Passion Flower
Jennifer was aware of a numb feeling in her legs. The long trip on the bus, the heavy suitcase, the effects of her recent illness—all of it added up to exhaustion. And those cold words were the final blow. With a pitiful little sound, she sank down onto the porch, her head whirling, nausea running up into her throat like warm water.
The screen door flew open and a pair of hard, impatient arms reached down to lift her. She felt herself effortlessly carried, like a sack of flour, into the cool house. She was unceremoniously dumped down onto a worn brocade sofa and left there while booted feet stomped off into another room. There were muttered words that she was glad she couldn’t understand, and clinking sounds. Then, a minute later, a glass of dark amber liquid was held to her numb lips and a hard hand raised her head.
She sipped at the cold, sweet iced tea like a runner on the desert when confronted with wet salvation. She struggled to catch her breath and sat up, gently nudging the dark, lean hand holding the glass to one side. She breathed in deeply, trying to get her whirling mind to slow down. She was still trying to take it all in. She’d been promised a job, she’d come hundreds of miles at her own expense to work for minimum wage, and now the man who’d offered it to her was dead. That was the worst part, imagining such a nice young man dead.
“You look like a bleached handkerchief,” the deep, harsh voice observed.
She sighed. “You ought to write for television. You sure do have a gift for prose.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “Walking in this heat without a hat. My God, how many stupid city women are there in the world? And what landed you on my doorstep?”
She lifted her eyes then, to look at him properly. He was darkly tanned, and there were deep lines in his face, from the hatchet nose down to the wide, chiseled mouth. His eyes were deep-set, unblinking under heavy dark brows and a wide forehead. His hair was jet-black, straight and thick and a little shaggy. He was wearing what had to be work clothes: faded denim jeans that emphasized long, powerfully muscled legs, and a matching shirt whose open neck revealed a brown chest thick with short, curling hair. He had the look of a man who was all business, all the time. All at once she realized that this man wasn’t the hired hand she’d mistaken him for.
“You’re Everett Culhane,” she said hesitantly.
His face didn’t move. Not a muscle in it changed position, but she had the distinct feeling that the sound of his name on her lips had shocked him.
She took another long sip of the tea and sighed at the pleasure of the icy liquid going down her parched throat.
“How far did you walk?” he asked.
“Just from the end of your driveway,” she admitted, looking down at her ruined shoes. “Distance is deceptive out here.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of sunstroke?”
She nodded. “It just didn’t occur to me.”
She put the glass down on the napkin he’d brought with it. Well, this was Texas. How sad that she wouldn’t see anything more of it.
“I’m very sorry about your brother, Mr. Culhane,” she said with dignity. “I didn’t know him very well, but he seemed like a nice man.” She got up with an odd kind of grace despite the unsteadiness of her legs. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“Why did you come, Miss King?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now in the least.” She turned and went out the screen door, lifting her suitcase and typewriter from where they’d fallen when she fainted. It was going to be a long walk back to town, but she’d just have to manage it. She had bus fare back home and a little more. A cab was a luxury now, with no job at the end of her long ride.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Everett Culhane asked from behind her, his tone like a whiplash.
“Back to town,” she said without turning. “Good-bye, Mr. Culhane.”
“Walking?” he mused. “In this heat, without a hat?”
“Got here, didn’t I?” she drawled as she walked down the steps.
“You’ll never make it back. Wait a minute. I’ll drive you.”
“No, thanks,” she said proudly. “I get around all right by myself, Mr. Culhane. I don’t need any handouts.”
“You’ll need a doctor if you try that walk,” he said, and turned back into the house.
She thought the matter was settled, until a battered red pickup truck roared up beside her and stopped. The passenger door flew open.
“Get in,” he said curtly, in a tone that made it clear he expected instant obedience.
“I said...” she began irritatedly.
His dark eyes narrowed. “I don’t mind lifting you in and holding you down until we get to town,” he said quietly.
With a grimace, she climbed in, putting the typewriter and suitcase on the floorboard.
There was a marked lack of conversation. Everett smoked his cigarette with sharp glances in her direction when she began coughing. Her lungs were still sensitive, and he seemed to be smoking shucks or something equally potent. Eventually he crushed out the cigarette and cracked a window.
