A Cowboy in Manhattan (11 page)

“This is ridiculous,” she huffed.

“Welcome to my world, Katrina. It can be cold, wet, dirty and unforgiving.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck in surrender. “This is exactly why I went off to boarding school.”

“You were right to do that.” His tone was gruff. “And you’re right to stay away. Colorado’s a bad place for you.”

Katrina didn’t disagree. But for the first time in her life, it didn’t feel like an insult.

Six

I
nside the line shack, Reed set Katrina on her feet, instructing her to hold still while he located a box of matches to light the two oil lamps that would be sitting on the small kitchen table. He knew where everything was in the compact, single-room shack, and he didn’t want her walking into the furniture.

“Will somebody come looking for us?” her voice wafted across the cool room to him.

“What do you mean?”

“When we don’t come back, will they come looking?”

Reed couldn’t help but smile to himself. He struck a match, lifted the glass chamber and lit the lamp’s wick. The idea that Caleb would mount a rescue operation because Reed was a few hours late was laughable.

“I’m old enough to stay out after dark,” he told Katrina. He quickly moved the match to the second lamp and lit it, as well. Warm yellow light filled the small room, highlighting a compact kitchen, two worn armchairs, a bed in one corner, along with the scarred wooden table and four battered kitchen chairs.

“Won’t they worry?” she pressed.

“Not for a day or so.”

“But we could be hurt.”

“We’re not hurt.”

“They don’t know that.”

He took in her bedraggled appearance and tried not to feel guilty, reminding himself that she was the one who’d insisted on coming along. “They’ll know that odds are we’re stuck.”

“But—”

“This kind of thing happens all the time.” Next, Reed went to the small woodstove between the armchairs. There was a cardboard box nearby with old newspapers, dry kindling and split firewood. He opened the glass-fronted stove door.

“Not to me, it doesn’t,” Katrina huffed to his back.

He heard her make her way farther into the shack. “We’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

He crumpled the paper. “So stop worrying.”

“I’m not worried.”

He laid down a few pieces of kindling. “I can tell.”

“I’m not worried. Cold, maybe.”

“It’ll warm up soon.”

“And hungry.”

“You? Hungry? Who’d have guessed.”

“I eat,” she protested.

“About enough to keep a bird alive.” Not that she was skinny. She had a killer compact figure, smooth curves, tight muscle tone. He set a few pieces of firewood on top of the kindling.

“I guess I’m an easy keeper.”

He grinned at her horse reference, striking a match then tossing it into the stove, watching the paper catch and light before closing the door. “Well, I’m definitely not. I’ll see what I can find us to eat.”

“There’s food here?”

“I hope so.” It was going to be a long night if he couldn’t find a can of stew or a jar of peanut butter.

“What can I do?”

It was on the tip of Reed’s tongue to make a joke about how little she could do out here, but before he could speak, he caught a glimpse of her delicate features. Her soaking, stringy hair, those wet, bedraggled clothes, and he didn’t have the heart to tease her.

“Check the bureau beside the bed. Sometimes the cowboys leave dry clothes in it.”

In reaction to his words, she shook water droplets from her fingertips, and took a long look down at her soaking clothes.

Reed could stand to stay wet if he had to, but he’d much rather dry off and warm up.

She headed for the far corner of the shack while he moved one of the lamps to the small countertop and checked the kitchen cupboard. He found a box of pancake mix and a bottle of maple syrup. Not exactly gourmet, but it would keep them from going hungry.

“Not much here,” Katrina called to report.

He turned, squinting into the darkened end of the room.

She came toward him, into the lamplight, holding something in each hand. “Tops or bottoms?” She unfurled a pair of gray sweatpants and a large, white T-shirt.

He couldn’t help being reminded of his offer to share his pajamas. He nodded to the sweatpants. “Looks like those might be a bit large for you.”

“Unless I want a blanket.” She tossed them his way, and he snagged them out of midair.

She shook out the T-shirt. “Can I trust you to turn your back while I change?”

“Absolutely,” he vowed. “My mama raised me to be a gentleman.”

“My auntie raised me to be a bohemian artist.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Her blue eyes danced as she obviously fought a smile. “It means I probably won’t turn my back while
you
change.”

Reed fought the temptation to tease her in return. But that was a dangerous road to go down. Instead, he forced himself to turn away, concentrating on finding a bowl in the sparsely equipped cupboard. It was already going to be a very long night. “Change your clothes, Katrina.”

While he whipped up the batter and heated a pan on the two-burner propane stove, she rustled her way into the dry T-shirt.

“Your turn,” she told him, moving up beside him at the counter. “That smells good.”

He handed her the spatula. “You know how to cook pancakes?”

She took it. “Haven’t a clue.”

He glanced down at her, his chest contracting at the sight. Her hair was raked smoothly back. Her face was shiny clean. And the boxy T-shirt accentuated her slim frame, showing off her shapely legs.

It took him a second to find his voice. “When those bubbles burst, flip it over.”

“I can do that.” She determinedly took up a position in front of the mini stove.

She’d laid out her wet tank top and slacks, along with Reed’s soaking shirt, on a kitchen chair near the woodstove to dry. Reed stripped his way out of his own jeans, stepped out of his boxers and pulled on the soft sweatpants. Katrina kept her back turned. He’d known she was bluffing.

She gave a little whoop when she successfully flipped the pancake.

“Now what?” she called over her shoulder.

He draped his clothes on another kitchen chair and moved up behind her. “Give it a minute, then we’ll start another.”

“I’m pretty good at this,” she bragged.

“Outstanding,” he agreed. He retrieved a dinner plate so they could stack the pancakes.

