Laurie Paige - The Other Side Of Paradise

“Anybody here?” she called.

The place was so silent she could hear grass grow if she listened hard enough. The hair on her nape stood up.

“Hello!” she yelled more forcibly.

“Hello, yourself,” a masculine voice finally replied. “I’m in the kitchen.”

She walked down the hall and into a galley-type kitchen. Directly across from it was a room with three tables, each with four chairs. Windows displayed the view in three directions—all magnificent.

A man, as long-legged and lean as a coyote, glanced at her while he continued a chore at the sink. His features were hawkish, the angles of his face stern but attractive in a hard-jawed, clean-shaven way.

Like her, he was dressed in boots, jeans and a white T-shirt. He also wore a blue work shirt, open down the front, over the tee. Unlike her, he wore no hat. She liked to keep her hair tucked out of sight under a worn gray Stetson.

“You the new wrangler?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Who sent you here?”

She wondered if this was a trick question. “Trek Lanigan from the Trading Post north of Lost Valley. Are you his cousin?”

The Trading Post was a store that sold Native American crafts some of it old and valuable. That was where she’d seen the Help Wanted sign and asked about the job. The owner of the store bore a distinct resemblance to this man, except he wore his hair long. This one kept his cut short.

Glancing at the dining room, she realized she’d expected more of a working ranch and less of a resort type place. She didn’t like being around people all the time.

Most of the time, she amended.

The man nodded, affirming he was the cousin who’d hired her by phone interview. He finished washing a potato and dropped it in a pot of what looked like simmering soup stock. The pot was huge, the aroma coming from it mouthwatering.

“Can you cook?” he wanted to know.

“Yes. But Mr. Lanigan didn’t mention it as a requirement.”

“He’s Trek. I’m Jonah. Keith Towbridge is my partner. His wife is Janis. They have a son, K.J., short for Keith, Junior. Their house is on the back of the ranch, but they’re over here fairly often. You’ll met them later this week.”

Mary took in the information and stored it for future reference. It sounded as if she had definitely been hired. For now. At least he hadn’t taken one look and told her to get lost. The owners could probably use all the help they could get out here in the wilds.

“I, uh, have to take care of my horse. He needs water and bedding down.”

Jonah Lanigan shot her another assessing glance. His hair was almost black, his eyes a smoky blue-gray that effectively hid his thoughts. He was four or five inches taller that her own five feet ten inches.

In her work boots, she was as tall or taller than most men. Her height usually gave her an advantage, but not with this man. She stirred uneasily.

“The stable is in back.” He frowned and she noted the irritation he suppressed. “There’s a bunkhouse attached. I suppose we can make room in the lodge, though.”

“The bunkhouse is fine,” she quickly told him. “Uh, if I have a private bedroom?”

He shook his head. “There’s an empty room at the top of the stairs. Put your stuff up there for now. I’ll need your help at breakfast. Six o’clock sharp.”

“Right.” She retreated.

So far, so good. She’d made it past the first hurdle. The rancher down in the valley had taken one look at her and said the wrangler job she’d come there to fill wasn’t open. His son had looked her over with obvious interest.

She probably had an Equal Opportunity case against the older man, but she hadn’t liked his manner—nor his son’s—or the poor condition of the ranch and stock, so she’d left without arguing.

Attila whickered as soon as she appeared. She soothed him with a few quiet words, untied the rope, then led the horse around the lodge to the backyard where she spotted the stable. There was a fenced area next to it.

After freeing the nine-year-old stallion in the paddock, she filled a trough with fresh water, then checked the stable.

The eight stalls were empty. She prepared one for her horse, placing hay in the manger and spreading fresh straw over the dirt floor. Finished, she went outside and observed the dun-colored Thoroughbred as he walked around the fence and checked out his new quarters.

His silver coat with the brownish tinge—really a dark ash-blond—seemed a lighter shade against the weathered gray of the stable. His limp wasn’t pronounced, but she was aware of his fatigue in the way he moved.

A racehorse that hadn’t done well at the track, he’d been placed in a stock auction three years ago, but few had wanted the spirited stallion. He was useless as a work horse and parents hadn’t thought him safe for their children.

However, his bloodlines were excellent, and Mary had seen promise in the powerful haunches that had lifted him over a seven-foot fence when he’d attempted an escape. Using her life savings of fourteen thousand dollars, she’d outbid the other person who’d been interested in buying him.

Attila was the one thing she loved in all the world. They had bonded the first time she’d petted him at the track where she’d worked as a handler, getting the excited horses in the slots so the races could begin.

Noticing a cabin connected to the stable via an enclosed breezeway, she knocked on the door, then entered when no one answered. The place had a main room with a woodstove and two smaller rooms behind that. Bedrooms, she discovered upon further exploration. The building hadn’t been used in a while, she decided, swiping a finger through the dust on a sturdy pine table in the first room.

The ranch apparently didn’t hire many workers. That was fine by her. Here, she would have privacy.

Pleased, she hurried back to the lodge to move the SUV and trailer down, then decided first she’d better ask her boss about staying in the cabin.

From the kitchen, she heard a string of curses as she mounted the steps to the back entrance. Smoke billowed from the screen door. Her boss came outside just as she approached wearing oven mittens and carrying a baking sheet of black lumps. With a couple of added curses, he tossed lumps, pan and all over the railing and onto the dried lawn.

“That could start a grass fire,” she mentioned in carefully casual tones.

He grabbed a hose from a reel mounted on the house and drenched the biscuits or whatever the lumps had been in their former incarnation, then turned off the water with a furious twist. “There, satisfied?” He stomped inside.

She followed, wary of his temper but curious about him and the operations of the resort. “Do you need some help?”

Giving her a look that should have sizzled her to charcoal, he nodded. “Can you make biscuits?”

After the briefest hesitation, she said she could. Spotting a bag of cornmeal, she added, “How about some cornbread? People like that with soup.”

“Whatever.”

He clearly wasn’t in the mood to discuss it. She washed her hands and set to work. In a few minutes, she slid a skillet of cornbread into the oven. When he left to answer the phone in the office, she quickly tasted the soup.

It was pretty good, but a bit salty. She added some pasta curls to absorb the salt and a dash of pepper to give it a little more balance. She also added garlic powder and a few dried onion flakes, plus a scant tablespoon of sugar.

After retrieving the baking pan from the lawn, she scrubbed it at the stainless steel sink, dried it, then put it with some pie pans she found in a cabinet beside the stove. Spotting a timer, she set it so she’d remember to check the cornbread, then explored the kitchen more fully. If she was also going to be the cook and chief bottle washer—and it looked as if that was her fate—she’d better know her way around.