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Saul stood on the chipped brick paving in front of the rubble-filled base of the courtyard fountain. The hacienda looked bigger than he’d thought coming up the drive. It would feel spacious inside, too, not having a roof. “How long since anyone lived here?”
“Seventy-eight years.”
He whistled. It didn’t look too bad from the outside, the walls either plastered with an adobe mix, or left as blocks of stone. A set of stone stairs led up to the upper level of the two-story section.
“I moved back to town a month ago,” Molly told him.
“Why?” he asked, looking at her over his shoulder.
She gave him a great view of her apricot-clad asset when she turned, picked up a brick, and threw it on top of the rubble in the fountain. “Is that part of the contractor-hirer deal?” she asked, leaving him in no doubt he wouldn’t get an answer.
And anyway, he didn’t want to know. “Who lived in it?”
“Nobody. My great grandfather built it for my great grandmother, but he had to leave suddenly. My great grandmother set up house in town. My grandmother wouldn’t spit on a brick of this place either. Still won’t, she says. Until I get it fixed up as my own place. Then the badness will leave.”
“What badness?”
“Old tales. You know—superstition and stuff.”
At least it sounded like she didn’t believe in that kind of nonsense.
“Amazingly, it’s not too bad on the inside,” she said, turning side on and looking at her hacienda. A smile touched her face and Saul had the impression she’d softened considerably, just by looking at the place. “Filthy though,” she said, her voice wistful. “And some kind people used it as a dumping ground for a while. But it’s functional.”
“Once you get a roof on it,” Saul reminded her. “What happened to the roof, anyway?”
“A storm blew it off, rafters and all. Just before I was born.”
“Wasn’t that a warning,” he said beneath his breath.
“What did you say?”
“I was warning you I might not get an entire roof built in the short time I’m here. If I stay,” he added. “How come I see electrical conduit and plumbing if nobody has lived in the place?”
“Just over six years ago my grandmother attempted the renovation. But she had to stop before they got to the roof.”
“Why?”
“The builders were frightened off by eerie tales. A few falling bits of plaster and stone, and everybody left and nobody would come back. Then I left the valley and she said the timing had gotten out of whack—or something.”
“You haven’t got the money to hire a building firm now?”
“Not enough. I’m selling some of my work to magazines. I’m a photographer.” She kicked at stones on the ground. “Plus, I’ve got twenty thousand dollars owed me.”
There was obviously some controversy with that, but he didn’t want to know.
“What about your grandmother? Can’t she help with the roof costs?”
“Things got tougher in the valley. Her money went on living.”
“What’s that used for?” he asked, pointing to the flat roofed adobe building to their right. “Looks like a washhouse, or staff quarters.”
“It was both. Now it’s the lodge house.”
“You’ve renovated it?”
“Kind of. Davie helped me. But he’s busy with his art business, and I didn’t want to take up too much of his time, or his generosity.”
“So where are you sleeping? And most importantly, where am I sleeping?”
“Why don’t we look inside the main house?”
She walked past him and Saul took hold of her arm, bringing her to a stop. “Why don’t you tell me where we’re sleeping?”
She shrugged him off. “Boy, you’re tetchy.”
“Takes one to know one. What’s the lowdown on the sleeping quarters?”
A blush flared on her face.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “The washhouse.”
“The lodge house.”
Well, at least it had a roof. “Show me.”
She sighed, cracked her neck, and straightened her back.
He followed her across the courtyard, over the rough track driveway, and onto another, longer, brick-paved area. There were plants in pots here and there which were thriving. A rainwater tank had a hose attached and a bucket beneath it to catch the drips. Perhaps she couldn’t even change a washer.
She opened double wooden doors and walked inside.
Saul stepped in behind her, unsure of what he’d find.
“This is the main living area,” she said, standing with her back to him, arms opened to the long vertical space. The plastered walls had been recently washed, he could still smell the cleaning fluid. The tiled floor was a mosaic pattern of light blue, white, and navy.
It was sparsely furnished, although what was there was old or antique style. There was a dining table big enough to seat eight, a leather sofa, and wooden benches with multi-colored cushions, although no TV. No Longhorns postseason games for Saul for the next—however long.
“Only this main living area and a couple of bedrooms have been made habitable,” she told him. “There are plenty more rooms at the rear, but they’re not cleaned yet. That way,” she said, pointing to their left—she still had her back to him, “is my room.” She pointed to the other end of the space. “That way is your room. Yours is smaller than mine, but if you really test my patience with your contractor’s demands, I might swap.”
