Marry Me, Cowboy, page 8
Harley bit back a grin, ready to give Cody a hard time. "I thought your plan was to get single women to move to Temptation."
Cody narrowed his eyes at him. If looks could kill, Harley knew he'd be falling out of the chair stone-cold dead.
"There is Mary Claire Reynolds, you know," Cody replied, ready to give as good as he got. "She's single."
Already regretting his ribbing, Harley frowned. "Yeah, she is that."
"And she's starting a business, which is just what I'd hoped people would do."
Harley glanced up in surprise. "She is?"
Pleased that he knew something Harley didn't about his new neighbor, Cody settled back in his chair, buffed his fingernails on the thigh of his jeans and preened. "Yep. Saw her flier in the window over at Carter's Mercantile. She's setting up a bookkeeping service." He shifted his gaze to the barber. "Hey, Will! How long you gonna be?"
"Keep your shirt on; Cody. You don't want me cutting off Lou's ear now, do you?"
Lou lurched up from the chair, and Will grabbed the bib around his neck and hauled him back down.
Cody pushed himself to his feet. "I think I'll run over and check the mail and then come back when there's not such a crowd."
"I don't know why you're telling me," Will muttered disagreeably. "I ain't your secretary."
Cody gave Harley's boot a shove, knocking his foot from his knee. "You hate paperwork, don't you, Harley? Maybe you ought to give Mary Claire a call and see if she'll keep your books for you." Seeing Harley's scowl, he sauntered out the door, grinning, pleased to know he'd gotten in the last jab.
Harley kept telling himself it wasn't Cody's prodding that had made him box up all his records a week later and head for Mary Claire's place with them. Hell, he didn't need an excuse to go see her—not that he wanted to see her of course. All he had to do was drop by to check on the land he'd leased, and he was almost sure to run into her or one of the kids.
He just needed a bookkeeper was all, he told himself. He was a rancher, not a damn accountant. He didn't have time for screwing around with balance sheets and income and expense reports and taxes. And, besides, he told himself, he suspected she could use the work. He didn't figure there were many folks in Temptation who required the services of a bookkeeper. And he'd rather pay her a helluva of a lot more than he would that accountant of his in San Antonio.
Knowing this, he tucked the box under his arm and strolled up the walk to Mary Claire's house, sure he was doing her a huge favor in offering her his business.
He knocked on the door, then wailed, whistling softly to himself the tune of the George Strait song that had been playing on the truck radio on the drive over.
Mary Claire opened the screen, a smile spreading across her face. "Well, if it isn't our hero." She pushed the door wider, inviting him in. "What are you doing here in the middle of the day? Don't you have cows to punch or damsels in distress to save?"
Harley grinned at her teasing, liking this change in Mary Claire. Ever since he'd rescued Stephie from the snake, she'd been nicer to him, more open. "I'm here on official business," he said with a nod at the box. "Saw your sign in the window at Carter's Mercantile and thought I'd throw a little business your way."
It was all Mary Claire could do to keep from clapping her hands in delight. ''Well, in that case, come right in." She motioned for him to follow her into the study she'd created for herself in what was once her aunt Harriet's parlor. Sunshine flooded through the lace curtains, turning the walls she'd painted cream to the color of butter. She stepped behind the desk while Harley scooted the box across its polished top.
She dipped her head over the opened flaps. "What is all this?"
"My records."
Mary Claire lifted a fistful of invoices stained with coffee and God only knew what else. ‘‘These are records?" she asked, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
"Yes, ma'am," he said proudly. "Every invoice, bill and bank statement I've received this year."
Mary Claire dropped them and dug deeper, drawing out a bank statement. Postmarked March 23, the envelope had never been opened. She eyed him warily. "When was the last time you reconciled your checkbook?"
Avoiding her gaze, he lifted a shoulder. "I don't know. A month or so ago, I guess."
She wagged the envelope beneath his nose. "It's almost July, and this envelope is dated March and has never been opened, so I'd venture to say it's been more than a month or so."