“You don’t sound well,” he said suddenly.
“I’m getting over pneumonia,” she said, staring lovingly at the horizon. “Texas sure is big.”
“It sure is.” He glanced at her. “Which part of it do you call home?”
“I don’t.”
The truck lurched as he slammed on the brakes. “What did you say?”
“I’m not a Texan,” she confessed. “I’m from Atlanta.”
“Georgia?”
“Is there another one?”
He let out a heavy breath. “What the hell did you mean, coming this distance just to see a man you hardly knew?” he burst out. “Surely to God, it wasn’t love at first sight?”
“Love?” She blinked. “Heavens, no. I only did some typing for your brother.”
He cut off the engine. “Start over. Start at the beginning. You’re giving me one hell of a headache. How did you wind up out here?”
“Your brother offered me a job,” she said quietly. “Typing. Of course, he said there’d be other duties as well. Cooking, cleaning, things like that. And a very small salary,” she added with a tiny smile.
“He was honest with you, at least,” he growled. “But then why did you come? Didn’t you believe him?”
“Yes, of course,” she said hesitantly. “Why wouldn’t I want to come?”
He started to light another cigarette, stared hard at her, and put the pack back in his shirt pocket. “Keep talking.”
He was an odd man, she thought. “Well, I’d lost my old job, because once I got over the pneumonia I was too weak to keep up the pace. I got a job in Atlanta with one of the temporary talent agencies doing typing. My speed is quite good, and it was something that didn’t wring me out, you see. Mr. Culhane wanted some letters typed. We started talking,” she smiled, remembering how kind he’d been, “and when I found out he was from Texas, from a real ranch, I guess I just went crazy. I’ve spent my whole life listening to my grandfather relive his youth in Texas, Mr. Culhane. I’ve read everything Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour ever wrote, and it was the dream of my life to come out here. The end of the rainbow. I figured that a low salary on open land would be worth a lot more than a big salary in the city, where I was choking to death on smog and civilization. He offered me the job and I said yes on the spot.” She glanced at him ruefully. “I’m not usually so slow. But I was feeling so bad, and it sounded so wonderful...I didn’t even think about checking with you first. Mr. Culhane said he’d have it all worked out, and that I was just to get on a bus and come on out today.” Her eyes clouded. “I’m so sorry about him. Losing the job isn’t nearly as bad as hearing that he...was killed. I liked him.”
Everett’s fingers were tapping an angry pattern on the steering wheel. “A job.” He laughed mirthlessly, then sighed. “Well, maybe he had a point. I’m so behind on my production records and tax records, it isn’t funny. I’m choking to death on my own cooking, the house hasn’t been swept in a month...” He glanced at her narrowly. “You aren’t pregnant?”
Her pale eyes flashed at him. “That, sir, would make medical history.”
One dark eyebrow lifted and he glanced at her studiously before he smiled. “Little Southern lady, are you really that innocent?”
“Call me Scarlett and, unemployment or no unemployment, I’ll paste you one, cowboy,” she returned with a glimmer of her old spirit. It was too bad that the outburst triggered a coughing spree.
“Damn,” he muttered, passing her his handkerchief. “All right, I’ll stop baiting you. Do you want the job, or don’t you? Robert was right about the wages. You’ll get bed and board free, but it’s going to be a frugal existence. Interested?”
“If it means getting to stay in Texas, yes, I am.”
He smiled. “How old are you, schoolgirl?”
“I haven’t been a schoolgirl for years, Mr. Culhane,” she told him. “I’m twenty-three, in fact.” She glared at him. “How old are you?”
“Make a guess,” he invited.
Her eyes went from his thick hair down the hawklike features to his massive chest, which tapered to narrow hips, long powerful legs, and large, booted feet. “Thirty,” she said.
He chuckled softly. It was the first time she’d heard the deep, pleasant sound, and it surprised her to find that he was capable of laughter. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who laughed very often.
His eyes wandered over her thin body with amused indifference, and she regretted for a minute that she was such a shadow of her former self. “Try again, honey,” he said.
She noticed then the deep lines in his darkly tanned face, the sprinkling of gray hair at his temples. In the open neck of his shirt, she could see threads of silver among the curling dark hair. No, he wasn’t as young as she’d first thought.
