Last night she’d mentioned a brother. Was there other family? Why didn’t she put them down as references? Did they know where she was? And most important, why was she on the run? He’d known drifters all his life. A ranch like his attracted them. Men worked for a few months, then moved on. He’d learned how to read the restlessness in their eyes when it was near their time to go.
Rita wasn’t like them. Not only because she was a woman, but because everything about her screamed “home.” She’d obviously grown up somewhere, had been educated. Life on the road was the exception, not the rule.
All of which didn’t mean she was safe. So he was going to ignore the fire licking up his belly and remind himself he was nothing more than Rita’s boss. When whatever had chased her from home was gone, she would return. Even if she didn’t, she wasn’t going to want to make her life on the ranch, so there was no point in wishing for the moon.
They walked toward the bunkhouse. A familiar shape moved out of the shadows of the barn and headed toward them. “That’s Princess,” he said, pointing at the multicolored, long-haired dog. “She’s an Australian shepherd. I thought she might be interested in helping with the cattle, but she seems to prefer cats.”
Rita peered at the dog. “She’s got something in her mouth. Oh, no! It’s moving! Is she killing it?” She started for the dog.
“Don’t worry,” Brady said, catching up with her and grabbing her arm. “Princess wouldn’t hurt anything. She’s taking care of her cats. Come here, girl.”
The dog trotted over and set down the object in her mouth. It turned out to be a kitten, maybe ten or twelve weeks old. The furry baby, all black except for a white patch on its nose, meowed plaintively. Princess swiped at the kitten with her tongue, then looked up and gave a doggy grin as if to say “Look at what I have. Aren’t you impressed?”
Brady sighed. He wasn’t the least bit impressed or amused, but he wouldn’t tell Princess that.
Rita crouched down and let Princess sniff her fingers, then she patted the dog. “I don’t understand. She has cats? Like pets?”
“They’re more of a commune. People drop off strays, she finds them and brings them home. We feed them, but otherwise, she takes care of them.”
Rita turned her attention to the kitten, rubbing under its chin and making it purr loudly. “What do you mean?”
“She keeps track of them, makes sure they don’t fight. During the day, she herds them from shady spot to shady spot.”
Rita stood up and laughed. “She herds them? You mean, she makes them move around in a group?”
“I know it sounds weird. You’ll see it today. I’m not sure why the cats don’t just run off, but they do what she says. When there are kittens, she helps baby-sit. If another dog strays onto the property, she chases it off. Basically, caring for her cats keeps her busy.”
Rita tucked a few loose strands of dark hair behind her ears. “How many cats are there?”
Brady shuddered. “I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Probably close to twenty. Tex feeds them, and I’ve told him to keep the exact number to himself.”
They paused in front of the bunkhouse. Brady could hear the other men inside, already starting breakfast. Rita moved to the outdoor sink and began washing her hands. “Have you given any away?”
“A few. There are plenty of people around here who want barn cats. They take care of pests, and sisters from the same litter often hunt well together. Also, some of the ladies in town want house cats. I should do more to find them homes, but I don’t have the time.”
“Of course, you don’t secretly like the cats yourself, right?” she teased.
“Never that.”
She dried her hands on a towel Tex left by the sink. With her head tilted to one side, she fixed her gaze on his face.
“What?” he asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious, as if he’d forgotten a spot when he shaved.
“I was just wondering when you lost control of this ranch, Brady Jones. You’ve got a bunkhouse full of drifters, a dog who collects stray cats, and Lord knows what else going on.”
He grinned. “There are days when the ranch runs me,” he admitted.
“You wouldn’t have it any other way, would you?”
“Not for a minute.”
* * *
Randi carried a dish-laden tray into the kitchen. The men had already inhaled their breakfast and left to start their day. About half of them used trucks to get to the far reaches of the ranch, the other half saddled up, just like cowboys had been doing for a hundred years. She’d watched it all, feeling as if she’d just stepped back in time.
The kitchen reminded her this was very much the present. The huge room was bright with white counters, floors and walls. Stainless-steel appliances reflected the light. The stove was the biggest she’d ever seen, with eight burners and a grill in the middle. There were triple sinks on both sides of the room, a bay window and a planter filled with what looked like fresh herbs.
Tex came in from the pantry just as she set the dirty dishes on the counter. He paused when he saw her. “You got your own responsibilities, missy. There’s no reason to help me.”
“So my eating that last biscuit made a difference?” she asked, her voice teasing.
The older man grumbled something she couldn’t hear.
“Was that an ‘uh-huh’ I heard?”
He glared at her, pale blue eyes piercing her like steel blades. She met his gaze and didn’t dare blink. If this was a test of wills, she was determined to, if not win, at least earn his respect.
Tex was in his late forties and had the permanent tan of a man who spent most of his life outdoors. He sported a trimmed mustache. His receding hairline had reached his crown and the hair that remained was trimmed regulation short. Once a marine, always a marine.
He looked away first. “If you have enough time to be mouthing off with me, you might as well help me feed Princess and the cats. Their bowls are in there.” He motioned to a lower cupboard under the counter next to the sink.
She pulled open the door and saw a half-dozen medium-size stainless steel bowls stacked inside of one another.
“We need ’em all,” he told her, then walked into the pantry. He returned with two large cans of cat food and a smaller one of dog food. “Take three into the pantry. There’s a barrel full of dry food for the cats. Fill ’em with that and set ’em out. You can change their water while you’re at it.”
“Sure,” Randi said, resisting the urge to add “sir.” Tex didn’t strike her as a man who would have been an officer, and no doubt he would bite her head off for calling a noncom “sir.”
She did as he ordered, scooping out the fishy-smelling dry food. The back door was partially open. She nudged it wider and prepared to step outside. Instead she paused, staring openmouthed.
The
