Debbi Rawlins - The Swinging R Ranch

Herbert slammed on the brakes. Good thing they’d been crawling. Twisted in his seat as he was, Max’s seat belt could have done some serious damage otherwise.

“You wanna go where?” Herbert turned around to give Max a steely-eyed glare. The old man had done a lousy job of shaving and sunlight glinted off missed spots of gray beard. One side of his mouth drooped, probably from too many years of pipe-smoking. “What in the hell for?”

“What do you think?”

“It better not be for what I’m thinking.”

Max held onto his temper. No way was he going to get in a scuffle with this crazy old coot. Then he stopped, frowned. “Wait a minute. What are you thinking?”

Herbert eyed him for a long uncomfortable minute. “There ain’t too many reasons why a fella goes to the Swinging R.”

Max took a deep breath. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Actually, I have other business there.”

“I’m listening.”

This got tricky. Max hadn’t decided yet if he wanted anyone to know who he was. But the look of murderous intent in Herbert Hanson’s eyes pretty much decided things. Of course if the guy had a daughter who worked there Max might be in even deeper trouble.

Damn, he wished Taylor were here. “I’m Lily McIntyre’s nephew.”

Herbert’s bushy salt-and-pepper brows shot up. “No kidding. You the new owner, huh?”

“So it seems.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Herbert grinned and whipped the car around in the direction from which they’d come. “We’ll be there in ten minutes, tops.”

Herbert was apparently anxious to visit the Ranch. Seven minutes and two ignored stop signs later, they pulled up in front of a sign that announced the Swinging R Ranch.

Max’s heart sank at the sight of the old rambling blue house. The wraparound porch had probably been attractive once, but right now the outside railing had more slats missing than were in place. The surrounding white picket fence was half down and large scabs of peeling paint hung loosely from the portion still standing.

“Well, aren’t you going to get out?”

Max snapped out of his trance and realized Herbert had actually gotten out and come around to open his door. “What happened to this place?”

Herbert frowned at the house, studying it for a moment, then shrugged. “Poor old Lily. She done the best she could but she was getting on in years and sorta just let the place go.”

“Didn’t she have any help?”

“Oh, yeah, but she was headstrong. Tried to run everything herself anyway. Let me help you with that bag, son.”

A ray of hope filtered through Max’s gloom. Maybe the disrepair was a result of Lily’s eccentricity and not a failing business. “No, thanks. I can—”

“Herbie! You old scoundrel.” A booming feminine voice coming from the side of the house cut Max off. “You didn’t tell me you were coming today.”

Max turned around to see who had lit Herbert’s face up like a Vegas neon sign. But it was hard to get a good look when she ran past him and flung herself at the older man. To his credit, Herbert caught her and spun her around a couple of times before putting her back on the ground.

She was slim, petite even, with a head full of flaming red hair. When she aimed her charcoal-lined blue eyes at Max he was surprised to find that she was near Herbert’s age.

The housekeeper probably, judging by her age and the full white apron she wore. Flour smudged her left cheek. Or maybe she was the cook. Max smiled. Things were looking up if the place could still afford help.

“Well, hello, Sugar,” she said, running a lazy gaze over him. “Who might you be?”

“Come on, Mona.” Herbert drew her attention. “Don’t I get more than a hug?”

She slapped his arm, but her lips curved. “You old rascal. I’ve a good mind to leave you standing out here in the hot sun for not warning me you were coming.” She patted her hair. “I must look a mess.”

“Hell, no, Mona. You always look good to me.” Herbert picked her up off the ground again. Laughing, she gave him another smack on the arm and he put her down.

Max eyed the other man with new interest. Maybe the guy wasn’t as old as he thought.

“Come on in, and bring your friend. Rosie just made some fresh lemonade.” Mona led them up the path toward the front door, Herbert panting behind her like a lovesick puppy.

Max didn’t like the looks of the porch stairs but the other two didn’t seem worried so he followed them into the house.

It looked fairly normal. From the foyer, he could see part of the living room. Tan carpeting, an overstuffed blue plaid sofa and two recliners. No red velvet or black lace easily visible. Maybe they saved those sorts of things for the bedrooms.

That he was in a real-life brothel struck him suddenly and he had the most unnatural urge to shiver. This was all legal, he reminded himself, but it didn’t help.

“Hey, Mona, have we got company?” a voice asked from the kitchen.

“Herbie and a young man,” Mona called back. “Are you decent? We’re coming in for lemonade.”

Max laughed. They both gave him odd looks. He’d assumed Rosie was the cook, or some other help. Maybe she was one of the…

He cleared his throat. Taylor was his attorney, dammit. He should have insisted she come and handle this. “Is there a place I can wash up?”

“Sure, the kitchen sink.” Mona reached behind to untie her apron as she led them through the dining room.

So much for trying to stall. Following beside Herbert, Max couldn’t help but notice the rhythmic sway of Mona’s hips but he straightened in disgust when he realized he was admiring a woman old enough to be his grandmother.

“Either of you boys want some rum to go with that lemonade?” Mona asked over her shoulder.

“None for me,” Herbert said. “I’m working.”

“Working?” Mona laughed. “Standing here jawing with us?”

“Nope. Driving this young fella around.”

They reached the kitchen, and with open curiosity, Mona turned to give Max the once-over. “You still haven’t told me your name, Sugar.”

“Max Bennett.” He offered his hand.

She frowned. “Now, why does that name sound familiar?”

“Maxwell Bennett?” A surprised high-pitched voice came from somewhere in the corner.

He looked past Mona and Herbert to find a well-rounded, platinum-blond woman balancing on a step stool in the walk-in pantry.

Mona looked from Max to the other woman. “Rosie, you know this young man?”

“For goodness sakes, Mona, this is Lily’s nephew.” She came out of the pantry, dusting her hands, and sending up a mist of flour. “He’s taking over the Ranch. Aren’t you, Mr. Bennett?”

Max blinked. When the air cleared, he got a good look at Rosie. Her hair wasn’t blond. It was white. Attractive, but definitely white. The lines etched around her mouth and fanning from her brown eyes put her in the late sixties category. Was she the cook? Which made Mona…what? The housekeeper?

His gaze strayed over to her. He tried not to gape. She’d removed her apron and now he knew what they did with black lace. The fabric fit her like a second skin, clinging and diving to a deep V between her sizable breasts.

“Max.” Mona grabbed the hand he’d offered earlier. “I assume I can call you Max? And of course you already know I’m Mona. Mona Lisa. And this here is Rosie Peach.”

“Mona Lisa. Rosie Peach,” Max repeated slowly. This couldn’t be what he was thinking.

Mona nodded. “Candy Kane is out shopping but she should be home soon. There’s only three of us these days.”

Oh, man. Max swallowed, not sure what to say.

To his further embarrassment, Mona and Rosie exchanged knowing looks. Then Rosie smiled. “Don’t worry, Max,” she said patting his arm. “There may be snow on the chimney but there’s still fire in the furnace.”