bathroom? I thought I’d put curtains up in there.”

“Go for it. Need a screwdriver?”

Why did he have to be so helpful? And appealing? “Come to think of it...”

“Have you ever hung curtains?”

“Hello? I have my own apartment.”

“Just offering my help. And a step stool.”

“That might be useful.”

He picked up a small stool from the corner, dug around in his toolbox. “Flat or Phillips?”

“Phillips.”

“You know your way around a screwdriver.” He handed it to her.

“I have a dad, you know.” When she saw his gaze drop, she wished she could take that back. She hadn’t meant to hurt him; it had just slipped out. “Thanks.” She grabbed the bag, hoofed it to the bedroom.

Brock followed, carrying the stool. “Sure you don’t need any help?”

“I’ve got this.” She turned to take the stool from him. Something scampered across her sandaled foot. She screamed, dropped the screwdriver and the stool.

“What?”

But she was too busy clambering onto the bed. Safely off the floor, she stood in the middle, scanning for movement.

“What?” His tone exasperated.

“I think—” she did a whole body shudder followed by a heebie-jeebies dance “—a mouse just ran across my foot.”

“Okay.” He reached for her hand. “Just calm down. Sit and relax before you fall off there and break your neck.”

“I’d really like to get out of here.” She gingerly sat down in the center of the bed, keeping her eyes on the edges, half expecting a mouse to come climbing up the bed skirt.

“Maybe that’s best.” He gestured toward the door.

“I’m afraid to put my feet on the floor.” She squeezed her eyes closed. Great. She’d just proven every city girl notion he had about her to be true.

“Do I need to carry you?”

Her eyes popped open, surveyed him for a moment. Feet on the floor with the mice? Or carried out by the handsome cowboy she barely knew? Which was worse? Definitely rodents. With a slow nod, she scooted toward him.

He scooped her up.

With no choice, she put her arms around his neck, tried not to cling too tight.

As he stepped out on the porch, an elderly couple hand in hand rounded the walking trail thirty feet away.

“Look, Henry, newlyweds.”

“In my day, you carried her inside, young man.” The man frowned. “Not out.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

As her cheeks flamed, she felt the deep rumble of Brock’s laughter. “You can put me down now.”

He bent to lower her. “You know it was probably the same mouse you let go yesterday.”

“Not funny.” She smacked him on the shoulder.

“That little dance you did sure was.” When she didn’t smile, he sobered. “Once we get the furniture out, it’ll be easier to get this place mouse-free with fewer places for them to hide.”

“I’ll be back post-evacuation.” She headed for the ranch house.

“Watch out for flying monkeys.” His chuckle echoed across the field.

What she really needed to watch out for was Brock.

He’d carried her out as if she weighed nothing. His strength had felt too comforting. Too safe.

And she knew from experience, the least safe place she could be was close to a man.

* * *

With a thousand things on his mind, Brock had awakened early. He strolled toward the fishing cabin with only birdsong and horse whinnies to greet him.

Past the cabin, he could see the chapel in the distance. The wood on the exterior was grayed with age. One of the hands told him it had come from an ancient barn a windstorm had toppled on the property a few months back. With a high peak in the middle and slanted roof on each side, the structure was a cross between a rustic chapel and a barn. Church always soothed him, no matter what was going on. He looked forward to attending services there.

But for now, he needed to focus. Maybe he could get some work done before Devree showed up to distract him. Two full days of working with her and he felt as if he’d barely gotten anything done. At least she’d held up her end of the bargain. She hadn’t tried to talk about his mother anymore.

And his mother had been true to her word. She’d steered clear of him. If they’d both just stick to their promises, he could stay. Help his old friend out, finish the cabins, get Chase moved into his new house. But it would never work. He’d run into her eventually. A new handyman was the only solution. Though Chase hadn’t gotten any more applicants. Yet.

“You’re stirring early.” Devree’s voice.

His feet stalled as he glanced around.

Over by the goat enclosures. Her foot propped on the bottom rail of the fence.

“I could say the same thing.” He counted the goats—all eleven of them. Right where they were supposed to be—males in one pen, females in the other.

“Who could sleep around here with that stupid rooster on duty?”

“Aw, come on. Rusty’s just doing his job. And a fine one at that.” Just as he’d tagged her—classic city girl through and through. Even if she didn’t want to admit it.

“I’m gonna buy him a muzzle.”

The image made him chuckle. “I don’t think that works on a rooster. I take it you’re not a morning person?”

“I’m fine with morning. But this is the wee hours in my book.” The sunlight picked out honeyed strands amidst her cinnamon hair.

“It’s daylight.” He tore his gaze away, checked his watch. Six thirty-eight to be exact.

“Yes. But it wasn’t when he started up.”

A goat clambered to the top of the play station, nudged the current resident out of his way. “So that first day, I’d have never taken you for a goat lover.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you standing here watching them instead of holding your nose and running the other way?”

She laughed a little at that. “I’ve been here long enough my sinuses are burned out and no longer detect farm animal smells. And goats are kind of fun. It’s like they’re playing king of the mountain. I want to see who wins.”

“Knock yourself out.” He tipped his hat, continued on to the cabin. Typical, but with a few surprises.

“I’ll be there once you get it all evacuated.”

He hurried down the path, eager to escape the scent of her apple shampoo. A scent that he was starting to recognize as uniquely hers. Just one more reason Chase needed to find another handyman and Brock needed to go on down the road.

As he stepped up onto the porch of the fishing cabin, a thud sounded at the back. Not Devree. Maybe the ranch hands were moving the old furniture out today.