Saul grinned at her back. She hadn’t looked at him square in the face since he’d followed her inside. She was nervous in case he didn’t take the job. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, not having any intention of taking her bedroom away from her. If he took the job. “I take it food and board is included and is in addition to my contractor’s price?”
“Yes.”
Settled without an argument. Amazing. He hoped she could cook.
She turned to face him, shook her ringlets, settled her face into a professional glare, and clutched her hands in front of her.
He had a vision of her in twenty years’ time. Not as glamorous as her mother, but a whole lot more attractive. Molly had an arty side to her nature. There was a natural well of beautiful simplicity somewhere beneath those riotous curls, and he thought that sexier than any pink bling a woman could adorn.
I should have run.
“You’ve got electricity here, too?”
“Only one power source in each of the rooms at the moment.”
“Where’s the kitchen?”
She pointed to a microwave sitting on the dining table placed against a wall.
Saul put his hands on his hips and tipped his head back. Man.
“That’s just a temporary thing,” she said. “In case I want a snack in the middle of the night. There’s a real kitchen in the hacienda. Two refrigerators, another microwave, and a stove.”
“And the space where the roof should be on the kitchen?”
“Waterproof canvas. All the beams or whatever you call them are still in place at ceiling height. I strung it across those.”
By herself? Maybe Davie the bodyguard had helped. “Where are the bathrooms?”
“Bathroom, singular,” she said, pointing behind Saul.
He turned to a door he hadn’t noticed, set in the center of the main living room, then ran another look around the living space. “What are you planning to do with the place? It’s a big home for one person.”
“I intend to turn the hacienda into a photographer’s gallery and studio, and live in the lodge house.”
He looked around to see where she might have set up her tripod, or left her cameras and lenses. She must keep them in her bedroom.
“Well, that’s it,” she said. “It’s not so bad after all, so why the crooked curve to your mouth?”
He gave her his ranger stare. “We’d need a timetable for the bathroom. I don’t mind how long you take in there, so long as I’m done and out.” He had a sister. He knew how long women took in bathrooms. He could have the roof built by the time Molly showered and curled her hair.
“That’s stiff,” she said. “I thought you were the chivalrous type.”
“I thought you had a roof.”
She winced. “So, will you take the job?”
“The contract,” he said, as he remembered it. “How much are you paying?”
She named a sum so small Saul thought it might be kinder to volunteer for the job instead of having her go to the bother of getting her money clip out each week.
“Is that with the eighteen percent increase?”
“Fifteen.”
He sighed and ran his eyes over her. She wasn’t a Sally-Opal, even with all that makeup and the curls. He already knew she had a soft nature, regardless of the sparky dialogue, because the same light that shone in her mother’s eyes—that kind, caring, and generous beam—shone inside Molly, and in the depths of her large green eyes, fringed with long, long lashes. She didn’t mind answering back, so she was spirited. Which, he reckoned, came from covering something up. Something to do with the town, and maybe she was running from something, like she’d said. And man, he didn’t want to know what.
Neither did he want to see the look of condemnation on his grandpa’s face if he ever discovered Saul had refused to help a woman in need.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll go get my pack.”
Molly sat back on her haunches and sighed. She’d thought cycling was tough but clearing rubble at the rate Saul wanted it cleared was going to break her.
“Once we’ve got this whole area out here sorted,” he called from the double doors at the back of the hacienda, where he was standing around measuring stuff while Molly filled wheelbarrows, “I’ll get a crane system hooked up. It’ll have to be the old pull it and crank it ourselves variety though. You up for that?”
Molly dragged her head around to acknowledge him. “Count me in.” Or kill me now. A crank-it-yourself crane system sounded a lot like dragging those rafters across the large, uneven stony space, hauling up each end, hooking them onto a sling, and cranking them up to roof height by arm power.
She reached up and rubbed the back of her neck, which only resulted in wiping more grit and dirt from her gloved hand onto her hot skin than had been there before. Thank God it wasn’t summer.
“Want a cold beer?” she asked, perking up at the thought of it.
“We’ll get this finished before we call it a day.”
She pushed the curls above her ears beneath the baseball cap she’d tucked her hairdo into. He hadn’t given her time to change let alone rinse out or flatten the ringlets. He’d gotten his gear, thrown it into his room, followed it, and closed the door. Two minutes later he’d emerged wearing old jeans, a well-worn navy T-shirt, a thick pair of workman’s gloves, and they’d set off.
