Gift of Fortune (4 page)

Joy welled up in his chest. Looking at the sky, he
laughed softly, gratefully, and just a tad triumphantly. For
once, fortune had dealt him a winning hand. Then his customary skepticism took over. It hadn't been fate or fortune
that had been good to him, but the guilty conscience of a
man.

Why couldn't Jack Bolton have had an attack of conscience a heck of a lot sooner? Say fourteen years ago when
Quint's mother died? He sure could have used a helping
hand then. Water over the dam. Quint shrugged philosophically, dismissing old regrets. Life had taught him not to
look back or cry over spilled milk.

With determined steps he walked toward the outbuildings, which, to him, represented the heart of the ranch.
Time to look around, assess his inheritance, and decide
what needed to be done first.

He checked on Sweepstake. The stallion whinnied at
Quint's approach. "Hey, old boy, how are you?" Quint ran
his hand under the stallion's thick mane and stroked him.
"I think you're going to like it here. Wait till you see the
classy, good-looking mares on this ranch. And the classy
lady that owns half of it." Quint winked at his horse and
left the stable.

Fifteen minutes later he stopped in the middle of the
yard, looking thoughtful and slightly puzzled. All around
him were signs that indicated the ranch hadn't been taken
care of as it should have been. After a long winter, all
barbed-wire fences needed mending. He understood that, having spent a good part of his life mending fences in a
three-state radius. But on the Triangle B, even the whitepainted fences around the house looked like they hadn't
seen a fresh coat of paint in recent time.

The barn doors squeaked, needing to be oiled. The gate
to the nearest corral was held together with a rope. The
tack room was filled with saddles, halters, and ropes needing cleaning, polishing, or some sort of repair. If he'd ever
had any illusions that as half owner of the Triangle B he
wouldn't have to work hard, they had just gone up in
smoke.

What puzzled him most, though, was the absence of a
bunk-house. Where did the hands live? A ranch this size
couldn't be worked only or even primarily by the owner
and the elderly foreman he had met. Looking around, Quint
wondered where he would sleep. Briefly he considered the
tack room. But it was unheated, and in early March it was
still too cold to sleep there. He didn't mind pitching his
tent and had often done so, but not when the night temperatures still dipped below freezing.

Shivering, he stared at the house. It certainly appeared
to be large enough to have several bedrooms. Convincing
that freckle-faced, understatedly sexy schoolmarm that he
should occupy one was another matter. Except he owned
half the house and had every right to demand a bedroom.
He didn't have a choice really, and neither did Aileen.

Making her buy that should be interesting, to say the
least. Quint suspected that his teasing banter and line of
compliments that usually worked on women wouldn't
charm Aileen. She had a way of fixing those lovely blue
eyes on a guy that was guaranteed to freeze him in his
tracks-if he was a high school student, that is. Since Quint
was a decade beyond that stage with the experience to
prove it, that schoolmarm trick wouldn't work on him. With a grin he grabbed his bedroll and his duffel bag and
headed for the house.

Inside, he dropped his things in the hall and proceeded
to the kitchen. Aileen looked at him from the sink where
she was rinsing lettuce.

"Can I help you?" Quint asked.

"Is that a polite offer which you hope I'll turn down?"

"Nope. I'm not into polite offers, so don't expect any. I
told you I'm handy in the kitchen. Besides, most of my life
I was in a position where, if I wanted to eat, I had to work
for it."

"In that case, you can tear the lettuce into bite-sized
pieces. Wash your hands first, please."

"Yes, ma'am." He observed her freckled skin turning
pink.

"Sorry, that came out like an order rather than a request,"
Aileen said.

"Must be a professional hazard. As I recall from my
school years, teachers sounded more like they were giving
orders than making requests."

"Even if I would rather be amiable with students, it's
better to be a bit of a drill sergeant. Then they won't try
to get away with quite so much," she admitted with a slight
smile.

"I'd call that being a little devious."

"And I call it wanting to survive. There's only one of
me and a lot of them."

