One Heart to Win (9 page)

That despicable feud. But it was just as well that she and the Callahans had the same agenda, sort of, or this opportunity wouldn’t have presented itself to her. But she was sure she wouldn’t have liked being held hostage here. That would have forced her hand to say who she really was, and they would have taken her straight to her father, which was
not
going to happen if she could help it.

So she merely gave Cole a baleful look and asked cuttingly, “Are you ranchers, or outlaws? I really would like to know before I step into your—lair.”

“We abide by the law, ma’am,” he said in a defensive tone.

“It sounds more like you skirt it.”

“Wouldn’t be paying you twice what you’re worth if we were trying to skirt anything, now would we?”

She got a little pink-cheeked over that answer herself, so she left him with a curt nod and crossed the threshold into her temporary home. And stopped short. And sneezed. And sneezed again. The Callahans didn’t need a housekeeper, they needed a new house. This one had gone to hell.

Dried mud was tracked halfway down the short foyer that opened into a large main room where several couches and chairs were scattered about. Obviously they’d been shipped in from the East and had once been handsome pieces of furniture, but they were so old that the upholstery had faded to a dingy gray. Smoke from a soot-blackened fireplace had probably backed up into the room too many times. The paintings on the walls were crooked, some very crooked. The hardwood floor was covered with a layer of dust so thick that footsteps were actually outlined in it. Were there no servants at all in this house?

Tiffany turned to ask Cole that question, but shrieked instead when she caught sight of herself in an oval mirror hanging on the foyer wall. Her complexion was a pasty gray riddled with streaks! She hardly recognized herself. She immediately took out her handkerchief and scrubbed at her face, but without water all she was doing was moving the dust and the dirt around.

“See a mouse?” Cole asked, coming in the front door carrying her large trunk with John’s help. “Sounded like it.” When she just stared at him blankly, he added, “You screamed.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” she corrected him indignantly.
“I merely squeaked delicately.” But then she warned, “I won’t tolerate mice. If you tell me you are infested with them, I’ll tell you to put my trunk back in the wagon.”

He chuckled. “No mice, not that I’ve ever noticed. Now run along upstairs and figure out which room you want us to put this heavy thing in.”

“You may put it down where you are. There is only one priority right now: that you show me where I can bathe. I can’t abide for another moment this veil of dirt you and your brother—”

“Take it on upstairs, Cole. I can show the lady where she wants to go.”

Cole looked beyond her to say, “I thought you—”

“Curiosity got the better of me,” the newcomer interrupted, and headed back the way he’d just come, so by the time Tiffany turned toward him, she merely saw a broad back. “Come along, Red. The bath is this way.”

She wouldn’t have budged an inch under normal circumstances. Did he
really
just give her a nickname based on the color of her hair? But she was starting to feel itchy from all the dust that must have gotten into her clothes.

She hurried after the tall man. He had unfashionably long, black hair. She would have thought him a household servant if he weren’t wearing a gun belt, or did even servants wear them in Montana?

The hall had narrowed and dimmed once they passed the stairs to the upper floor, but at the end of it light came from a door that had been left open. Which was where the man led her, into the kitchen. Tiffany took one look and closed her eyes tight. And started counting to ten in her mind. And prayed she
wouldn’t start screaming. Whoever had last cooked here had left the kitchen strewn with dirty pans and dishes.

“I agree with you, you’re in dire need of a scrubbing,” a deep voice said with a laugh.

Her eyes flew open. She located her amused escort standing in front of another door he’d opened. Only vaguely did she see a porcelain tub beyond him because her eyes locked on his face and stayed there. Powder-blue eyes contrasted with his black hair and darkly tanned skin. A twinkle of laughter was still in those blue eyes, suggesting he was good-humored. With a strong nose and a wide brow, his was a masculine face and much more handsome than she was accustomed to. Tall, lean, and muscular, he wore a long-sleeved, black shirt and a blue bandanna tied around his neck, dark-blue pants, and muddy black boots.

He nodded toward the room behind him. “The tub actually drains. The pipes lead out to the garden Old Ed tended behind the house. It keeps the ground moist if occasionally soapy.”

He had to be joking about the soapy garden so she ignored that and asked, “Who is Old Ed?”

“The cook we sorely miss. He couldn’t be talked into staying. Ornery cuss just said it was time to move on to see more of the world.”

“Not too old to do that?”

“Not old at all, midthirties maybe.”

“Then why was he called Old Ed?”

“His hair turned gray years ago after he had a run-in with a grizzly. He was out hunting for his supper, so was the bear. Ed was sure the bear was going to go home happy that night when it startled him into dropping his rifle.”

Definitely not a subject for delicate ears, yet her curiosity kicked in. “But he got away?”

“Ran like hell and even faster when he heard the bear shooting at him.”

She stared hard at the man. “That’s absurd—isn’t it?”

He laughed, she was sure at her, which had her back stiffening indignantly. For a cowboy, he was too friendly
and
too impertinent. But she supposed a man this attractive was in the habit of flirting with the ladies.

“Course it is,” he answered. “Old Ed was just scared enough at the time to have that crazy notion. He went back the next day to find his rifle on the ground and one bloody pawprint by the barrel. The bear probably swiped at the shiny thing that had been left for him and shot himself in the foot. But Ed did wake up with gray hair that morning.”

Which reminded her. “My hair isn’t red.”

“Close enough,” he disagreed with a grin. “If you want some hot water added to that tub, light up the stove. If not, you’re all set. A pump was added for the tub a few years back at Ed’s insistence. He got annoyed with everyone filling buckets at his sink when he was trying to cook dinner. Real annoyed. Wouldn’t cook another meal until he got his way. That second pump went in pretty darn fast.”

