Cattleman's Heart

“Right.” Rebecca stepped into the utility room. A washer and dryer took up half of one wall, the other half lined with coat hooks and a collection of jackets. Below them, several pairs of rubber or leather boots stood. The far wall had more hooks for jackets and the door to the back step, standing open with the screen door outside closed. To her left, cabinets lined the wall on each side of a door. She pulled open the door, flicked on the switch and carefully descended steep stairs to the cool, concrete-walled basement. Rough plank shelves lined the walls, filled with enough canned goods to feed an army. She found the gunny sack of potatoes leaning against the wall. Juggling an armful, she left the basement for the kitchen and crossed to the sink. Hank shot her a glance when she tumbled the pile into the sink and began to wash them. Without commenting, she scrubbed them clean, deftly stabbed each three times with a knife from the block atop the counter and slipped them into the oven, setting the temperature at four hundred.

“Potatoes are in,” she told Hank. “What else can I do?”

When Jackson opened the back door and stepped into the utility room off the kitchen, it was nearly six-thirty. He was hot, dirty and tired. And he still hadn’t decided what he was going to do about Rebecca Wallingford.

He saw her through the screen door to the kitchen the minute he stepped into the utility room. She was standing with her back to him, stirring something in a pan on the stove. Gone was the sophisticated black business suit and heels, replaced by a gathered white skirt that cinched in at her narrow waist and left the smooth, tanned length of legs bare from above her knees. The old radio on the shelf by the back door was tuned to a rock-and-roll station, and her ebony ponytail swung back and forth, brushing her nape as she swayed to the music.

Emotions, basic and primitive, stirred in Jackson. He easily recognized the surge of lust in the mix. Rebecca Wallingford was a beautiful woman; he’d have to be a eunuch not to respond to her. The other reactions were more difficult to analyze. He suspected that it had something to do with coming in from work and finding a beautiful woman cooking dinner in his kitchen. The inferences to hearth and home and a woman of his own were obvious.

Oh, no. I’m not going there.

He stepped inside the kitchen and turned down the volume on the radio. Rebecca spun around, her hand flying to her heart.

“Oh, it’s you. You startled me.”

“Sorry.” For a long moment, he couldn’t look away from wide emerald eyes fringed with thick black lashes. She had a mouth that conjured up erotic fantasies, and the green tank top clung to full breasts that the suit jacket she’d worn earlier had concealed. He realized that he was staring and yanked his gaze away from her chest to glance past her at the stove. “Where’s Hank?”

“He went to the basement to find canned peaches for dessert.”

Behind Jackson, the sound of male voices and laughter grew louder. The back-room door slapped shut, then the inner screen door opened and two men stepped into the kitchen. They halted abruptly just inside the door and stared at Rebecca with identical expressions of surprise and interest.

“Whoa. Who’s this?”

The taller of the two grinned at her, his blue eyes alive with interest on an open, friendly face beneath close-cropped blond hair. The other man was shorter, with dark brown hair and a handsome face. Rebecca instinctively liked the taller man and withheld judgment on the handsome one.

She glanced at Jackson and found him watching her reaction, eyes narrowed.

“This is the accountant. She’ll be staying here for the next couple of months or so. Rebecca Wallingford,” he nodded at the blond man, “this is Gib Thompson…”

“Hello.” The lanky young man grinned and nodded a greeting.

“…and Mick Haworth.”

“Pleased to meet you.” An engaging smile wreathed Mick’s handsome face.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“Where are you from, Rebecca?” Gib asked.

“San Francisco.”

“Yeah? Are you…”

“Out of the way.” Hank’s testy voice interrupted them. He elbowed his way past Mick and Gib and shot them a glare. “If you two want to eat tonight, you’d better get washed up. I ain’t waitin’ dinner on you while you stand here jawin’ with Rebecca.”

The two shot Rebecca apologetic looks and left the room. Their boots sounded on the stairs, the din of their friendly arguing floating behind them down the stairway.

“You, too, boss.”

Jackson left the kitchen without comment. The radio played an old Stones tune as his boots sounded on the stair treads.

By the time Jackson and the other two came back downstairs, faces, hands and arms washed free of dust and grime, Rebecca was folding napkins and tucking them under silverware. The maple table was set with mismatched china, a crockery bowl filled with salad greens and red tomatoes making a bright spot of color against the wooden tabletop. Hank forked steaks onto a platter and set it on the table.

“Well, come on, set down and eat before everything gets cold.”

Chairs scraped against the wooden floor, Mick and Gib jostling each other to pull out Rebecca’s chair. Jackson gave them a steely glare and they retreated to their own seats. Rebecca calmly seated herself and picked up her napkin.

For a few moments, the silence was punctuated only by requests to pass food and the scrape of spoons and forks against bowls and plates.

The quiet was broken by Gib.

“So, Rebecca, you’re an accountant? In San Francisco?”

“Yes.” She picked up her water glass and sipped. “I work for an investment firm downtown.”

“And you do this often?” Mick asked.

Rebecca glanced up. “Do I do what often?”

“Travel to a strange place and live with strangers?”

“I travel a lot,” she conceded. “But I usually stay in a hotel room by myself.”

“And that doesn’t bother you, traveling all the time?” Gib asked, his voice curious.

“No, not at all. I like visiting new places, meeting new people.”

“And you don’t miss being at home?”

Rebecca had a quick mental image of her San Francisco apartment with its few pieces of furniture and the unpacked boxes still shoved into closets after three years. Her busy traveling life left little time to build a nest. “I miss San Francisco,” she admitted. “I love the city. But I rarely get homesick when I’m away. I’m usually too busy working and exploring a new city.”

“So most of your jobs are in the city?” Mick asked, ignoring his half-eaten steak to stare at her.

“Until now, all of my clients have been located in medium to large cities. But that doesn’t mean that our firm never has clients in smaller towns.”

“But you’ve never worked in a small town,” Jackson interjected.

“No,” Rebecca admitted. She lifted an eyebrow, trying to keep annoyance from her voice. “Are you concerned about my ability to deal with a rural-based business rather than an urban corporation?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m concerned with your ability to put up with the isolation of a ranch after living in the city.”

“I have a car,” she pointed out. “And Colson isn’t that far away.”

“True. But Colson isn’t San Francisco, not even close. You’re a long way from gourmet restaurants, Starbucks coffee and the opera.”

“I don’t go to the opera.”

He shrugged. “Then, the ballet. Whatever it is that you like to do in the city, you’re not likely to find here.”