Too Hard To Handle

Just then, the door of the nearest motor home opened, releasing an aroma that made his mouth water. One thing was certain, he decided: beans weren’t on the menu.

“Dinner’s ready,” Christy called.

Ruth Ann, Jack and Claude trooped over to the door and returned with large, covered dishes. After depositing them on the tables, they went back for more.

Tillie grabbed Shane’s sleeve. “Come on. Walter always says the end of the table is best. Less confusion.”

Shrugging, Shane rose and allowed himself to be tugged along. Tillie sat at his right, nodding when Christy slid in on his left side. Within seconds he was surrounded by UFO hunters silently passing plates of food. His guests, he reminded himself again.

He took a bite of tender Swiss steak, closed his eyes and savored it while his taste buds broke into the Hallelujah Chorus.

Christy’s brows rose at his awed expression. “Did you think we invited you for burned hamburgers?”

“The way I’ve been eating lately, I would’ve enjoyed even that. But this, it’s…”

“Wonderful? Extraordinary? Phenomenal?”

He nodded. “All of the above.”

“I’d like to take the credit, but this is my week to be scullery maid. Ben’s the magician.” She pointed to the short, muscular man with a gray crew cut. “He only lets me wash and cut veggies.”

“He cooks for everyone?”

She nodded. “Dinner only. We’re on our own for breakfast and lunch.”

“How’d you con him into that?”

Christy turned to look at Ben, her expression thoughtful. “I’m not sure. It was a done deal before I came along, but I think he was bored silly. He’d recently retired as head chef from a really great restaurant and cooking just for himself wasn’t cutting it. As it is, he can produce a meal like this easier than I can make a batch of cookies.”

“You don’t say.” Shane gazed at the muscular wizard, knowing his luck had just changed. A real live chef, a bored chef, was sitting across the table from him, and he was damn well going to do whatever it took to keep him right here. For at least three weeks.

Of course, if he kept the cook, he’d more than likely have to keep the rest of them. They seemed to be a package deal. Glancing around the table at the yellow-shirted bunch, he sighed. The thought of them running tame on his land searching for UFOs was enough to turn his hair gray, but hell, he could control them. What was important was talking Ben Matthews into cooking until Hector returned. Wondering if immediately after dinner was too soon to tell Ben that the Circle M would gladly help ease the strain of his retirement, Shane reached again for the platter of Swiss steak.

He stopped chewing when another thought occurred to him. If they stayed, Christy stayed. And that changed everything. If she wasn’t leaving in two days, he could do something about the fire that flooded his body every time he looked at her. Hell, who was he kidding? Every time he thought of her. Turning to look down at her wispy bangs and glorious mass of hair, he held back a smile. Yeah, his luck had definitely changed.

When her elbow brushed Shane’s arm again, Christy shifted her chair a bit to the left. It was one thing to make nice with the man, entirely another to sit so close she was scorched by the heat radiating from his big body.

She would do a lot for Aunt Tillie, but being agreeable to him wasn’t easy. He was too much like her three exes—high-handed and forceful. Of course a lot of men faced with an exploding RV and a gaggle of UFO hunters on their property would probably react the same way.

Even so, he was dangerous. Of course, it wasn’t his fault that she was wary of men—especially the alpha types. Or that what she craved right now was a peaceful life, a life dedicated to her new job and simple pleasures. A life rid of complications—especially the ones created by demanding men.

She hadn’t been a bit interested when he’d taken off his shirt so she could deal with his back, she assured herself. Yeah, right. The sight of his hard body hadn’t doubled her pulse rate either, and his heat hadn’t sizzled through her fingertips, warming her from head to toe.

She was accustomed to attractive men. All three of her exes had been disciplined, keeping their bodies in first-rate condition. Health, number two had told her, was a big advantage in beating down the competition. And they had muscles. Plenty of them. So there had been no reason for her to gape at Shane like a hormone-crazed teenager. She should be able to take broad shoulders, a wide chest lightly sprinkled with dark hair, and a flat, hard stomach in stride.

So he was spectacular. So what? He was still a royal pain. He was the prototype of all the trouble-some men who had caused her to swear off men, for heaven’s sake.

Grateful they would be leaving in a day or so, she decided she could be polite until then. It couldn’t be that difficult, despite the waves of tension radiating from him. Noting that Tillie was complimenting Ben on the dinner, she turned to Shane.

“How’s your—”

“Who is—”

They both stopped, waiting.

“You first,” Shane said, leaning back when Melinda reached over his shoulder to collect his plate.

“I just wanted to know if your back is bothering you. I have plenty of ointment if you—”

He shook his head. “No thanks. It stings a little, but it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Her voice was cool. “Now it’s your turn.”

Nodding toward the cluster of seniors, Shane asked, “Which one is Walter?”

A chill shot straight up Christy’s spine. “Walter?” Her voice cracked midword.

Peering around him at her aunt, who was comparing notes with Opal, the palmist, Christy groped for a response. Tillie had no inhibition about quoting Walter—anytime, anywhere, with anyone. It was perfectly reasonable for Shane to want him identified.

It was also a problem because there was no reasonable explanation for Walter—especially to a man who already thought they were a bunch of lunatics.

“Walter is…Aunt Tillie’s husband,” she said, opting for truthful evasion for as long as she could. Even the verb was honest because, unfortunately, there was nothing past tense about the blasted man. Except his body.

“I don’t remember meeting him.”

She shook her head, deliberately ignoring his puzzled expression. “You didn’t. He…couldn’t come on this trip.”

“Then why was he talking about my cattle?”

Choking on a sip of iced tea, Christy asked weakly, “Your cattle? You sure it was Walter?”

“That’s what Tillie said.”

“Exactly what did she say?”

“Something about my cattle not being happy in this hollow.”

“Oh.” A nasty vision of cows keeling over by the dozens ran through her mind, then she looked around and brightened. “You don’t have any cows here.”

“Not yet. But they’ll be here as soon as you leave.”

She angled a quick glance at him before concentrating on her perspiring glass of tea. “Uh…you couldn’t wait a while before moving them?”

“Why? I want to do it before they overgraze the area they’re in.”

“No particular reason.” Except that there was usually some sort of logic—absurd or otherwise—behind Uncle Walter’s suggestions.

“I don’t get it.” Shane turned to face her, his wide shoulders concealing the people behind him. “If he isn’t here, how could he know about my ranch? And why would he care?”