Quint paused to look at her. "You're right. I had never
thought of it like that." He dumped the lettuce into the salad
bowl. "Anything else you want me to add?"

"Whatever you find in the crisper. There are no tomatoes.
This time of year, the ones in the store are so anemic looking and tasteless, not to mention expensive, that I can't
bring myself to buy them."

Aileen's reference to something being expensive caught
Quint's attention. He watched her face, wondering if she
was just frugal or if the ranch was in financial trouble. The
signs of neglect could be due to lack of money as easily
as to lack of manpower. The Cheyenne attorney hadn't had
any information on the financial status of the Triangle B.
He would have to find that out from the bank.

Quint watched Aileen move competently between the
stove and the table. If she had money trouble, it didn't
show, and he knew all the signs of that particular problem.
Fascinated, he observed the play of light on her hair. Sometimes it was more red than gold. Idly he wondered what
color she called those bright tresses she had tried to tame
with combs. He had never found freckled skin appealinguntil now. What rotten timing.

For the first time in his life he had a chance to make
something of himself, to become respected. He couldn't
blow that by becoming involved with this woman. She was
his partner. Anything beyond that might interfere with the
smooth running of the ranch, might ruin everything. He
couldn't risk that.

"What would you like to drink?" Aileen asked. "There's
milk, juice, soft drinks, and coffee. After Dad wasn't allowed to drink alcohol, we stopped keeping liquor in the
house."

"That's no problem. A glass of milk will be fine."

Aileen filled two glasses and brought them to the table.
"We're ready to eat."

They passed the bowls politely and ate quickly.

When they finished, Quint said, "That was a good meal.
Thank you. I'll dry if you'll wash. You can tell me where
the dishes go. That way I'll get to know where you keep
everything. Okay?"

Aileen agreed.

"Some evenings if you're late, I can start dinner. I can't
promise to do that often because I notice that quite a few
things around here need fixing."

"I know that, but-"

"Hey, don't get defensive. I was just making an observation."

Aileen filled the sink with water. "The man who fixed
things around here got married and moved into town. Dad
didn't feel up to doing much this past year-and-a-half, and
Bob and the hands had more than enough work taking care
of the cattle and the horses."

"And you taught school. Did that include summers?"

"No. Those I spent getting my master's degree. There's
a considerable jump in salary if you have an advanced degree. It took me three summers, but I finished last August.
Hallelujah."

"Congratulations. You prefer teaching to working on the
ranch?"

"I don't really know. I was never allowed to work on
the ranch. Dad thought that a woman's work was in the
house and in the garden." She washed and rinsed the plates
before she continued. "I guess it turned out for the best that
I went to college and then started to teach."

"Oh yeah? How so?"

"Health insurance. I was able to include Dad on my policy and that saved us when he got sick. The bills were
positively ruinous."

Those medical bills might explain some of the neglect
on the ranch.

"Last fall I meant to paint the fences around the house,
but Dad's illness got a lot worse. He needed more chemo
treatments, and I just didn't get around to the chores.
Frankly, it didn't seem all that important then."

"Death has a way of putting things in perspective," Quint
said.

She looked at him, surprised. Next to the surprise, he
fancied he saw a little respect in her eyes. Had she thought
he was a complete jerk, too dumb, superficial, or incapable
of giving death a second thought?

Aileen broke eye contact. "The plates go on the middle
shelf in the last cupboard."

"Okay." By the time the dishes were done, Quint was
familiar with the layout of the kitchen. He knew he ought
to bring up the question of the sleeping arrangements, but
something held him back. The kitchen was warm, peaceful,
and homey. A man could get used to this. When he recognized that feeling of longing for a home that crept up on
him in unguarded moments, he chastised himself. A man
could get soft and careless, and the soft and careless of this
world didn't survive. He knew that.

The telephone rang. Saved by the bell.

