Plots and Pans (8 page)

“We need to warm you up on the inside while we’re filling the tub. Tea leaves are in the cupboard to the left, and I keep the honey right alongside of it.” She moved to the washroom near the pantry, where she kept the big tub whenever it wasn’t being hauled upstairs for Simon. As Desta crossed the kitchen, Jessalyn dutifully moved over to the cabinet and grimaced at the tea tin.

“Aunt Desta?” She tentatively tried the title out, smiling as she said it before wrinkling her nose at the tea leaves once again. “Is there any chance I might have some coffee instead?”

“Of course.” She pulled down the grinder. “I thought tea might make you feel at home.”

“Tea is for England, where the women make tepid conversation about weak weather. But in Texas, where the rain makes a racket and the people more than match it?” Jess found the beans and all but buried her head in the bag, breathing deep before declaring, “
Coffee
says home!”

The promise of hot coffee had Tucker swinging by the mess hall. He planned to fall into his bunk—most likely with his boots still on—and sleep himself into a better mood, but the lure of coffee kept him sociable. By sociable, he meant not shouting at every man who got between him and the pot.

Thankfully, no one proved fool enough to try and engage him in cards or conversation. Either the rest of the men worked themselves into the ground same as Tucker, or they scratched together enough sense not to let him know otherwise. In any case, no one blocked his path to the stove where Cookie always kept a vat of coffee hot and strong enough to steam the hide off a hog.

Tucker grabbed a mug from the nearby pile, reached for the handle, and all but upended the pot before acknowledging the unpleasant and unprecedented truth. It was empty.

“Which man,” he roared, plunking the useless pot back atop the burner and whipping around to face his workers, “which abysmally inconsiderate
fool
, poured the last cup and put the pot back?”

Astonished silence met his demand, cowhands casting furtive glances from their own steaming mugs to the empty one Tucker waved in accusation. No one fessed up, and no one pointed fingers. This last was to be expected; his men knew better than to butt in or carry on. That didn’t bother Tucker. He didn’t have the patience to waste catching the culprit and coming up with a memorable, amusing punishment. Venting his spleen made him a little less grumpy, warned everyone to keep their distance, and most importantly warned them not to let the pot go dry again.

Though if he’d had to guess—and he didn’t have to do a single blessed thing but accept the full mug Cookie rushed out to him—Tucker figured one of the grub-line riders as the guilty man. He recalled that the previous influx headed out this morning, so Bar None only played host to one transient tonight. But the youngster who’d ridden up in the rainstorm couldn’t be blamed for the empty coffeepot. Tucker recognized each and every cowboy who’d avoided eye contact, so he’d probably find the newcomer in the bunkhouse, snoring off a long, cold day in the saddle.

Tucker could respect that, considering he planned to do the same. He drained the rest of his coffee in a scalding glug, plunked down the mug with the rest of the dirty dishware, and left the mess hall without another word. A well-timed break in the rain saw him to the bunkhouse without a further dousing. Between that small mercy and a stomach of hot coffee, things looked up. After a solid night’s sleep, Tucker figured he’d feel almost human again come morning.

But when he sank down onto his bunk, biting back a groan of relief, he noticed something. Actually, he noticed there wasn’t anything or anyone to notice—he had the bunkhouse all to himself. Typically this would be a welcome rarity. Tonight it ranked as an unpleasant surprise because Tucker knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the stranger remained at the Bar None.

When he’d turned in Happy Jack at the stables, Tucker took a moment and looked in on the grubber’s mount. He’d harbored some concern since she’d been ridden hard in poor weather. If she’d looked underfed, sickly, or otherwise abused, Tucker would’ve found a way to buy her. He’d done it before with a few mounts who deserved better treatment from a no-good grubber and had no qualms about sending a man away on foot with a few dollars in his pocket and a bug in his ear. But that hadn’t been the case. The sturdy little pony looked well fed and beautifully maintained.

With the horse accounted for, Tucker needed to track down her rider. If any of the Bar None mounts were still out this late and in this weather, the stable master would’ve warned him. He hadn’t said a word, so that meant the mysterious “J” hadn’t gotten caught out on the range. Tucker should’ve spotted the man around the stables, mess hall, or bunks. There wasn’t anywhere else any of the hands—especially a stranger—belonged. Abruptly, Tucker realized he hadn’t checked on Desta since midday. With Ed gone on business, she was alone.

The chill traipsing down the back of his neck owed nothing to the inclement weather. Tucker surged to his feet, unholstered his pistol, and all but mowed down a cowhand when he hit the door. Not stopping to apologize or explain, he hot-footed it up to the ranch house. He almost reached the porch before making a quick decision to veer around the house to the kitchen. Tucker forced himself to move slowly and quietly, refusing to give any warning of his approach.

If something were wrong, he’d get a jump on the situation. If nothing were wrong, he didn’t want to alarm Miss Desta. After all, no lone woman wanted to be reminded of her vulnerability, and the last thing Tucker wanted to do was worry her out of sleeping until Ed got back.

Flickering light from oil lamps illuminated the kitchen window, throwing a sizeable gap between the curtains into sharp relief. Tucker slid closer, ears perked for any sign of distress. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary, but an uneasy prickle across the back of his neck whispered a warning. That disruption, that sense of something awry without any concrete confirmation, saved his life more than once. Cattle stampeded, horses bolted, flash floods burst through barriers, and often that tingly, indefinable sense of disturbance gave the only warning.

After countless close calls, Tucker trusted that tingle—and tonight it told of trouble.

