THERE was nothing physically threatening about Beau’s closeness, but somewhere deep inside herself, Amy grew fearful. Something she couldn’t even guess at seemed suddenly very wrong.
Though his revelation about being Ira’s son shook her, she managed to scramble from the truck before he could open her door for her. She had no intention of causing him one more second of inconvenience than she already had. But she was too late to get her suitcase; he’d grabbed it up when he retrieved his Stetson.
As he came around the truck, he planted his hat on his head. His rough-cut features were solemn yet extremely engaging—too engaging for a future stepson. She forced her glance away and focused or the house. Snow was drifting down around them and dusk had fallen, but the brass lantern lighting the porch gave her a muted view of his rustic and ram bling home. Made of logs and set picturesquely amid a copse of snow-mantled hemlocks, it was more enchanting than she’d imagined a remote ranch house could be.
The roof was gabled with deep overhangs. A wide porch was supported by heavy columns of whole tree trunks, bark and all, making the house seem to blend magically with the towering evergreens that embraced it. Amid the falling snow and haloed porch light, the place had an unexpectedly warm appeal, paradoxical considering the coldness of the man who owned it.
There was a grip at her elbow, and Amy came out of her trance, allowing herself to be towed along a meandering stone path, then up three steps to the long porch. “I’ll leave you with Cookie,” he muttered over the hollow thud of his boots on the wood planking. Swinging open the rough-hewn door, he deposited her suitcase in the entry. “Go on in,” he said, as a tall, thin woman in jeans, boots and bright wool shirt hurried along a side hall toward them.
“I’ll take her from here, boss.” The woman smiled and waved, as though she knew he was in a hurry. “She’ll be fine. Don’t you worry.”
Before Amy knew what was happening, the woman had scooped up her hand. “Come along, honey.” She grinned. “I figure you’ll want to clean up and change before you eat. So I won’t waste no time with prattle, now. We’ll talk later, over stew and biscuits.”
Amy didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been anyone quite so friendly and breezy.
“Why—thank you. I do feel pretty grubby.”
The woman laughed, a croaking, happy sound. “You look as fine as them mail-order catalogue gals, but I know how traveling can tucker a body out. We’ll take care of that in no time.” She squeezed Amy’s hand. “I’m Cookie. I pretty much take care of Mr. Beau’s house. You’ll meet Archie, my mister. Best cook in the state—to hear him tell it.” She croaked out another splintery chuckle. “He does fry up the best mountain oysters in the state, if I do say so. But don’t never let him hear I said it. He’s hard enough to live with as it is, the ol’ coot.”
Amy had no idea what mountain oysters might be but the woman was chattering nonstop, giving her no opening to ask. Besides, Western dishes were the leas of her worries right now. She stared at the animate woman beside her, gray hair pulled up in an untid knot. Her face was long, nut brown and seamed from wind and sun. The creases around her small violet eyes and thin lips hinted at a perpetually sunny disposition, and she wondered at how difficult that must be, working for Mr. Picklepuss.
They’d walked through the entry hall and de scended two steps into the living room where a massive stone fireplace dominated. She swept her gaze aroun in awe, noting rough beams and rafters, earth tone and furnishings hewn straight from the forest.
As Cookie chitchatted about what a shame it was the bad weather had stranded Ira on Diablo Butte, they exited the living room and went along a hall where a striking Navajo blanket dominated the log wall. After a right turn, Cookie announced, “Here’s your room, hon.” She deposited the suitcase by the door, and the sound it made scraping the cottonwood plank was the first time Amy realized the woman had picked it up. Embarrassed, she said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about my bag.”
Cookie appeared puzzled. “Your bag?”
She indicated her suitcase. “I—I didn’t mean to make work for you.”
Cookie’s laughter rang out again. “Hon…” She shook that head full of flyaway gray. “Takin’ care of houseguests is my job.” She stepped back from the room’s entrance and nodded toward an interior door. “That there’s the bathroom. It opens on the hallway, too, so take care to lock that outside door if you don’t want no surprise company.” She put a hand on the doorknob. “Now you get in there and take a relaxing bath. Supper’ll be ready for you when you’re ready for it.”
The door clicked shut and Cookie was gone. Amy scanned her surroundings—homespun and serviceable. The bed’s headboard was ingeniously simple, fashioned out of three curved branches. On the far side of the bed was a modest writing desk, and the chair that sat beside it was formed with more branches, the seat and back covered with cowhide.