After a ten-minute sojourn around the inside of the hacienda—that she’d been pleased to see impressed him, even though he’d kept that to himself—he’d cracked the whip, or in Molly’s case, the tarpaulin off the wheelbarrow, and set her straight on the first of many tasks.
He had done some physical work though. He’d lugged a stack of rafters from inside to outside and placed them at the back corner wall where he said they were going to start the roof building process.
“We should be done in a couple of hours,” the dirty-contractor stated.
Molly’s shoulders sank. She wanted a shower and a cold beer. Or a cold beer and then a shower and then another cold beer.
What would the dirty contractor want first? She wouldn’t get into the bathroom until he’d taken his turn. She doubted he’d spend longer than four minutes in the shower, but how long until he got into the shower? Would he want to eat before he cleaned up?
She glanced at him. She was no longer unsure of his roof-building experience, since he’d proven himself capable of knowing what he was talking about, but there had to be something wrong with the man. Why was he scared of women? Was he running from one? Had he deserted one? Or more than one? Maybe she’d find out later, when they were eating. Unless he wanted to eat on his own. She wouldn’t put it past him to be rude, not now that she’d had a taste of his wit. Correction. Bullying.
Since he wasn’t looking at her, she ran her eyes down his body. Tall, lean-muscled hunk of dirt that he was, she couldn’t help but be impressed by his energy and commitment. They’d done more this afternoon than Molly could have accomplished in a week.
He paused suddenly, lifted the hem of his T-shirt, and used it to wipe his face.
Molly’s stomach flipped. Seriously, what phenomenal abs.
She pushed from the ground and stood, then bent to knock the earth off her knees.
“You’ll need to rake the entire area after you’ve finished collecting that rubble,” he called. “I’m not hauling any more rafters over these scattered stones. I need flat ground or it isn’t happening.”
Oh, shut up. “I am actually the boss,” she said in an irritated whisper. The rafters were neatly stacked inside the hall of the hacienda. They’d been covered in waterproofing for decades and Davie had said they looked usable. All Saul the bully had to do was cart them outside again. So in effect, the dirty-contractor was only doing half a roof-renovation job. He should stop with the complaints.
She lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow and groaned at the weight. Goodbye nicely manicured nails. Goodbye soft and gentle hands. So long decency, and long hot showers.
Saul sighed, stepped back from the single bed in his room, and ran an eye over his stuff laid out on the asymmetrical-patterned quilt. He’d turned his backpack inside out and still no sat phone. He’d checked the pickup and he’d walked around the hacienda while Molly did whatever she was doing in the kitchen. No sat phone. He must have lost it between Hopeless and here.
The room wasn’t small; it was large, airy and bright, with not one but two sets of glass-paned doors that led to a front courtyard. His single bed was another matter. At six-two, he was too tall for it. His feet would hang over the end. But instead of worrying about that now, he grabbed his wash kit off a blackened oak dresser and left the room.
“It’s cold, and it’s got your name on it!”
He came to a halt and frowned at Molly who had an over-wide grin on her face. She had an opened bottle of beer in one hand, the other directed at him.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the beer. He could do with it. Dirty work out there. Dust and dirt clung to his jeans and T-shirt, and stuck to his skin. He drank long and deep. Nectar.
“What’s amusing you?” he asked, tipping the bottle toward her mile-wide smile.
“I thought it would be cool if we did something different for dinner. Like toast sandwiches on the barbeque.” She rubbed her stomach. “Mmm. Yum. Cheese, ham, tomatoes.”
Saul frowned and tilted his head. “Sandwiches?”
“Or how about pancakes?”
“For breakfast, yes.” For lunch even. But not for dinner. “Haven’t we got anything else?—Oh, hell.” He looked away.
“The thing is, right...”
He held up his hand to stop her while he concentrated on getting his good humor back.
“Because you arrived so suddenly,” she carried on, “and because I was distracted by your amazing charm, I forgot to pick up the ready-meals Momma makes. So all we’ve got tonight is bread and some stuff to go on it.”
“Ready-meals? You mean your mother cooks for you?” She had to be joking. She couldn’t make her own meals?
She lifted her shoulders. “I can cook, I just forget to sometimes.”
