Plots and Pans (11 page)

Only difference was her skirts—she couldn’t stomach sliding into her split skirts until they’d gone through a good washing, and she didn’t have a spare set to wear until then. From the hips down—after the holster, anyway—she looked like a lady. Otherwise, she could probably pass for any other ranch hand. The thought made her smile and put some speed into her step. She wanted to visit Morning Glory and get back before the real ranch hands were up and about.

I’m not going to hide in the house until Ed gets home
, she assured herself as she crept down the stairs and slipped through the kitchen door. If Jess ran into someone in the stables it wouldn’t be the end of the world, but she knew better than to flaunt her arrival. Things on a ranch ran to a rhythm, and disrupting things wouldn’t endear her to the workers. She and Tucker needed to iron out an understanding before she stepped fully onto the scene.

Jess drew deep breaths, soaking in the earthy fragrance left by fresh rainfall. English rain didn’t smell the same—it lacked that special, spicy-sweet pungent aroma of chaparral and mesquite. She’d forgotten how invigorating and comforting the scent could be, twining half-forgotten memories with fresh hopes for the day ahead.

Violet tinged the darkness, making it look more like twilight than morning. But a more varied, cheerful twittering slowly usurped the song of blackbirds. The first thin washes of morning light would paint the landscape soon, so Jess lengthened her stride and hurried.

That swift stroll to the stables did her a world of good. By the time she slipped inside she’d swapped the worst of her aches for a nose tingling from the morning’s dew-rich air. Smells of horses and hay mingled with leather and saddle oil. Deep breaths of slumbering animals and the rustle of bedstraw accompanied Jess’s steps toward the end of the row, where Morning Glory stretched her neck over the rope and nickered a soft welcome.

Jess patted the mare’s neck, wishing she’d put on the split skirts after all. Now that she was up and moving, it seemed that a ride would help dispel some of the lingering aches. Besides, Morning Glory expected the exercise. Even now, the horse butted her head against the partition and stamped one hoof in delicate demand.

“I can’t,” Jess whispered apologetically. “By the time we get back, everyone will be up and I won’t escape notice.” Particularly if she rode astride in skirts. Granted, her boots covered halfway up her shins, but even cowboys expected a certain propriety. She wouldn’t win their respect or welcome if they saw her knees.

But to ride the ranch, seeing the sunrise and breathing in more of that special, rain-fresh air … Jess gave a wistful sigh, her resolve weakening when Morning Glory echoed in a windier version. She bit the inside of her lip, considering. If she traveled north, she could circle back behind the house and hitch Morning Glory there. That way she’d avoid the stables, mess hall, and bunkhouse.

“All right.” Jess laid her forehead against her mare’s for a second then hastened to get her equipment. Morning Glory stood still and patient as Jess saddled her, ears perked to whispered promises of carrots, apples, or oats to be filched from Desta’s pantry until she returned to the stables for a proper breakfast.

As she led the horse down the row, Jess faltered. If Tucker caught her out before breakfast, he’d be angry—and he’d even have some right to be disgruntled. What could she say if he railed that she had no business setting off on her own without telling anyone where she was going? Stopping before the stable door, she caught sight of the perfect excuse to ride the northern line.

Grinning, she grabbed one of the bags, stuffed it into her pocket, and led Morning Glory out the door.
Problem solved
.

W
e’ve got a problem, Boss.” Hank, who’d run the Bar None stables since long before Tucker arrived, frowned grooves into his forehead.

“You’re telling me.” Tucker gulped down his first mug of scalding coffee then went ahead and poured himself another cup. When it came to coffee, one-mug mornings were mighty rare, and Tucker didn’t need Hank to tell him today wasn’t one of them.

Obviously Hank hadn’t searched him out to talk about the real trouble that had descended upon them. But it wasn’t as though Tucker managed to think of anything but Jessalyn Culpepper since he’d caught sight of her through that gap in the kitchen curtains. She’d plagued his thoughts and invaded his sleep, leaving snatches of half-remembered dreams to serve as a warning when he woke up.

“I shoulda known ya sent the young’un away already.” Hank’s forehead unfurrowed, and he turned away. “Forgit I bothered ya.”

“Hold up.” Tucker tried to figure out a way to ask why Hank thought he’d sent away “the young’un” without revealing he hadn’t. Since no new grub rider stayed over in the bunkhouse or appeared for a slug of coffee, he’d be hard-pressed to explain the absence without getting into the whole story. And until he had the whole story from the women, Tucker knew better than to try. “No bother. You know I’d rather you come to me than sit on a suspicion.”

“A’ right.” Hank lifted the coffeepot and grabbed a mug. “I know you don’t hold with sending folks or critters away empty-bellied. Caught me off guard to find the mare already gone, is all.”

Tucker blinked, trying to connect this information with any type of plausible explanation and coming up empty-handed. “Gone?”

Gone
. A few moments after he’d stormed out of the mess hall. Tucker looked at the tracks leading from the barn toward the north pasture in disbelief. Hank assured him all the other horses were accounted for, and the ranch regulars had more sense than to ride a stranger’s mount. Besides, Tucker knew for a fact none of the men had headed out: old Cookie just started serving breakfast.

Within minutes, Tucker saddled his favorite mount and followed the trail. Happy Jack, known for his cheerful disposition, seemed about as pleased as his master to be pulled away from breakfast and sent on a wild-goose chase. Or a
silly-
goose chase, as things stood.

What can that fool woman be thinking?
Tucker kept a sharp eye out and urged Happy Jack to pick up the pace. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what drove her.
How harebrained does she have to be to sneak into the stables and ride off on her own?

