Resisting the Rancher (Redwood Falls 3)

Blood rushed to his groin as he took a vicious hit to his equilibrium.

She was dressed in a long, ugly, voluminous night robe—but evidently, the ‘ugly’ adjective didn’t matter a damn bit to his libido. It was the ‘night’ part of the equation that was doing a number on him. She was a stranger standing in his kitchen in her nightclothes, and that held a connotation that brought his cock screaming to attention.

It was ridiculous; the testosterone fueling his veins held no rationale and he damn well knew it. It didn’t matter that the girl was obviously exhausted; it didn’t matter that her clothing was atrocious. By all evidence, all that was necessary to stimulate him was the fact that she was female and in his kitchen.

But that wasn’t it entirely. He couldn’t deny that, even in her fragile state, she was extremely pretty. And maybe it was her fragility—he’d always been attracted to femininity in its purest form. Whatever the reason, something about her was making blood rush from his head to his cock in a wave of lust he found almost impossible to control.

But control it, he damn well would. She wouldn’t be here long, and the last thing he needed was to get involved with any messy shit.

And a girl with a kid was some seriously messy shit.

But even as he had the thought, he couldn’t help but notice the state of his kitchen. The room was clean. As in, impeccably clean.

The dishes had been washed and put away, the counters were empty of all and sundry crap that was usually strewn around, and the table was spotless and wiped down as well.

Why in hell a clean kitchen would make his eyes narrow and his stomach churn with anxiety, he didn’t know, but she must have heard him make a noise, because she turned in a graceful, albeit tired arc to face him.

She leaned against the counter, crossed her arms over her chest as if she had something to hide from him, and mumbled, “Good morning.” Then she glanced down to the floor as if beyond embarrassed to be there.

The hit of empathy he felt unnerved him. He realized quick fast that he had to be damn careful, because feelings such as empathy, sympathy, and compassion could backfire on him in a heartbeat. Already, he felt the need to go to her, pull her into a hug and console her—tell her that everything would be all right. He imagined for a moment holding her in his arms—it was ridiculously easy to do. He imagined just how quickly his hand would ache to slide down her spine, and the amount of control it would take to simply hold her without needing anything more.

Yeah, offering physical comfort with a raging hard-on wasn’t a brilliant idea. He needed to remember that and keep himself in check. It wouldn’t be long, he’d have her back to town within a few hours.

Pulling himself together, he returned her greeting. “Morning.” The word sounded gruff and harsh and it almost made him wince. He managed to control the reaction, but she couldn’t control hers.

She grimaced and then spun back around, presenting her back to him, even as she spoke again. “Thank you for last night,” she said, very formally. “I know you’re ready to get rid of us and I don’t blame you. But thank you for everything you’ve done.”

Shit.

That speech only made him feel like an ass—an unsympathetic, horny ass. He took a couple of steps forward and again surveyed the clean kitchen. “No problem.” He cleared his throat, attempting a tone that wouldn’t make her wince again. “How long did this take?”

She turned to face him again with a frown. “The kitchen?”

“Yeah.”

“About an hour.”

“Looks good—you didn’t have to do it.”

“I know, but I wanted to thank you, and this seemed the best way.”

He wouldn’t let himself think of another way for her to thank him—don’t fucking go there, McIntyre.

Spying the carafe of freshly brewed coffee, he went to the counter and poured a cup. The liquid was steaming hot and as he blew on it, her eyes caught his and try as he might, he couldn’t seem to shake the connection. She looked young and vulnerable, and for whatever reason, even through the surge of lust he was fighting, he abruptly knew that he couldn’t just throw her back into the cold cruel world.

Some deep-seated kernel of humanity wouldn’t allow him to do it.

He came to a decision without even realizing he’d done so. “I’ll give you a week.” He blew out a deep breath, wondering if he’d gone insane somewhere between last night and this morning. “One week to prove you can keep up. You still interested?”

She nodded her head quickly. “Yes.”

Yeah. He’d known she wouldn’t turn down the offer. He took a drink and then began listing his requirements. “I want a full-time housekeeper. Clean house, clean laundry, three meals a day for me and my boy. I’ll pay you for seven days up front—you prove you can handle it for a week and you’ve got the job.”

“Okay,” she answered, her eyes a little wide.

Reining in the fucked-up pictures in his head, he forced himself to focus on the job she could do and not the vision of her butt-ass naked in his bed. “Understand me. You can’t keep up—you’re outta here.”

“Okay,” she agreed again and then bit her bottom lip. “Thank you.”

Where the hell was his fucking brain? “You and the kid can keep the guest room.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said quickly. An awkward silence filled the room and although he tried not to stare, he found it impossible. Her eyes darted around the room as a wary look spread over her features.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, not liking the almost-panicked look she was suddenly displaying.

Her eyes came back to his, almost reluctantly. “It’s going to take me a while—you know—to catch up.”

He felt the frown between his brows. “Catch up?”

“I just need you to know—the house won’t be perfect by tomorrow—it’s kind of—” her words trailed off as if not wanting to voice her thought.

“Kind of what?” he asked, his tone dropping an octave.

She paused only a moment before saying quickly, “Dirty.”

Ouch, he admitted that hurt a bit. Yeah, he knew he was a piss-poor father. But what the hell else could he have done? He’d had a ranch to run, property to manage, stock to feed. He hadn’t had time for furniture polish and—and whatever the hell else housekeeping entailed. “All right, I get it. I’m not going to run you off if the house isn’t clean by tomorrow.”

“So, just so we’re on the same page, what’s the order of things you want accomplished?” she asked quietly, continuing to glance around the room.

Well, now, shit. How was he supposed to answer that? He didn’t have a clue and from the look on her face, she must have recognized that he didn’t know how to answer her question.

As he remained silent, she took pity on him. “Food first, right? That’s the most important thing. I’ll make sure you guys have three meals a day. And then, I guess, the laundry? After I get a handle on that, I’ll do the bathrooms and then the rest of the rooms, does that sound okay?”

Sound okay? A clean house and food sounded like nirvana to Jeff, and he was about to give her a nod of approval when he heard the sound of her baby crying.

Janet must have heard it too, and as she moved toward the threshold of the room, obviously intent on giving her daughter the bottle she’d made, she stopped. “What times do you want the meals?”

“Breakfast at seven, lunch at twelve and supper at six,” he said swiftly, adding, “Don’t worry about breakfast this morning. Get settled in and then lunch at noon. Sandwiches will be fine.”

With a jerky nod, she fled the room.

****

After a day from hell, at 5:55 that evening, Janet stirred the rice and chicken she’d made, a knot forming in her stomach. There wasn’t a question: The casserole looked like crap and that wasn’t all. Its consistency was gross, and although it didn’t smell horrible, the aromas floating around the kitchen weren’t very

enticing. At all.