Carolyn Davidson - A Marriage By Chance

Chloe had been alone. Alone with a handful of ranch hands, and the awesome responsibility of turning a profit from a ranch that was struggling along without a bank account to dip into. Damn. Peter Biddleton had a lot to answer for.

“Who’s Aunt Tilly?” he asked idly, picking a spoon from the jar in the center of the table.

“My father’s sister,” Chloe told him. “Where did you hear about her?”

“Hogan told me she’d be here soon.” He grinned. “That was when he told me there’d be a chaperon to keep me in line.”

Chloe turned a sharp look in his direction. “You’ll mind your manners or end up in the bunkhouse, Aunt Tilly or no.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the fragrant soup. “She came to us after Pa died, pitched in and took care of things. I ended up working the ranch, taking Pa’s place. When cold weather came that year, she took a train south to her daughter’s place for the winter. Did the same thing before the first snowfall back before Christmas. I got a letter from her last week, saying she’d be back as soon as the weather broke, probably within two weeks.”

“Did you ever think of offering her a permanent job here?”

Chloe looked up at him as she buttered a biscuit. “She may decide to stick around, once she sees you here. She’s a real stickler when it comes to respectability, and she won’t like the idea of our sharing the house.”

“I pretty much expected a battle over that,” he said quietly. “You surprised me, Chloe.”

“I’ve learned there’s some things you’ve just got to live with,” she said. “It seems you’re on my list, J. T. Flannery.”

The youth named Willie was cocky. There was no other word to describe the toss of his head and the arrogant look he offered as Chloe entered the barn. “Ma’am?” His single word caught her attention and she turned at his bidding. “You need anything?” he asked, his gaze sweeping her length.

“No,” she answered sharply. “I’m just looking for Hogan.”

“He’s out back, talking to Lowery.”

J.T. watched, noting the appraising look the boy cast on Chloe’s backside, bristled as the grin reappeared once she was out of sight and inhaled sharply. His fist clenched as he stepped noiselessly from the tack room. Willie glanced in his direction, and the grin vanished. “You need me, J.T.?” he asked smoothly. “I was just fixin’ to clean the stalls.”

“Sounds like a good job for you,” J.T. answered. He watched as Willie snatched a pitchfork from the wall and turned to the closest stall. “I’d suggest you remember your place, young’un. I’ve watched you for three days.”

Willie looked back over his shoulder. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Defiance edged his words.

“Miss Chloe is the owner of this spread. She’s way out of your class.”

A sly grin curved one corner of Willie’s mouth. “Can’t help it if I admire a good-looking female, can I?”

“You make any move toward my partner, son, and you’ll be in more trouble than you can imagine.”

“Kinda slick, the way you rode in here and took over, mister,” Willie said, leaning indolently on the pitchfork.

“I’m legally half owner of the place. You want to challenge my authority here?” J.T.’s voice deepened, and his clenched fist opened against his thigh. Poised, he ached for the younger man to dispute his words. But it was not to be. The boy’s gaze wavered and he shook his head, sliding the pitchfork beneath a section of soggy straw.

A nearby wheelbarrow received the load, and Willie turned back to his chore.

J.T. strode past him, catching a glimpse of Chloe’s checkered shirt beyond the far doorway. Two men stood before her, arguing heatedly, and J.T. grinned, surmising the dispute in progress.

“Hell, I’ve worked with worse than this,” the redheaded cowhand thundered, waving a bandaged forearm in the air.

“Not for me, you haven’t,” Hogan countered, his jaw thrusting forward.

“How about some light duty?” J.T. asked, approaching the trio.

Chloe’s mouth closed with a snap, and her eyebrows lowered. “I can handle this.”

J.T. shrugged negligently. “I imagine so, ma’am. Just thought I’d mention that the tack room needs some attention. Enough work to keep a man busy for a couple of days, I’d say.”

“I earn my keep,” Lowery said, pale beneath his freckles. Frustration rode each syllable, and J.T. nodded agreeably.

“I’ve heard that,” he said, a bold-faced lie, to be sure, but one he didn’t think either Chloe or Hogan would dispute. “Nobody’s saying otherwise, Lowery. Just makes sense to me to let the thing heal properly, give the cut a chance to mend.” He tilted his hat back and faced the man head-on. “Every job on a ranch is of equal value, far as I can see. It takes well-tended tack to work with horses, and clean stalls to keep them healthy.”

His shrug was offered to Chloe. “What do you say, partner?”

Her eyes still glittered with subdued indignation, but she stifled it, earning a grin. “I won’t argue with that,” she replied, then turned back to Hogan. “Are you picking up more hay from the Winters’ place today?”

His glance encountered J.T.’s as he hesitated. “Thought maybe you might want to talk to him. If you take the wagon, he’ll have his men load it for you.”

“Why don’t I go with you?” J.T. asked smoothly, taking her arm and leading her back toward the barn. “Do we pay cash on the barrel, or wait till the next trip into town?” It seemed not a subject to discuss in front of hired hands, even though Hogan was obviously privy to financial dealings.

“He’ll wait,” Chloe said quietly, snatching her arm from his grasp. “I don’t care if you go along. You might’s well know the bottom line, anyway.” She turned to face him, and a glance over her shoulder told him that Willie stood just inside the door.

“Let’s take a walk,” J.T. said, his glare sending Willie into motion.

“All right.” Chloe set the pace and they headed for the corral fence, climbing in unison to perch on the top rail. Before them, three young steers moved aimlessly within the confined area. “How much you think they’re worth?” Chloe asked as J.T. settled beside her.

“How much do you need?” he countered, placing his hand careful inches from hers.

“Right now, enough for a couple loads of hay. I can sell these three in town.”

“That’s not good business,” he said flatly.

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But I won’t take advantage of a neighbor.”

J.T. nodded, judging the weight of the animals Hogan had penned. He looked down, considering his options, his fingers gripping the rail he perched on. His quick gaze noted the hand beside his own, and measured the contrast, hers narrow, tanned, yet feminine, his own broad and scarred from numerous encounters. One slash, from a broken bottle swung in his direction, had merited a line of stitches. Another pale nick told of a knife blade that he’d barely escaped.

She lifted her hand, and her index finger lightly traced the raised scar, its ragged edges pale against his bronzed skin. “You’ve been pretty battered in your time, haven’t you, cowboy?”

“Never had anybody like you around to mend my bruises,” he said with a grin. “Old Lowery doesn’t know how lucky he is.” And then his mouth firmed. “I’m not a cowboy. Maybe a sometimes gambler, and I’ve spent my share of time on the range, riding herd when I needed a grubstake. But never a cowboy.” Spoken aloud, he gave the word a distasteful sound.

“Didn’t mean to insult you,” she said. “I just figured you’ve been riding for someone, somewhere, to come up with the usual assortment of scars a man collects.”