Passion Flower. Diana Palmer
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