Rita Rainville - Too Hard To Handle

Beaming at Shane, she said, “When you lowered the fence for us, I knew we were meant to pull over for a rest.”

Christy stiffened. “Aunt Tillie, the fence was broken by a man who claims he was being chased by a UFO.”

“Wonderful! I knew we were in the right place.” Her eyes sparkled with delight.

Shane wanted to scowl to show he meant business, but there was something about her expectant look, her bright blue eyes and mop of silver curls that stopped him. It would have been like taking a potshot at Tinkerbell. “No, ma’am, I don’t think wonderful’s quite the word. He was as drunk as a skunk.”

She twinkled at him, clasping his shirt to her chest. “Just think! Actually chased by a UFO. We expect to have the same good luck. Don’t we?” she asked, turning to her friends for confirmation.

They nodded, apparently sharing her enthusiasm. The only exception to the general fervor, Shane noted, was the very curvy lady with the mass of red hair who was still dabbing at his back. She just sighed.

“Lovely shirt.” Tillie handed it back to Shane and waved at the group assembled around her. “These are my friends. They release water, read palms, hunt and catch people, fly, gamble, fix things, open minds and create.”

Still grappling with the idea of being host to a gathering of UFO hunters, especially those with the qualifications just revealed by their fluttering leader, Shane got to his feet and shrugged on his shirt.

Christy dropped the ointment back into the box of medical supplies and slid between Shane and the seniors. They were a formidable group, individually or collectively, she realized, and it made no sense at all, but she still felt as protective about them as she did Tillie. No doubt it had to do with what the family called her nurturing nature—or an addled mental state resulting from too much contact with her aunt.

“Shane,” she said hastily, “I’d like you to meet our resident dowser.”

A diminutive woman with graying brown hair stepped forward and gave his hand a firm shake. “Ruth Ann Watts. Glad to meet you.”

Christy gestured to a tall, slim man with eyes like blue lasers. “The man who catches people.”

Remaining where he was, leaning against a tree trunk, the man nodded. “Jack Beatty, retired cop.”

Another gesture from Christy. “The man who hunts for people.”

“Search and rescue,” a small, wiry man in dark glasses explained. “Claude Rollins.”

Waving a couple forward who resembled Jack Sprat and his wife, Christy said, “Skip and Opal Williams.”

Skip gave an amiable nod. Opal bustled forward, pumping Shane’s hand. “My husband’s a mechanic, and I read palms.” Before she stepped back beside Skip, she turned Shane’s hand over and took a quick peek at it.

A portly, bald man reached out to shake Shane’s hand. “Jim Sturgiss, retired Air Force. Howdy.”

“Ben Matthews.” Short and muscular as a wrestler, the next man nodded. “I’m the creative one,” he said, dry humor lacing his deep voice.

Grinning at the baffled expression in Shane’s eyes, Christy touched a tall woman in jeans and cowboy boots on the shoulder. “Our gambler.”

“Melinda Rills,” the tall woman said, echoing Christy’s amused smile. “Stock market and casinos.”

The last man stepped forward and extended his hand. Pale and pudgy, he was obviously still reeling from the explosion. “Dave Davidson, the one who opens minds. I’m a retired psychology teacher, and I don’t usually go around blowing things up. I’m sorry this happened on your property.”

“Well, Boss, if I was a bettin’ man, I could’ve lost ten bucks back there. I never thought you’d let them stay.”

“It’s only for a couple of days,” Shane muttered, as he and Hank headed toward the barn. “At the most.”

He wasn’t sure what had happened. Maybe the explosion had rattled his brain. Or it was Tillie looking at him as if he were her last hope for salvation. Or Christy. Hell, he didn’t know. With all of them talking at once, assuring him that they would clean up the area while they waited for the rental people, it had been hard to think.

Partly, though, it was Tillie. The little woman with the weird clothes and incandescent smile had worked some sort of magic. The others he could have kicked off the property without a qualm, but not Tillie.

And, as much as he disliked the idea, not Christy. Not the redhead. Just one look at her had his body on red alert, and that was asking for trouble. Big trouble. Even worse had been the feeling of instant recognition that had poured through every cell of his body when he’d first seen her. If he’d believed in fate or destiny, he would have conceded that she was the one woman he’d been looking for all of his life.

But he wasn’t a dreamer. Two women who had liked his money a hell of a lot more than they’d liked him had helped him grow up fast. And he didn’t believe in fate—at least not where a wife was concerned. None of the women he’d met had ever been right. Not for a lifetime. He doubted one existed. But, damn, at first glance she sure came close.

“How much of the fence did you fix?” he asked abruptly, deliberately changing the direction of his thoughts.

“Not much.” Hank shrugged his lean shoulders. “After the explosion, Milt, here,” he nodded at the gelding, “came flying over the hill and it took me a while to catch him.”

“We’ll head back tomorrow and finish up.”

“What about them?” Hank gestured over his shoulder at the people milling around the motor homes, his hazel eyes questioning.

“We’ll leave that one section of fence open for them.”

“What about the herd?”

“We’ll have to wait to move it in there until they’re gone.” Shane dismounted when they reached the barn. “Who’s cooking tonight?”

“Red.” Hank sighed. “Beans again. You know, we’re gonna have a mutiny on our hands if we don’t get another cook out here. And don’t even suggest Adelaide. Half of us got food poisoning the one time she tried.”

“Yeah. I know.” Remembering, Shane winced. The housekeeper was a jewel, but not in the kitchen. “I’ve called all the temp agencies in Vegas, but the odds of finding someone are slim to none. Anyone who can cook for more than one person at a time has been snatched up for the summer by dude ranches or local camps. And Hector called this morning with more bad news after he pulled into Dallas. Said his dad is worse off than he thought, and he’d probably have to stay two or three weeks.”

Hank groaned. “A couple of days without a cook is bad enough, but two or three weeks? Boss, you gotta do something.” Taking the reins from Shane’s hand, he said, “I’ll take care of the horses, you go make a miracle.”

An hour later, Shane closed the telephone directory with an irritated thump. Nothing. There wasn’t a cook to be found in the whole damn county.

Maybe there was hope for Shane after all.

Christy braked to a stop and hopped off her bicycle at the front gate, looking at the gracious old house surrounded by lush, well-tended grass. It was no Tara, but then she had always thought such magnificence was overrated. This was a home—pale creamy yellow, two stories, with a wraparound porch that was cozily furnished with an oak swing and wicker chairs punctuated with bright floral cushions. Enclosed by a white rail with gently curved spindles, it all but shouted a welcome. It was the kind of home she had dreamed about as a child moving from place to place. It was a deeply feminine house, she reflected, for such a hard man.

But a man who appreciated a home like this couldn’t be all bad, she thought. Not that she was interested on a personal level, of course, but she made a point of giving credit where it was due. And he did appreciate it; it showed in the recent paint job, the tidy shrubbery, the profusion of pink and white flowers tumbling here and there.