Aileen picked up the receiver and spoke with someone
named Steve. A student? A colleague? A boyfriend? From
her tone he surmised that it wasn't a student, but he
couldn't decide if it was another teacher or a boyfriend.
Whoever the guy was, Aileen seemed to be on good terms
with him. Quint didn't entirely like that.

"That was Steve Sanders," Aileen said after she hung up.
"He's a history teacher at my school."

"One of your colleagues who went to D.C. with you last
week?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Something you said about the trip. Do you date him?"

"No. He was involved with someone until recently.
We're on several committees together. Lincoln isn't that
big a school. You get to know everyone." Dismayed,
Aileen wondered why she was explaining this to Quint. It wasn't any of his business whom she dated. "Do you want
more coffee?"

"No, thanks." She was changing the subject. Quint wondered if she wanted to date this Steve Sanders, now that
the man was available. He watched her pour the coffee
down the sink. With her back to him, he couldn't gauge
her expression. The overhead light turned her hair into a
golden fire.

"Tell me, what do you call the color of your hair?"

Aileen swiveled around to look at him. "Pardon?"

"Your hair. What color do you call it?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Red-blond, I suppose.
Some describe it as strawberry blond. Why?"

"Just wondering." He grinned at her. "I bet you have the
same suspicious expression on your face when you're trying to find out if a student is lying about the dog eating his
homework."

She couldn't help but smile back at him. "In high school
they come up with a lot more sophisticated excuses."

"Like they were changing the oil in their car and it got
on the homework, and they didn't bring it because you'd
get your hands all gunky? Or there was a burglary at their
house and the rotten thief took it?" Quint suggested.

"Those are good, but not for a school in the middle of
Wyoming. Here it's more often something like a horse stepping on it, or the wind tearing it out of their eager hands,
or their little brother or sister throwing it in the fireplace."

"Not bad," Quint said admiringly.

"I bet you came up with some winning excuses in your
day."

He grinned. "I'm not telling."

They finished the dishes.

Aileen dried her hands. She squirted a little hand lotion
into her palm and rubbed it into the skin. Then she nudged the dispenser toward Quint, who quirked a dark eyebrow
at her.

"What? Not a macho thing to do?" she asked.

"When you get to know me better, you'll realize that I
never worry about being macho."

"Why? You're that sure of yourself?"

"You got it, darlin'." Quint smiled at her until he saw
her expression. "Sorry, I forgot that you don't like being
called darlin'," he added.

He wasn't in the least bit sorry, Aileen thought. "I don't
mind the endearment in the right situation and with the
right person."

"There you go, tossing your hair again."

Aileen opened her mouth to refute his claim but shut it
again. She was no longer sure whether this gesture was
habitual with her or not. She'd have to ask Jennifer, whom
she had known since fifth grade.

She watched Quint rub lotion into his hands.

When he caught her glance, he said, "It feels good, and
I like all things that feel good."

"A hedonist, huh?"

"If that means I appreciate pleasure, then I am a devout
hedonist," he said, his voice suddenly soft.

Was he flirting with her? Aileen risked a quick glance
at his handsome face. When she met his green-eyed gaze,
she knew what the phrase "smiling eyes" meant. He was
definitely teasing her, maybe even flirting with her. Quint
was undoubtedly better at this flirting thing that she was.
She felt heat rise into her face again, knew her pulse was
beating faster, while he seemed calm. Drat. She took a deep
breath.

"I have to grade some papers," Aileen finally said, her
voice faint.

Clearly she was waiting for him to leave. The time had
come. "Well, if you show me to my bedroom, I'll retire
and leave you to your grading."

Quint watched her reaction closely. She stood as if
turned into a pillar of salt. Her eyes widened in shock. Then
she shook her head slightly, as if she couldn't believe what
she had heard. Aileen started to speak, but her voice failed
her. She swallowed visibly.

"What did you just say?" she managed to ask.

"I said, I needed a place to sleep. I didn't see a bunkhouse. I double-checked all the buildings."

"We don't have a bunkhouse anymore. It burned down
about five years ago. We didn't rebuild it. The hands live
in trailers down the road."