Convictions (7 page)

Before Olivia could react, Connie returned, tears streaming down her face.

"What is it?" Olivia asked anxiously, stepping toward the woman.

"My mother. She collapsed this morning. She's in the hospital in Santa Fe."

"I'm so sorry," Olivia said, wrapping her arms around the stout woman.

"I have to go,
chica"
Connie said, drawing out of Olivia's hug.

"Yes, of course. Do you need anything?"

The cook pulled a white handkerchief from her apron and wiped her cheeks, then blew her nose. "No, my sister, she'll drive. She's going to pick me up in an hour." The cook surveyed the kitchen and tables. "You'll have to give the men their lunch,
chica.
There is lasagna in the oven and salad in the refrigerator. Slice the fresh bread for them, too."

Olivia's pulse doubled. "I-I don't..."

Connie grasped her hands. "You must. Perhaps one of the men will help you."

"I can."

Olivia had almost forgotten about Hank.

"I'm sorry, Olivia, but I have to leave," Connie said, moving to the door. "Please tell your father why I had to go so quickly."

"He'll understand. Call to let us know how your mother is doing."

"I will." Connie paused in the doorway. "There are thawed chickens in the refrigerator for dinner. You can make chicken and dumplings." Then she was gone.

Rooted in place after Connie's abrupt departure, Olivia felt the full impact of what had just occurred. Even if a temporary cook could be found, it would take more than a day or two, which meant the cooking responsibilities would be hers.

Olivia could no longer hide from the world.

Chapter Five

Hank watched Olivia as she brushed a strand of blond hair from her heat-flushed cheek. She inhaled deeply, drawing his appreciative gaze to the silhouette of her breasts. Lust slammed through him, subtle as a stripper in a monastery. His body's lightning-fast reaction shouldn't have surprised him. Six years of celibacy added up to a hell of a lot of frustration. Damned good thing he'd learned a thing or two about control, although her proximity was making it hard—in more ways than one—to ignore his libido's return.

She turned toward him, oblivious to the effect she had on him. "Well, at least we won't starve." She peered past Hank, dismay and something akin to panic flooding her features. "Connie was going to make apple crisp."

He glanced at the two buckets of peeled apples and felt compelled to reassure her. "Don't worry. No one's going to miss it."

"No. I can't let these apples go to waste," she said firmly, her lips thinning.

Hank frowned, wondering why she thought it was such a big deal. It wasn't like the end of the world if some apples had to be thrown out. He shrugged. "Let the men eat them that way, or cook them down to sauce. They won't care."

Olivia nibbled on her lower lip, and Hank imagined he was the one doing the nibbling. Turning away from Olivia before she saw the evidence of his arousal, he spotted one of the ranch vehicles barreling up the driveway. "Forget about the apples for now. The men are coming in for lunch."

She glanced over her shoulder, then back at Hank. Dread seized her pale features.

He frowned at her odd reaction. "Connie said the meal was ready. It just needs to be set out."

Olivia blinked and nodded rapidly. "That's right." She seemed to shrink into herself as the truck braked in front of the bunkhouse and the men climbed out. "The tables have to be set."

As Hank placed plates and silverware on the tables, Olivia pulled out the pans of lasagna from the two large ovens and cut them into generous pieces. Hank then carried the pans to the tables, and Olivia sliced the still-warm bread with an electric knife.

"The salad is in the refrigerator," Olivia called to him.

He nodded and set them down, too, then divvied up the plates of sliced bread. Just as the tubs of butter had been placed on the tables, the men flooded the dining hall. A few of them appeared surprised by Olivia's presence. Although she often helped Connie, she was never around when the men arrived to eat.

"Do you need any more help?" Hank asked Olivia.

She shook her head, but her face appeared pinched, and she took a step back. "Go ahead and eat. I'll just stay in the kitchen in case anyone needs anything."

Puzzled by her skittishness, he suddenly remembered that she'd been assaulted. The image of someone hurting Olivia sent scalding anger flowing through his veins. He clenched his jaw, fighting the irrational wave of protectiveness.

Hank nodded curtly to Olivia and joined the other men to eat lunch. The only place left was beside Mantle, and he sat down reluctantly.

