Running Wild Part 8

"You know, I'm just stuffed. I can't possibly finish this cake."

"Yeah," Walt said. "It's...good, really, but I just can't..."

Eli and Bo both swallowed long swigs of decaf behind an inedible chunk of cake before they nodded their heads in agreement.

Patrick and Spencer each sc.r.a.ped off a forkful of icing and downed it with relish.

Darby looked at the men around him and shook his head. "If it was anybody else but a pretty girl who made this cake you all would be raising the roof."

"Darby," Zeke said simply, and in a low, almost threatening voice.

"It's okay," Carlin said. All eyes turned to her. "I'm so sorry. This cake sucks."

"It's not that bad," Spencer said. "It's just a little..."

"Rubbery," one cowboy supplied when Spencer faltered.

"Chewy," another chimed in.

"Tough as old saddle leather." Everyone laughed at that one.

Carlin was embarra.s.sed, and angry that she'd wasted so much time on the blasted cake, but at the same time...With one notable exception, the men had all been concerned about hurting her feelings. Six out of seven had swallowed a piece of that awful cake, and if she hadn't acknowledged its suckiness, they wouldn't have said anything. swallowed a piece of that awful cake, and if she hadn't acknowledged its suckiness, they wouldn't have said anything.

It was very possible that she found herself surrounded by gentlemen, of a sort. Rough and tumble, yes, but still...gentlemen.

If she'd learned nothing else in the past few months, she'd learned how to roll with the punches. This was a culinary setback, but it wasn't a disaster.

"For your information," she said as she lifted some icing onto the tines of her fork, "the name of this luscious dessert is Never Fail White Cake."

They laughed at that, as she'd known they would. "Feel free to pick off the icing, if it suits you. It's actually pretty good. And believe me, the next time I make this cake it will will be better." be better."

The laughter died. A couple of them stared at her. It was Spencer who said, kindly, "There doesn't have to be a next time, Miss Carly. I think Libby used those cake mixes. She just added eggs and water and viola, she ended up with a cake that was pretty darn good."

Carlin bit her lip to keep from laughing. Viola? Viola? Surely he meant to say Surely he meant to say voila voila, but she wouldn't embarra.s.s Spencer by correcting him at the table. After all, he'd gone out of his way not to embarra.s.s her. Maybe sometime when they were alone she'd use the word correctly and maybe, just maybe, he'd take the hint. "We'll see," she said. "I'd hate to let some flour and shortening and eggs get the best of me. I just need to figure out what I did wrong."

"The brownies you made last night were good," Walt said.

"And you know," Eli added, "you can always buy some pies from Kat." He looked at Zeke. "Before you came to work here, those pies were the only decent food we'd had for..."

"Hey!" Spencer interrupted. "I did the best I could. I didn't see your sorry a.s.s in the kitchen trying to help out." The words might've been harsh, but there was no real animosity there. Then he looked at Carlin and his face turned red. Sheepishly he said, "Pardon my French."

It struck her that these men had formed a family, of sorts. From what Zeke had said earlier, Libby had been a big part of that family. Carlin didn't think she'd ever be accepted that way, not into the heart and soul of this place. Maybe if she stayed for years instead of months, but...she was temporary; welcomed and needed, at the moment, but temporary.

She stood and started gathering dirty dishes. "Well, you'll be happy to hear that I called Kat this afternoon and ordered a couple of pies for tomorrow night."

The announcement was followed by several wide grins and at least two hoots.

As Carlin walked into the kitchen she added, "But I will will make that Never Fail White Cake again, and it make that Never Fail White Cake again, and it will will turn out the way it's supposed to." By golly, by the time she left this ranch she and her Never Fail White Cake would be as famous as the perfect Libby. After months of doing her best to be invisible, she was determined to make her mark. turn out the way it's supposed to." By golly, by the time she left this ranch she and her Never Fail White Cake would be as famous as the perfect Libby. After months of doing her best to be invisible, she was determined to make her mark.

