Passion Flower

“Have you always been that thin?” he persisted.

“No. Not until I got pneumonia,” she said. “I just went straight downhill. I suppose I just kept pushing too hard. It caught up with me.”

“How’s the paperwork coming along?”

“Oh, I’m doing fine,” she said. “Your handwriting is very clear. I’ve had some correspondence to type for doctors that required translation.”

“Who did you get to translate?”

She grinned. “The nearest pharmacist. They have experience, you see.”

He smiled at her briefly before he bit into his sandwich. He made a second one, but she noticed that he ignored the salad.

“Don’t you want some of this?” she asked, indicating the salad bowl.

“I’m not a rabbit,” he informed her.

“It’s very good for you.”

“So is liver, I’m told, but I won’t eat that either.” He finished his sandwich and got up to pour himself another cup of coffee.”

“Then why do you keep lettuce and tomatoes?”

He glanced at her. “I like it on sandwiches.”

This was a great time to tell her, after she’d used it all up in the salad. Just like a man...

“You could have dug it out of here,” she said weakly.

He cocked an eyebrow. “With salad dressing all over it?”

“You could scrape it off...”

“I don’t like broccoli or cauliflower, and never fix creamed beef,” he added. “I’m more or less a meat and potatoes man.”

“I’ll sure remember that from now on, Mr. Culhane,” she promised. “I’ll be careful to use potatoes instead of apples in the pie I’m fixing for supper.”

He glared at her. “Funny girl. Why don’t you go on the stage?”

“Because you’d starve to death and weigh heavily on my conscience,” she promised. “Some man named Brickmayer called and asked did you have a farrier’s hammer he could borrow.” She glanced up. “What’s a farrier?”

He burst out laughing. “A farrier is a man who shoes horses.”

“I’d like a horse,” she sighed. “I’d put him in saddle oxfords.”

“Go back to work. But slowly,” he added from the doorway. “I don’t want you knocking yourself into a sickbed on my account.”

“You can count on me, sir,” she promised, with a wry glance. “I’m much too afraid of your cooking to ever be at the mercy of it.”

He started to say something, turned, and went out the door.

Jennifer spent the rest of the day finishing up the typing. Then she swept and dusted and made supper—a ham-and-egg casserole, biscuits, and cabbage. Supper sat on the table, however, and began to congeal. Eventually, she warmed up a little of it for herself, ate it, put the rest in the refrigerator, and went to bed. She had a feeling it was an omen for the future. He’d mentioned something that first day about rarely being home before bedtime. But couldn’t he have warned her at lunch?

She woke up on time her second morning at the ranch. By 6:15 she was moving gracefully around the spacious kitchen in jeans and a green T-shirt. Apparently, Everett didn’t mind what she wore, so she might as well be comfortable. She cooked a huge breakfast of fresh sausage, eggs, and biscuits, and made a pot of coffee.

Everything was piping hot and on the table when Everett came into the kitchen in nothing but his undershorts. Barefooted and bare-chested, he was enough to hold any woman’s eyes. Jennifer, who’d seen her share of almost-bare men on the beaches, stood against the counter and stared like a starstruck girl. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on that big body and he was covered with thick black hair—all over his chest, his flat stomach, his broad thighs. He was as sensuously male as any leading man on television, and she couldn’t drag her fascinated eyes away.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, his eyes faintly amused at what he recognized as shocked fascination. “I thought I heard something moving around down here. It’s just as well I took time to climb into my shorts.” And he turned away to leave her standing there, gaping after him.

A minute later he was back, whipping a belt around the faded blue denims he’d stepped into. He was still barefooted and bare-chested as he sat down at the table across from her.

“I thought I told you to stay in bed,” he said as he reached for a biscuit.

“I was afraid you’d keel over out on the plains and your horse wouldn’t be able to toss you onto his back and bring you home.” She grinned at his puzzled expression. “Well, that’s what Texas horses do in western movies.”

He chuckled. “Not my horse. He’s barely smart enough to find the barn when he’s hungry.” He buttered the biscuit. “My aunt used to cook like this,” he remarked. “Biscuits as light as air.”

“Sometimes they bounce,” she warned him. “I got lucky.”

He gave her a wary glance. “If these biscuits are any indication, so did I,” he murmured.

“I saw a henhouse out back. Do I gather the eggs every day?”

“Yes, but watch where you put your hand,” he cautioned. “Snakes have been known to get in there.”

She shuddered delicately, nodding.

They ate in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. “You’re a good cook, Jenny.”

She grinned. “My mother taught me. She was terrific.”

“Are your parents still alive?”

She shook her head, feeling a twinge of nostalgia. “No. They died several months ago, in a plane crash.”

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

“Very.” She glanced at him. “Are your parents dead?”

His face closed up. “Yes,” he said curtly, and in a tone that didn’t encourage further questions.

She looked up again, her eyes involuntarily lingering on his bare chest. She felt his gaze, and abruptly averted her own eyes back to her empty plate.

He got up after a minute and went back to his bedroom. When he came out, he was tucking in a buttoned khaki shirt, and wearing boots as well. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said. “Now, how about taking it easy for the rest of the day? I want to be sure you’re up to housework before you pitch in with both hands.”

“I won’t do anything I’m not able to do,” she promised.

“I’ve got some rope in the barn,” he said with soft menace, while his eyes measured her for it.