Sing for Your Supper (5 page)

I pulled my clanking Jeep to a dusty stop half-way between the front veranda of a big, white-clapboard farm house and a oncered barn now streaked liberally with the grey of exposed wood. A glance down at the paper with the map scrawled across it told me this had to be the place, if Matt had given me accurate directions. An air of lazy forgetfulness hung over the premises, adding its weight to that of the heavy bank of clouds scudding in from the west. Dust settled in a thin layer over the Jeep as I gazed around. The place had seen a heyday, but this wasn’t it. The house had a fresh coat of paint, and the barn’s tin roof looked newish, but the equipment just inside the big building wasn’t the latest, and the grounds had that slightly neglected look which said whoever had once tended the flower garden was gone.

I clicked open my seat belt, hopped down and wandered over to pick the spent day lilies off their stalks.

“Can I help you?” A deep voice shot a shiver down my spine and I whirled, fist closing tight around the wilted blooms.

Calm the fuck down.

The guy who’d addressed me was tall. A good head taller than me and broader in his shoulders. He walked with the swagger of someone who rode a lot of horses. A grease-covered rag did dubious cleaning duty as he wiped his hands with it, and he approached with an air of belligerent wariness. From the glimpse of bangs visible across his forehead, it looked like he had a lot of black curls hiding under his generous Stetson, and at ten in the morning, his five o’clock shadow had made a distinctly early appearance. Deep blue eyes flickered as his gaze raked over me, giving away nothing of what he thought about what he saw.

Reflexively, I ran a hand over my own smooth jaw, immediately and intensely aware of how that stubble would feel against my skin.

Yes. Good. Start out the job interview with this hard-ass with a stiffy. Perfect. Because he just looks the type to bend you over the hood and bang you. So not.

The guy crossed his arms over his chest, the movement slow, deliberate. His eyes went a shade darker. “I’ve got work, kid. You want something?”

Oh God, yes.

“A job,” I blurted, silently damning my blond pink-skinned complexion for showing my blush.

The guy shook his head and lowered his intense gaze to the ground. “Sorry, kid. Unless you work for free—”

“Room and board.”

Form a complete sentence, idiot.

A newly speculative look came over the big man’s face. “You runnin’ from somethin’?”

Fair question. If you considered threats of violence involving my ass and a heated branding iron something, the yes, most definitely on the run.

“No. Just looking for work. I heard at the diner in town you could use some help with some fence mending.”

“Among other things. Matt, from the diner. Keeps sending people down here. I’m warnin’ ya now, though. I ain’t got more ‘n three hot meals a day and a bed to pay ya.”

I’ll take the bed, thanks.

“All I need.”

Finally, the arms uncrossed and the man stepped forwards, arm outstretched. “James Travis.”

I took the offered hand in a firm grip. “Taylor Anderson. Thanks for this. You won’t regret it.” I handed him the slip of paper on which ‘Matt from the diner’ had written a short note to this prospective employer that he knew my father and would vouch for me.

Travis read the note and gave me curt nod. “Course I won’t regret it. Screw up and I fire ya.” He shrugged one shoulder and my mouth watered at the way his tight T-shirt didn’t hide the ripple of muscle. “Nothing to regret.”

Right.

“You can park over there.” He waved an arm towards a shaded area of drive beside the barn as he turned to head back inside.

“Sure, Mr. Travis.”

“Shit, kid, call me Jim.” He shot a swift glance at the house, then looked back to me. “Mr. Travis is my father.”

I quickly moved the Jeep, hauled my rucksack out of the back and hoped the shaking—my nerves telling me to not be the kind of confrontational asshole that led to people threatening me with branding irons—didn’t show. “Then call me Taylor. I’m not a kid.”

A wide grin spread over Jim’s face. “No shit.” He nodded, and I couldn’t help grinning myself, completely stoked by the implied approval, and aware Matt and his subtly commanding ways had primed me for that response. “You’ll do. Put that sack in the bunk room over there,” he pointed to a man door off to the right of the barn’s main entrance, “and I’ll show you around.”

The whirlwind tour included a fine view of his ass as I followed him around, as well as a detailed explanation of the stalls that were occupied, and by whom. He seemed to have a very set idea that horses were people, just more practical and easier to get along with. I couldn’t immediately find a flaw in his reasoning, so I didn’t bother to argue.

At the paddock gate, he pointed out which horses were to be kept apart. A big, grey gelding, apparently called Apollo, but answering equally to Ape or Dumbass, nosed at my shirt pockets. Eventually, he contented himself with letting me rub my hand over his spotted hide when he found nothing of interest on my person.

Jim shook his head and smacked the horse on his high, arched neck. “This shit doesn’t get along with anyone. If you can get a saddle on him, you can ride him. Just wear steel-toed boots. He’s a stomper.”

“Maybe you just don’t like to be called names, huh, boy?”

The horse nudged at my palm and I rubbed his forehead. “We’ll get along just fine, you and me.”

“Well aren’t you just the horse whisperer.”

“They’re in my blood. Just because I chose not to work for my father doesn’t mean I have anything against horses.”

