Page 10 of Taming the Wild Cowboy

“She knows general ranch work. She’ll handle my chores, and I’ll do the calving.”

“We’re gonna need help.”

“We’ll be okay.”

“She’s not squeamish, is she?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Wade scowled.

“You ever heard that phrase about beggars and choosers?” Trev asked.

Wade ignored him. “Can she drive a tractor? What are her fencing skills?”

“She can fence.” Or so she said. He had a feeling that a place as fancy as the Sweet Grass Ranch had its own fencing crew. “Drive a tractor.” As long as it’s small.

A long beat of silence, then: “Why did you hire her?”

“She’s a warm body and we’re in need of one.” Trev realized he sounded unnecessarily defensive. “If it turns out she’s miserable at the job, we’ll let her go, but until then, I think we’ll all benefit. You know—roofs and corrals.” Wade’s hard gaze didn’t waver. He’d figured out that something else was at play.

Trev gave up. “She’s someone I knew from rodeo. She needs a job. I gave her one.”

“Then this is a sympathy hire?”

Not the kind of thing Wade was known for.

Trev put the last plate in the dishwasher and closed the door before turning to face his uncle. “It’s a let’s-see-if-this-pans-out hire.”

Wade’s eyebrows lifted as he raised his coffee cup. Waited. It was a tactic that had worked well back in the day when he’d known his boys had been up to something. It was still effective thanks to ingrained response mechanisms.

Trev debated about explaining what had happened with Maclyn at the Sweet Grass Ranch, just in case Wade thought Trev was letting the area below his belt buckle take control of the hiring process, then decided no. That was between the Benningtons and Maclyn. Wade could think what he wanted.

“I don’t see the phone ringing off the hook with people looking for work,” he finally said.

Wade let out a heavy breath. “Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.” He stared into his coffee cup. “I remember when people wanted to work.”

“And you walked to school uphill both—”

Trev ducked as the pot pad used for hot dishes on the table flew his way, then picked up an oven mitt, weighing it in his hand.

“Truce?” he asked.

His uncle gave a snort. “For now.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m out of ammo.”

*

And it begins.

Maclyn left the fairgrounds just after sunrise, having shivered her way through a shower in the dim light of the twenty-five-watt bulb. She bought the probiotic paste at Lanes, which opened at a ridiculously early hour in order to host a daily rancher coffee klatch, pretending she didn’t notice the men staring at her wet hair. She then kept the truck’s heater on high during the drive to the Tree Fork, sweating under the blast of hot air, and hoping that her hair would dry before she arrived.

Raisin inched across the console to set her chin on Mac’s thigh as she slowed to make the turnoff at Reed Farms Road. Mac ruffled her little companion’s curly coat. “We’re going to be fine,” she murmured as a gust of wind hit the side of the truck. Mother Nature was not feeling the optimism today. “Just going through a rough patch.”

Which had been surprisingly easy to fall into. Just a couple of questionable decisions had put her in the position of proving the theory that homelessness was just one catastrophe away.

Trev Matthews to the rescue.

She could not screw this up.