ZEKE LOCKED UP after Walt, who'd been the last to leave since they'd spent some time in the office discussing the next day's ch.o.r.es. He shook his head at the after Walt, who'd been the last to leave since they'd spent some time in the office discussing the next day's ch.o.r.es. He shook his head at the two two new locks Carlin had had installed that afternoon. One replaced his apparently unacceptable doork.n.o.b and lock, and the other was a heavy-duty deadbolt, set up high-he supposed so no one would be able to reach it from a broken window. The front door had gotten the same treatment. new locks Carlin had had installed that afternoon. One replaced his apparently unacceptable doork.n.o.b and lock, and the other was a heavy-duty deadbolt, set up high-he supposed so no one would be able to reach it from a broken window. The front door had gotten the same treatment.

He started to grumble as he headed for the kitchen, but stopped when he noted that the piles of laundry were significantly smaller, and that his boots and shoes had been lined up neatly and, he was pretty sure, cleaned. significantly smaller, and that his boots and shoes had been lined up neatly and, he was pretty sure, cleaned.

Carlin had her back to him as she unloaded the dishwasher. Another load would need to be run before she called it a day, and he was happy to leave that job to her capable-if paranoid-hands.

"This isn't exactly New York City, you know," he said, sounding more than a little grumpy.

"My bad. And here I was all set on going to a Broadway show on my half-day off," she responded calmly, without turning to look at him. "I guess I'll just have to use my opera gla.s.ses to spy on cows."

Zeke started to grin, caught himself, and growled, just a little. He didn't want or need to be entertained by her, but d.a.m.n, it was hard to resist. The thing was, unless he was wrong about her, she wanted wanted him to get grumpy at her verbal jabs. "They don't dance much, and they never sing. I hope you didn't have your heart set on a musical." him to get grumpy at her verbal jabs. "They don't dance much, and they never sing. I hope you didn't have your heart set on a musical."

Instead of giving as good as she got, as usual, she laughed. It was a nice laugh.

He needed to change the subject. Standing in the kitchen and sparring with Carlin was just too d.a.m.n much fun. "The locks are a little much, in my opinion, but I suppose if it makes you feel better..."

"It does. I put a set of keys on your bedroom dresser," she added, "and a spare set is hanging on a hook in your office. I have keys of my own, of course, but when I leave I'll hand them over."

She finally turned to face him. A few strands of hair were falling from her once-neat ponytail, and her face was flushed. There were a number of stains on her oversized ap.r.o.n. And d.a.m.n, she was beautiful-not because of the food, not even because of her face, but because of the fire he could see in her spirit.

"You know," she continued, a definite hint of reprimand in her voice, "you really should tell Spencer that the proper word is ' the proper word is 'voila,' not 'viola.' He's going to embarra.s.s himself one day."

Zeke grinned. "I tried to tell him once. He said in his family they p.r.o.nounce it 'viola.' As far as he's concerned, that's the final answer."

He leaned against the cabinets and watched her move back and forth, putting the dishes away, trying to think what he should do now. He had time to catch a little television, if anything worthwhile was on, but he'd had so little down time since Libby left that he didn't know what came on, or when. Or, h.e.l.l, he could just go to bed early. Either way, he really needed to get out of the way and leave Carlin to finish up in the kitchen. But, d.a.m.n d.a.m.n, he liked watching her. She didn't seem so th.o.r.n.y tonight. Maybe, even though she'd just been here a day and a half, she was already settling in, feeling at home.

She straightened, gave him what he could only cla.s.sify as a modified death stare. "I guess I'll see you in the morning, then." It was a dismissal. A nice one, he'd give her that-she hadn't asked him what the h.e.l.l he was doing in her kitchen or ordered him to get out-but it was a dismissal nonetheless.

"We'll head to town after breakfast," he said. If she could be all business, so could he-for now. The bank opened at nine and so did the library, but she'd already know that.

She stuck with the all-business theme. "I wasn't sure how long the trip would take, so I planned sandwiches for tomorrow's lunch. If I'm back in time to put things together, fine. If not, I figure the guys can fend for themselves."

