“Don’t be a jerk to her.” Conor leans forward, green eyes shining in the dark. “She’s on her own, doing her job, and if what she said is true, she has no family. She doesn’t have what we have. Don’t punish her for a crime she hasn’t committed yet.”
Jake’s silence tells me he agrees with her.
“I won’t.” I’ll play with her, but I won’t treat her unfairly.
“Good.” She relaxes. “Now how is she going to help on the ranch?”
“I have some ideas.” I smile inwardly. “I’ll keep her away from the ravine, while the concrete pad is poured tomorrow. But there’s a small issue.”
“What’s that?”
“She needs work clothes.”
A bright light and sudden loss of warmth wakes me from the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. I reach for the blanket, but it’s on the move, racing down my bare legs and off the bed.
“What the—?”
“Get dressed.” Jarret stands over me with the bedding clutched in his hand. “You’re going on an adventure.”
I don’t like the sound of that. Not with his eyes glimmering and his powerful body all decked out for a hard day’s work.
Faded brown cowboy hat, tight blue t-shirt, low-slung jeans, wide leather belt, and I stop there. It’s too damn early to be checking out his bulge.
What time is it anyway?
The overhead lights are what woke me. I roll over, and darkness greets me beyond the window.
“Get a move on.” His footsteps retreat. “We’re burning daylight.”
With a groan, I sit up and shove the frizzy rat’s nest out of my face. “The sun isn’t even up.”
“Exactly.” He ambles toward the door. “I brought you some of Conor’s clothes. You’re taller, so the jeans won’t cover your ankles. But the boots will take care of that. Breakfast is served in five.”
“Five…?”
“Minutes. Oh, and…” He turns in the doorway, and his eyes drop to my chest. “Wear a bra.”
I cover myself with my hands, realizing too late he can probably see through my thin tank top. At least I had the right mind to sleep in cotton shorts.
“I’m not trying to embarrass you.” He hooks a thumb under his belt buckle. “Since you’ll be in a saddle today, Conor asked me to pass along the advice.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He shuts the door, and I slump on the bed. I’ve never been on a horse. There’s a lot of bouncing involved with that, I guess. So chest support makes sense, even for B cups.
I don’t know the first thing about riding or ranching, but I agreed to stay here and earn my keep. With regard to his other offer, however, I’m still leaning heavily in the direction of No fucking way.
But I can’t leave, either. If what John Holsten told me is true, his sons know exactly where I’ll find what I’m looking for.
What am I willing to give up in exchange for answers?
I turn toward the pile of clothes and boots on the chair.
Pride. That’s what I’m sacrificing. The instant I put on borrowed clothes and step outside, I’m on their turf, in their world, completely out of my league.
I’m going to make a fool out of myself.
“Let’s get on with it then.”
I clean my face and teeth and plait my hair into Laura Ingalls Wilder braids. Then I change into Conor’s jeans.
They fit a little too loose through the hips and fall just above the ankles, but they’ll work. I slip on a bra and opt to wear the pink tank top I slept in.
The boots don’t look like the kind Conor wears. These have a shorter, wider heel, and the etched design has a masculine feel. They’re definitely used, given the deep scratches and stains.
I slide a foot in and wiggle my toes. A little roomy but surprisingly comfortable.
When my five minutes are up, I take a deep breath and make my way to the kitchen.
The aroma of pork grease and coffee saturates the air. I don’t mind the scent of cooked meat as long as I don’t think about it too much.
Jake stands at the stove, frying eggs while Conor carries a sizzling pan of bacon around the small breakfast table near the window. Outside, a whisper of light touches the pasture, beckoning the sunrise.
“Mornin’, Maybe.” Conor waves a tattooed arm and pauses beside Jarret to drop some meat on his plate.
“Morning.” I linger on the perimeter, feeling awkward and out of place.
“Sit.” Jarret pulls out the chair beside him and fills the glasses with ice water from a pitcher.
His hat rests on the table, his dark brown hair all tousled and lustrous around his ears. He watches me with eyes the color of wheat fields, his face strong and smooth, as if chiseled from granite. His perfect lips are his softest feature. Not that I’ve felt them, but my God, they look ripe for kissing.
He lifts a strong hand, the skin calloused from rugged work, and summons me with the crook of a finger.