Running Blind (21 page)

“Are you sure?” He drawled the words, gave her what he might have thought was a sexy look but struck her more as a smirk. “I keep ’em in the bunkhouse. You ever been to a rodeo? A lot of women are turned on when they see a man control an animal the way I can.”

He made that statement sound more suggestive than it should’ve, and that was saying something. Her bad feelings about having mean thoughts evaporated in an instant. There was no way he could interpret her carefully bland responses as intense interest, or even casual interest, in anything he said or did.

It wasn’t her. She couldn’t let doubt undermine her. When Brad had first started stalking her, after just two dates, she’d felt guilty and gone over and over those two dates, looking for anything she could have said or done that made him think he was her one and only. She’d liked him okay on the first date, but only okay, just enough that she’d said yes to a second date. The second date had turned her off, though; there hadn’t been anything
horrible
about Brad, just a general feeling that she didn’t want to go there. As it turned out, her instinct had been right on the money, but too late where Brad was concerned, because he’d already fixated on her.

She got a similar feel about Darby, an uneasiness that made her not want to be alone with him. Stalker? Nah, she didn’t think so. Asshole? Oh, yeah.

“Rodeos never appealed to me,” she said flatly, which was the truth even though she was from Houston. She’d never been to one, and had no feelings about them one way or the other.

“Maybe you should give them a try, watch some real men in action.”

“Don’t think so. Not interested.”

God, how much plainer could she get?

He moved closer, close enough that her pulse gave a huge leap of alarm. A smug smile was on his face. “Don’t you get lonely, Carly? A pretty woman like you, you must need more than cooking and cleaning to satisfy you. Darby’s here for you, sugar, all you have to do is say the—”

Carlin lunged to the side and grabbed the broom she’d had out earlier, got a good grip, and pointed the handle toward Darby as if it were a weapon. “Out,” she snapped.

“Whoa!” he said, startled. He put on an innocent expression, and raised his hands in the air as if she held a gun on him and he was surrendering. “I didn’t do anything. I was just being friendly.”

“Be friendly somewhere else. Out!” she said again, more forcefully this time.

“All right, I’m going, I’m going. Jesus, you’re a little nuts, you know? Anyone ever tell you that you overreact?”

“Don’t try to pull that crap on me. Only someone delusional could have thought I was in any way interested.” She followed him into the mudroom, her broom pointed at him the whole time. He said he’d be leaving the ranch soon, but unless he was on his way right this minute, it wouldn’t be soon enough to suit her.

When he reached the door he said uneasily, “There’s no need to tell the boss about our little misunderstanding.”

“I didn’t misunderstand anything,” Carlin snapped. She didn’t intend to go running to Zeke with a complaint, but she wasn’t about to tell Darby that. Let him stew; it would serve him right. Would Zeke even care that one of his hands had made a crude, awkward pass at her? Probably not; after all, Darby hadn’t touched her. She’d handle this herself.

“You’re not allowed in this house alone with me again,” she said shortly. “You don’t show up for a meal early and you don’t stay late. If you ignore me on this I won’t say anything to Zeke, but I’ll tell the entire crew, over pie or brownies. I think they’ll understand why I don’t want you hanging around after our
misunderstanding
.”

“You’re being a bitch about nothing,” he grumbled as he walked through the door. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

“Actually, I can.” She slammed the door on him, locked it, and then stood there for a moment, trying to still her pounding heart.

She couldn’t allow every jerk she ran into to send her into a panic, or make her doubt herself. This was
not
about her. She wasn’t a raving beauty, she didn’t wear any makeup these days, and honestly, why bother fixing her hair beyond brushing it and pulling it up into a ponytail? Being the only female on the ranch might bump her up the attractiveness scale a notch or two, but it wasn’t like she was giving off signals that she was on the hunt. Some men were occasionally going to flirt, because that’s the way they were built. Just her luck, this flirt happened to be the ranch hand she liked the least, and his attempt at flirting was cringe-worthy.