"They can." He needed to say good night and leave, but instead he settled in, still watching. He liked watching her, so why should should he leave? He wasn't in the way. He wasn't hara.s.sing her. He wasn't coming on to her. He was just watching-and she knew he was watching. He could he leave? He wasn't in the way. He wasn't hara.s.sing her. He wasn't coming on to her. He was just watching-and she knew he was watching. He could tell by the tension that was slowly building in her body. She ignored him and continued to work, but some of the ease he'd noted earlier was gone, and he both hated that he'd been the cause of it and was gratified that she wasn't oblivious to him. But maybe now was the time for some strategy. tell by the tension that was slowly building in her body. She ignored him and continued to work, but some of the ease he'd noted earlier was gone, and he both hated that he'd been the cause of it and was gratified that she wasn't oblivious to him. But maybe now was the time for some strategy.

"Do you mind if I grab a cup of decaf?" There was enough left in the pot for a cup, or two. "I don't want to get in your way, but you do make good coffee, and I hate for it to go to waste."

It wasn't his imagination that she relaxed a bit, thinking he was hanging around for decaf, not her.

"Of course." She grabbed a mug, filled it. Zeke moved up behind her and reached around to take the mug from her hand. For the moment they were close, so close that he could dip his head a little and smell her hair, which he did, and lean in and touch the length of her body with his, which he didn't didn't do. do.

The last thing she needed was to think she had another stalker, though she might cla.s.sify him more as a predatory employer.

"You're doing good," he said, keeping his voice low because they were so close. "With the exception of the cake, that is." He grinned, and Carlin gave in to a smile herself.

"I need to ask Kat what I might've done wrong," she said, moving around him and resuming her ch.o.r.es. She grabbed a broom and started vigorously sweeping. He didn't think it was an accident that she now held a makes.h.i.+ft weapon, or that there was a broom between them.

She hadn't been kidding when she'd told him the C C on her uniform stood for Cautious. on her uniform stood for Cautious.

He lifted the coffee cup in a small salute, and headed for the door. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah," she said, sweeping hard. "Good night."

Zeke didn't look back, but he thought, as he headed for the den and the television he might stare at for a while, that he could get accustomed to having Carlin Hunt in the house.

CARLIN FINISHED UP in the kitchen and headed for her rooms. A shower and bed were the next items on her agenda. If she turned on the television and sat down in front of it, she'd be out like a light in no time. in the kitchen and headed for her rooms. A shower and bed were the next items on her agenda. If she turned on the television and sat down in front of it, she'd be out like a light in no time.

Behind closed doors she stripped off her clothes, threw them into her dirty clothes hamper, and headed for the bathroom. She was exhausted; curiously content, but exhausted. Feeding Zeke and the hands and catching up on what appeared to be months of neglected housework and laundry had her hopping, but she liked being busy, liked feeling that she'd accomplished something. She could see the light at the end of the tunnel, though; once she was caught up on the housework, she'd be able to take some time for herself in the afternoons-not a lot, but she could catch a nap, or watch TV, or read. Zeke would question her trips to the library if she didn't read something something.

The spray of hot water felt good, really good. For a while she just stood there and let the spray pound her tired muscles. She didn't think she'd have any trouble getting to sleep tonight.

This job was almost perfect. She was definitely off the grid, there were now decent locks on the outer doors, and most of the men she'd been feeding were perfectly nice. Darby was a jerk, but wasn't there always one in every group? Patrick was very quiet, and you never really knew what a quiet man was thinking. Spencer was a sweetheart, though, and Walt was almost like a father-figure to them all.

But d.a.m.ned if she could figure out Zeke Decker! One minute he was annoying as h.e.l.l, and the next he was being nice to her. How dare he? He should pick one and stay with it, because she hated trying to predict what he would do and how she should react. Being physically attracted to the man was enough of a problem, even when he was being a s.h.i.+thead; if he made a habit of being pleasant, how would she push the attraction away? being nice to her. How dare he? He should pick one and stay with it, because she hated trying to predict what he would do and how she should react. Being physically attracted to the man was enough of a problem, even when he was being a s.h.i.+thead; if he made a habit of being pleasant, how would she push the attraction away?