The furtive man leaned across the table, his leer on Olivia as he spoke to Hank. "You gonna share or keep that sweet ass all to yourself?"

Mantle's crudeness made Hank want to shove the man's teeth down his throat. He managed to rein in the murderous impulse and said sotto voce, "The judge might take exception to your description of his daughter."

Mantle laughed, a thick braying sound. "When did you get to be a fucking choirboy?"

Hank forced his muscles to relax. "Look, I'm only trying to keep my nose clean and get out of prison."

"Then that's something we got in common." Mantle leaned even closer. "But that's the only thing we got in common. You keep out of my business, and I'll keep out of yours, then we both get what we want."

There was no doubt Mantle was threatening him again, but Hank knew better than to get into a pissing contest. Mantle might be a son of a bitch, but he was a smart son of a bitch. He'd turn things around so Hank would be the one returning to prison if anything erupted between them.

Hank glared at Mantle, who was helping himself to the lasagna. If he or anyone else tried to screw up Hank's bid for an early out, he'd do what he had to.

There was no way he was going back to prison.

To anxious to eat lunch, Olivia cleaned up the kitchen, then finished putting the groceries away. Her head whirled with the tasks ahead, turning her belly into a churning vat of acid.

As a lawyer, she'd juggled cases ranging from shoplifting to theft to assault and murder. Yet she'd never felt as overwhelmed and inadequate as she did now. Preparing a brief seemed like child's play compared to preparing a meal for twenty men.

She comforted herself with the knowledge it would only be for two, maybe three days. Until her father found someone else to take the job. Someone infinitely more qualified than one burned-out ADA.

The murmur of men's voices rose, and chairs were pushed back. Footsteps faded as they left the dining hall, and Olivia breathed a sigh of relief.

Buck appeared in the kitchen's doorway, his hat in his hand. "Where's Connie?"

"Her mother is in the hospital," Olivia replied. "She had to leave right away."

"If you want, I can get one of the men to do the cookin' until the boss can hire someone."

Olivia considered it but knew her father was already shorthanded for this time of the year. Besides, a part of her had enough of hiding out. "No, that's all right. I can do it."

He appeared relieved. "If you need any help, let me know, and I'll get one of the men to give you a hand."

"Hank Elliott was in here unloading supplies, so he helped me set the tables."

"If you want, I'll have him stay and help you clear off the tables then."

Grateful, Olivia nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

With one last respectful nod, Buck walked away. She saw him stop by Hank and speak to him. Hank's gaze shifted to her, and she turned away to fill the sink with warm, soapy water. Just as she turned off the faucet, Hank brought in a stack of dirty dishes.

"Where to you want these?" he asked.

"Set them on the counter."

From her peripheral vision, she saw his sun-darkened hands set the pile on the counter. His short, blunt fingernails were amazingly clean, devoid of the typical ground-in dirt. However, tiny scars on his knuckles told Olivia he'd participated in a fistfight or two, and she shivered at the evidence of his violent side. But then, maybe he'd been defending himself, and she couldn't fault him for that.

While she rinsed the dishes, then placed them in the industrial-size dishwasher, Hank made several trips with dirty pans and plates.

"Do you need anything else, Ms. Kincaid?" he asked with a molasses drawl that sent a shiver of desire up her spine.

Olivia cleared her throat. "No."

Hank's boot heels echoed dully on the wood floor, leaving silence in his wake. And an odd hollowness in Olivia's chest.

The remainder of the afternoon flew by as Olivia attempted to fill Connie's shoes. Pasty mixtures of flour and water dotted the countertops, but chicken and dumplings simmered happily on the stove. She'd taken Hank's suggestion and made applesauce, which added a zest of cinnamon to the air amid the stomach-growling scent of chicken.

Once the dishwasher was done, Olivia set the table with the now-clean plates and silverware in preparation for dinner. She made fresh coffee in the large restaurant-style coffeepot. Her stomach growled at the mouthwatering smells.

At six o'clock, a knock on the door startled her. She opened the door a crack, and when she saw it was Hank, she swung it wide open.

"Do you need some help?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," Olivia said, pleased that he'd returned.

