Carolyn Davidson - The Bachelor Tax

Perhaps she might have the answer to the problem. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

“Maybe marriage is not the answer for us. I understand you need a cook,” Rosemary said, calling forth her reserves of courage. Whether or not she could bear the sight of this man on a daily basis was not a question to be considered right now. Nor was his ability to send icy fingers of alarm down her backbone.

He frowned, looking puzzled. “A cook?”

Rosemary smirked at him. Tanner decided there was no other word to describe the look that possessed her features as her gaze slid over his face. “Yes, you know. One of those women who stand in front of a stove and serve up food for hungry menfolk.”

He shoved his palms into the back pockets of his pants and rocked on his heels. “Oh, yes. I’m very aware of the duties of a cook, Miss Gibson…but I didn’t know that you were.”

“Really? You might be surprised. Perhaps you would like to hire me. I bake wonderful pies.” Rosemary’s eyes were defiant, her jaw set.

“Mama Pearl does for us. What makes you think I’m in the market for someone else?” he asked. “Besides, I thought you were hell-bent on being my wife.”

Her lashes drifted to rest against her cheek for a moment, then rose, and he was struck by the brilliance of her eyes, as blue as the birds that nested in his fenceposts on the far side of the pasture.

“Put that aside for the moment. I have to wonder what you eat the other six days of the week when Mama Pearl isn’t here,” she murmured, those smart-aleck words sliding artlessly from between rosy lips.

“We make do.” And that was the truth. “Make do” was about the best he and his men had done. They’d gotten sick of meat tossed into a frying pan and cooked to shoe leather. They’d eaten eggs every which way but edible, and choked them down because not one man Jack of them knew how to make them taste any better than the last.

“Make do?” She eyed him dubiously. “Just what does that mean?”

Tanner’s chin jutted, and he felt the heat rise from his throat. Now she had him defending the food his ranch hands ate. And how the conversation had taken this tack he surely didn’t know.

“It won’t matter once I marry you, will it? And who told you I needed a cook here, anyway?”

“Mr. Comstock mentioned it on the way out from town.”

“I’ll just bet he did,” Gabe muttered, his frustrated glare aimed at the barn. “So which position are you applying for, Miss Gibson? Or are you just tryin’ to get my goat?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Maybe, what?”

“I’ve been looking for a job in town, without much success. Perhaps working for you might be the answer. To tell you the truth, cooking for you beats accepting your marriage proposal.”

“I think I just took it back, anyway,” Tanner said bluntly. “I’m not sure you’d be the sort of wife I need.”

Gabe watched as her jaw clenched, and her skin lost its color. Then his gaze traveled her length and he bit at his tongue, almost ashamed of the scornful words he’d aimed in her direction.

He’d be willing to bet his best filly that she was shaking in her boots. But, damn! He had to give her credit. She was toe-to-toe with him and not backing down one little bit.

“I’m not sure a marriage proposal is retractable,” she told him primly. “Not if you plan on dodging the new tax on bachelors, anyway.”

“Make up your mind, sweetheart. Either you want to be my cook or my wife. Which is it?” And then he waited for a long moment as she hesitated. It’d be just like the woman to call his bluff, and if there was anything Gabe Tanner didn’t need, it was a female nagging at his heels every blessed day of his life.

At least not one that had any rights over him.

“I’d just as soon try the job as a cook, if it’s all the same to you,” she said.

He dragged his gaze from her mouth and his thoughts from the memory of how sweet those lips had tasted. His mind registered the words she had just spoken.

A cook. He’d just hired himself a cook, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how that piece of business had come to pass.

“You got your duds with you?” He peered into the buggy, then stepped back. “Must be you’re plannin’ on walkin’ back and forth to town every day. Or else buyin’ a rig to travel in. You sure don’t want to live on a ranch with a bunch of rowdy cowhands and a bachelor.”

Rosemary shook her head. “I don’t believe I could be here in time to cook breakfast, Mr. Tanner. And as for living in your house, I wouldn’t mind. You could always join your men wherever they sleep, I suppose.”

“I hardly think so, ma’am.” He tilted his head, nodding at the long, low building at the far side of the barn. “That there’s the bunkhouse.” He turned, aiming one long finger at the dwelling he’d helped to construct. “That’s my house. I sleep in it, every night of my life.”

Her gaze followed the line his pointing finger indicated, and he watched as her throat moved, grinning as he recognized the swallow she could not conceal. “I suppose the house is large enough for me to find a space for my belongings, Mr. Tanner.

“I have several pieces of furniture that I would need to store, sir. Perhaps there might be an extra room I could use.” She swung her head to face him and her eyes were bleak, the brilliant blue fading, as if sadness had drawn a shade, making her gaze colorless and dull.

“Furniture?”

She nodded. “Some things of my mother’s. Things I can’t…well, just family…” She halted, her hands moving helplessly against her dress.

Suddenly the baiting ceased to be enjoyable, and he spoke soberly. “There are a couple of empty rooms, Rosemary.” How he’d managed to acquire a cook was a moot question. Now that he had, the particulars of the situation were the issue to be faced.

“You know you’ll be the talk of the town, don’t you?”

Her shrug was eloquent. “I haven’t found employment there. I shouldn’t think it would be anyone’s business. Besides—” she looked up at him and hesitated. “I need a place to stay.”

The woman was in desperate straits. He released the breath he’d been holding, and the sound was audible between them. “We’ll see how it works. Maybe something else will turn up that’ll suit you better.”

She scanned the house, her eyes measuring the height and breadth of the structure, and he turned, wondering what she saw that held her interest. It was just a house, with four bedrooms up and four rooms down, one a big, bright kitchen, another the formal parlor his father had ceased using once his mother left. The dining room was useless these days—never had been much call for formal dining in this house. And then there was the study where his father had done his drinking. Gabe seldom went past the wide doorway. A ghost lived there, and a passing glance could almost persuade him that the grizzled man who had sired him still sat behind that desk some nights.

“You want to go inside?” he asked abruptly, the vision in his mind making his voice harsh.

“No, that isn’t necessary. I’ll just have Mr. Comstock take me back to town so I can arrange to have my things brought here.”

“All right. He won’t be long.”

As if he had a vested interest in her well-being, Bates Comstock went about the moving of Rosemary Gibson. Driving a heavily laden wagon up to the parsonage the next day, he brought his team of dray horses to a halt and ordered the two sturdy young men to work.

Rosemary stood on the porch, watching their approach and motioned to her meager belongings. A satchel and three boxes comprised her personal effects, and they were quickly added to the furniture that filled the rear of the big wagon.