The window curtains were of coarse linen, matching the bedspread, and throw rugs were woven from colorful rags. A knotty, peeled stump served as a bedside table, and the reading lamp was fashioned from an old-time wagon-wheel hub.
This place was a far cry from the steel-and-Plexiglas world of Chicago. Yet, even as sparsely decorated as Beau’s home was, it had a dignity and strength, a sense of self, that was all its own. She was impressed—completely against her will—since it so obviously reflected the distinctive taste and independent spirit of her antisocial host. And since he was so unimpressed by her, she had no desire to be impressed by anything about him.
Amy looked up from her book, thinking she’d heard someone enter the living room. Apprehension tingled along her spine when she realized it was her host. His hair, damp from a shower, glimmered in the fire’s flicker and she noticed that same unruly wisp that had been out of place in the pickup was trailing across his forehead, giving the false image that he was nonchalant and friendly.
She wondered if he did that on purpose to attract unsuspecting women into a night of wild debauchery before they really got to know him, or if his hair was as obstinate as he was, and he couldn’t quite control it. She smiled inwardly, hoping that was it. She’d like to think this ill-tempered cattleman didn’t have control over something in his world, and that, maybe, he lived every day of his life tromping around in coiffure hell.
His footfalls resounded as he crossed the polished floor, but grew muffled on the massive Southwestern rug that anchored the seating area before the hearth. Amy swallowed nervously, wondering if he was going to take a seat beside her on the couch.
He passed by without a glance, picking up a fireplace poker and nudging the burning logs into heightened frenzy. When he ran his fingers through his damp mane, sweeping the wayward lock into place, Amy’s buoyant mood vanished. So much for her wicked fantasy life.
She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t seem to find her voice. She swallowed several times, wondering at herself. Why was she so nervous? He turned away to pull a log from an arched alcove in the stone wall, and she surreptitiously scanned him, wondering why his every move drew her interest. He had a rotten disposition and a hateful attitude, and he didn’t deserve one second of her attention.
His damp hair gleamed in the firelight, and she grew irritated at how attractive he looked in the flame’s glow. He’d cleaned up and changed into fresh clothes. The bulky white turtleneck he was wearing only served to accent the thickness and breadth of his shoulders. His jeans were freshly creased, yet every bit as snug against his thighs as those he’d worn earlier. His boots were different, too. Polished and light tan, they looked as soft as glove leather. She bet they were custommade and more comfortable than the furry slippers she was wearing.
She hadn’t heard him come into the house, and was startled to find him joining her at this late hour. She knew it was after ten, for the mantel clock had chimed a few moments ago. Of course, it was his living room. He had every right to enjoy his own fire any time he pleased. She should have stayed in her room if she’d wanted to dodge his company. Unfortunately for her, the scent of wood smoke had beckoned so strongly she’d weakened and come in to curl up on the thick, slubby cushions of the pine couch.
After a delicious dinner of elk stew, she’d spent a peaceful couple of hours before the fire, reading the book she’d brought with her. She had to admit, Beau Diablo’s home was an absolute dream, with all the warm, honey-golden wood—until he walked into a room with that ever-present anger in his eyes and turned it into a smoldering nightmare.
He hadn’t seemed surprised to find her here, but didn’t smile in greeting when their eyes met. She was getting used to that glower by now so she tried not to let it get under her skin. For the past couple of hours, she’d tried to convince herself that her host wasn’t such a bad guy. Both Cookie and Archie seemed quite fond of the man. So she reaffirmed her vow to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he didn’t dislike her at all. Quite possibly he had a really bad hangnail that was making him cranky, or he’d just been informed he was being audited by the IRS. Everybody had bad days. She’d probably met him at an unfortunate time, that was all. She would try to hold on to that thought no matter how hard he glowered at her.
After replacing the poker beside the other fireplace tools, he took a seat in one of the matching, rustcolored armchairs that sprawled on the opposite side of a unique coffee table. Amy had admired it when she’d come into the room. Constructed of twisted, fossilized wood supporting a square slab of thick glass, it was more like artwork than mere furniture. She’d thought the table had been enormous, but when Beau stretched out his lanky legs, crossing his ankles beneath the glass, the massive barrier seemed puny.
“Evening,” he said minimally as he settled in, his darkly sensuous gaze roving over her.
