The Way to a Cowboy's Heart. Teresa Southwick

      Chapter One

      “You’re a woman.”

      “You’re a man.” P. J. Kirkland shot back, then winced after the words popped out.

      Open mouth, insert foot. The first time she’d laid eyes on her new boss too.

      Would she ever learn to think before letting words come out? Cade McKendrick didn’t seem a warm, fuzzy—forgiving—sort of man. She was relieved when his lips curved up slightly in a smile.

      “Can’t argue that.” He glanced down at the paper on the desk in front of him. “I just figured P. J. Kirkland was a guy.”

      “That happens a lot.”

      “Hmm.” The leather chair creaked loudly as he sat down. Not surprising. His approximately six-foot-two-inch, solid-as-a-rock frame would make any piece of furniture groan. Not to mention most females she knew. Luckily, she was the exception.

      A good-looking man held no appeal for her. Not anymore. But she couldn’t help noticing that Cade McKendrick, with his deep blue eyes, sun-streaked brown hair and chiseled jaw, would not have to wear a bag over his head in public—unless he wanted to avoid female attention.

      P.J. held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. McKendrick.”

      “Cade,” he said leaning forward to squeeze her fingers. He indicated the chair in front of his desk and said, “Please sit down. What does P.J. stand for?”

      “Would you believe pajamas?”

      “No.”

      So much for trying to distract him with humor. Although brief, that flash of amusement on his rugged face moments ago had charmed her, and she’d hoped to bring it out again. But it was gone, as if it had never happened, replaced by an unreadable mask. He watched her intently, expectantly, waiting her out. He was going to make her tell him her full name. She would make him pay.

      “Penelope Jane,” she said quickly. “It’s nice—”

      “What’s wrong with Penelope Jane?” Even as he innocently asked, the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly as his mouth twitched. She had hoped to impress him with her razor-sharp wit, not her dippy name.

      She sighed. “Sounds like a character from a bad Doris Day movie.”

      “What’s wrong with Penny?”

      “Too cutesy. My older brother started using the initials and it stuck.”

      “Okay. So tell me what you know about kids.”

      “In twenty-five words or less?” she joked.

      “Okay.”

      He sounded serious. P.J. frowned. Her experience and qualifications were in the résumé she’d sent him. Now that she thought about it, the fact that she was a woman was clear in her introductory letter. But maybe this was his way of breaking the ice.

      “I teach high-school kids. Just completed my fourth year.” Her job in Valencia, California, was a far cry from his ranch near Santa Barbara. Hard to believe the two places were in the same state, only a couple hours apart by car.

      He nodded, apparently satisfied. “You can cook, right?”

      Shouldn’t this have been ironed out before she arrived? “If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t have answered your ad, in spite of the fact that this job is exactly what I need. The idea of a youth summer program on a ranch is innovative and a terrific opportunity. For children,” she added, knowing she was babbling. She was nervous. She couldn’t help it. He kept looking at her with those blue eyes that seemed to read every secret she had.

      “These kids aren’t children. They’re teenagers,” he said. “What’s your specialty? In food, I mean.”

      “I don’t do gourmet/fancy. But I know what kids like—hot dogs, hamburgers, tacos and fries are about as sophisticated as they get. I can make biscuits from scratch that will melt in your mouth. And my chocolate chip cookies wouldn’t be mistaken for hockey pucks,” she added, sacrificing modesty for honesty and complete objectivity.

      Small doubts began to creep in on her. This felt an awful lot like a job interview, but she’d been under the impression that she already had the position. He’d left the message on her answering machine that she was hired and the date he wanted her to start.

      She was about to ask a few incisive questions of her own when there was a loud crash outside his office door. P.J. jumped up and raced into the hall with Cade right behind her. There beside an antique accent table, she saw her daughter, Emily, with a shattered crystal photo frame on the distressed-oak floor at her feet.

      “Mommy—” Her child’s fearful gaze darted to Cade just before she scurried forward and buried her face against P.J.’s jean-clad leg.

      P.J. crouched down and gathered the seven-year-old in her arms. ‘ “What happened, sweetie? I told you to sit quietly and not touch anything while you waited for me.”

      “Mommy?” Cade frowned. “You brought a kid with you?”

      “Not a kid. My daughter, Emily.” PJ. took a deep breath to keep her anger at bay. How long before she learned that when something looked too good to be true it usually was? Case in point: a job on a ranch where she and Emily could live for the summer. It had seemed ideal. She would be able to work and still save money on child care. She might actually get ahead financially.

      She glared up at him. “I stated clearly in the letter accompanying my résumé that I had a child. I told you she would be coming with me. When you left the message that I had been hired, I assumed that you had gone over my qualifications carefully. But you haven’t even looked at my résumé, have you, Mr. McKendrick?”

      Before he could answer, Emily looked at him with red-rimmed green eyes. Her lips quivered when she said, “I—I’m sorry about the picture, mister.”

      He went down on one knee and lifted the photograph from the shards of glass. He studied the granite features of the gray-haired man, then said, “Forget it.”

      Emily stared at the picture in his hands. “But it must be special—”

      “Just my father,” he said.