Plots and Pans (9 page)

The knock on the door startled Jess to her feet. She reached for her holster before remembering she’d left it with the rest of her clothes. For years she’d kept it as close as possible—a reminder of who she was and that Papa wanted her to be safe even if he wasn’t close enough to do the protecting. Once she’d found her way back home, it didn’t seem as necessary anymore.

Then, too, it somehow seemed wrong to strap her pistol over one of Mama’s fine dresses. Desta insisted she wear it since her traveling clothes could practically stand on their own and everything in her saddlebags got soaked by the rain. She hadn’t imagined that an irritated man would burst through the kitchen doors and cut her off from the washroom, where her pistol lay.

Close enough for comfort, but not close enough to count
, Jess berated herself.

Desta looked more amused than alarmed, and Jess took her cue from that. As her tension eased and the man drew closer, Jess identified him as the foreman from that afternoon. Almost immediately she confirmed her impression that he was irritated—the man practically simmered. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see some of the rainwater coating his clothing rise up in steam.

But he leveled all that heated intensity on Jess as he stalked across the room. A lesser woman would’ve taken a step back or shifted so she didn’t meet his gaze. But Jess refused to step back and find herself penned against the table. On a visceral level, she recognized in this man the innate tendency to dominate. If she lowered her eyes, he’d see it as a sign of submission.

Refusing to let an employee get the upper hand on her first night back, Jess wouldn’t even blink. He crossed the room in a matter of seconds, but the man made a powerful impression.

Earlier that afternoon, even through the storm and while on horseback, he projected an air of authority, a sense of stubbornness, and gave an impression of physical height and strength. Up close and out of the rain, Jess saw that she wouldn’t be revising any of those opinions anytime soon.

He stood a full head taller than she, which made him unusually tall. She saw eye to eye or close enough with most men, but Jess got the feeling she wouldn’t be seeing eye to eye with this one on any level. A square jaw, dusted with several days’ growth of whiskers, jutted toward her like a hound dog after a hare. Sweeping the hat from his head, he flung water across the kitchen floor.

“ ‘J,’ I presume?” He bit off the words, making a mockery of his fine manners.

Intelligent
. Jess added to his list of attributes.
And angry as all get-out that I fooled him
.

“Tucker Carmichael, you stop frowning so fierce or I’m going to take offense.” Desta bustled up to provide a buffer. “No man should walk into a kitchen looking so put out.”

Tucker
. Jess kept herself from gasping, but it took some effort. Suddenly she remembered standing on the porch, hearing Desta tell her to talk to Tucker. She’d had the same reaction then, but forgotten it in the revelations that followed. Now her surprise came rushing back.

The memory unspooled of a rangy—even gangly—young greenhorn, taken on for the spring and eager to prove himself. The boy stood tall, waiting for manhood to fill out his shoulders and a few seasons at the Bar None to round out his skills. He evinced the wiry strength not uncommon in young cowhands, with a quick mind and an eye for horses. His way with animals convinced Papa to hire him in spite of his inexperience—and his inexperience made it easy for a twelve-year-old Jess, in desperation, to convince young Tucker Carmichael to saddle an unbroken bronco for her.

Now, seven years later, Jess couldn’t say what surprised her more—that Tucker Carmichael hadn’t left the Bar None years ago or that he’d grown into a man strong enough and skilled enough to oversee the entire operation. Whether or not the intervening years had been kind, he wore the changes well—and Jess was woman enough to be intrigued by the differences time wrought.

Though she couldn’t be sure, she thought he’d grown taller. Certainly, his shoulders broadened and he’d gained muscle through the chest and arms. He moved with equal parts deliberation and easy confidence. Beneath the whiskers, his jawline sharpened since she’d last seen him, his brows seemed thicker and more thoughtful. She’d never thought about how expressive eyebrows could be, but Tucker Carmichael’s transmitted his mood loud and clear.

Especially drawn together like that, scowling at her. It made Jess wonder whether she’d earned his ire this afternoon or if he harbored a deeper grudge from seven years before. She couldn’t tell whether Tucker recognized her as more than “J,” but suspected he hadn’t fit that piece to the puzzle yet. Perhaps her position as a member of the Culpepper family would elicit respect.

Or maybe he’ll start seeing the wayward girl I was instead of the woman who’s standing in front of him
. She bit back a sigh.
Nothing like a conversation guaranteed to feed a man’s temper
.

For a second his attention shifted to Desta. “I’m not put out. I’m fed up, that’s all.”

“That sounds more appropriate to a kitchen,” Jess pointed out agreeably, unable to resist.

“I’ve been busy tracking down a stranger wandering on Bar None grounds,” he snapped back. “So you’ll have to forgive me if I’m less concerned with what’s appropriate in a kitchen.”

Stranger?
Jess wondered if he referred to “J,” the mysterious grub-line rider, or if he still included her now. It sounded like Tucker Carmichael pegged her as the rider from this afternoon, but didn’t recognize her as Jessalyn Culpepper. And why should he? She hadn’t recognized him either.

“And I turned out to be even stranger than you expected,” Jess hazarded, unwilling to apologize but feeling it was only fair to acknowledge the upset she’d caused. It didn’t take much to see that he’d rushed over to the big house to keep her aunt protected from the missing “stranger.”

“That’s not the—” her aunt broke in, obviously intending to protest Jess’s characterization.

“Well,” Jess headed her off. “It’s pretty clear Mr. Carmichael didn’t expect to find me.”

“Oh, now, wait a minute, ma’am.” His quaint manners caught her for a moment, and Jess fought a smile at the novelty of being addressed as ma’am. As he continued, her amusement faded.