Harley frowned, not liking having his nose rubbed in the fact that he had a problem keeping his records up-to-date. Hell, he'd come to offer her work, not get a lecture on his shortcomings. "Maybe. I'm not sure," he replied reluctantly.
Mary Claire leaned across the desk, putting her face within inches of his. "Fess up, Harley. How far behind are you?"
Unable to look her in the eye, he stared at the floor instead, scuffing his toe against the braided rug. "Well, to be honest, I'm not much for keeping records. What I get, I throw in this box, and when the new year rolls around, I haul it all to my accountant and he figures out my income taxes for the year."
Mary Claire eyed the box and pursed her lips, thinking of the hourly fee the firm she'd worked for in Houston would've charged for such a job. "And I would imagine he charges you a small fortune for his time."
Harley dragged off his hat and blew out a long breath, remembering the bill he'd received from his accountant for the last year. "I guess that's a pretty fair assumption."
Mary Claire was tempted to pass the box right back to him, thinking of the nightmare involved in sorting out almost six months' worth of records. But she needed the work and knew if she did a good job, she could use Harley as a reference.
"It's going to cost you," she warned.
''Nothing's come free to me yet," he replied.
She hesitated a moment longer, then relented. ''Oh, all right, you've got yourself a bookkeeper. But I expect you to bring me everything you receive in the way of bills, invoices or bank statements at least once a week. I'll charge you by the hour and send you a bill at the end of each month." She eyed the box and shook her head, thinking of the hours required to complete six months' worth of work in one. "But be prepared," she warned him. "That first bill is going to be a killer."
"I consider myself warned." Harley grinned and extended his hand. "A pleasure to do business with you, ma'am."
In spite of herself, Mary Claire laughed as she shook his hand. "You might not think so when you get my bill."
Five
Two days later, Harley found himself turning down Mary Claire's drive again, but this time instead of a box of receipts and canceled checks, he hauled a long gooseneck trailer filled with bawling cows. He'd separated the cows from their calves the day before, and the mama cows were none too happy with the arrangement. They'd bawled all night, keeping Harley awake while they'd walked the fence line, searching for their babies. Harley could've been angry about being robbed of his sleep, but he knew how they felt. He'd done his own share of bawling when Susan had taken his babies away from him.
He braked in front of the gate, half expecting Mary Claire and her kids to shoot out of the house to see what he was up to. But when they hadn't appeared by the time he'd swung open the gate, he began to wonder if they'd heard him drive up. He looked to-ward the house, squinting against the bright sunshine, but didn't see any movement.
She probably has them busy with chores, he told himself, and strode back to his truck. But they'd be along anytime now, likely before he made it through the gate. If they hadn't heard his truck, the cows had certainly done a good job at announcing his arrival.
He drove through the opening, made a large circle until he'd aimed the hood of his truck back at the gate and the cattle trailer toward the open pasture, then braked again and shut off the engine. Stepping from the truck, he crossed back to the gate, swung it closed and started to lift the chain to lock it back into place...then changed his mind.
He pushed it open wide enough to pass through, latched it behind him and then headed for the house. He knew the kids would want to see the cows unloaded and would be disappointed if he did the deed without them there to watch.
He lifted his hand to the screen door and rapped twice, then twisted around, sticking his hands in his jeans pockets and ducking to get a clear shot of his trailer and cows. He heard the shuffle of feet from the other side of the door and turned back around, peering through the fine mesh screen to see Mary Claire standing opposite him. Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet, and before Harley even thought about what he was doing, he'd jerked open the screen door and had his hands on her trembling shoulders.
‘‘What’s wrong?'' he asked in a panic as he backed her up a step. "What's happened?"
She lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut, sending a fresh flood of tears down her cheeks. "The kids," she sobbed, her breath hitching between each word. "He took Stephie and Jimmy."
Fear knotted in Harley's stomach and he tightened his grip on her shoulders. "Who took 'em?"
