She stiffened even more—if that was possible. "No doubt you have. Why dont you go find one? Sapphire Lils in Walla Walla probably has just your sort of woman. "
Grinning, he extended a hand. "They call me Mad Dog. "
She looked at his grubby hand as if it were a garden slug. "And you let them?"
He laughed. "Worse. I like it. "
"And whats your last name? Bite?"
"Stone. "
Somehow, she made that seem unacceptable, too. She sniffed and tilted her chin.
"What did the advertisement say?"
"Handyman wanted. Room and board in exchange for light manual labor. "
"Obviously my father placed the ad without my knowledge or consent. However, since youve answered it, I have no choice but to put you to work. "
"Gee, thanks. "
"You may keep your sarcastic comments to yourself, Mr. Stone. "
He grinned. "I will if you will. "
She looked at him then, took in everything about him in a single, disapproving glance. "The bunkhouse is a mess, but I dont imagine cleanliness matters much to you. "
He gave her an exaggerated frown. "Is that an . . . insult? And from an obviously Christian woman such as yourself?"
She ignored his remark completely. "The bunkhouse will be cleaned, and the linen changed on Saturday. As usual. "
He shrugged, feeling no more than a moments disappointment. "I can use my bedroll till then. "
For the first time, she smiled. It was a grim tightening of her lips that made her look even colder. "Somehow, I dont think youll last until then, Mr. Stone. "
"You mean you hope I wont. "
"Thats exactly what I mean. " She nodded toward the building beside the front gate.
"Thats the bunkhouse. You may put your things away and report back here in ten minutes for work. "
He frowned. "You want me to start now?" "Oh, yes, Mr. Stone. You wanted to work—" she paused for effect "—and you will. "
Mad Dog eyed the small whitewashed bunkhouse. A slow, appreciative smile curved his lips. He tripped the latch, swung the narrow door open, and went inside.
The door creaked loudly and thumped against the wall, rattling the whole building.
Dirt showered down from the open rafters. A wedge of filtered sunlight dove into the room, its golden glow marred by dancing motes of dust.
He coughed, blinked.
The small, cramped room was a scratchy blur that reeked of disuse and darkness, with just a hint of old beeswax. A narrow cot jutted from the center wall, its mattress covered by a thick, blue woolen blanket that draped almost to the floor. Two graying pillows huddled against the metal headboard. The bedside table was an upended packing crate that held a dusty lantern and a tin matchbox.
Against the left wall, an old oak dresser leaned awkwardly to one side, its oval mirror hung on the peeling wall above. There was one window. Tired gingham curtains let in faint rays of sun. The floor was thick-planked wood, scarred and stained from years of use. A squat, potbellied stove occupied the corner.
Shit, it was nice. Private.
No prying eyes would bother him here, no conductor would rouse him in the middle of the night and throw him off, no innkeeper would demand payment. He could put his bag on the floor and be sure it would be there in the morning, the contents undisturbed.