“Fair enough.” He watched me commune with the horse for a few more minutes before speaking again. “I’m goin’ out on a limb here, and sayin’ there must be more to that story.”

“Knock yourself out.” I carefully kept my gaze on the horse. “Swing like a monkey from that limb, if you like.”

“You ain’t runnin’ but you ain’t talkin’?”

Finally, I met his dark, insistent gaze. “You figure my reasons for leaving home are going to affect how well I shovel shit?”

Half a grin twisted his face and his eyes took on a speculative glint as they swept down to my boots and back up.

I did
not
imagine that. He just checked me out.

When he met my gaze again, the glint had heat. Or I was projecting.

“Probably not. Come on. I’ll show you the rest.” He cast a worried glance up at the clouds, already moving back the way they had come and leaving behind sultry heat in place of rain. “Coulda used that.”

I followed the small puffs of dust he scuffed up as he moved across the yard.

The next half hour was a litany of feeding and mucking schedules, as well as numerous mentions as to where the shovels and manure pile were located.

Guess I know what’s first on my agenda, then.

I also got a flyby of the house, the vegetable gardens, which were as weed infested as the flower gardens, but yielding half decently, considering the dry conditions and the tangle. He waved an arm towards the hay fields—it would be upwards of a month before the first harvest was ready—and launched a rambling discourse on the lay of the grazing pastures and where the cattle were most likely to be found when.

The sun beating down raised a rivulet of sweat between my shoulder blades, and I found myself eyeing the pond off behind the house with longing. It had been a longer, hotter drive up from town than I’d expected, and the tour, under the mid-afternoon sun, had been extensive. Not the kind of tour you gave someone you didn’t expect things to work out
with
. It was a small thing, but an encouraging one. Maybe Matt’s recommendation carried more weight than Jim had let on.

“That’s just about it for the grounds. The fences
that
need fixin’ are those around the inner pasture. Been puttin’ that off too long.” He was quiet a minute as we trudged around the house towards the pond and a grove of apple trees. “You’ll meet Jeb, and his nephew, Rob, at dinner. We eat at the house.” He opened his mouth, like he might say something else, but closed it again, maintaining the silence.

I couldn’t help wonder what he hadn’t said.

We stopped by the side of the pond. “Jeb took the truck into town with Rob for supplies. He takes his time. Rob’s good with the animals, but pickin’ up a post auger would snap him half. It’s probably good you showed up.” He took off his hat and hung it on a hook on a post driven into the ground near the edge of the pond. “Here. This is the best place to cool off.” He looked me up and down. “You look like you could use a bit of a wake up.”

“You have a hat rack in the yard?”

“Don’t expect me to drop my hat on the ground, do you?”

“S’pose not, no.” I took off my own ball cap and hung it next to the Stetson. It hung a little bit limp and sun-bleached, from its original red to blush pink. Jim snickered.

“Does the job,” I pointed out, maybe a little on the defensive side.

“Farmer’s hat.” Jim tapped the brim.

“Nothin’ wrong with being a farmer.”

“Didn’t say there was. Ranchin’s not farming.”

“No.”

Jim merely shrugged and stripped his shirt off over his head and kicked off his boots. His jeans crumpled into the pile on the grass offering a glimpse of fine man, broad pale back and firm ass, long legs and tanned arms as he took a few running steps and arched, long and graceful into the pond with hardly a splash.

Fuck me. Please.

I stared after the shadow knifing along under the water and tried desperately to contain the urge to palm my raging erecting, sprung from nowhere and leaving me lightheaded. I was still frozen on the grass when Jim’s head popped back up.

“Water’s fine.”

Everything’s fine. Very, very fine.

The man was not making it easy for me to control my libido. My ass, still tender from my morning bout with Matt, throbbed slightly and I heaved in a lungful of air.

I waved, to let him know I’d heard, and concentrated on pulling off my worn boots and unbuttoning my shirt. I contemplated keeping my boxers on, but the idea of squishing around in wet trunks, or sweating into my jeans without them while I mucked out stalls didn’t appeal.

Cold showers, cow births, getting your ass kicked by the huge, admittedly gorgeous straight guy who just hired you… Which doesn’t actually sound that bad…

“Hot branding irons,” I muttered under my breath. That did it. Because I could still see the red hot iron in my mind’s eye, and feel the feral fear snake through my gut, even now. It worked to get my erection under control even as a deep shudder swept through me. I almost yanked the jeans back up.

Don’t wimp out. Don’t let him see. He doesn’t need to know.

Finally undressed, I opted for a shallower dive into the cool water. I popped up half way across the small pond and ran a hand over my face.

“Told you the water was fine,” Jim said. A few strokes brought him closer. His eyes had shifted again, from dark and suspicious to a lighter, curious shade. I’d never seen anything like the way his eyes shifted colour like that.

“So. Not a horse man?”

I blinked. “Uh.”

Nice. Very smooth.

I swept my hand through my hair. “Dad raises horses, Uncle has cattle. I worked for Uncle John most summers after I turned ten and full time after high school. That’s almost twenty years experience. I know what I’m doing.”