“Thirty-four,” she guessed.
“Add a year and you’ve got it.”
She smiled. “Poor old man,” she said with gentle humor.
He chuckled again. “That’s no way to talk to your new boss,” he cautioned.
“I won’t forget again, honestly.” She stared at him. “Do you have other people working for you?”
“Just Eddie and Bib,” he said. “They’re married.” He nodded as he watched her eyes become wide and apprehensive. “That’s right. We’ll be alone. I’m a bachelor and there’s no staff in the house.”
“Well...”
“There’ll be a lock on your door,” he said after a minute. “When you know me better, you’ll see that I’m pretty conventional in my outlook. It’s a big house. We’ll rattle around like two peas in a pod. It’s only on rare occasions that I’m in before bedtime.” His dark eyes held hers. “And for the record, my taste doesn’t run to city girls.”
That sounded as if there was a good reason for his taste in women, but she didn’t pry. “I’ll work hard, Mr. Culhane.”
“My name is Everett,” he said, watching her. “Or Rett, if you prefer. You can cook meals and do the laundry and housekeeping. And when you have time, you can work in what passes for my office. Wages won’t be much. I can pay the bills, and that’s about it.”
“I don’t care about getting rich.” Meanwhile she was thinking fast, sorely tempted to accept the offer, but afraid of the big, angry man at her side. There were worse things than being alone and without money, and she didn’t really know him at all.
He saw the thoughts in her mind. “Jenny Wren,” he said softly, “do I look like a mad rapist?”
Hearing her name that way on his lips sent a surge of warmth through her. No one had called her by a pet name since the death of her parents.
“No,” she said quietly. “Of course you don’t. I’ll work for you, Mr. Culhane.”
He didn’t answer her. He only scanned her face and nodded. Then he started the truck, turned it around, and headed back to the Circle C Ranch.
Chapter Three
TWO HOURS later, Jennifer was well and truly in residence, to the evident amusement of Everett’s two ranch hands. They apparently knew better than to make any snide comments about her presence, but they did seem to find something fascinating about having a young woman around the place.
Jennifer had her own room, with peeling wallpaper, worn blue gingham curtains at the windows, and a faded quilt on the bed. Most of the house was like that. Even the rugs on the floor were faded and worn from use. She’d have given anything to be robust and healthy and have a free hand to redecorate the place. It had such wonderful potential with its long history and simple, uncluttered architecture.
The next morning she slept late, rising to bright sunlight and a strange sense that she belonged there. She hadn’t felt that way since her childhood, and couldn’t help wondering why. Everett had been polite, but not much more. He wasn’t really a welcoming kind of man. But, then, he’d just lost his brother. That must account for his taciturn aloofness.
He was long gone when she went downstairs. She fixed herself a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast and then went to the small room that doubled as his office. As he’d promised the day before, he’d laid out a stack of production records and budget information that needed typing. He’d even put her electric typewriter on a table and plugged it in. There was a stack of white paper beside it, and a note.
“Don’t feel obliged to work yourself into a coma the first day,” it read. And his bold signature was slashed under the terse sentence. She smiled at the flowing handwriting and the perfect spelling. He was a literate man, at least.
She sat down in her cool blue shirtwaist dress and got to work. Two hours later, she’d made great inroads into the paperwork and was starting a new sheet when Everett’s heavy footsteps resounded throughout the house. The door swung open and his dark eyebrows shot straight up.
“Aren’t you going to eat lunch?” he asked.
More to the point, wasn’t she going to feed him, she thought, and grinned.
“Something funny, Miss King?” he asked.
“Oh, no, boss,” she said, leaving the typewriter behind. He was expecting that she’d forgotten his noon meal, but she had a surprise in store for him.
She led him into the kitchen, where two places were set. He stood there staring at the table, scowling, while she put out bread, mayonnaise, some thick ham she’d found in the refrigerator, and a small salad she’d made with a bottled dressing.
“Coffee?” she asked, poised with the pot in her hand.
He nodded, sliding into the place at the head of the table.
She poured it into his thick white mug and then filled her own.
“How did you know I wanted coffee instead of tea?” he asked with a narrow gaze as she seated herself beside him.
“Because the coffee cannister was half empty and the tea had hardly been touched,” she replied with a smile.