“Good evening.” She smiled, trying to mean it. For some reason, his piercing stare made her feel underdressed, though that was ridiculous. She was perfectly respectable in her navy, velour warm-up. She was proud of the outfit, as a matter of fact. Nobody would ever be able to tell she’d bought it for practically nothing at a secondhand store, for she’d mended the rip in the leg so carefully it wasn’t detectable. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Still, as he perused her from the tips of her fuzzy slippers to her straight hair, freshly washed and pulled back in a loose ponytail, she felt as though she should run to her room and put on a coat.
When she realized he wasn’t going to say anything more, she pondered what she should do. He turned away to glare into the fire, making it clear he wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter, so she tried to go back to her reading. After five minutes of scanning the same sentence, she was frustrated to discover she had no idea what it said. Where was her mind?
The fire crackled and popped, a restful sound that should have eased her nervousness. It wasn’t working. She didn’t have any idea she’d slid her glance back to Beau’s face until she became conscious of the fact that he was watching her. With a surge of discomfort, she decided she had to try to chip away at his bad mood. She’d always had a knack of coaxing people into a smile. Maybe Mr. Diablo just needed to get his mind off whatever was bothering him. She cleared her throat. “You have a lovely home.”
Fixing an elbow on one knotty chair arm, he rested his chin on a fist. His frown didn’t waver and he didn’t respond.
She fidgeted, unprepared for such rudeness. In her job, she’d dealt with bad manners and knew there were a few people in the world who were terminally uncivilized, and there was little that could be done about them. Still, she decided not to give up quite yet. After all, she was his houseguest. “Oh, thank you, Amy,” she quipped, as though he were responding to her comment. “I built it all by myself. I’m such a manly man.” She spread her arms as if to show off the room, “I didn’t chop down these trees, you know. I chewed them with my strong, manly teeth!”
He cocked his head, squinting slightly. She couldn’t tell if he thought she’d gone insane and he should call a mental hospital, or if he’d found what she’d said barely entertaining. Whatever he might have thought, he made no comment.
With a rankled sigh, she decided Mr. Diablo might be one of those terminally rude people. Readjusting her book, she tried to read again. The words blurred, seemed somehow foreign and unintelligible. She started a paragraph several times, but it was no good. Her mind was simply not on reading.
The fire hissed and snapped and the wood smoke invaded her senses like a kindly old friend. Inhaling deeply to compose herself, she caught another scent. It was subtle, a clean smell. She breathed it in, trying to guess what it was. After a second deep sniff, she decided it must be Beau’s fresh-from-the-shower scent. Wincing, she rubbed her eyes. She didn’t need this.
He was so quiet for so long, she couldn’t stand it. As far as she could tell, she had three choices. She could either try again to engage him in conversation, leap up and scream “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”—or simply leave. The idea of leaving seemed best, but she didn’t think rudeness on her part would solve anything. With a heartening inhale, she opted to try one last time to draw him into civil communication. After all, even beasts of the jungles and forests had been domesticated over the centuries. Why not this glowering brute?
She met those stormy eyes with reluctance. “I— I’ve been reading about Wyoming,” she began, trying for a topic she hoped might spark his interest. “And I was surprised to read that the first women’s suffrage legislation was passed here in 1869, and that Wyoming had the first woman governor in the United States.” She paused to take a breath, praying he’d respond.
His gaze went on impaling her. “Uh…” She cast about mentally to find anything to fill the awkward breach. “The Equality State, right? I mean—that’s what Wyoming’s called. Sounds like this is a great place for women.” She tried to maintain a pleasant facade, but her mind was shrieking, Apparently, boorish stinkers are in the minority in Wyoming! Just my luck I’d be stuck with one!
His eyes narrowed suspiciously, as though he was reading her thoughts, but he didn’t speak. Aggravated, she eyed heaven. “I’m impressed, Amy,” she chirped, answering for him again. “Did you read all that on the bus? You’ve got quite a strong constitution. I usually get carsick and barf when I try to read on a bus.” She uncurled from the couch, sitting forward as though in animated conversation. “How enchanting, Mr. Diablo. I had no idea you were a bus-barfer. And people say you’re not a sparkling conversationalist.’’
He sat back, running a hand across his mouth, then simply watched her again with eyes that were shuttered and unreadable.
