The Bachelor Tax

Her hands clenched, fingers gripping fabric warmed by the flesh beneath it, and she leaned against him, her legs seemingly useless beneath her.

If Tanner had thought to frighten her half to death, he was well on the way to success, Rosemary thought frantically. His big body was wedging her against the buggy wheel and his mouth had taken unforgivable liberties. His grin had vanished, and now he was looking at her as if he were angry as sin.

His dark eyes were mere slits, his skin was pulled tight over his cheek and jaw, and his mouth was only inches from her own. Rosemary opened her lips, whether to speak or call for help, she couldn’t decide, and then closed her eyes against the sight of his frightening visage.

“Now, sweetheart,” he whispered harshly. “Tell me why you came to visit.”

Her lashes flew open, and he shook his head. “No, just shut those blue eyes and answer me.”

“I can’t,” she wailed.

His voice was a purr. “Sure you can.”

She inhaled sharply and the words spurted forth, as if shot by rifle fire. “I came to take you up on your offer, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Changed your mind? Why?”

“I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“Did you get a better offer?” His eyes glittered, his head lifting a bit as he scanned her face.

“No!” She shrank from him, the buggy wheel unforgiving against her back.

“I thought you didn’t want to marry me. You turned me down, Miss Gibson.”

How he could call her by such a formal address when his tongue had been almost touching her teeth just moments ago was beyond her comprehension. “I didn’t, actually,” Rosemary muttered.

“Sure sounded like it to me.”

Rosemary shook her head. “As I recall, I only asked you why you wanted to marry me. I didn’t turn you down flat.”

He leaned back, his eyes flashing, his jaw jutting forward. The lips that had touched hers were still damp and he barely opened them as he spoke. “You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Now you’ve decided to take me up on the offer?”

“I don’t think so. Well, maybe.”

His hands moved, long fingers tugging at the pins that held her hair in place. The heavy bone pins fell to the ground, and she was aware of the weight of her long hair falling around her shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

“If you’re gonna marry me, I have a right to look at what I’m gettin’, don’t I?”

“Now?”

His grin was quick and lethal, taking her breath. “I can’t think of a better time.” He lifted the weight of her hair and allowed it to cling to his long fingers, running his hands through the tresses, watching intently as the waves flowed across her shoulders to rest against her bosom.

“Please, Mr. Tanner,” she managed to squeak. “I think you’re taking liberties with me.”

His fingers clenched for a moment, and then he released her with an oath muttered beneath his breath. She cringed from the sound.

“I haven’t hurt you, Miss Gibson. You’ve no reason to flinch from me.” He stepped back from her, and his wide palms and long fingers formed fists.

Her gaze sought the whereabouts of those formidable weapons and she shivered, even as hot sunshine poured from above. “You look ready to do battle, Mr. Tanner.”

He followed her gaze and slowly unclenched his hands, wiping them distractedly against the sides of his denim pants. “I might use them on a deserving sidewinder on occasion, but I don’t hit ladies. Ever.”

“That’s most reassuring, sir.” She hated the slight tremor in her voice, despised the weakness in her knees, and abhorred the fate that had sent her to this man. And yet, there was no help for it. She’d had to come. Her mind grasped at words Bates Comstock had spoken during the hour long ride.

Perhaps she might have the answer to the problem. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

“Maybe marriage is not the answer for us. I understand you need a cook,” Rosemary said, calling forth her reserves of courage. Whether or not she could bear the sight of this man on a daily basis was not a question to be considered right now. Nor was his ability to send icy fingers of alarm down her backbone.

He frowned, looking puzzled. “A cook?”

Rosemary smirked at him. Tanner decided there was no other word to describe the look that possessed her features as her gaze slid over his face. “Yes, you know. One of those women who stand in front of a stove and serve up food for hungry menfolk.”

He shoved his palms into the back pockets of his pants and rocked on his heels. “Oh, yes. I’m very aware of the duties of a cook, Miss Gibson…but I didn’t know that you were.”

“Really? You might be surprised. Perhaps you would like to hire me. I bake wonderful pies.” Rosemary’s eyes were defiant, her jaw set.

“Mama Pearl does for us. What makes you think I’m in the market for someone else?” he asked. “Besides, I thought you were hell-bent on being my wife.”

Her lashes drifted to rest against her cheek for a moment, then rose, and he was struck by the brilliance of her eyes, as blue as the birds that nested in his fenceposts on the far side of the pasture.

“Put that aside for the moment. I have to wonder what you eat the other six days of the week when Mama Pearl isn’t here,” she murmured, those smart-aleck words sliding artlessly from between rosy lips.

“We make do.” And that was the truth. “Make do” was about the best he and his men had done. They’d gotten sick of meat tossed into a frying pan and cooked to shoe leather. They’d eaten eggs every which way but edible, and choked them down because not one man Jack of them knew how to make them taste any better than the last.

“Make do?” She eyed him dubiously. “Just what does that mean?”

Tanner’s chin jutted, and he felt the heat rise from his throat. Now she had him defending the food his ranch hands ate. And how the conversation had taken this tack he surely didn’t know.

“It won’t matter once I marry you, will it? And who told you I needed a cook here, anyway?”

“Mr. Comstock mentioned it on the way out from town.”

“I’ll just bet he did,” Gabe muttered, his frustrated glare aimed at the barn. “So which position are you applying for, Miss Gibson? Or are you just tryin’ to get my goat?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Maybe, what?”

“I’ve been looking for a job in town, without much success. Perhaps working for you might be the answer. To tell you the truth, cooking for you beats accepting your marriage proposal.”

“I think I just took it back, anyway,” Tanner said bluntly. “I’m not sure you’d be the sort of wife I need.”