He chuckled softly as he sipped the black liquid. “Not bad,” he murmured, glancing at her.
“I’m sorry about breakfast,” she said. “I usually wake up around six, but this morning I was kind of tired.”
“No problem,” he told her, reaching for bread. “I’m used to getting my own breakfast.”
“What do you have?”
“Coffee.”
She gaped at him. “Coffee?”
He shrugged. “Eggs bounce, bacon’s half raw, and the toast hides under some black stuff. Coffee’s better.”
Her eyes danced as he put some salad on her plate. “I guess so. I’ll try to wake up on time tomorrow.”
“Don’t rush it,” he said, glancing at her with a slight frown. “You look puny to me.”
“Most people would look puny compared to you,” she replied.
“Have you always been that thin?” he persisted.
“No. Not until I got pneumonia,” she said. “I just went straight downhill. I suppose I just kept pushing too hard. It caught up with me.”
“How’s the paperwork coming along?”
“Oh, I’m doing fine,” she said. “Your handwriting is very clear. I’ve had some correspondence to type for doctors that required translation.”
“Who did you get to translate?”
She grinned. “The nearest pharmacist. They have experience, you see.”
He smiled at her briefly before he bit into his sandwich. He made a second one, but she noticed that he ignored the salad.
“Don’t you want some of this?” she asked, indicating the salad bowl.
“I’m not a rabbit,” he informed her.
“It’s very good for you.”
“So is liver, I’m told, but I won’t eat that either.” He finished his sandwich and got up to pour himself another cup of coffee.”
“Then why do you keep lettuce and tomatoes?”
He glanced at her. “I like it on sandwiches.”
This was a great time to tell her, after she’d used it all up in the salad. Just like a man...
“You could have dug it out of here,” she said weakly.
He cocked an eyebrow. “With salad dressing all over it?”
“You could scrape it off...”
“I don’t like broccoli or cauliflower, and never fix creamed beef,” he added. “I’m more or less a meat and potatoes man.”
“I’ll sure remember that from now on, Mr. Culhane,” she promised. “I’ll be careful to use potatoes instead of apples in the pie I’m fixing for supper.”
He glared at her. “Funny girl. Why don’t you go on the stage?”
“Because you’d starve to death and weigh heavily on my conscience,” she promised. “Some man named Brickmayer called and asked did you have a farrier’s hammer he could borrow.” She glanced up. “What’s a farrier?”
He burst out laughing. “A farrier is a man who shoes horses.”
“I’d like a horse,” she sighed. “I’d put him in saddle oxfords.”
“Go back to work. But slowly,” he added from the doorway. “I don’t want you knocking yourself into a sickbed on my account.”
“You can count on me, sir,” she promised, with a wry glance. “I’m much too afraid of your cooking to ever be at the mercy of it.”
He started to say something, turned, and went out the door.
Jennifer spent the rest of the day finishing up the typing. Then she swept and dusted and made supper—a ham-and-egg casserole, biscuits, and cabbage. Supper sat on the table, however, and began to congeal. Eventually, she warmed up a little of it for herself, ate it, put the rest in the refrigerator, and went to bed. She had a feeling it was an omen for the future. He’d mentioned something that first day about rarely being home before bedtime. But couldn’t he have warned her at lunch?
She woke up on time her second morning at the ranch. By 6:15 she was moving gracefully around the spacious kitchen in jeans and a green T-shirt. Apparently, Everett didn’t mind what she wore, so she might as well be comfortable. She cooked a huge breakfast of fresh sausage, eggs, and biscuits, and made a pot of coffee.
Everything was piping hot and on the table when Everett came into the kitchen in nothing but his undershorts. Barefooted and bare-chested, he was enough to hold any woman’s eyes. Jennifer, who’d seen her share of almost-bare men on the beaches, stood against the counter and stared like a starstruck girl. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on that big body and he was covered with thick black hair—all over his chest, his flat stomach, his broad thighs. He was as sensuously male as any leading man on television, and she couldn’t drag her fascinated eyes away.
He cocked an eyebrow at her, his eyes faintly amused at what he recognized as shocked fascination. “I thought I heard something moving around down here. It’s just as well I took time to climb into my shorts.” And he turned away to leave her standing there, gaping after him.