Feeling about as foolish as she ever intended to feel, she slid her gaze away toward the fire. That was it! Nobody could say she hadn’t tried! “You know,” she muttered more to herself than to him, “in some radical segments of our society, people actually answer other people. It’s considered polite.”
“But you were doing so well all by yourself.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. After the silent treatment, she’d resigned herself to expect nothing but a closemouthed glare from him for her entire captivity.
She had a feeling her expression must be almost cringing, which was certainly an overreaction. After all, he’d made a simple statement—however mocking. He was Ira’s son, not a deranged maniac with knives for fingernails. “W-what?” she asked, sorry the question had come out in a high-pitched squeak.
He placed his elbows on the chair arms, templing his fingers before him. “Bus-barfer, Miss Vale?” His eyes were hooded, and his tone gave away nothing. She couldn’t tell if he was amused or irritated.
She shrugged. “Sorry. I’m new at talking for everybody in a room. Maybe if I stay here long enough, I’ll get better.”
“It’s good to have goals,” he taunted quietly. Lowering his hands, he sat slightly forward. “I understand my father called you this evening.”
She was startled by the abrupt change of subject, and for some reason his choice of topics made her restless. On the plus side, at least he was speaking to her. She nodded. “Y-yes. He said he was up to his ears in snow, but he was his usual cheerful self.”
“I’m sure,” Beau muttered. “And I assume you told him I was the perfect host?”
She could detect his sarcasm, but didn’t rise to the bait. “Of course that’s what I told him.” It wasn’t her habit to speak badly of people who did her a favor, however grudgingly.
He lifted a skeptical brow. “And did he seem surprised?”
Actually, Ira had called her a sweet little liar, but she didn’t want to make matters worse by admitting that, so she shook her head. “Not a bit,” she lied.
His lips quirked. “Don’t ever play poker, Miss Vale. You’d lose your shirt.”
She dropped her gaze to the rug of bright maize and chocolate brown, with splashes of rust. It was a striking floor covering, but she was too uncomfortable to appreciate the decor right now. He was right. She didn’t lie well. She could hardly deny what must be apparent in her troubled features.
Unhappy with the current subject, she leaped to a new, safer one that had been on her mind. She glanced at him. Well, not quite at him, more past his shoulder toward the wall of windows some distance away. There was nothing but a black void beyond the glass. “I— was wondering,” she began tentatively. “Doesn’t Beau mean ‘handsome’ in French, and Diablo mean ‘devil’ in Spanish? And if that’s true, doesn’t that make your name Handsome Devil?”
“Does it?” An eyebrow rose inquiringly. “I wonder why no one’s ever pointed that out to me before.”
His mocking tone made it clear his quixotic name had caused him no end of trouble over the years. And watching him in the flickering firelight, she had to admit that no matter how much inconvenience his name had caused him, it couldn’t be closer to the truth. He was a handsome devil.
Now that she’d studied him closely, she could see that he was every bit his father’s son, similarly handsome, only more so. Taller, darker, with the longlimbed, muscular build of a man who lived a life that required much from him physically.
She was surprised at herself for feeling any affinity for him at all, considering how unfriendly he’d been. Unsettled by her contrary emotions, she looked away, gritting her teeth.
“Where did my father meet you, Miss Vale?”
The question was completely unanticipated. She assumed Ira had at least told Beau that much. Apparently they never talked to each other, and she wondered what had caused such a rift between father and son.
She heard a flutter-flap, flutter-flap, flutter-flap, and noticed she was anxiously fanning the pages of her book. The mention of her job occasionally caused eyebrows to rise. It didn’t happen much, but it happened enough to make her self-conscious.
She sat up straighter and closed the book, placing it beside her. She had nothing to be ashamed of and made unflinching eye contact. “I was a cocktail waitress in a Chicago cowboy bar. Ira went there every night for the two weeks he was at that cattlemen’s conference last December.”
Beau made no comment, but he pursed his lips, a cool inference that she was guilty of something. She bristled. That was the look she hated! She’d met people like Beau Diablo before—intolerant, judgmental types who believed that just because a woman worked in a bar she was cheap and easy.
The truth was, the tips were good, and with her parents’ insurance money gone and her sister’s medical bills mounting, she needed all the cash she could scrape together. So, she made a living serving drinks to pseudocowboys who liked to shuffle around the dance floor doing the “Cotton-Eyed Joe” and the “Boot-Scootin’ Boogie.” That was hardly evil.
