The Way To A Rancher's Heart

Rachel sidled to the side of Annie’s chair, winding a finger through a pigtail. “Did you pack me a surprise like you did on Friday?”

Annie draped an arm around Rachel’s waist and hugged her to her side. “You bet I did. But don’t peek,” she warned, tapping a finger against the end of the child’s nose. “It won’t be a surprise if you do.”

A pleased smile spread across Rachel’s face. “I won’t,” she promised and skipped to the counter to collect her lunch sack. “See you this afternoon, Annie,” she called cheerfully as she raced for the back door.

“Not if I see you first,” Annie teased, waving.

Jase frowned, more than a little surprised by his children’s obvious approval of the new nanny—and maybe a little jealous, if he were willing to admit to the emotion. And now, with all the kids gone, only he and the nanny remained at the table and he wished he hadn’t been so quick to hustle them off to school. Uncomfortable with the silence that suddenly seemed to hum around him, he cleared his throat. “I guess Penny informed you of your duties.”

“Yes. She was very thorough.”

Unsure what else to say, he quickly slathered butter over another biscuit. “I’m outside most of the day, but if you should need anything, I have a cell phone in my truck. The number is on the wall by the phone,” he added, gesturing with the biscuit toward the wall.

“Penny explained everyone’s schedules to me and showed me where to find everything.” She propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, studying him, her chin resting on her hands. “The children miss you when you’re gone.”

Feeling heat creep into his cheeks, Jase shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “I’m seldom away. When I am, it’s never for more than a week at a time.”

“Just the same, they miss their daddy.”

He cleared his throat again and reached for his cup, gulped a drink of coffee, then shoved back his chair. “I’ve got calves to unload.”

She kept her gaze on his face as he rose. “Do you plan to come in for lunch?”

He was tempted to tell her no, just to avoid being alone with her again, but thought better of it. It was a helluva long time until dinner. “Yeah. But you don’t have to cook. I can make a sandwich or something.”

She rose, too, and started gathering plates. “I don’t mind cooking. In fact, I really enjoy it. Is there anything special you’d like me to prepare?”

Jase snagged his hat from the countertop where he’d dropped it the night before and glanced her way as she headed for the sink, juggling dirty plates. He couldn’t help noticing that the bibbed apron she wore didn’t cover her rear end or hide the sway of a very delectably shaped butt. He cleared his throat yet again when his gaze lit on her bare feet, and heat climbed up his neck, burning his cheeks. “I’m not a picky eater,” he mumbled and tore his gaze away from what shouldn’t have been a erotic sight. “Whatever you put on the table is fine with me.”

She glanced over her shoulder and warmed his face even more with a smile. “Good. I’ll surprise you, then. Should I expect you about noon?”

Flustered, he rammed his hat over his head and turned for the back door. “Yeah, noon,” he muttered, and wondered if the surprise she had in store for him was anything like the one she’d secreted in his daughter’s school lunch.

Annie strolled through the small fenced area, studying the ground and the barely discernable rows that lay beneath the high weeds, enjoying the feel of the sun warming her skin. A garden, she thought dreamily. She could imagine rows of tomato plants, their branches sagging with fat, juicy tomatoes; cantaloupe vines crawling across freshly hoed rows, their plump, succulent rounds of yellow-and green-veined rinds peeking between the plants’ velvety, scalloped leaves.

Oh, how she’d love to plant a garden, she thought, sighing wistfully. It had been years since she’d worked a garden, dug her fingers in rich, fertile soil, feasted on a garden’s bounty. Four years to be exact. The summer before her grandmother passed away.

With another sigh, one filled with bittersweet memories this time, she walked on, deciding she might just ask her new boss for permission to clear out the weeds and plant a few vegetables. There was time yet before spring arrived fully.

She frowned as she thought of her new boss. Penny Rawley certainly hadn’t exaggerated when she’d said that her brother was a little reserved, perhaps might even appear a bit gruff. Gruff? She snorted at the mild description. The man was positively sour. Frowning all the time. All but growling at his children.

But, my, oh my, she thought with a lusty sigh, he was one prime hunk of man.