A minute later he was back, whipping a belt around the faded blue denims he’d stepped into. He was still barefooted and bare-chested as he sat down at the table across from her.
“I thought I told you to stay in bed,” he said as he reached for a biscuit.
“I was afraid you’d keel over out on the plains and your horse wouldn’t be able to toss you onto his back and bring you home.” She grinned at his puzzled expression. “Well, that’s what Texas horses do in western movies.”
He chuckled. “Not my horse. He’s barely smart enough to find the barn when he’s hungry.” He buttered the biscuit. “My aunt used to cook like this,” he remarked. “Biscuits as light as air.”
“Sometimes they bounce,” she warned him. “I got lucky.”
He gave her a wary glance. “If these biscuits are any indication, so did I,” he murmured.
“I saw a henhouse out back. Do I gather the eggs every day?”
“Yes, but watch where you put your hand,” he cautioned. “Snakes have been known to get in there.”
She shuddered delicately, nodding.
They ate in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. “You’re a good cook, Jenny.”
She grinned. “My mother taught me. She was terrific.”
“Are your parents still alive?”
She shook her head, feeling a twinge of nostalgia. “No. They died several months ago, in a plane crash.”
“I’m sorry. Were you close?”
“Very.” She glanced at him. “Are your parents dead?”
His face closed up. “Yes,” he said curtly, and in a tone that didn’t encourage further questions.
She looked up again, her eyes involuntarily lingering on his bare chest. She felt his gaze, and abruptly averted her own eyes back to her empty plate.
He got up after a minute and went back to his bedroom. When he came out, he was tucking in a buttoned khaki shirt, and wearing boots as well. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said. “Now, how about taking it easy for the rest of the day? I want to be sure you’re up to housework before you pitch in with both hands.”
“I won’t do anything I’m not able to do,” she promised.
“I’ve got some rope in the barn,” he said with soft menace, while his eyes measured her for it.
She stared at him thoughtfully. “I’ll be sure to carry a pair of scissors on me.”
He was trying not to grin. “My God, you’re stubborn.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“I’ve had lots of practice working cattle,” he replied. He picked up his coffee cup and drained it. “From now on, I’ll come to the table dressed. Even at six o’clock in the morning.”
She looked up, smiling. “You’re a nice man, Mr. Culhane,” she said. “I’m not a prude, honestly I’m not. It’s just that I’m not accustomed to sitting down to breakfast with men. Dressed or undressed.”
His dark eyes studied her. “Not liberated, Miss King?” he asked.
She sensed a deeper intent behind that question, but she took it at face value. “I was never unliberated. I’m just old-fashioned.”
“So am I, honey. You stick to your guns.” He reached for his hat and walked off, whistling.
She was never sure quite how to take what he said. As the days went by, he puzzled her more and more. She noticed him watching her occasionally, when he was in the house and not working with his cattle. But it wasn’t a leering kind of look. It was faintly curious and a little protective. She had the odd feeling that he didn’t think of her as a woman at all. Not that she found the thought surprising. Her mirror gave her inescapable proof that she had little to attract a man’s eyes these days. She was still frail and washed out.
Eddie was the elder of the ranchhands, and Jenny liked him on sight. He was a lot like the boss. He hardly ever smiled, he worked like two men, and he almost never sat down. But Jenny coaxed him into the kitchen with a cold glass of tea at the end of the week, when he brought her the eggs before she could go looking for them.
“Thank you, ma’am. I can sure use this.” He sighed, and drained almost the whole glass in a few swallows. “Boss had me fixing fences. Nothing I hate worse than fixing fences,” he added with a hard stare.
She tried not to grin. With his jutting chin and short graying whiskers and half-bald head, he did look fierce.
“I appreciate your bringing in the eggs for me,” she replied. “I got busy mending curtains and forgot about them.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t much,” he murmured. He narrowed one eye as he studied her. “You ain’t the kind I’d expect the boss to hire.”
Her eyebrows arched and she did grin this time. “What would you expect?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, the boss being the way he is...an older lady with a mean temper.” He moved restlessly in the chair he was straddling. “Well, it takes a mean temper to deal with him. I know, I been doin’ it for nigh on twenty years.”