Her face lifted to his and he saw the misery in her eyes. He had to fight the urge to drag her into his arms and comfort her. There would be time enough for comfort later. Right now he needed to know who'd kidnapped the kids. He gave her a firm shake. "Who?" he repeated. "Who took them?"
"Pete," she said brokenly. "Their father." She grabbed the front of Harley's shirt, her fingers clutching desperately at the sweat-soaked fabric. "He came this morning and took them back to Houston with him."
Stunned, Harley could only stare. He'd heard of fathers doing that, busting in unexpectedly and snatching the kids away from their mothers, never to be heard from again. Hell, he'd even considered doing it a few times himself.
He could almost see the horror on Stephie's face, her hand outstretched to Mary Claire, crying for her mother as she was dragged away. Jimmy would have put up a fight of course. But he was just a kid and no match for a grown man. Harley cursed himself for not arriving earlier. If he'd been there, he could have stopped this Pete before it was too late.
Unable to bear the misery on her face any longer, Harley hauled Mary Claire against his chest, cupping the back of her head in the width of one hand. "Don't worry," he soothed. "We'll get them back. I'll call Cody. He'll know what to do."
Her head wagged, her nose bumping his chest as she pushed from his embrace. "No," she murmured, swiping at the tears beneath her eyes. "It's his right. He's their father."
Harley stared at her in disbelief. "You're just gonna let him have 'em without even putting up a fight?"
She sniffed once, dragging her wrist under her nose as she looked up at him in confusion. "But it's his weekend."
His weekend? Harley bit back a curse as he whirled away from her. For God's sake! The woman had scared the life out of him! He'd thought their father had kidnapped the kids, when he'd only taken them for the weekend that was well within his rights. And Harley knew all about visitation rights. The judge had settled a similar set of restrictions on him.
"He rarely does this," she said, sniffing again. "In the year we've been divorced, he's only taken the kids one other time."
Harley snatched off his hat in frustration and shoved his fingers through his hair. "So when is he bringing them back?'' he asked crossly.
"Sunday,'' she replied, obviously puzzled by his anger.
"Sunday," he repeated, then blew out a long breath. "Well, I guess we can survive a couple of days without them." From the doubtful look on Mary Claire's face, he figured she wasn't quite so sure. She just needed to stay busy, he told himself. Harley knew from experience that if a person stayed busy, they didn't have time for grieving.
Taking matters into his own hands, he caught her by the elbow and aimed her for the door. "Come on,” he said, herding her ahead of him. "We've got some cows to unload."
Mary Claire didn't remember ever feeling so dirty. Dust streaked her face and covered every inch of her clothing. She could even feel the fine granules on her teeth as she swept her parched tongue across her lips in a futile attempt to wet them.
Sighing, she dropped down onto the edge of the trailer bed. "Are we done?" she asked wearily.
Harley tipped back his hat and, pulling a red bandanna from his pocket mopped the sweat from his forehead. "Just about."
Mary Claire narrowed an eye at him, not relishing the thought of eating any more dust. "What do you mean 'just about'?"
"Well, I've got one cow penned up in my barn with mastitis. She needs her teats doctored."
Mary Clair shivered in revulsion. The very thought of putting her hands on a cow's teats made her stomach roll. She stood and dusted off her jeans. "If it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass."
Harley stuffed his bandanna back into his pocket. "Oh, I'll do the doctoring. I just need you to feed her baby."
Already headed for the gate and the house beyond, Mary Claire stopped and looked back. "Her baby?" she repeated, her interest piqued.
Harley grabbed the gate of the trailer and pulled it closed with a grinding of metal. "Yep. The calf can't nurse her mama because of the mastitis. If I don't feed the little fellow, he'll die of starvation."
Mary Claire worried her lip, her heart already going out to the poor calf. "And exactly how does one go about feeding a baby calf?" she asked, not wanting to obligate herself to the task until she knew exactly what was involved.
Harley chuckled as he strode over to her and clapped a companionable hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. We won't be needing your plumbing as a substitute." He ducked, laughing, when Mary Claire took a swing at his head.
"Very funny, Harley," she muttered, but headed for his truck.