Hank simply nodded and came inside. Olivia's nose twitched from the smell of soap that wafted in his wake. He'd obviously washed up before coming over to offer his help, but the soap couldn't cover the scent of leather and masculinity that was distinctly him.

"Are you doing all right?" Hank asked when he came back for another hot kettle of chicken and dumplings.

She brushed back a strand of damp hair from her forehead and offered him a tired smile. "I don't know how Connie does it day after day."

He shrugged. "She's used to it. You've been recovering."

Olivia stiffened at the reminder. "For too damned long."

Hank regarded her silently. "The men will be coming in pretty soon. Are you ready?"

Her shoulders tensed, but she nodded.

She dined in the kitchen as the men ate. The low hum of voices was surprisingly soothing, as long as she kept her distance.

After they'd eaten, the men left the dining hall. Olivia knew most of them would end up in front of the television in the main bunkhouse. Hank and his fellow prisoners would probably join them. The hired men were, overall, pretty accepting of the prisoners. Those who didn't approve of them rarely stayed on the payroll for long. Olivia's father wanted them to work as equals on the ranch and culled out the troublemakers.

Olivia didn't miss the irony; she was probably the worst naysayer, but he could hardly fire his own daughter.

Hank appeared with an armload of dirty plates. "I'll clear the tables," he said simply.

Startled out of her thoughts, Olivia got to work. Once everything was rinsed and put in the dishwasher, she let the water out of the sink.

"Would you like some help in the morning, Ms. Kincaid?" Hank asked.

He was wearing his aloof mask, but she couldn't deny the heat that shimmered between them, like a wavy mirage above a hot highway. There, yet not. "If Buck doesn't mind."

"He won't." Without another word, he left.

Startled by his abrupt departure, Olivia hobbled over to the window and saw Hank pause outside the barracks where the convicts slept. She studied him in the dim light. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to look out toward the dim outline of the mountain peaks in the distance.

Olivia wondered what he was thinking. Was the ranch any different than prison for him? Hank and the other four convicts weren't allowed off Kincaid land without permission. They continued to wear their Wilson Correctional Facility chambray shirts and ball caps. It was their mark, their badge of dishonor.

Her gaze traveled across Hank's shoulders and back, and down his long, muscular legs. She gave in to her feminine curiosity, and her attention lingered. She'd worked around men in suits for so long, she'd forgotten the allure of denim over a tight backside. Her fingers remembered, though, and she curled them into her palms.

After the attack, she'd lost control of her emotions, and now her body betrayed her. Her life was screwed up enough; she didn't want or need the complication of Hank Elliott. Yet she couldn't escape him if she continued to cook the meals because, in spite of everything, he'd be the one she'd turn to for help.

She glanced toward the mountains, which were lit with an eerie orangish glow as the sun dropped behind the peaks. Olivia grabbed her cane and left the cookhouse, intent on getting to the house before the sun disappeared completely. The skin between her shoulder blades tingled, and she suspected it was Hank's gaze that followed her.

However, Olivia wasn't certain if the tingle was one of trepidation or excitement. Or which was more dangerous.

Biting back a frustrated sigh, Hank watched Olivia disappear into the big house. She hadn't even glanced at him when she'd passed. What had he expected, that she would smile seductively and ask him to follow her into that fancy house, down the hall to her fancy room, and make love in her fancy bed?

He closed his eyes, envisioning her bedroom. He'd only been in it long enough to retrieve her cane, but he clearly remembered the feminine scents: a hint of violets and powder, and Olivia's unique musk that had taxed his control only minutes ago in the cookhouse. Surprisingly, her room contained frilly curtains and a pale pink, blue, and green bedspread, revealing a soft underside to Olivia's rigid exterior. He'd noticed a stack of books beside her bed and had no trouble imagining her lying in bed, alone except for a book held between her long, slender fingers.

Instead of holding some book at night, a passionate woman like her should be caressing a flesh-and-blood man—a man like him who could appreciate her touch, and who would be more than willing to reciprocate.

Arousal tightened Hank's muscles, and he opened his eyes to escape the scorching visions that fired his blood. The damned woman was going to be his downfall if he didn't gain control of his rampant lust.