Should she tell anyone about the awkward moment? She’d told her friends in Houston that Brad had been a dud, and she’d told them when he’d started following her
around. But none of them had witnessed anything, and Brad had been smart enough, skilled enough, to cover his tracks. In the end, it had been his word against hers, and his word had carried the most weight.

What if she found herself in that situation again? And besides, who would she tell? Zeke was the obvious choice, but Darby really hadn’t done anything, other than be obnoxious. She’d never been a whiner or a snitch, anyway. Should she casually mention it to Spencer, who’d become the closest friend she had on the ranch? No, he was too much of a Galahad; if he knew Darby had made her uncomfortable he might feel obligated to defend her honor, and goodness knows he didn’t need to do anything that might reinjure his shoulder when he was so close to being out of his sling.

She could take care of herself. She
would
take care of herself. If there was a next time, she wouldn’t pull a broom on Darby, she’d go for one of the knives.

And she hadn’t been kidding about not allowing him to be in the house alone with her again.

T
HE
O
CTOBER MARKET
was over, finally, and Zeke had a chance to go over the books. Financially, it was a good year, better than he’d expected. He’d done well at market, and now he could settle into a slow winter. The weather always made every chore more difficult, but there was also a lot less to do. Finally he had a chance to catch his breath, look at plans for the following year, relax. There was always maintenance to be taken care of, and animals to be fed, but this was the resting-up phase of his year and everything was going as well for him as he could ask.

Except for Carlin.

He wasn’t getting anywhere with her. Not that he’d tried real hard, because he didn’t want to spook her, but she hadn’t relaxed her guard at all. He’d counted on familiarity
to gradually get her to unbend, and she had—with the hands. With him, though, all the spikes and bristles were still in place.

For his part, getting used to having her there hadn’t taken any time at all. She could cook well enough, she kept the house and his clothes clean. The hands all liked her, or at least they seemed to, and she got along well with them. Whenever he drove up and saw the light on in the kitchen, or even during the day, he could feel his pulse quicken because he knew she was inside, and it didn’t have a damn thing to do with how well she cleaned house.

The barrier she kept between them was frustrating, especially since he knew she wouldn’t keep it so prominent if she wasn’t attracted to him, too. It was evident in the way she even avoided saying his name. She had no problem calling everyone else by name, but she never called him anything. Not Zeke, not A.Z., not Mr. Decker, not even boss. Hell, she didn’t even say “Hey, you!” It was like that old country song … she never called him by his name, and she sure as hell didn’t call him darlin’.

They’d all been so busy up until now that giving her space had been easy; she did her job and he did his, and except for mealtimes their paths hadn’t crossed all that often. But what the hell was he supposed to do now that market was over and he’d be here in the house far more often? The days were getting shorter and shorter, and while she had her part of the house to live in and he had his, they were bound to run into each other more frequently than they had so far.

Her workload was about to become lighter, as well. Spencer would be out of his sling soon. As soon as Bo and Darby took off for Texas and the rodeoing they loved, and Patrick and Eli went home for a couple of months, there would be fewer mouths to feed. What were they going to do? Occupy the house for hours on end without
speaking? Or did she expect him to spend his days in the barn?

They needed a truce.
He
needed a breach in that wall of hers. And he wanted her to call him … something.

With that in mind, he pushed back from his desk and went searching for her, not that she was hard to find. If she wasn’t doing housework, she was in the kitchen, which often looked like a mad scientist had been doing experiments in there. She still had duds, but overall she was becoming a more than decent cook, and she seemed driven to prove herself in that department. Sure enough, the kitchen was where he found her. The radio was on, and she was sort of dancing as she swept, using the broom as a partner, that fine ass swinging. He’d have had to be dead not to notice, especially since he was already susceptible to her ass.

She’d been experimenting again. Something that smelled good was baking in the oven, and there seemed to have been a mini-explosion of flour. The white stuff was on the floor, on the counter, and on her face. He was pretty sure it was also in her hair.

The broom wasn’t doing a great job, smearing the flour around instead of gathering it up, but as long as she kept up the dancing, he sure as hell didn’t care.

