Robyn Carr - Temptation Ridge

But maybe she’d have herself a little adventure in there somewhere. Maybe on her cruise, on one of her trips.

Not with this kind of man, of course. He was too mature, for one thing. One look convinced her—he knew everything about men and women, while she knew very little. He looked a little dangerous and very, very physical. Scary. He had that warrior appearance, complete with tattoos.

The sight of him bare-chested had rattled her, but the big horse beneath her had given her plenty of confidence. His shoulders were so large, strong and muscular, and he had a barbed-wire armband tattooed on his rippling left biceps. His belly was flat and hard with a trail of chest hair that disappeared into his jeans. The stubble along his jaw made his grin a little taunting and definitely naughty; it had made her shiver. And he had an aura of carelessness. He would take a bite of her, then pitch her out, forgetting her before morning.

But while Shelby had looked him over, everything inside her had grown warm. Something about him, a forbidden quality, was absolutely delicious. Even the damn dirt looked good on him. Despite her common sense, she wondered, wouldn’t that be interesting? And her very next thought was, no, no, no, not him! My adventure will come in a polo shirt, cheeks as smooth as a baby’s butt, styled hair, no tattoos and hopefully an advanced degree. Not some scary Black Hawk pilot who has a Ph.D. in one-night stands!

Mel stormed right into the bar’s kitchen. Preacher had his hands in the sink, his back to her. “Hey, Preach,” she said. But he didn’t turn around. “Preach?” she asked again. Nothing. “John!” she yelled.

He jumped in surprise, turned toward her and pulled earplugs out of his ears. “Whoa, Mel,” he said. “You snuck up on me.”

“Well, not exactly,” she said. “I yelled.”

“Yeah, well, after a while all that noise makes my head pound. I’d just go fishin’, but I have things to do here.”

“Listen,” she said, sitting on the stool at his work island. “We have to talk, you and me.”

“Sure.”

She took a breath. “I’ve gained twenty pounds since I came here. Almost ten pounds a year. By the time I’m forty, I’ll weigh two hundred pounds.”

He frowned. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. Finally he smiled a small smile and said, “Well, good for you.”

“This is not good!”

He almost jumped at the angry tone in her voice. Then he frowned.

“Listen,” she said, “you have to start doing some cooking that isn’t so fattening. Understand?”

“No one’s ever complained about the cooking before, Mel. It tastes good…”

“I know, I know—but you’re cooking for men with real physical lives. Except you—you stand in the kitchen all day and I know you sample everything. I don’t know how you keep from getting fat.”

“I clean a lot,” he said. “I lift weights—but not as much with two kids.”

“Yeah, well, you have a lot of muscle, and that eats up calories. Women don’t have that kind of muscle, John. You have to stop using so much cream and butter, that sort of thing. It’s unhealthy anyway—not good for weight, cholesterol and blood pressure, not good for the heart. Make some salads, more vegetables not swimming in butter. I can’t be the only person in this town who’s getting fat on your food.”

“Salads?” he said. “I don’t usually make a lot of salads.”

“I know this,” she said wearily. “But we need to make a couple of changes. Just minor changes. Buy some low-fat, whole-wheat bread for sandwiches. Don’t do pastas, breads and potatoes at every meal. Make salads, stock fresh fruit.”

“There’s plenty of fruit around here,” he said.

“Yeah, and it’s all in the pies.”

“You have pie almost every day,” he pointed out. “You love my pies. You more than anyone, I think.”

She scowled, then grimaced. “I’m going to stop doing that. Listen, can you make some lighter meals available, please? Or else I’m not going to be able to eat here all the time. I’ll have to pack a lunch, make my own dinner at home. This madness has to stop. I can’t keep gaining weight like this. I am not going to be fat!”

Preacher tilted his head. “Jack complaining about the way you look?” he asked cautiously.

“Of course not,” she said in frustration. “He thinks I’m perfect.”

“Well, there you go.”

“John, I don’t think you’re paying attention here. I have to go on a diet. You want me to write down what I need?”

“No,” he said unhappily. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Thanks. That’s all I wanted. I need a little help here, that’s all.”

“We want you happy,” he said, caution in every word.

“It would make me happy.” She slipped off the stool. “Thanks, that’s all I wanted to talk to you about.”

After she left, Preacher stood in his kitchen for a long time, thinking. Then he went out back where the men were at work. He spotted Jack standing in what used to be his bedroom, talking with Paul. They both wore hard hats while Preacher’s head was bare. He waited. Finally Paul and Jack turned to look at him and Paul sighed and shook his head dismally; he took two giant steps away, grabbing a hard hat and handing it to Preacher.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Paul said. “You don’t come out here without protection for your head.”

“Yeah, right,” Preacher said, putting it on. Too small, it sat high on his head.

“You have the biggest head out here,” Paul said. “We’re framing the second story. You’re an accident waiting to happen.”

“Yeah, I get it. Listen,” Preacher said, turning his attention on Jack, “Mel was just here. She’s complaining about the food.”

“Huh?” Jack answered. “Mel?”

“Yeah. She says my food is making her fat.”

Jack chuckled. “Oh, that. Yeah, she’s making noises about that. Don’t worry about it.”

“She didn’t make it sound like I shouldn’t worry about it. She was pretty much loaded for bear.”

“She had two babies in fourteen months, plus a hysterectomy. And—she doesn’t like to be reminded about this—she’s getting older in spite of herself. Women get a little thicker. You know.”

“How do you know that?”

“Four sisters,” Jack said. “It’s all women ever worry about—the size of their butts and boobs. And thighs—thighs come up a lot.”

“She yelled at me,” he said, still kind of startled. Paul laughed and Jack just shook his head. “Did you tell her that?” Preacher asked. “About women getting thicker with age?”

“Do I look like I have a death wish? Besides, I don’t think she’s getting fat—but my opinion about that doesn’t count for much.”

“She wants salads. And fresh fruit.”

“How hard is that?” Jack asked.

“Not hard,” Preacher said with a shrug. “But I don’t stuff that pie down her neck every day.”

A sputter of laughter escaped Paul, and Jack said, “You’re gonna want to watch that, Preach.”

“She wants me to use less butter and cream, take a few calories out of my food. Jack, it isn’t going to taste as good that way. You can’t make sauces and gravies without cream, butter, fat, flour. People love that stuff, salmon in dill sauce, fettuccine Alfredo, stuffed trout, brisket and garlic mash. Stews with thick gravy. People come a long way for my food.”

“Yeah, I know, Preach. You don’t have to change everything—but make Mel a little something, huh? A salad, a broiled chicken breast, fish without the cream sauce, that kind of thing. You know what to do. Right?”

“Of course. You don’t think she wants everyone in this town on a diet? Because she says it’s not healthy, the way I cook.”