shut the truck door and jogged up to the tractor, where Austin was sitting, already forming an attachment to the man. “You allowed to drive?” Annie heard Mitch ask her son.
He shook his head. If Austin said anything, Annie couldn’t hear it. It’d been a bone of contention between them. He thought he was old enough. Maybe he was. Maybe she babied him too much, overprotected him. Farm life was different for kids. Several of his friends drove tractors already.
But Austin was likely the only child she would have, because she sure wasn’t getting married ever again, so she probably clung to him too much. She would only have him for eight more years before he was a man, and she’d pretty much been mother and father to him since her ex left. If Austin really did get to fly to San Diego to visit his dad, Annie would be amazed, because he made a lot of promises he never kept.
At least Mitch didn’t interfere. He told Austin to slide over, then squeezed himself next to her son. After the first jerk to get the chain taut, it was a smooth, slow ride into the shed. She wondered if the truck really could be fixed. How did he get parts for a nearly sixty-year-old vehicle?
“Is this home for you? The Red Valley?” she asked him as he crouched to unhook the chains from his truck. Austin had taken off with his dog, an Australian shepherd named Bo, who loved to chase the chickens, satisfying his herding instincts.
“Yep.” Mitch moved to the tractor. Her gaze dropped to his rear as he crouched down again.
She could stare at that fine feature all day. The rest of him, too. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, slim hips. All man. She deliberately looked away. “Why were you in Argentina?”
“For work.”
Great. Now he’d decided to act more like a cowboy and go almost silent. “Cattle, you said.”
“The opportunity came up. I went.”
“Is your family still living in the area?”
“Yep. We’re not estranged. I’m just kinda independent.”
“Stubborn, you mean?”
He smiled at that as he stood, chains in hand. Using his wrist he tilted his hat back a little. His teeth were white and straight, his lips tempting. “Some have said so.”
“So, you’ve worked cattle. Have you farmed?”
“I’ve picked up a lot of life skills along the way. I’m thirty-six, in case you’re wondering.”
“I’m thirty. In case you were.”
He nodded but didn’t comment. No flattery. No, “you sure don’t look your age” compliment. Did she look older? Worn-out? Technically she should, since she was tuckered out from stringing her little farm along, hoping to turn it into a thriving enterprise again, needing to make enough money to live on with a few more comforts than they had now, which were pretty much nonexistent.
Mitch reached into the truck. “If I could stow my gear, I’ll get started on the old greenhouse.”
“I’ll show you which room is yours,” she said, walking beside him. “Austin, grab some gloves so you can help with the demo work. We’ll be right back.”
Annie led the way down the narrow hallway, pointing out Austin’s room and her own, then Mitch’s. It was beyond sparse, containing only a double bed, a dresser and a lamp.
“It’s not much,” she said, no apology in her voice.
“It’s fine. Don’t need more’n this. Thanks.” He tossed his duffel on the floor next to the bed.
She moved into the doorway, blocking his exit. He cocked his head. His mouth curled up on one side.
“Ma’am?” he said politely, pointedly, his eyes taking on some sparkle.
“I’ll be needing you to dump the contents of your bag onto your bed.”
The smile left his face. He crossed his arms. “That would be an invasion of my privacy.”
She moved into the room, shutting the door behind her in case Austin came flying in. “No. This would be your background check.”
Chapter Two
Mitch didn’t have anything to hide, but her command annoyed him nonetheless. Hell, he was doing her a favor, not vice versa. Although, to be fair, she didn’t know that….
He refrained from jerking the bag open, acting casual instead. He lifted out the contents. First, five pairs of Wranglers, the same ones he’d been wearing since he left home, so they were a little worse for wear. Then four T-shirts, four long-sleeved shirts, an extra pair of boots, swim trunks, socks, briefs, belt, gloves and a couple of different weight jackets. Nothing fancy. He’d lived as a gaucho, although he’d been employed by one progressive ranch, not roaming the plains looking for work as many did. He hadn’t needed possessions beyond the basics.
Mitch pulled out his shaving kit, unzipped it and passed it to her. Nothing was American-made, so the words were in Spanish, but each product was recognizable, including a strip of condoms, which brought color to her face when she pulled them out.
“Safety first,” he said, enjoying her discomfort. “They’re not for show. I always use ‘em.” The last thing he’d wanted was to deal with an unplanned pregnancy in a foreign country—or anywhere else, for that matter.
“That’s important,” she replied a little stiffly, uttering her first words since he’d started unpacking. She examined the empty duffel bag, checking for anything he might have tried to hide, he guessed. There were no pockets, no hidden contraband.
“I don’t do drugs, Annie. Never have.”
“Are you a drinker?”
“I like a cold beer now and then.” He’d done his share of drinking when he’d first arrived in Argentina. Still grieving his grandfather’s death, he’d sought oblivion from the pain, but it hadn’t taken him long to see how stupid that was. Granddad would’ve knocked him alongside the head for hanging on to his grief—and his guilt.
“You and your son are safe with me,” he said calmly as he transferred his clothes to the dresser, getting past his resentment, glad she hadn’t been stupid about the situation, after all. He almost felt Granddad patting his shoulder. “You’re welcome to check out my truck, too.”
“Thank you.” She opened the bedroom door.
“Like I had any choice,” he muttered under his breath as he followed her out. He’d lived in the Red Valley forever, not counting the past three years and during college, coming home to work the ranch during summer breaks. People knew him, trusted him. It was strange not to be trusted automatically. Although, maybe he would’ve been if he’d given her his last name.
Outside, Mitch attached a long, low trailer to the tractor and drove it up to the demolished greenhouse. The new structure she’d bought was lighter, and could be erected by one person, according to the packaging. High tunnel greenhouses had become familiar sites in farm country over the years, their Quonset-hut appearance