She must have come to the same conclusion about the broom, because she stopped dancing and turned. As soon as she saw him, her spine stiffened.

“Carlin,” he said in way of greeting, wondering if she’d answer with a curt
Zeke
.

Instead she just said. “What can I do for you?” It was an almost polite way of asking,
What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?

He couldn’t tell her the truth, that he wanted to push at her, so he said, “Something smells good.”

“Never Fail White Cake.” She gave him a defiant look,
then turned away and put the broom in the closet, getting out a mop instead.

Zeke grimaced. “Really?”

“I’ve been meaning to try the recipe again, but I’ve been so busy I just haven’t had the time.”

“I don’t suppose you took Spencer’s advice and started with a cake mix this time?”

“No. That would be cheating. Giving in. Letting a stupid cake get the best of me.” She grinned a little, as if she were making fun of herself. “You sound almost afraid.”

“Hell, yes, I’m afraid,” he said bluntly. “I’m pretty sure I still haven’t digested that first bite.”

“This one will be better,” she said confidently. “I used the right kind of flour, and I didn’t overmix the batter.”

“Left out the concrete this time, did you?”

“Very funny.” She started to smile, then realized what she was doing and shut her expression down as if she’d flipped a light switch. Holding the mop as if it were a weapon, again she asked, “What can I do for you?”

The image that sprang to mind wasn’t something he was about to tell her, but his dick swiftly responded. Damn it, if she looked down— No danger of that, though. She’d barely look him in the eye, much less the crotch.

“I smelled something good. I came to see what it was. Can’t a man hang out in his own kitchen?”

“For the duration this isn’t your kitchen; it’s mine. You need to
hang out
elsewhere. Don’t you have some cows that need your attention?”

“Not at the moment.”

“A horse, then.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, I don’t need your attention, either,” she said, and then she literally shooed him toward the mudroom. “Go dig a hole, or something. Put a post in it and call it a fence.” Because the whole point of what he was trying to do was get her to trust him, he allowed himself to be
shooed. As he did, though, he noted to himself that she still hadn’t called him a damn thing. At this rate, he’d settle for “asshole.”

In the mudroom, he stopped to pull on a coat. When he looked down he spotted a pair of small, ugly green boots. He bent down and picked up one, turned it over to check the sole. What a piece of crap. “Please tell me these aren’t your boots,” he called, raising his voice so Carlin could hear him.

He heard something that sounded like a snort, then she called back sharply, “No, they belong to the
other
ranch employee who wears a woman’s size seven.”

Zeke headed back toward the kitchen, one size-seven boot in his hand. She’d wasted her money, because these boots wouldn’t hold up to a Wyoming winter. They were good for rainy weather, at best. He knew what she needed and he’d damn well tell her: a decent pair of boots, a heavy coat, thermal socks and underwear, something to cover her head. Then he stopped. He knew why she’d bought these boots: they were cheap. She was saving every dime she could, so she could continue to hide from the psycho who had her running scared.

He returned the boot to its place and headed out the door, into a cold wind. He’d taken a few steps before he realized that Carlin had run him out of his own damn house.

C
ARLIN WATCHED THE
faces of the hands as she placed the cake on the table. They recognized the cake, of course, and the expressions varied from wary to alarmed. She heard a muttered curse word or two, and more than one very sad sigh. It was Spencer who finally said, “Miss Carly, that cake sure is pretty, but I’m not sure I can eat another bite.”

That got them going. There was a round of very polite
“I’m so full” and “I shouldn’t have eaten so much” and one apologetic “I think I’m allergic to white cake.”

She wasn’t surprised, but she was a tad disappointed. She’d worked hard on the cake, and though the
batter
had tasted good, there was no way to tell if the finished product was any better than the first one if no one tasted it. It looked as if she’d be the sole guinea pig, and even if it was good and she told them so, they probably wouldn’t believe her.

She wheeled around to return to the kitchen with the entire cake, when Zeke stood, reached across Walt for a plate and knife, and motioned for her to move closer.