She shivered just thinking about the way he’d looked when he’d walked into the kitchen that morning, his eyelids still heavy with sleep, rubbing a wide hand over the soft mat of dark hair that swirled over a muscled chest. She wondered if he realized that the first button of his jeans had been unfastened. She wondered, too, if he realized how sexy she had found that glimpse of navel shadowed by dark hair, the equally dark V that seemed to point below the waist of his jeans and to the soft column of flesh that lay beneath a strip of fabric faded a slightly lighter shade than the rest of the denim.

With a delicious shiver, she leaned to pluck a bachelor’s button from the tangled weeds and straightened to tuck the bloom behind her ear.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped, startled, and turned to find her new employer standing behind her watching her, his arms folded across his chest, his hat shading his eyes. She huffed a breath. “Mercy! You might warn a person before you slip up on them unsuspecting. You scared a good ten years off my life!”

He narrowed an eye. “How old are you, anyway?”

She snatched the flower from behind her ear, sure that it was her foolishness that made him question her age. “Twenty-six.”

He snorted a disbelieving breath. “Try again.”

Mindful of the stickers that might be hiding beneath the tangle of weeds, she made her way carefully back to the gate. “I am twenty-six. If you don’t believe me, I can show you my driver’s license.” She reached the gate and opened it.

He stepped back, eyeing her suspiciously as she passed by. “You don’t look a day over eighteen.”

She chuckled, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted. “Thanks…I think.” Flipping her hair back over her shoulder, she tipped up her face to smile at him, having to squint against the glare of the sun to do so. “How old are you?”

He stared down at her a long moment, making her aware of the skimpy tank top she wore, the Daisy Duke cutoffs, her bare legs and feet. Then he dropped his arms from his chest, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and turned for the house. “Old enough to stay clear of young girls like you.”

She sputtered a laugh. “Young girls like me?” she repeated, following him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

He lifted a shoulder as he opened the screen door, then stepped back to let her enter the house first. “When I was younger, we called ’em jailbait. But I guess now I’d just call ’em trouble.”

“Trouble?” When he didn’t offer an explanation, she stopped in front of him, folding her arms beneath her breasts and arching a brow, stubbornly refusing to enter until he had clarified that last comment. His gaze dropped to her chest and breasts that strained against her tank top’s fabric. She bit back a smile as a blush rose to stain his cheeks.

“Trouble,” he repeated, emphasizing the single word, as if it alone explained everything, then gave her a nudge with his shoulder, urging her through the door ahead of him.

“Okay,” she said and crossed to the sink to wash her hands. “Granted I’m younger than you. Even I can see that. But what’s wrong with a young woman, and why do you consider one trouble?”

“Woman?” He snorted at her choice of word. “I said girl. I would hardly classify you as a woman.”

She snagged a dish towel from the hook above the sink and dried her hands as she turned to peer at him. “And what does a girl have to do,” she asked, placing emphasis on the word as he had, “in your opinion, before she is classified as a woman?”

He elbowed her aside and hit the faucet’s handle, then stuck his hands beneath the water. “Live. Get some years on her. Some experience.”

Enjoying the conversation, but unsure why when she knew she should be insulted by his chauvinistic attitude, she rested a hip against the counter and watched as he scrubbed his hands. “And what do you consider experience?”

He scowled and hit the handle with his wrist, shutting off the water. He stood, dripping water into the sink, and Annie pushed the towel into his hands. He shot her a look, his scowl deepening. “Live,” he repeated. “Life offers its own form of experience.”

She angled her body, watching as he crossed to the refrigerator. “Oh, really?” she posed dryly.

“Yeah, really,” he muttered, his reply muffled by the interior of the refrigerator. He pulled a gallon jug of milk from inside, closed the door, then lifted the jug, drinking directly from the container.

Clucking her tongue at his lack of manners, Annie pulled a glass from the cupboard, crossed to him and snatched the milk jug from his hand.

Scowling, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, removing a white moustache. “What did you do that for? I’m thirsty.”

She filled the glass and handed it back to him. “Unsanitary,” she informed him prudently and opened the door to replace the jug of milk. “And a bad example for the children. Now I know where Clay picked up the habit.” She pulled out a bowl and crossed to the table. “I hope you like pasta, because that’s what I made for lunch.”

Still frowning, he followed her to the table and sat down in his chair at the head of it, eyeing the bowl’s contents with distrust. “What’s in it?”

“Pasta curls, grilled vegetables, some herbs, a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar.”