Amy Frazier - Family By The Bunch

“Tucker and I can handle the logging horses and the grain fields. Reba’s got the house in hand. You need someone to occupy your heart so you stop bringing strays—like that damned pig—onto this spread. As it is now, it’s more Noah’s ark than ranch.”

As if on cue, a barn cat with her litter of kittens paraded across the packed dirt of the barnyard, then wound herself around Hank’s legs. Trying to shake off the image of the woman at the bus stop, he bent and picked up the ginger mama. “Are you trying to tell me we don’t need a few good mousers?”

“Mousers are one thing. Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs are another. And hissy-spitting llamas. And crippled mules. And half-blind dogs. And mean Canada geese.” Willy threw his arms in the air in obvious exasperation. “And any other wounded, abused or abandoned animal you can think to haul back here.” He jammed his fists on bony hips, leaned forward and skewered Hank with a one-eyed Popeye stare. “Hell, you spend almost as much time on these castoffs as you spend on your legitimate business.”

“Your point?” Hank tried to look stern, but failed as the ginger cat licked the tip of his chin. He respected Willy too much to remind the foreman that he had been one of the “castoffs” Hank had rescued.

“The point, as if you didn’t know, is that a man needs something to love, sure. But it should be a woman.”

A sudden slice of pain across his heart, Hank gently put the mama cat down in the midst of her mewling kittens. Years ago he thought he had found a woman to love, only to find out she didn’t love him enough to live the hard but rewarding life of a rancher’s wife.

“Well, you’re out of luck,” he replied with a forced grin. “I didn’t see a woman that so much as even tweaked my curiosity.”

Lie.

Willy rolled his eyes. “Well, if you plan to continue sleeping with the dogs, Bowser needs a flea bath. Bad. Like today.” He turned in a huff, then stumped across the yard toward the barn, muttering under his breath every step of the way.

Hank shook his head. Willy made it seem as if his boss’s single state was some kind of degenerate condition. He yanked his Stetson off and rubbed his forehead. The ranch’s Noah’s ark aspect, as Willy referred to it, took no time at all. What chewed up the moments was the foreman’s infernal and constant confrontations on the topic of women. His insistence that an unmarried state was an unnatural state.

Heading for the ranch house and a ton of paperwork, Hank slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. It was easy for Willy to comment. He loved Reba. A good-hearted country woman. There weren’t many women like her. Women who loved the life Hank lived. Who loved the solitude, the lack of city or suburban lights. Who loved hard physical work. And the animals. Both the purebreds and the strays.

Despite those challenges, Hank had a deep, dark secret that he wouldn’t admit to Willy: he was ready to settle down. He had a thriving business, his own ranch and money in the bank. He’d love to find that perfect woman, get married and raise a whole passle of energetic kids. A family of his own.

He thought miserably of the delicate blue-eyed suburban beauty in her little red convertible. For the life of him, he couldn’t picture her on a ranch.

Feeling uneasy for more than one reason, Neesa rang the Russell doorbell again. This was a pretty sneaky way to get Kids & Animals sponsored. She hugged the warm casserole tightly to her. With this little delivery she hoped merely to extend a neighborly hand...and have Mr. Whittaker admit to being a rancher. She could take the “coincidence” from there.

Normally she’d come right out and say, I heard you were a rancher. I need your help. But a faintly formidable look in this man’s eyes told her he wouldn’t appreciate her listening to gossip about him or asking for favors—very large favors—before the introductions were cold.

The door opened. At the sight of handsome Hank Whittaker looming above her, Neesa nearly lost her grip on the dish of chicken and dumplings. Oh, my, but the man was twice as imposing up close as he had been from a distance. And even without the Stetson to shadow his eyes, his gaze was dark and penetrating. Riveting her attention and rendering her speechless.

“Yes?” The hint of a smile played at the corner of his sensuous mouth.

“M-Mr. Whittaker...”

“Hank.”

“Hank.” She inhaled sharply. “I’m Neesa Little from up the street. I understand you’re caring for Carey and Chris for the weekend.”

The hint of a smile developed into a broad, sexy grin. “Word travels fast.”

“Yes,” she whispered almost inaudibly, extending the casserole. “I thought you could use some supper.” Under his grin and those devilishly dark eyes, she found it hard to concentrate, let alone form a coherent sentence. “Just being neighborly,” she added weakly.

“Why, thank you.” He chuckled, and the sound was even sexier than the sight of the grin. “Step in and let’s see if we can find room.”

“Room?”

He opened the door wider, then stepped aside to allow her to enter the foyer. She always felt a little uncomfortable when she visited her neighbors—except for Claire and Robert who were childless but “trying.” These homes were enclaves of kids and more kids and even more kids, and always drove home Neesa’s own unmarried, perennially childless state.

Sure enough, from the family room, she could hear the sound of a video game and childish laughter. Too, a delicious mixture of aromas filled the air. Clutching the dish of chicken and dumplings, she felt sheepish. He already had supper under control.

The he in question had headed down the hallway. Trying to concentrate on her mission and not the masculine sway of his broad shoulders and narrow hips, Neesa followed as Hank silently led her into the kitchen where, to her complete amazement, covered dishes filled every inch of counter space.

“Now, let’s see if we can find a spot for yours.” He turned, and she started at the unmistakable twinkle in his eyes. “This is one neighborly neighborhood.”

So it would appear.

Visualizing a line, a very long line, of well-groomed suburban moms bearing casseroles—winding toward the Russell house, she suddenly laughed out loud.

“My reaction exactly.” He reached for the casserole she carried. “Y’all sure do have Chris and Casey’s best interests at heart.”

Neesa nearly choked on the rising guilt. “What do you plan to do with all this?”

“I’m freezing most of it. That way Cilia won’t have to cook for a month.”

“Cool, huh?” Eight-year-old Chris entered the kitchen. He grinned. “Hey, Miss Neesa, what did you bring?”

“Chicken and dumplings.”

“Hank’s favorite.” The boy lifted the lid of a dish on the counter and extracted a breaded chicken leg. “Me, I like mine fried.”

“Don’t you dare take that back in the family room,” Hank warned. “Your mama would give me a tongue lashing and more.”

“I won’t.” Chris headed for the back door. “I’m going to eat it on the deck, then I’m going to the basement to dig out our swim stuff. Pool opens tomorrow, remember.”

“How could I forget?” Hank didn’t look thrilled at the prospect.

“I take it you’re not a swimmer?”

“The swimming part’s fine. I’m just not keen on doing it in a cement pond.”

“Cement pond.” Neesa laughed aloud again. “Why, you sound like Jethro—”

“Of the Beverly Hillbillies,” he finished for her. “I know. It’s a cross I bear.” He rolled his eyes dramatically.

She hadn’t expected him to be approachable and funny and self-deprecating. No. On the contrary, at the bus stop he’d seemed aloof and stern and very macho. Maybe the difference was in the Stetson. Right now, he wasn’t wearing it. And without it, he was still drop-dead gorgeous, but gorgeous in a way that didn’t push her away. That made her, instead, want to get to know him better.