“I got the impression last night that Luke isn’t too fond of the guest part of the guest ranch,” Josie said as a diversion.
Consuela nodded and scooped some softened butter into a bowl. “He didn’t want his father to build the lodge. They had a big argument, and Luke left the ranch. He only came back when his father was dying.” Consuela’s eyes grew sorrowful. “It was Mr. O’Dell’s corazon—his heart, God rest his soul.” She genuflected and gave a heavy sigh. “Now Luke has to run the lodge, and he hates it more than ever. He thinks his father worked himself to death over it. And it reminds him of the argument.”
“Why does he keep it open?”
“He has to, for the ends to make the meat.”
“I think you mean ‘for ends to meet.’”
“Si.” Consuela nodded as she added powdered sugar and vanilla to the butter. “Mr. O’Dell mortgaged the ranch to build the lodge. Now Luke has to operate it to make the payments.” She poured in heavy cream, then picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the ingredients together. “He’s hired professional managers, but none of them have lasted more than a couple of months.”
“Why not?”
“The first one was dishonest. The second one was—how do you say it?—incontinent.”
Josie grinned. “Incompetent?”
“Si. The last one said there was no chance for advancement, and he took another job. That was over a month ago, and we’re having a hard time finding a replacement.” Consuela drizzled the freshly made icing over the cinnamon buns. “In the meantime, Luke’s wearing both hats.”
Josie was about to ask another question when the door pushed open and there Luke stood, his frame filling the doorway, holding one of those hats in his hand. It was a brown Stetson, and it looked as worn as his faded jeans and denim jacket. The sight of him made the butterflies she’d felt earlier metamorphose into bat wings.
Luke froze in the doorway as his eyes met hers. A nerve worked in his jaw. “I thought you’d be on your way back to Tulsa by now to kiss and make up.”
Josie forced herself to continue calmly peeling the potato in her hand. “Why would you think a thing like that?”
“Because your fiancé called last night, and these little lovers’ tiffs have a way of working themselves out.”
“Wrong on three counts.” Josie dropped the peeled potato into the bowl and picked up another spud, trying hard to hide the fact her pulse was unaccountably racing. “Robert is my ex-fiancé. And it wasn’t a tiff.”
“That’s two. What’s the third?”
Josie felt the color rise in her cheeks as she attacked the potato. For the life of her, she didn’t want him to know how he rattled her. She tried to keep her voice cool, her tone offhanded. “We were never lovers, either.”
Luke had surmised as much from their conversation last night, but he took an unexplained pleasure in hearing her say it. Not that it mattered to him, Luke thought. It made no difference to him either way.
It bothered him, though, to see her act as if the whole thing were over and done with—as if she had no feelings for the guy at all. He’d seen this behavior before. From his experience, the more a woman insisted she didn’t care for a man, the more she actually did.
He tossed his hat on the seat of a ladder-back chair by the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets. “He must have meant something to you, if you were going to marry him.”
“Her family pushed her into the engagement,” Consuela chimed in. “She didn’t really love him.”
Startled, Luke jerked around to find Consuela on the opposite side of the kitchen, watching the exchange with undisguised interest. He’d been so focused on Josie he hadn’t even registered the fact the housekeeper was in the room.
True to form, Consuela had wasted no time getting the inside scoop, Luke thought wryly. Hard to believe she’d fallen for Josie’s I-never-loved-the-guy routine, though. She was usually so shrewd about these things.
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