Courtship, Montana Style

“Yo, man! Look at them wheels!”

“Hey, she’s got a baby. My mom had a baby.”

“Bet I could get you fifty, maybe sixty bucks for those cool hubcaps. You wanna sell, lady?”

“Hold it!” Walker bellowed. He’d lost control of the situation and he damn well was going to get it back.

The boys snapped to attention. Even the woman pulled her shoulders back, her expression startled and wide-eyed.

“Let’s take this whole thing a little slower,” Walker said. “This lady is—”

“Lizzie Thomas,” she repeated.

“From?” he prodded.

“Merry Maids, Inc.”

Which Walker had never heard of but, based on the out-of-state license plates on her car, he concluded it was in Nevada. “And you’re here because?”

“Because you stated very clearly in this magazine article that you need a housekeeper.”

She spoke in a reasonable tone, her voice slightly bluesy and very sexy, yet it wasn’t a reasonable statement at all. He didn’t need a housekeeper. Well, he did, but he couldn’t afford one and he sure as hell wasn’t equipped to house a woman and her baby at the ranch.

“Wow! That’s great!” Scotty, the youngest of the boys at age twelve, leaned forward to chuck the baby under her chin.

“Your hands are dirty, son,” Walker warned.

“No, they’re not. I washed ’em—”

“Enough! I’m not going to start an argument about dirty hands. We’re going to start from the beginning and do this right.” So Walker could get to the bottom of what was going on.

“These are my foster sons, Miss Thomas. Take off your hats, boys.” They all responded, even Speed. “Scotty here is the one enamored of the baby. His real name is Donald MacLeod and you can figure his red hair is one of the reasons we call him Scotty.”

“Hello, Scotty. It’s fine if you want to touch Suzanne. A little dirt won’t hurt her.”

Walker scowled. This was his show, his ranch. No pretty little filly with a quick smile and long, red fingernails was going to muscle her way in here without his say-so. Which he wasn’t about to give.

“Our resident expert on the value of assorted car parts is Fridge—Arnold Bullock,” Walker continued. “He can empty a refrigerator in one sitting and a junkyard in about fifteen minutes, if you give him a chance. Which we try not to do.”

Her amused smile shot a flush to the boy’s cheeks, which were just beginning to show the first signs of growing whiskers.

“And Bean Pole here is Chad Stringer, one of my best cowhands on a horse.” On land, he was so clumsy he was barely able to walk around without falling over his own feet, a trait Walker recalled all too clearly from his own adolescent years. “He outgrows a pair of jeans faster than Fridge can empty the refrigerator.”

Lizzie nodded to the boys. “I’m glad to meet all of you.”

“You’ve met Speed, my foreman, and the dog’s name is Bandit.”

She smiled at the dog and reached down to let Bandit smell the back of her hand. While she petted the top of his head, she kept the baby safely out of the dog’s reach.

“Now then, the formalities are taken care of…” He tucked his fingers in his jeans pockets. “I don’t know what made you think my comment in that magazine meant I was ready to hire the first housekeeper who showed up at my door. Or any housekeeper, for that matter, and certainly not one with a baby. You’ll have to go back to wherever—”

“Aw, boss,” Scotty complained. “I know how to take care of a baby. I can even change diapers. It’s a snap.”

Lizzie Thomas seemed unperturbed by Walker’s announcement. “Merry Maids anticipated you might need some convincing so they’ve agreed to cover my salary during my probationary period in order that I might prove my worth to you. So if someone could show me to my quarters?”

She was going to stay? Good God, things were going from bad to worse. And why did she avoid looking him in the eye, her gaze darting away every few seconds like a truant caught out of school? Something was definitely not right here.

“Well, now,” Speed drawled, “I’d say that’s mighty generous of your employer.”

“Can I carry the baby?” Scotty asked. “I’ll be real careful.”

“Of course.” The youngster received another one of her smiles.

“Have you got suitcases and stuff?” Fridge asked. “I can carry them—”

“Wait!” Walker bellowed again. “I guess I didn’t make myself clear. We don’t need a housekeeper or a baby—”

The baby in question added her own objection, startled awake by Walker’s shouting. Speed, all three boys and Miss Thomas hastened to soothe the infant, losing interest in what Walker had to say. In contrast, Bandit retreated to the side of the house, running at a crouch.

Scotty picked the baby up out of the car seat, holding her to his shoulder and patting her on the back with considerable expertise. Meanwhile Lizzie began directing her remaining devotees to her luggage in the BMW’s trunk and the baby’s supplies in the back seat.

Walker stood in the driveway with about as much animation as a tree stump, having no idea how things had gotten so far out of hand. In a matter of minutes, Lizzie Thomas had bewitched his foreman and his boys. And if the truth were known, she’d come close to doing the same to Walker. That slow, sexy smile of hers and her bluesy voice were enough to make any man rethink the merits of extended celibacy.

Except her story didn’t make any sense. Housekeepers didn’t simply show up at a man’s front door willing to work for nothing. Not when he had adolescent boys in the house who were allergic to baths and cleaning up after themselves.

Nope. Something was screwy about Lizzie Thomas’s story. It would be downright interesting to know why she, or someone else, had gone to so much trouble to set up this cockamamy scheme.

For the moment, Walker figured he didn’t have much choice but to follow everyone else into the house. Soon enough he’d discover what Lizzie was up to.

And then she’d be gone in a hurry.

As he pulled open the screen door, he caught the lingering scent of a sultry perfume, feminine and inviting, and a little bit tropical. Not the boys. And sure as hell not Speed.

At some gut level, Walker sensed that if Lizzie stuck around very long, the Double O would never be the same.

For the life of him, he couldn’t be sure whether that was a good thing—or a bad one.

ELIZABETH STIFLED A SIGH of relief as she entered the house. Never in her life had she been so brazen. Lied so blatantly. Or been so rude. But she had managed to get past the first obstacle, which had turned out to be Walker Oakes himself.

The magazine article had been deceiving. From the photo of Walker wearing a Stetson pulled down low on his forehead and a weather-aged sheepskin jacket, she had assumed he’d be a much older man. Not midthirties with saddle-brown hair, an arresting face that squint lines had filled with character and a rugged physique snugged into skintight jeans. She might well have given up her plan if she’d known what a formidable opponent he’d be. Nothing like the men in her life who wore dark suits and ties to work and designer polo shirts on the golf course.

“Ms. Lizzie, where do you want me to put your stuff?” Fridge asked.

She shuddered at the nickname she’d given herself. Her mother would have a fit if she knew, much preferring the formal version.

“Perhaps we should ask Mr. Oakes his preference?” She tipped her head back to look up at him with the sweetest expression she could manage. Given his height, a woman dancing with him would find his shoulder a perfect spot to rest her head—and she wondered wherever that thought had come from.

Skeptical bronze eyes snared her. “I think you know my preference.”