Indignation bubbled inside her, but she tried to keep her affront from showing. Her mind tumbled back to when she’d first seen Beau Diablo in the little grocery store that afternoon. He’d been furious, and he’d gone straight to the exotic dancer. She began to think the two things might be connected, and asked, “Since you didn’t know anything about me when you came to pick me up, I’m curious about why you asked the woman with the blue hair if she was me?”
He half grinned, but there was no humor in the expression. “Because she looked the most like Ira’s last three wives.”
His revelation stung. “Ira told me he’d had some bad luck in the past with wives, but that’s over!”
His gaze narrowed, and Amy had a feeling he didn’t buy that for a minute. “Whatever,” he muttered. “When Ira described you to me, he said you’d be wearing your hair in a ponytail, so—”
“So you naturally assumed it would be blue?”
He grunted out a chuckle, clearly surprised to find her able to make a witty remark. “Ira also mentioned you had brown eyes and blond hair. The woman with the nose ring matched that description.” He casually crossed his arms before him. “Your hair isn’t that blond, Miss Vale.”
It was now painfully clear why he’d been so hostile. It hadn’t been a stomachache or stopped-up sinuses or anything of the sort. He just plain didn’t like her, or what he perceived her to be. The fact that Ira’s son could be so narrow-minded came as a blow. She pointedly turned away. “Sorry if I don’t exactly fit your stereotype of a bloodsucking bimbo.”
There was a drawn-out pause. “Ira also told me you were beautiful,” he added flatly.
She swallowed with difficulty, her throat dust dry. So naturally you decided to talk to every other blonde in the store before you came to me! she fumed silently.
She couldn’t understand why this stranger’s opinion bothered her, but it did. Tired from lack of sleep, she was quickly reaching the end of her rope. “Just for the record, Mr. Diablo, your thoughts on the subject of my looks don’t interest me in the least. I detest men like you, who put people into neat little heaps—nice girls here, bad girls there, computer nerds behind the sleazy lawyers! You didn’t have to meet me or get to know me. You’d already made your decision about the kind of person I am.” She hated the fact that she’d let him get to her. She hardly ever lost her temper this way, but she couldn’t seem to stop the angry words from pouring out. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m a trampy bubblehead grabbing a meal ticket! Well, you’re one hundred percent wrong, Mr. Diablo. One hundred percent!“
Though her motives for marrying Ira were far different from what Beau believed, the fact that she didn’t love her fiance would only make any explanation she might give seem as contemptible as if she really were becoming his wife for his money. In truth, she intended to make a lasting commitment to Ira, but she had no plans to explain herself to this insolent man.
She had no desire to go into her reasons for getting married, or of explaining that, after Ira had gone to the cowboy bar every night for the two weeks he was in Chicago, he’d stunned her with a proposal of marriage. Of course, she’d thought he’d been kidding, but he’d been so sincere, so refreshingly chivalrous, she’d finally believed him.
It had seemed like the answer to a prayer for both her and Mary. And as Amy and Ira exchanged one chaste kiss, he’d promised he would never ask anything of her that would make her uncomfortable with her decision to marry him. He’d said he’d learned from his past mistakes and was looking for companionship, pure and simple.
Amy was looking for someone nice to spend her life with, someone honest who could make her smile. She’d never been in love, and wasn’t even sure such an emotion existed. Passion, as far as she was concerned, was highly overrated. It was a solid, trusting partnership that counted and that’s what she wanted. Ira had even offered to pay for Mary’s convalescence, promising she could join them when she was well enough. Amy could almost say she loved Ira for that act of kindness alone.
So, let Beau think whatever he wanted—he would anyway. Why waste her breath telling him her marriage to his father was to be a platonic match? It was her business and Ira’s business how they planned to live their lives, not Beau’s! “I’ve already told your father, and now I’m telling you.” She jumped up. “I plan to be the best rancher’s wife in Wyoming. Any other plans Ira and I have are none of your business!” She grabbed up her book, then threw him an odious glare, deciding it was time he got a taste of his own medicine.
He didn’t seem chastised by her outburst, and that made her even angrier. Was there no way to get to this man?
“The best rancher’s wife in Wyoming?” A sardonic grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Who are you trying to convince, Miss Vale? Me—or you?”
The query was as hurtful as a slap, and she gasped. “Your father is completely different from you. He’s so—so accepting.”