“Granted, I was on the lookout for the grub-line rider, but I still ran you to ground. Whether you’re wearing a waterlogged duster or some fussy party dress doesn’t make a lick of difference.”

His disdain made it all too clear how much he would’ve preferred finding a fellow cowboy to discovering her as a woman. Some small corner of Jess’s feminine heart sputtered with indignation.

First he thinks I’m a man
. She’d wanted him to make that mistake at the time, but now it seemed a smidge more insulting.
And now he acts as though I can’t wear a dress properly either!

Jess knew an evening gown when she saw one, and she knew she’d do better to find something more serviceable. But tonight she hadn’t been able to resist the fanciful notion that wearing Mama’s favorite dress would be like wearing a hug. She’d craved that closeness.

Besides, it buttoned. None of the others fit across Jess’s chest. And even though the man standing in front of her didn’t know any of that, she couldn’t help but stew over his remarks.

“If it makes no difference, then there’s no need to insult me,” she gritted out, suddenly reminded that the past weeks had worn her patience even harder than the traveling clothes abandoned on the washroom floor. Both were to the point of fraying under duress. “Or
my mama’s
dress.”

He surveyed her in silence for a moment, perusing her up and down in a way that wasn’t lascivious, but still took her measure. Then he announced, “Skirts are too short for you. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice—looks a lot better than that awful getup you were sporting when you rode in.”

Fighting the urge to tug her skirts, knowing he’d notice even the most surreptitious attempt to lengthen them, Jess was forced to confront a great and terrible truth.
Miss Pennyworth was right
.

How many times had Jess laughed at a headmistress’s earnest exhortations that men couldn’t behave when faced with bare ankles? The man earned a special sort of eternal enmity for proving the prudes of the world right. Jess took refuge in outrage. Making no attempt to conceal herself, Jess straightened to her full height. She eyed Tucker as he’d eyed her.

“That ‘awful getup’ matched yours almost exactly!” she crowed, triumphantly dismissive.

Instead of being properly put in his place, the man had the effrontery to smirk. “Exactly.”

Heaven help him, she got even prettier when riled. Those big brown eyes of hers threw off sparks to shame a lightning storm. He even liked the way she talked when she got mad. She became so tightly controlled that her sentences sounded clipped and crisp, each word a sharp dagger. After all the trouble she’d given him—and all the trouble she’d surely make tomorrow—Tucker figured he deserved to siphon some of his frustration back to its cause.

Besides, it worked. The more she bristled, the more he enjoyed the conversation. Since he didn’t say anything hurtful, just the honest truths that her dress was short and her other gear was made for men, Tucker didn’t even feel guilty for giving the girl a hard time. She’d duped him, so now she faced his judgment. It wasn’t
his
fault that her ruse centered around how she looked.

And if she thought he’d been insulting about her mama’s dress, well, that was probably safer than if he’d offered an honest compliment. Tucker didn’t know much about women and understood even less, but he suspected the woman would’ve been more offended if he’d shared his first thought, which frolicked along the lines of,
If her mama filled out that dress half so well as her daughter, then her family produces the most happily proportioned females I’ve ever seen
.

His second thought—about the dress being an improvement on the cowboy gear, though too short—he’d shared. Sure, it came out a little raw and obviously rubbed her the wrong way, but it served a purpose. It kept the most inappropriate nuggets rattling around in his head instead of clattering through his teeth and earning him a slap across the face. Because hard on the heels of notions one and two came observation number three—that hussies wore short skirts to show off their legs, which was part of why women of loose morals were called lightskirts.

The Bar None would certainly bar someone if Tucker thought Desta’s friend would try to cause trouble among the men. He didn’t see any possible way she could avoid distracting every man within a half mile, but he could keep the hands reined for a couple of days until she left. Maybe she didn’t have any dresses that weren’t passed down or maybe everything else got drenched in her travels. In any case, her defense of her attire relieved his mind almost as much as it amused him.

What sort of woman thinks she’ll win an argument by admitting she wore men’s clothes?

She looked so pleased, proclaiming her outfit matched his, that Tucker did the polite thing.

He agreed. “Exactly.”

“Exactly?” she echoed, eyes narrowing in suspicion of his sudden affability.

“Yep.” Tucker didn’t blame her. In fact, her distrust of an easy capitulation did her credit. It made him savor the sparring, so he paused a beat before plunging ahead. “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 raised a brow and added pointedly. “Work I’ll need to reassign tomorrow.”

“I’ll take care of it.” She’d pursed her lips so tight he marveled that any sound emerged.

Yeah
. He managed not to roll his eyes.
She’ll probably “take care of it” by batting her lashes at the first ranch hand she runs across—as though I won’t already have given them work
.

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Tucker waved away her offer. “While everyone around here pulls his or her own weight, we don’t press guests into service. We try to be hospitable.”

Her brows winged toward her hairline. “Well, I’m glad to hear you make an effort. I can’t imagine what sort of welcome would await a new arrival when you
weren’t
being hospitable.”

Tucker appreciated her restrained way of taking him to task. He tried to think of a diplomatic way of asking his next question, but either he’d gotten too tired or there just wasn’t one. So he let fly. “I know your visit came as a surprise to Miss Desta, or she would’ve let me know to expect you. So I hope you won’t mind filling me in. How long do you plan on staying?”

A satisfied smile brightened her face as she uttered the last words Tucker wanted to hear. “A good long while, I think.”

“Don’t be acting coy now, child.” Desta crossed her arms.

“I can’t be more exact.” The smile faltered in a flash of swiftly suppressed fear, then grew hopeful. “You know I have to talk to Ed when he gets home. It all depends on him.”

“Ed?” A wayward surge of jealousy kicked in his gut. Then came a deeper horror as Tucker realized the ramifications.