"Wasn't trying to be funny," he said innocently enough. "Just trying to ease your fears."
At the driver's side door, Mary Claire stopped and folded her arms across her breasts. ' 'All right, so what do you use to feed the calf?"
"A bucket with a big long nipple on the side." He gave her a nudge, guiding her into the cab before she had time to refuse. "All you've got to do is hold the bucket."
And holding the bucket, Mary Claire soon learned, was no easy feat. The calf butted the bucket with his head, sending its sticky contents splashing across Mary Claire's hands and arms and dripping down her legs.
"Yuck! What is this stuff?" she cried, trying to get a better grip on the bucket.
"Calf starter. Kinda like baby formula," Harley explained from the opposite stall where he knelt, gently squeezing milk from the mama cow's engorged teats. "Stick your hand in it and rub some on the nipple so the calf can smell it. He'll take to the nipple a lot faster."
Grimacing, Mary Claire dipped her fingers into the murky yellow liquid, then quickly wiped them down the length of the nipple. "Come on, baby," she urged, rubbing the nipple against the calf's nose. "Drink your dinner."
The calf found the nipple and latched on, giving the bucket a good hard yank. Mary Claire tightened her fingers around the rim of the bucket, bracing her feet. A smile spread across her face. "I think he's got the hang of it," she whispered, not wanting to startle the calf.
His job finished, Harley stood at the stall wall behind her, watching. He smiled at her back, knowing he'd been right about keeping her busy. She hadn't mentioned the kids once in more than an hour. "I believe he has," he murmured.
Surprised to hear his voice so close, Mary Claire twisted around and saw him standing less than two feet away watching her closely through the slats of the stall. Heat flamed in her cheeks and she turned her attention back to the calf.
Within seconds, Harley was beside her, his hands joining hers along the bucket's rim, his shoulder brushing hers. "If you'll tip it just a little, he won't get so much air along with his milk."
"Oh," she mumbled self-consciously, and did as he instructed. The calf continued to suck until he'd drained the bucket dry. Harley remained beside her, his shoulder and thigh pressed against hers, the warmth of his hands nearly burning a hole in hers where they touched. He smelled like sweat and sun shine and maybe just a little like the cows he'd unloaded, but Mary Claire found the scent surprisingly seductive rather than repulsive.
Harley eased the nipple from the calf s mouth. "He's done," he said unnecessarily. "I'll rinse out the bucket."
He left, taking with him the heat of his hands and her disturbing awareness of his body, and leaving her feeling strangely alone. She squatted down eye level with the calf. "Is your tummy full?" she asked and reached out a tentative hand to rub his nose. He butted her hand, catching her chin with his nose, knocking her off balance. Mary Claire fell flat on her butt on the scattered hay with a muffled "Oomph." A chuckle behind her won a frown.
"Strong little cuss, isn't he?"
Mary Claire scrambled to her feet, dusting at the hay that clung to her already filthy jeans. "You might' ve warned me," she muttered.
Harley swung open the stall door, then waited for her to pass through. "And interrupt your bonding?" He chuckled again when she shot him a glare. He threw an arm around her shoulders, letting the door click closed behind them. He guided her out of the barn, using the weight of his arm to keep her at his side. He was surprised, but not close to being sorry that she allowed him that bit of familiarity. When they stepped outside, the sun was already sinking below the treetops. "How about a beer?" he asked companionably.
Though Mary Claire had never particularly enjoyed the taste of beer, at the moment a cold one sounded like heaven. She was hot and thirsty and the thought of going home to her empty house was about as appealing as unloading another load of dust-churning cattle. "Sounds wonderful," she said on a sigh.
He led her to the house, about three hundreds yards south of the barn. It was a large, ranch-style place, made of native limestone with a tin roof much like the one that topped her house, though she could tell this one was a lot newer. The setting sun cast its red gold glow across the slanted roof, turning the tin coppery in color. At the back step, Harley stopped and scraped his boots down the length of a piece of metal, knocking off most of the dust and mud that caked his boots. Then he shucked them.