She dumped the pancake from the pan onto the plate and placed the pan back on the stove.

“First you spoon in the batter,” he demonstrated. Then he tipped the pan so that the batter spread thin.

“You’re very domesticated,” she noted.

“Survival instinct.”

“Your mom teach you to do that?”

Reed nodded through the familiar hitch in his chest. Even after all these years, he couldn’t help but react whenever he talked about his mother. Which wasn’t often. “She did.”

Katrina’s voice lowered. “How old were you when it happened?”

He pretended to misunderstand the question. “When she taught me to cook pancakes?”

“When she died,” Katrina clarified.

He kept his voice even. “Seventeen.”

There was a silent pause.

“I remember she was beautiful,” said Katrina.

“She was,” he agreed. And she’d been kind and gentle, and far too delicate to be toiling in the wilds of Colorado ranch country. Not unlike Katrina.

“You mind talking about her?”

Reed bought himself a moment by flipping the pancake. “I don’t mind,” he lied.

“It must have been hard.”

“It was.”

“And then Caleb left.”

“What are you trying to ask me?” Reed would rather get to the point and get out of this conversation.

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. How it impacted you, losing such a big part of your family all at once. If you were lonely.”

“Were you lonely?” he asked her, instead of answering.

“Huh?”

“You left your family.”

She nodded but didn’t elaborate. A few seconds later, she wrapped both hands around the handle of the frying pan and dumped the next pancake onto the plate.

“You want to try?” he offered, relieved to move on to something more mundane.

“Sure.” She accepted the spoon, doled out the batter and tipped the pan.

“Well done.” He smiled.

“I was lonely,” she admitted, setting the pan back down on the heat.

He clenched his jaw. So much for letting the maudlin stuff go.

“I was only ten years old,” Katrina continued, eyes taking on a faraway expression. “For a while there, I really wanted to come home. But Auntie Coco talked me out of it. She was a pistol. No matter how much the other kids teased me, no matter how hard the studies or the dancing, no matter how much I missed my mom, she’d tell me to keep my chin up, my head clear and try just a little bit harder.”

Reed found himself engaging. “What was the most difficult part?”

Katrina turned to face him, and it hit him just how close together they were standing. “What was the most difficult part for you?”

He gazed into her eyes, debating whether to lie. For so many years now, whenever he was asked about his father, he’d glossed over Wilton’s cruelty. It was an ingrained reflex. But he found he didn’t want to lie to Katrina.

“That my father was junkyard-dog mean.”

Her delicate brows went up.

“He was dictatorial, demanding and ruthless. He yelled at me every day of my life, hit me and nearly worked me to death for ten long years.” Reed reached around her and flipped the next pancake.

“Are you serious?” Katrina’s voice was a horrified whisper.

“I am.”

“But why didn’t you leave? Caleb left. Couldn’t you have—”

“And let Wilton win?”

Katrina paused. “So, you were taking a stand?”

“I was.”

She seemed to ponder his words.

“You think I was nuts.” He’d sure heard enough of that reaction from Caleb.

But Katrina gave her head a slow shake. “I’m envious.” Moving in what seemed like slow motion, she reached up to brush her fingertips along his bicep.

His muscle contracted under her touch, and it was all he could do to hold himself still.

She tipped her chin and met his gaze. “I admire you. There are days when I wish I could tell the world to go to hell and back it up with brute strength.”

The urge to haul her into his arms was so powerful, that he had either to move away or give in. He used retrieving the next pancake as an excuse. “Hungry?”

Her hesitation lasted only a split second. “Starving.”

“Bring the plates,” he instructed. “And some forks.” He transferred the pancakes and the bottle of maple syrup to the small table near the center of the room. He moved the oil lamp to make room for the dishes, and its light bounced off the scars that had been gouged into the wooden tabletop over many long years of use.

She joined him, taking one of the two chairs that weren’t being used as clothing racks.

He sat down and pulled in his chair. “It’s not exactly the Ritz.”

She gave an exaggerated pout. “You mean no caviar and champagne?”

Using his fork, he transferred two of the pancakes to her plate, then he pushed the bottle of syrup her way. “And the wine pairings leave something to be desired.”

She blinked at him over the soft yellow lamplight. “You surprise me when you do that.”

“Do what?” Deciding it didn’t make sense to use up another plate, he moved his clean one back to the counter and shifted the serving platter with the remaining two pancakes in front of him.

She watched his movements until he sat down. “When you talk about wine pairings and Dior.”

“You are such a snob.”

“I’m not,” she protested, hand resting on her fork, showing no signs of getting started on the meal.

Since she wasn’t using the syrup, he poured some of it on his own pancakes then pushed it back to her.

“You’ve spent your entire life on a ranch in Colorado,” she elaborated.

He cut into the tender pancake. “Do you honestly think you’re making it better?”

“Okay. How do you know about wine pairings?”

He reached across the table and drizzled the syrup on her pancakes. No sense in letting the things get cold. “How do
you
know about wine pairings?”

“Fine restaurants, parties, I read a little.”

He gave a chuckle. “Me, too.”

“But—”

“I’ve been to Denver and Seattle, even as far as L.A. I once toured a vineyard in the Napa Valley. Get over it and eat your pancakes.”

She ignored his instruction. “Really? You toured a vineyard?”

“Surprised they let me in?” He took a bite. He wasn’t about to sit here and starve waiting for her.

“You’re twisting my words.”

“I don’t need to twist them to make you sound like a snob, princess. You’re doing that all by yourself.”

“You surprised me.” To her credit, she did sound contrite.