The Wrong Cowboy

“And feeding children isn’t part of taking care of them?” He shook his head then, even as another question formed. “Who do you think will be cooking for the children once we arrive at my—M-Mick’s house?”

“The cook, of course.”

Stafford took great pleasure in stating, “Mick doesn’t have a cook.”

Her expression was a cross between shock and horror. “He doesn’t?”

“Nope.” Having hot meals waiting for him at home was just one of the many things Mick proclaimed a wife would do, and knowing that wasn’t about to happen had Stafford’s mood growing more cheerful by the second.

“Who cooks for him?”

“He cooks for himself.” Seeing her frown deepening had Stafford adding, “Once in a while he eats over at my place.”

“Your place?”

He nodded.

“I thought you said—” She stopped to square her shoulders. “Don’t you live with Mick—Mr. Wagner?”

Shoot, he’d forgotten about that. Then he’d been too happy to see her look of shock to explain everything fully. “We live on the same ranch, in different houses.”

Frowning, she said, “Oh,” and then asked, “Who cooks for you?”

The older boys had brought an armload of wood to Jackson, who was busy digging a fire hole, and Stafford started walking that way. “Me.”

Marie was certain her stomach had landed on the ground near her heels. Her entire being sagged near there, too. No cook? That possibility had never occurred to her. Everyone had a cook. Everyone she’d ever worked for, anyway. Miss Wentworth had assured her it would be that way. Nursemaids weren’t expected to cook.