He turned the knob, but it was still locked. He inserted the key, clicked the latch, opened the door. Just inside, a tightly woven wire cage with the grid open, a dozen mice still inside. “Huh?”

It was a live trap for larger animals, not the kind he’d bought. And besides, he’d put his traps in the bedroom and kitchen. He shut the wire grid, keeping the rodents locked inside, hurried toward the kitchen.

The window in the top of the live trap he’d set revealed it was empty, the release open. The back door stood ajar. He hurried out, looked around. Caught a glimpse of a man wearing a baseball cap a hundred yards away.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

The man bolted for the woods.

Brock shot after him, down the trail, past the barn and into the pine thicket behind it.

The runner stayed off the trail. Briars clawed at Brock’s jeans. Some jabbed into tender flesh. The trees and undergrowth were so dense he couldn’t see the guy anymore, just followed the sound of his escape. Prayed he didn’t blindly step on a rattler.

A branch swatted him in the face. Eyes tearing up, he couldn’t see a thing. Still, he was caught off guard when he stepped in a hole, his knee buckling, and he went down. He jumped up quick, but it was quiet as he peered into the dense sea of green. Nothing, as he stood there and listened for several minutes.

Why would the man put mice in the cabin? He headed back toward the structure. It explained the constant infestation. And brought up a whole host of new questions.

* * *

Devree kept her eyes on the ground. Aware that snakes slithered in the cool of the morning and evening this time of year, she stayed on the path to the fishing cabin.

The rooster crowed again, close by. Surely, the guests hated him as much as she did.

“I’m up already,” she growled. “Can’t you just sleep in sometimes?”

A flash of red to her left. The rooster running at her.

She bolted for the fishing cabin, snakes forgotten, but the rooster cut her off. A flap of amber-colored wings, blue-and-green tail feathers, spurs aimed at her as he lunged/flew in her direction. She dodged, bit her tongue to keep from screaming. No waking Chase again or alerting Brock to come to her rescue. She scrambled around Rusty. He crowed in hot pursuit. Okay, maybe she wouldn’t mind if Brock showed up about now.

“You stupid bird, leave me alone.” She made it to the cabin porch, grabbed a broom, spun and jabbed it at the rooster.

He paced back and forth, looking cocky, crowed again, then turned and headed up the path back to the barn.

“Take that, you stupid rooster.” But as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t just leave him loose to attack guests. She followed at a distance. Not a ranch hand in sight to help her.

Instead of going to his coop, the rooster stopped near the goat pen, pecked at the ground. Though she’d never been inside the barn, if she could find some feed, maybe she could lure the foul fowl back into his lair.

At least he was the only one out. She rounded the goat pen, found a bucket near the chicken coop with seeds in it, opened the wire door of the pen, and jogged back to the huge bird. But not too close.

“Look what I got, big fella.”

The rooster cocked his head, strutted in her direction. Faster than she was comfortable with, but she still had the broom. She backed all the way to the pen, then threw the bucket inside. Thankfully, the rooster went in and she fastened the door in place.

She blew out a big breath, closed her eyes, leaned her forehead on the hand that was still holding the broom.

A noise behind her. She jabbed the broom as she spun around.

And almost gouged Brock in the chest.

His arms went up in a defensive stance. “I never would have pegged you for having such impressive rooster wrangling skills.”

She dropped the broom, covered her face with her hands. “Sorry. I thought Rusty had a friend.”

“I doubt he has any with that attitude. Whoa! Get back in there.” Brock scooped up the broom, darted around her. “No wonder he got out, there’s a hole in the pen.”

By the time she turned around, Brock had the broom clamped over the hole. The rooster flapped his wings and crowed, but at least he wasn’t going anywhere.

“That’s weird.” Brock knelt, inspected the wire.

“What?”

“It’s been cut. With wire cutters.” He ran his fingers along the slit. “See how it’s crimped—dull wire cutters do that.”

“Why would someone cut the wire?”

“I have no idea. But probably for the same reason they’d bring a live trap full of mice to the cabin.”

“Huh?” She shuddered. “Someone opened the trap you set?”

He told her about the extra trap and chasing the man he’d dubbed Ball-Cap into the woods.

“He broke in?” Her voice cracked. “Do you know who he was?”

“I couldn’t get a good look. He was too far away. But I don’t know many folks around here, anyway.”

“So someone’s been bringing mice to the fishing cabin. And they cut the wire, so the rooster would get out. Why would anyone do that?”

“I’m not sure. But once I get this wire fixed, we need to tell Chase. Can you hold the broom while I find something to repair the hole?”

“Sure.” She took the broom from him. As soon as he stepped away, the rooster flapped at the hole. But she kept him at bay.

Brock hurried back with a spool of wire and cutters. He threaded the wire to make a seam across the hole, with the rooster flogging the broom through the whole procedure. By the time the repair was finished, she was shaking.

“That should keep him.” He raised up, took the broom from her. “Hey.” His hands settled on her shoulders. “You okay?”

“I just don’t know who would want to hurt Landry and Chase. She can’t handle this.”

“We won’t tell her. But Chase has to know someone has it out for this place. Maybe he’ll know who we’re dealing with. Or it could be teenagers playing pranks. Whoever it is, we’ll get to the bottom of it. And it’ll be okay.” He squeezed her hand.

Gentle, calloused palm. Soothing, comforting. And suddenly, the effect the cowboy’s touch had on her was much more worrisome than dude ranch hijinks.