“I can’t wait that long. I fear I will be screaming any moment now if I don’t get this grime off me.”

He shrugged and stepped away from the door so it no longer appeared that he was blocking her way from the little bathing room. “Suit yourself.”

Suit herself? She realized she’d been doing just that. She’d been having a conversation with a perfect stranger when she knew very well how improper that was, at least before introductions!
This was so unlike her. She blamed him, of course. She’d simply never encountered a man this handsome before.

Annoyed now, more with herself for allowing him to fluster her like this, she started forward. “Who are you? Do you work here?”

“Everyone here works. Speaking of which, aren’t you a bit young to be a housekeeper? I have a feeling you’re gonna wash up pretty—and young.”

“Not at all. I’m much older than I look, likely as old as you are. How old are you?”

He chuckled. “If I answer that, will you?”

Why was she still talking to one of the hired hands? “Never mind.”

He grinned back. “That’s what I thought. I’ll guard the door for you. On second thought, maybe you better lock it—so you’ll be safe from me.”

Chapter Eleven

T
IFFANY WAS SITTING IN
the tub of cold water shivering, but she was barely aware of it. She was still thinking about the fellow who’d teased her about locking the door. Was he still out there, waiting to see her “cleaned up,” as he’d put it? She was a bit bothered that the thought pleased her—no, it excited her.

She wished he’d told her who he was . . . oh, good God, could he be Hunter Callahan? No, of course not, not with those light-blue eyes, when the two brothers she’d met both had brown eyes. Besides, Hunter had left the ranch. She’d seen him ride off herself.

She tsked at herself and got out of the tub, then groaned when she realized she had nothing clean to wear. She was so used to having a maid anticipate her needs that she hadn’t thought that far ahead. But she was
not
going to put those dusty clothes back on. She wrapped herself in a towel and opened the door a crack to call for help and saw her trunk sitting there. Cole, bless him. He was thoughtful enough to have realized she’d need it.

A while later she glanced in the oval mirror above the shaving stand to make sure she was finally presentable. Clean, yes, but hardly presentable, at least not to her standards. She hadn’t taken the time to carefully sort through the clothing in her trunk when someone might walk into the kitchen at any time, but she did get a yellow day dress in the armful she grabbed. She wasn’t sure she’d managed to secure all the buttons up the back, though, nor could she twist around enough to tell. And the best she could do with her damp hair was to tie it back. It was dawning on her how much she depended on a maid because she couldn’t even pin up her own hair!

Sighing, she opened the door and saw Cole standing there about to knock. He just stared at her though without saying a word, so she said, “Well, I’ve finished making use of your pretty tub.”

Cole managed to tear his eyes away from her fresh-scrubbed face and glanced at the tub. “Ma ordered that contraption from a fancy catalog she got from St. Louis. You should’ve heard the laughter when it arrived, but I gotta admit, it beats the hell out of getting splinters in your ass.”

She made no comment about his improper language because she’d heard worse from her own mother. Rose had picked up a colorful vocabulary from her years in the West.

“Thank you for bringing my trunk in here. I’ll choose a room now so it can be—”

“Wasn’t me who brought it in. And my pa—”

That was as far as he got before he was simply gazing at her again. It wasn’t an unusual reaction. She’d had men stare at her like this before, but not men she’d already met. She was tempted to tell him to close his mouth, but that would, of course, embarrass him, and she’d rather not. Although it was
his fault that her appearance had been so distorted by dirt and dust.

Tiffany tried not to grin when she prompted him to continue, “Your father?”

“Wants to—” he started, but, apparently still amazed by how she looked, he said, “Never seen a gal as pretty as you.” Then he blushed profusely. “Sorry. Pa wants to meet you now. He sent me to fetch you.”

“By all means. Lead the way.”

Cole nodded, though his cheeks were still red.

Tiffany didn’t try to keep up with his long-legged stride. But he didn’t get too far ahead of her and stopped at the front door, holding it open for her. He was taking her outside? She started to frown until he pointed toward the end of the porch where an older cowboy sat—well, probably not a cowboy, but a man dressed like one. This had to be the owner of the ranch, her fiancé’s father.

“Just got home,” the older man said to Tiffany as she slowly approached him. “Was surprised to hear my boys were successful. Name’s Zachary Callahan. What’s yours?”

She was suddenly so nervous she couldn’t recall the name she was going to use! This was her father’s worst enemy, and, she realized,
her
enemy, too. She might not love her father, but she loved the rest of her family. And this man could actually end the feud with them if he wanted to. He must be somewhat open to the idea, or he would never have agreed to end it through marriage, would he? What was that housekeeper’s name?

“Jennifer Fleming,” she finally blurted out.

He didn’t seem to notice her nervousness. He pointed to the seat next to him. He didn’t stand up. He might have stood
up for a lady, but obviously not for an employee. Tiffany ignored the chair since it was covered with dust and Zachary was smoking a cigar, the smoke blowing right across the second chair.

He appeared to be in his midforties, though his hair was still coal black. Dark brown eyes with lots of lines fanning out at the sides of them. Laughter lines, Rose called them. They did usually hint at a good-natured temperament. And he was quite a handsome man, which wasn’t surprising. Rose had said he was. And Tiffany had seen the evidence in two of his sons.

She shook off her unease, reminding herself she had a role to play. “Why did your last housekeeper leave, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Never had one, and we just lost our cook, so we’re plumb tickled you’re here. You’re not going to sit?”

She was going to have to address his assumption that she would be his cook, too, but she didn’t quite have the nerve to do that yet, so she merely said, “No offense, sir, but I can’t abide the smell of smoke.”

“None taken. My wife won’t let me smoke in the house. I abide by that rule even though she don’t come downstairs anymore.”