Beau pushed himself up to stand before her. Even from the far side of the coffee table he seemed dangerously tall, ominously close. “If you mean he accepts every woman he meets in a bar as his bride, then I have to agree with you.”
She was so horrified she couldn’t respond. How crude! How rude he was! In all her twenty-four years she’d never met a man as unredeemably loathsome as Beau Diablo.
“I apologize if I seem severe,” he said, his tone far from repentant. “My father is a grown man, and you’re obviously a grown woman. And you’re quite right, your plans are none of my business. You’re welcome here as long as necessary.” With a slow, unsmiling nod, he pivoted away, murmuring, “Evening.”
She stared speechless as he ambled away. When he reached the hall, he turned back, thrusting his hands into his pockets. His stance looked elegantly casual, but she wasn’t fooled. His disdain for her was as hot and palpable as the fire that raged in the hearth. She lifted a belligerent chin, positive he would be astute enough to detect her dislike for him, too.
He chuckled, and the sound was harsh in her ears. Yes, he’d received her message loud and clear, and it hadn’t even fazed him. “Miss Vale,” he drawled, “John Ruskin once said the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless.” He paused, and she watched as a muscle flexed in his lean cheek. “Just for the record, I think you’re very beautiful.”
A heartbeat later he was gone. Amy stood there feeling like she’d been dashed with a bucket of ice water. His eyes had glittered with such utter contempt, she couldn’t move. The man had told her she was beautiful, yet she’d never felt so insulted in her life. Even standing before the blazing fire, she found herself shivering uncontrollably.
Amy was awakened by a tapping on her door. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. It was so dark she couldn’t see a thing. “Yes?” she called sleepily.
“Hon?” Amy thought she heard a tinge of pity in the female voice, and couldn’t imagine why. “Mr. Beau said to wake you. Seems he thinks you have a hankerin’ to help with the having and chopping ice.”
Amy rose up on an elbow, confused. She had no idea what either of those things were. “He—did?”
The door clicked open a crack, and in the yellow light from the hallway, she could see the flyaway-gray head of the housekeeper. “There’s hot coffee, buckwheat cakes, steak and eggs for breakfast.”
Amy couldn’t imagine anyone eating that much food, especially in the middle of the night. Yawning again, she wriggled up to sit. “What time is it?” she asked, brushing hair from her face.
“Five, or there’bouts.”
Making a pained face, Amy squinted at the luminous dial on her travel clock to make sure she’d heard right. Five-o-three, to be exact. Shaking her head, she tried to clear the cobwebs from her brain. The last time she’d looked at that clock it had been four-thirty. She hadn’t slept well, her inability to settle down probably due to the fact that she was used to getting off work at two o’clock in the morning. It was close to four many mornings before she crawled into bed. At least that’s what she hoped the reason was. She didn’t like to think Beau Diablo had invaded her dreams, making her restless and upset even in sleep.
She stifled another yawn. She would rather spend another evening in front of a fire being glared at by her host than get up now. But she had a sneaking suspicion why he was doing this. She’d told him she wanted to be the best rancher’s wife in Wyoming, so he was giving her a taste of what ranch life was like. The underhanded sneak! “Okay—sure.” She rubbed her eyes. “How long do I have?”
“Mr. Beau wants to be in the truck and movin’ by five-fifteen.”
She was sliding her feet over the side of the bed and into her slippers, but she stopped dead. He was giving her ten minutes to dress and eat! Keeping any negative thoughts to herself, she nodded. ‘I’ll hurry.”
“Hon,” Cookie said, “have you got some nice, warm longhandles?”
Amy exhaled wearily. “What kind of handles?”
The door opened wider. “Didn’t figure you knew about those. Here. I got plenty. You take these. And I brung you some heavy socks and other warm gear. You need to layer up in this cold.”
The housekeeper seemed concerned, not her smiling self, and Amy took pity on her. “Don’t worry about me, Cookie.” Putting on a brave face, she threw off her covers. “If Mr. Diablo wants to give me a feel for ranch life, then I’m thrilled about it. Honestly.” She shuffled to the door and took the bundle of clothes. “I’ll be ready for breakfast in five minutes.”
Cookie nodded and smiled, but a trace of pity lingered in her expression. “I don’t rightly know what’s going through Mr. Beau’s head, Miss Amy. That ain’t no work for a little city gal like you.”
She smiled wanly. “Cookie, I have a feeling that’s exactly his point.”