He crept onto the back porch. Unable to avoid the runoff from the overhanging eaves, Tucker ignored the chilly rainwater sluicing over his shoulders and pressed his back against the wall. Slow sideways steps brought him to the window, where a sudden burst of sound startled him.

Laughter
. He stiffened in surprise, then suspicion, as he made out more than one voice.

No longer concerned for Miss Desta’s safety, he turned to face the window, peering through the gap he’d noted in the curtains. At first all he could make out were the things he expected to see, like the stove. Its merrily burning wood fire made a fool of him for lurking in the cold rain, but Tucker resisted the urge to abandon his post and head inside. First he needed to know what he’d be dealing with. The laughter sounded feminine, but Desta was the only woman at the Bar None.

He pressed tighter against the wall and angled his line of vision toward the other half of the room.
There
. Tucker sucked in a sharp breath as he caught sight of the woman sitting with Desta.

She sat facing away from him, toward Desta, so he couldn’t see her face. At first he didn’t need to. A riot of honey-colored curls tumbled past her hips, picking up glints of red in the flickering firelight. Her dress, a spritely pale green, dipped in to reveal a trim waist. It might’ve been the way she perched on the stool, but the skirts seemed short on her. Tucker made out finely turned ankles above rosy toes. While he watched, the vision tilted her head back in another laugh.

Her glorious mane cascaded to the side, giving him a glimpse of her profile. Full lips parted in mirth, her smile generous and her amusement honest. A pert nose and strong chin told of a woman with character, though long lashes several degrees darker than her hair shaded her eyes.

The coffee he’d craved mere moments before soured in Tucker’s stomach. Here sat the disturbance he’d sensed, and now he knew his instincts were right on the money. Women—especially women who turned up where they didn’t belong—were unpredictable and problematic.

This one might be pretty as all get-out, but to Tucker, she just looked like trouble.

G
ood thing he made it his policy to meet trouble head-on.

Tucker pushed away from the wall but slid sideways past the window before straightening up. After going to such lengths to be sure Desta wasn’t frightened by any unwelcome visitors, it would be a fine thing if he fulfilled the role himself by looming at her window. The thought made him pause before knocking—he’d raced up here to make sure the young grub-line rider hadn’t broken in or caused mischief. Instead he’d found a beautiful woman visiting with Desta.

A few things didn’t sit straight, and the possibilities didn’t explain them away.

Had the youngster followed the lady to the Bar None? If so, why? And where was he?

How had a lady sashayed onto the property—even in the midst of a storm—and not caused an almighty ruckus among the men? Why hadn’t Desta sent him word and let him know who’d arrived? Come to think of it, there weren’t any other new horses in the stables and Tucker knew no carriages or coaches rolled up to the ranch with visitors. How had the woman gotten here at all?

Water rolled from the brim of his hat to drip on his nose. Tucker shook his head, hoping to dispel the annoyance and redirect the course of his thoughts. No such luck. He couldn’t reject the one explanation to account for this scenario, no matter how deeply it pricked his pride.

It’d been dark and raining this afternoon. The young cowpoke sheltered behind hat, bandanna, and jacket. Tucker didn’t make much of it when a man didn’t waste his words—he valued peace and quiet and thought more of folks who didn’t speak unless they had something to say. But now looking back, he realized that the youth uttered no more than two words, a single syllable each. For pity’s sake, one of them might not even be a word—just a letter! “J.”

I’ve been duped
. Tucker gritted his teeth and drew in a cold, rain-scented breath. If word got out that a gorgeous woman rode up to the Bar None and fooled him into seeing a tired cowhand, he’d never live it down. A small, honest part of him thought he probably didn’t deserve to.

Any boss who required instant, unswerving obedience from his men had to earn their respect. Every hand on the Bar None needed to trust Tucker’s judgment because a moment might be the difference between life and death. They followed him now because he made solid decisions and his instincts provided reliable warning in dangerous situations, much as they had tonight.

So what happened this afternoon?
He scowled. The only thing he could figure was that his senses didn’t see mistaking a woman for a ranch hand as a dangerous situation. Stood to reason. History showed that if there was one thing to throw off a man’s primal instincts and interfere with his God-given good sense, it was a woman. For the first time, Tucker felt sympathy for Adam.

Privately, he’d always thought the first man fell embarrassingly short of the mark. Adam knew better than to eat the fruit. He’d walked into sin with his eyes wide open, so in Tucker’s book, the man should’ve owned up to his share of the blame. Instead he pointed at Eve as the instigator. Now Tucker reconsidered. Maybe his forbear wasn’t just pointing at Eve. Maybe the world’s first hapless male had been trying to explain that his good sense misfired when confronted with a female. Adam made the first mistake, and men had been falling for women ever since.

Too bad that didn’t make the impact any less painful. Or any less embarrassing.
He’d
fallen for the little lady’s trick. Tucker raised his hand and rapped on the door. But now
she’d
be the one standing her ground and offering an explanation.

When Desta opened the door, he brushed past her into the welcome warmth of the kitchen. He ambled toward the interloper, never letting his gaze leave her face. Not that it wanted to—up close the woman made an even prettier picture than he’d expected; all big brown eyes and rosy lips softly parted in surprise. She’d risen to her feet before he’d crossed the threshold, and Tucker noted she stood unusually tall for a woman. Also that he’d been right before—her skirts hung short.

She didn’t move as he walked toward her, and Tucker found he appreciated her courage. As any cowboy would, he removed his hat before confronting a misbehaving lady. “ ‘J,’ I presume?”