he asked. “I can send one of the boys up to give you a hand.”
Chloe shook her head. “No, he’ll get Peter’s room just as it is. Clean sheets is about as far as I’ll go to get it ready for him. And as far as propriety’s concerned, I’ve been doing a man’s job for a lot of years already, Hogan. Folks quit talking about me a long time ago. I don’t think half of them even consider me a woman. I’m just a rancher. And that suits me just fine.”
Hogan shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not, Chloe. This might be a good thing for you, set you to thinking about woman stuff, instead of pushin’ yourself so hard. And another thing. You gonna be doing the cooking for Flannery, or send him out to the bunkhouse for his grub?”
She hesitated and then, casting another long look at the town road, made her decision. “I’ll feed him in the house. If it was Peter, I’d cook for him. The man is half owner, no matter whether I like it or not. And once Aunt Tilly gets here, she’ll be cooking for everyone anyway.”
“Chloe?” From the bottom step of the long, curved stairway, J.T. called her name, then listened as light footsteps moved overhead. A door opened and closed and he watched as Chloe hesitated at the top of the stairs. “Hogan said you were fixing up a room for me.”
“Did he?” Her foot touched the top step, and she grasped the banister as she made her way toward him. Pausing two steps above him, she hesitated, looking down at his upturned face. “I’d begun to think your hat was a permanent part of you,” she said idly, her gaze lifting to where dark waves cascaded almost to his collar.
“I take it off every once in a while,” he told her. “When I eat and sleep anyway.” Refusing to give way, he watched her patiently, waiting for her response, and then nudged her with another query.
“What changed your mind?”
“About the room?” Her shrug lifted one shoulder. “You own half the house. The least I could do was let you have one room to sleep in.”
He stepped back, allowing her passage past him, and then followed as she moved down the wide hallway to the kitchen. Leaning his shoulder on the doorjamb, he watched as she snatched an apron from a hook near the pantry, halting at the sink to wash her hands.
“I’m heating up chicken soup from last night, if you’d like to have a bowl,” she told him. “I’ll cook supper after a while, but this ought to hold you over for now.”
“I appreciate that.” For some reason she’d changed her tune, and he searched her profile for a clue to her mood. Women were usually a puzzle, and this one was no exception. “Some reason why you’ve decided to allow me in the house?” he asked, noting the subtle hesitation in her movements at his words. She paused in the pantry door, cans of fruit in her hands.
“I already explained that.” The cans hit the table with a thump. “You own half of it,” she said simply. “Or at least half of the part that isn’t mortgaged.”
J.T. ambled toward the round table in the middle of the room. “I didn’t know there was a mortgage on it. Peter didn’t tell me that.” He shot her a sidelong glance as he pulled a chair from beneath the oilcloth-draped table, then hesitated. An offer of help might be appreciated. “You want me to get out the dishes?”
“All right.” She pulled a kettle from the back of the stove, lifting the lid to inspect the contents. “This is almost ready. We’ll have shortcake with it. I made biscuits.” The tinned peaches sat on the buffet and she pulled out a can opener from a drawer, offering it in his direction. “You know how to use one of these?”
“I reckon I can figure it out,” he said, tossing the utensil in the air and catching it by the handle. “I’ve kept one in my saddlebag ever since I discovered all the different things I could do with it.”
“Those saddlebags looked pretty flat to me,” she said, lifting an eyebrow as she glanced again in his direction. “You travel light.”
“Doesn’t pay to haul too much around with you, I’ve found,” he said, working at the cans of peaches. “Where do you want these?”
Chloe pointed at a blue bowl on the buffet. “Pour them in there. Soup bowls are in the left hand door, spoons are on the table in the jar.” She picked up a ladle and lifted the lid of the kettle, watching as the steam rose. “Why don’t you hand me the bowls?”
Abandoning the peaches for a moment, J.T. did as she asked, reaching to accept the hot vessel from her hand. Beneath his callused fingers, the back of her hand was soft, and he thought she slid it from his touch with haste. But not rapidly enough to dispel the effect of warm skin and the faint scent of soap wafting from her hair.
He placed the bowl on the table with care, reflecting on the woman behind him. This wasn’t in the plan, this sudden awareness of her as a female. He’d assessed her yesterday, viewed her with an eye to getting in her good graces, hoping to ease into the running of this operation without any amount of hassle. That alone had been a futile thought, he decided, recalling her eyes spitting fury in his direction.
Taking a liking to the woman was a far cry from being attracted to the female element. And why that was a fact was beyond his reckoning right now. He only knew that for a moment, there’d been a recognition of that subtle warming within him that signaled desire.
“I’ll get the biscuits from the oven,” Chloe said from behind him, and he turned, grasping the second bowl, only to find she’d slid her hand from contact with his, her eyes avoiding him. Her movements were brisk as she retrieved the biscuits, as if she were more than familiar with the kitchen and the tasks inherent in providing meals. Yet, who had she cooked for, he wondered. The boy had taken his leave months before, apparently.
Chloe had been alone. Alone with a handful of ranch hands, and the awesome responsibility of turning a profit from a ranch that was struggling along without a bank account to dip into. Damn. Peter Biddleton had a lot to answer for.
“Who’s Aunt Tilly?” he asked idly, picking a spoon from the jar in the center of the table.
“My father’s sister,” Chloe told him. “Where did you hear about her?”
“Hogan told me she’d be here soon.” He grinned. “That was when he told me there’d be a chaperon to keep me in line.”
Chloe turned a sharp look in his direction. “You’ll mind your manners or end up in the bunkhouse, Aunt Tilly or no.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the fragrant soup. “She came to us after Pa died, pitched in and took care of things. I ended up working the ranch, taking Pa’s place. When cold weather came that year, she took a train south to her daughter’s place for the winter. Did the same thing before the first snowfall back before Christmas. I got a letter from her last week, saying she’d be back as soon as the weather broke, probably within two weeks.”
“Did you ever think of offering her a permanent job here?”
Chloe looked up at him as she buttered a biscuit. “She may decide to stick around, once she sees you here. She’s a real stickler when it comes to respectability, and she won’t like the idea of our sharing the house.”
“I pretty much expected a battle over that,” he said quietly. “You surprised me, Chloe.”
“I’ve learned there’s some things you’ve just got to live with,” she said. “It seems you’re