He looked into her eyes and the overly bright gleam in them. Her cheeks and forehead were smeared with dirt. The baseball cap she’d tucked her curls into was no longer white. He ran an eye down her slim body. She looked like the Raggedy-Ann doll his sister had clung to for ten years. She was covered in dust and grime. Her apricot shorts had more of a frayed edge than before.
Remorse filtered through him. He’d pushed her hard this afternoon. He’d maybe knocked the stuffing out of her.
“So what time do you want to eat?” she asked. “I could knock yours up while you’re in the shower. I presume you’re heading for the bathroom now?”
Saul looked at the bathroom door then dragged his eyeballs off the thought of hot water washing the dust off his body and back onto the weary and bedraggled hacienda owner. “You go first,” he said. “Just don’t take all night.”
She gasped, then bounced across the tiled floor toward the bathroom. “I won’t! And thanks for understanding about not having dinner prepared. I’ll be ready for you tomorrow.”
Yeah, right. He’d already accepted the fact he was going to be head roof maker and head chef.
“I’m timing you!” he called as she ran across the tiles like a forest sprite.
She turned and gave him the finger.
He smiled as she slammed the bathroom door. Then tried to not imagine her in the shower.
Molly checked the towel she’d turbaned her hair in to make sure it was secure. There’d been no time to dry her hair. But how she’d loved her six-minute shower!
“You should have said you could cook like this,” she told him as she reached for more bread. “I might have made it eighteen percent after all.”
“It’s just eggs.”
Yes, but with chopped ham and tomatoes. And the toasted bread had melted cheese all over it, drizzled on the top, and running off the crusts. He’d make some poor woman a dandy husband one day.
They were in the kitchen hacienda, a blue-tinged mood coming from the temporary fluorescent lighting and the stretched canvas above.
“Don’t think I’ve ever been so hungry,” she said, and meant it. Hard labor did that. Especially when the guy who thought he was the boss was a bully. “If I’m allowed time off in the morning,” she said with a sarcastic edge, “I’ll go into town and get the ready-meals. You won’t be disappointed. Momma makes Mexican, Texan, and even a bit of French.” She kissed her fingers.
He hadn’t spoken much. Molly still had more on her plate than he had on his, because he was wolfing his meal while Molly filled the conversation gaps.
“Sorry there’s no TV.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry about a lot of things.”
She put her fork down and reached for her bottle of beer. He really was a pain in the backside. He could at least attempt to make polite conversation. “Presume you’re a sports fan?”
“Baseball, mainly. Although right now, I’d be happy to kick my feet up and watch grass grow.”
“No chance of that happening fast in Texas!” She laughed, but it faded when she got no response from Mr. Talkative. Not even a smile.
Molly chewed and then swallowed her cheesy toasted bread. “How long ago did you land in Texas again?”
“Longer than I’m staying in Hopeless.”
Touchy subject? She didn’t push him. “I take Momma into Amarillo occasionally to see a movie,” she said instead. “We saw Catch the Guy a couple of months ago.”
“Chick flick,” he said. “Saw the start, but not the end, thankfully.”
“I hate that term,” Molly said, banging her beer bottle down. “You mean it was a romantic story about life, with comedy and a bit of an edge thrown in. Why were you watching it?”
“I was with my date.”
“Your girlfriend?” she asked, doing her best to picture the bully’s girlfriend.
What was his type? Sweet? Sensual? He probably demanded both.
“No, my date.”
“What’s the difference?”
Molly checked him out while he deferred his answer and drank his beer. He hadn’t shaved, but he looked like a clean and shiny hunk of man-beef, and somehow still dirty-masculine. It was a little disconcerting, him being so powerfully good-looking. He didn’t have to put any effort into it.
“A date doesn’t expect it to last a lifetime,” he said.
So misery-guts didn’t do long-term. Or short-term, by the sound of things. Four hours max, maybe. “I think they should start calling death and destruction movies that are geared for men—dick flicks.”
He laughed so hard Molly nearly choked on the smile that rose from inside her in response to the sound of his deep, hearty, all-masculine laughter.
He glanced at her from beneath his eyebrows. “I take a slightly different connotation on that.”
“So you’re homophobic?” Got him. A negative characteristic to concentrate on instead of how dirty he was even when he was scrubbed and cleaned up.
“Not at all,” he said. “My younger brother’s gay. He’s a top guy.”
“Oh,” she said, deflated. “That’s nice.” Dirty and decent.
She was losing hope of ever finding a positive negative about him.