He knew without so much as stopping by the house that Jessalyn hadn’t mentioned her plans to Miss Desta. Her aunt would’ve either put a stop to such madness, or if her niece proved too headstrong to listen to sense, Miss Desta would’ve gotten word to him. A lone woman would be easy prey if an unscrupulous man happened to be wandering by at the wrong moment and take an interest in her.

Ironically, given his irritation from the previous day, Tucker took some comfort from the knowledge any such man might have difficulty pegging Jessalyn Culpepper as a woman. Given the sort of getup she wore, few would guess her gender from any distance. But even that didn’t ease his mind.
She shouldn’t be out here alone
.

Whether following direct orders from Tucker or acting on their own judgment, none of the ranch hands rode out before making sure others knew where they headed, what they planned to do, and accordingly, a rough idea of when they should return. Basic common sense demanded some accountability—there were a hundred ways to get hurt or worse out here. From barbed-wire fences to ornery longhorns and even poorly placed snake holes, danger lurked around every bend.

Most riders knew the risks of the range, but the once-familiar terrain would have become foreign to Jessalyn after her years away. The thought made him wonder if maybe that was why she’d gone for a ride. Early morning offered the calmest time on a ranch, and maybe she’d wanted a quiet moment to reacquaint herself with the land.

I wouldn’t want company either
, Tucker admitted to himself. He could almost understand that she’d want to rediscover her home before the demands of the day distracted her.
But she should’ve let someone know in case she strayed too far or stayed out too long
.

Tucker offered a prayer of thanks that yesterday’s storm softened the earth. Her horse’s impressions proved easy to track, even if the same couldn’t be said for her mistress’s thoughts.
What weighs so heavy on her mind that she can’t sleep through the night?

Truly, no one had any business getting up so early unless they were working a roundup or on a cattle drive. For the life of him, Tucker couldn’t imagine why a member of the weaker gender—particularly one who’d endured a grueling journey through a downpour and should’ve been downright exhausted—would leave a soft, warm bed. The only thing he knew was that Jessalyn Culpepper was proving him right on one of the rare occasions he’d much rather be proven wrong.

Whether the woman intended to be a pain in the backside or not didn’t make much difference. Either way, this morning she continued what she’d begun when she stepped foot on the ranch—
causing me trouble when I’ve already got more than enough to take care of
.

As he reached the pasture, he pushed past surprise that he couldn’t see her yet. This particular area followed a curve in the typically straight landscape, dipping down to a river marking the far boundary. They’d gone through a fairly dry winter, so the low water level would make a bigger difference in the terrain than usual. If she’d made it that far, Tucker hadn’t missed her by a matter of mere minutes—she’d beat him by the better part of an hour.

A sudden movement caught his peripheral vision, making him turn. For a moment he saw only what he expected to see—a long line of fence picking its way through morning shadows across lush grass. Then the breeze shifted, and he spotted what caught his eye before—a thin strip of rag fluttered from the fence. Tucker pulled up short, eyes narrowed as he recalled a snippet of last night’s conversation.

“If you didn’t look like a cowboy, I never would have offered you a place in the bunkhouse or a job to finish,”
he’d chastised.
“Work I’ll need to reassign tomorrow.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

The promise Tucker so easily dismissed the night before came back with vindictive clarity, and he groaned.

She wouldn’t
. He tried to reassure himself, but the damaged fence lay before him, temporarily patched and flagged for fixing. The evidence waved in the wind, forcing him to reconsider.
Would she?

I did it!
Jess slid the fencing pliers back into their canvas bag, enjoying the soft clink as they rubbed against a few stray staples. In all fairness, there hadn’t been a surfeit of neglected stretches along the fence line. She’d discovered just two broken lines in need of attention and made only temporary repairs before marking them.

It would take at least two men the better part of two days to address the problem. They’d need to pull the posts clean out of the ground and stretch new lengths of wire high and tight between them. To Jess’s mind, there wasn’t really any such thing as “fixing” a barbed-wire fence. Once patched, it would have to be replaced.

As things stood, it took her longer than it should have to tend those two patches. Well, longer than it would’ve taken any of the ranch hands. But considering she hadn’t so much as glimpsed a length of barbed wire in seven years, and only helped her father a handful of times before that, Jess decided to give herself credit.

I remembered
. She pulled off the heavy leather gloves she’d snagged from the stables. The things were so large, she didn’t actually need to pull—they slid right off when she straightened her fingers. Jess crammed them into her saddlebag along with the fencing kit. Then she walked back and squatted down to inspect her handiwork. It hadn’t been easy, but after struggling to figure out how to handle the first one, she’d managed this one much quicker.

I’ll manage even better once I get gloves that fit
. Trying to grasp barbed wire proved tricky under the best of circumstances, so Jess hadn’t expected to walk away without a fair number of cuts. That didn’t matter. If anything, she saw the stripes as badges of honor. Flushed with success, proud to contribute even in a small way, she knotted the second strip of rag next to her workmanship.

It waved in the wind like a flag of victory. Jess smiled at the sight before the sound of an approaching horse caught her attention. Someone was coming up fast. Jess had a fair idea who that someone was, but moved her hand to her holster just in case she was wrong.

She wasn’t. In no time at all, Tucker Carmichael pulled to a stop, glaring down at her from a massive black-spotted paint. The man didn’t even bother to dismount before he started in on her.

“Just what,” he gritted, “do you think you’re doing out here?”

Jess refused to let the irritable man ruin her good mood. For all she knew—and certainly from what she’d seen firsthand—the man was a perpetual grump. So she reached deep and dredged up a smile.

“Probably just what
you
think I’m doing. And I’m sure we can both take satisfaction in being proved right. So …”—she gestured toward her fine, fine workmanship and asked—“what do you think?”