“Give me a damn minute, will you?” he snapped, scowling at her.
“Eight o’clock sharp,” she said with a smile. Then she pushed one piece of luggage closer to the entrance. “What do you want me to do with this stuff?”
Without answering or bothering to finish buttoning his shirt, he reached out and grabbed the suitcases. Carrying them as easily as if they were empty, shirttails flapping as he walked, he led her down a long hall and into a medium-size bedroom.
Delaney forced herself to keep up with his quick strides and then stood at the door while he deposited her things on a double bed. Beneath the thick white molding that circled the room, flowered wallpaper—giant yellow and white gardenias from the looks of them—covered the walls. Green curtains, faded along the hem, framed the room’s one window; a small television sat on a highboy Duncan Phyfe dresser opposite the bed; and various knickknacks cluttered the mirrored dresser to the right of the entrance. A quick peek told Delaney that the door beyond the mirrored dresser opened into a walk-in closet, but from what she could see, there was no adjoining bath. All in all, the room looked clean, even if it had been furnished twenty years earlier and never updated.
“This is your new home for the next seven or eight months,” Conner said. “Unpack, then meet me in the kitchen.”
Delaney didn’t want to unpack. She wanted to sit down with him and have a heart-to-heart talk about those seven or eight months he’d mentioned—and the baby who’d arrive when that time was up. But Conner seemed to be in some sort of hurry, and she knew better than to waylay him just yet. Maybe his preoccupation had something to do with the terrible stench she’d noticed coming from the kitchen.
“Is Dottie here?” she asked as he passed her.
“No. Her daughter went into labor early. She flew to Salt Lake Saturday night.” He headed out of the room, and Delaney followed as far as the hall.
“So who’s cooking?” she called after him.
“I am.”
“Now I know why you wanted me here on time.”
He didn’t answer, so she went back into her room and sat disconsolately on the chenille bedspread, where she remained for several minutes, staring at her bags. She could unpack, as he’d suggested, but somehow unpacking did not strike her as therapeutic. Unpacking meant she’d be doing exactly what she’d been told. So she folded her arms in defiance, then realized Conner probably didn’t care whether she unpacked or not as long as she stayed at the ranch. And, unfortunately, for her reputation’s sake and for Aunt Millie and Uncle Ralph, she did have to stay there. At least for now.
Standing, she wandered around the room, examining framed prints by a man named W.H. Bartlett, scenes that looked like pencil sketches of London a century or more ago. Then she checked the bedding beneath the chenille spread to find three handmade quilts, tested the television and finally searched for a bathroom, which she found at the end of the hall. After about twenty minutes, she knew she should probably make her way to the kitchen, but the same stubborn streak that had stopped her from unpacking sent her back to her room. If Conner wanted to see her, he could damn well come and fetch her.
Footsteps in the hall sent a prickle down Delaney’s spine. She turned, expecting Conner to appear and growl at her the way he had when she’d rung the bell earlier. But it was Roy who stuck his head through the doorway. “Conner’s burned just about everything he’s laid his hands on in there,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Would you see what you can salvage of our breakfast? At this rate, the cattle will starve by the time we get out there.”
Frustrated that Conner had sidestepped her small rebellion so easily, she considered her options. She could refuse and have it out with him here and now, while Roy—and whoever else was here—listened in. Or she could comply and bide her time until a better opportunity presented itself.
She thought of Uncle Ralph, who, before leaving for the barbershop yesterday, had congratulated her on the new job, as though she was almost completely back in his good graces. She thought of her original plan to win Conner over and realized that plan hadn’t included a knock-down drag-out fight. Then she thought of her dwindling savings and the possibility of earning some money while she was here, and nodded. She had almost seven months before the baby came—plenty of time to gain control of the situation.
“I’m coming,” she said. “What’s that terrible smell?”
“You’ll see.”
BURNT OATMEAL. Delaney swallowed hard and tried not to look at the hot cereal that had boiled over onto the stove. She wanted to show these cowboys that she could cook, that as low as Conner thought she was, she still had some redeeming qualities. But she wouldn’t be able to do that if every time she smelled food her morning sickness reasserted itself. Putting one hand on the counter to steady herself, she smiled weakly at the four men who lounged around the table drinking coffee, hoping she didn’t look as green as she felt and wondering what, if anything, Conner had told them about her.
“Hi.” She recognized a stocky, dark-haired man balancing on two legs of his chair, and the man to his right, who was taller and had a slighter build, from the Honky Tonk, but she’d never actually met them before. Roy introduced the stocky man as Grady, the other as Ben, then motioned to the slender blond cowboy closest to her and said, “This here’s Isaiah.”
She mumbled that it was good to meet them, while searching her mind for a meal she could cook that would be fast and easy, and would smell nothing like oatmeal. “Anybody interested in an omelette?”
“I’ll eat anything before I’ll eat that,” Isaiah responded, punching a finger toward Conner’s breakfast.
Conner ignored him. Turning the page of a magazine on the table next to him, he took another bite of his oatmeal as though it tasted just fine, and kept reading.
“Omelettes it is, then,” she said, infusing her voice with as much cheer as she could manage under the circumstances.
Roy helped her find a frying pan, eggs, butter, cheese, onions, bacon and a spatula. By the time Conner had finished his oatmeal and set his bowl in the sink, she was half done with the first omelette.
“Would you like one?” she asked him.
The look he gave her said he didn’t want anything from her. “Meet you boys out back,” he told the others, and left.
Delaney watched him go, wondering if seven months was going to be long enough to get through to him. He had every right to be angry, but if he’d just listen to her, believe her…