Scrubbed clean, Carlin stepped out of the shower and briskly dried herself. She'd deal with him somehow. One thing was for sure: the first time he came home and she instinctively greeted him with a sweet "How was your day?" she'd know it was time to move on.

Chapter Eleven

CARLIN ENTERED W WHARTON'S grocery store with Zeke on her heels. She didn't like that he was there, didn't like the way he was right behind her, didn't like the way he made her feel as if she were under guard. She wanted to take her time shopping, not feel as if he had a stopwatch in one hand and a whip in the other, in case he thought she was taking too long. Slave driver? Oh, yeah. The only thing that kept her from braining him with something was that he pushed himself as hard-or harder-as he did everyone else. grocery store with Zeke on her heels. She didn't like that he was there, didn't like the way he was right behind her, didn't like the way he made her feel as if she were under guard. She wanted to take her time shopping, not feel as if he had a stopwatch in one hand and a whip in the other, in case he thought she was taking too long. Slave driver? Oh, yeah. The only thing that kept her from braining him with something was that he pushed himself as hard-or harder-as he did everyone else.

She had a list; if she went strictly by it, she could gather the items and be out of the store within half an hour, maybe even twenty minutes. But she'd been reading a lot of cookbooks and she had a gajillion recipes dancing in her head-two or three, anyway. She wanted to look at stuff, think about what she could do that both sounded interesting and that a bunch of unadventurous men would eat. She might see ingredients that weren't on the list, and be inspired. She might- Who was she kidding? And what in G.o.d's name had she been thinking? Cooking had never been her thing, yet here she was, devoting most of each and every day to thinking about cooking, getting ready to cook, cooking, then cleaning up after cooking. Something was wrong with this picture. up after cooking. Something was wrong with this picture.

Working on an isolated ranch, getting paid in cash, going under an a.s.sumed name-it had all seemed like such a perfect situation, a perfect plan for staying under the radar, making some money and saving it, catching a breather from the stress of constantly running and being on guard. Working her b.u.t.t off was okay, but she was being taken over by cooking. She was fairly certain there was some DNA-altering going on, because otherwise wouldn't she be able to just say "Oh, well" about that d.a.m.n lying-a.s.s no-fail white cake and move on, instead of obsessing about tackling it again until she got it right?

Maybe it wasn't altered DNA. Maybe it wasn't a form of mental illness. Maybe she was just being compet.i.tive. She was okay with being compet.i.tive. If she looked at it that way, trying the d.a.m.n cake again was more admirable than alien.

But she couldn't shop effectively with Zeke-the-dragon breathing fire over her shoulder, telling her to hurry. And he would; she could feel the first "hurry it up" coming her way, probably within...say, five minutes, if she wanted to bet with herself.

Well, he could just breathe fire all he wanted, she thought grimly. She She was in charge of this expedition, and if he didn't like doing it her way then he could just find somewhere to sit and wait until she was finished- was in charge of this expedition, and if he didn't like doing it her way then he could just find somewhere to sit and wait until she was finished- Uh-oh. Reality abruptly punched her between the eyes. She looked at her list again and almost groaned aloud. The list itself wasn't extraordinarily long, but she needed a lot lot of the items on it. She didn't need five pounds of flour, she needed at least twenty. Ditto for the sugar. She was buying multiples of literally everything, which meant there was no way it would all go into one cart; she'd need at least two, maybe three-and that meant she needed Zeke. of the items on it. She didn't need five pounds of flour, she needed at least twenty. Ditto for the sugar. She was buying multiples of literally everything, which meant there was no way it would all go into one cart; she'd need at least two, maybe three-and that meant she needed Zeke.

But along the silver-lining-in-every-cloud line of thought, at least he could do the grunt work.

She jerked and tugged a cart out of the line, shoved it toward him, then freed another one. "Ground rules," she said tersely. "Don't try to hurry me up, or I'll forget something. Don't mess with me while I'm thinking, or I'll forget something-"

"How can you forget anything? You have a d.a.m.n list. Just check off each thing as you get it."

"And don't interrupt," she added. "Any idiot can get what's on a list. It's what isn't isn't on the list that requires creativity." on the list that requires creativity."

"It's a shopping list, not a work of art."

"But it isn't a complete complete list. That's why I need to think, and why you need to just follow along and be quiet." list. That's why I need to think, and why you need to just follow along and be quiet."

A thin, elderly white-haired woman wearing jeans, boots, and a denim s.h.i.+rt pushed a cart past them and said, "You tell him, honey."

Zeke gave his head a little shake as he watched the elderly woman walk away and, raising his voice, said wryly, "Thanks, Mrs. G."

"You're welcome, darling." Mrs. G. never looked back, just trundled on into the produce section where she stopped and began examining every offering of lettuce.

Carlin pursed her lips thoughtfully, then cut her gaze up at him. "Ex-girlfriend?"

"First-grade teacher."

For some reason, imagining him as a gap-toothed six-year-old made her stomach squeeze. As she'd cleaned the house she'd seen a couple of pictures of him-not many, which made her think he'd probably packed most of them away-so she had a good idea of how his adolescent face had morphed into the hard-edged features of the man, but she hadn't seen any of him as a child. It kind of made sense. What man wanted his baby pictures sitting around? Pictures of his own babies, yeah, but not of himself. Okay, that was another stomach-squeezing moment, thinking of Zeke as a father. No, actually, it was the baby-making part that affected her stomach. Oh, G.o.d, instead of getting used to him and building up immunity, she was actually getting worse. of himself. Okay, that was another stomach-squeezing moment, thinking of Zeke as a father. No, actually, it was the baby-making part that affected her stomach. Oh, G.o.d, instead of getting used to him and building up immunity, she was actually getting worse.

"You look like you're about to puke," he observed, pus.h.i.+ng his cart forward.

With a quick, inner shake she gathered herself and cut him off to take her rightful position as lead cart. "I was trying to imagine you as a kid. It was horrifying."

He grunted. "You're on the right track." Then he grinned. "But Mrs. G. had my number. She could back me down with a look."

"I gotta go talk to her." Just to get a rise out of him, she actually steered her cart in Mrs. G.'s direction, but he reached out and locked a hand over the cart handle, stopping her in her tracks.

"I don't have all day. Let's get these groceries bought and get out of here."

Too bad she hadn't made that bet with herself on how soon he'd say "hurry up"-or words to that effect-because she'd have just won the jackpot.

"All right, but-" She shook her finger at him. "Remember the rules: follow me, pick up what I tell you needs picking up, and don't talk."

"Oh, so now I'm supposed to do your manual labor for you?"

"A smart worker uses whatever tools are available to her," she said, leaving it to him to decide exactly what she meant by that.

"A smart worker stops wasting time, and starts working."

The only reason she didn't bother with a comeback was that he was right. She had a ton of groceries to gather, and they wouldn't hop in the carts by themselves.

The produce department was easy: none of the men, present company included, were big on things like romaine or celery. Onions, potatoes, some squash, and that was about it. But still, she needed a present company included, were big on things like romaine or celery. Onions, potatoes, some squash, and that was about it. But still, she needed a lot lot of potatoes, a of potatoes, a lot lot of onions. of onions.

Her brain was humming with the recipes she'd read as she wandered down the aisles, pondering the different types of diced tomatoes, dried soup packages, and whether mac and cheese was still mac and cheese if you used some other kind of noodle. She also pondered on whether or not she could manage mac and cheese; it had always struck her as the type of thing that looked looked simple, but was in reality a cesspool of culinary disasters just waiting to strike. For G.o.d's sake, it was noodles and cheese; what could go wrong? simple, but was in reality a cesspool of culinary disasters just waiting to strike. For G.o.d's sake, it was noodles and cheese; what could go wrong?

"I don't know what that Kraft box did to you, but you've been scowling at it for five minutes," Zeke growled. "Either pick it up, or move along."

"I'm deciding."

"Decide faster."

"Do you like mac and cheese?"

"I'm a man. I pretty much like anything with cheese on it."

"I didn't see any of these in the pantry."