The Cowboy's Return. Susan CrosbyЧитать онлайн книгу.
and go almost silent. “Cattle, you said.”
“The opportunity came up. I went.”
“Is your family still living in the area?”
“Yep. We’re not estranged. I’m just kinda independent.”
“Stubborn, you mean?”
He smiled at that as he stood, chains in hand. Using his wrist he tilted his hat back a little. His teeth were white and straight, his lips tempting. “Some have said so.”
“So, you’ve worked cattle. Have you farmed?”
“I’ve picked up a lot of life skills along the way. I’m thirty-six, in case you’re wondering.”
“I’m thirty. In case you were.”
He nodded but didn’t comment. No flattery. No, “you sure don’t look your age” compliment. Did she look older? Worn-out? Technically she should, since she was tuckered out from stringing her little farm along, hoping to turn it into a thriving enterprise again, needing to make enough money to live on with a few more comforts than they had now, which were pretty much nonexistent.
Mitch reached into the truck. “If I could stow my gear, I’ll get started on the old greenhouse.”
“I’ll show you which room is yours,” she said, walking beside him. “Austin, grab some gloves so you can help with the demo work. We’ll be right back.”
Annie led the way down the narrow hallway, pointing out Austin’s room and her own, then Mitch’s. It was beyond sparse, containing only a double bed, a dresser and a lamp.
“It’s not much,” she said, no apology in her voice.
“It’s fine. Don’t need more’n this. Thanks.” He tossed his duffel on the floor next to the bed.
She moved into the doorway, blocking his exit. He cocked his head. His mouth curled up on one side.
“Ma’am?” he said politely, pointedly, his eyes taking on some sparkle.
“I’ll be needing you to dump the contents of your bag onto your bed.”
The smile left his face. He crossed his arms. “That would be an invasion of my privacy.”
She moved into the room, shutting the door behind her in case Austin came flying in. “No. This would be your background check.”
Chapter Two
Mitch didn’t have anything to hide, but her command annoyed him nonetheless. Hell, he was doing her a favor, not vice versa. Although, to be fair, she didn’t know that….
He refrained from jerking the bag open, acting casual instead. He lifted out the contents. First, five pairs of Wranglers, the same ones he’d been wearing since he left home, so they were a little worse for wear. Then four T-shirts, four long-sleeved shirts, an extra pair of boots, swim trunks, socks, briefs, belt, gloves and a couple of different weight jackets. Nothing fancy. He’d lived as a gaucho, although he’d been employed by one progressive ranch, not roaming the plains looking for work as many did. He hadn’t needed possessions beyond the basics.
Mitch pulled out his shaving kit, unzipped it and passed it to her. Nothing was American-made, so the words were in Spanish, but each product was recognizable, including a strip of condoms, which brought color to her face when she pulled them out.
“Safety first,” he said, enjoying her discomfort. “They’re not for show. I always use ‘em.” The last thing he’d wanted was to deal with an unplanned pregnancy in a foreign country—or anywhere else, for that matter.
“That’s important,” she replied a little stiffly, uttering her first words since he’d started unpacking. She examined the empty duffel bag, checking for anything he might have tried to hide, he guessed. There were no pockets, no hidden contraband.
“I don’t do drugs, Annie. Never have.”
“Are you a drinker?”
“I like a cold beer now and then.” He’d done his share of drinking when he’d first arrived in Argentina. Still grieving his grandfather’s death, he’d sought oblivion from the pain, but it hadn’t taken him long to see how stupid that was. Granddad would’ve knocked him alongside the head for hanging on to his grief—and his guilt.
“You and your son are safe with me,” he said calmly as he transferred his clothes to the dresser, getting past his resentment, glad she hadn’t been stupid about the situation, after all. He almost felt Granddad patting his shoulder. “You’re welcome to check out my truck, too.”
“Thank you.” She opened the bedroom door.
“Like I had any choice,” he muttered under his breath as he followed her out. He’d lived in the Red Valley forever, not counting the past three years and during college, coming home to work the ranch during summer breaks. People knew him, trusted him. It was strange not to be trusted automatically. Although, maybe he would’ve been if he’d given her his last name.
Outside, Mitch attached a long, low trailer to the tractor and drove it up to the demolished greenhouse. The new structure she’d bought was lighter, and could be erected by one person, according to the packaging. High tunnel greenhouses had become familiar sites in farm country over the years, their Quonset-hut appearance easy to spot, their walls made of almost-clear plastic covering, a less expensive option to the old-style greenhouses.
The three of them hauled debris all afternoon. The dog and chickens got in their way frequently, but the atmosphere was congenial. Mitch caught Annie looking at him now and then. Whether she was taking his measure as a worker or giving him the eye, he didn’t know. He just hoped she wasn’t catching him doing the same thing in return. She was physically strong, able to carry much more weight than he’d anticipated. And she was tenacious, stopping only for a drink of water now and then, making sure that he and Austin did the same.
“What are you gonna plant in your new greenhouse?” he asked during one of their water breaks.
“Specialty potatoes and baby lettuces. I’ll get most of my seedlings started in there, too.”
“There’s a big market for baby lettuce?”
“An incredible one, especially organic. And a fairly new clamoring for organic flowers.”
“Who buys those?”
“People who care about the chemicals being used by the big international growers, which is where a large percentage of the flowers sold in this country come from.”
Austin piped up. “I pick off the bad bugs.”
Mitch knew all about organic, humane cattle ranching. His family had pioneered it, one of only a handful in the country who were certified. But flowers? “No one eats flowers.”
“Sure they do,” Annie said. “The upscale restaurants—and a lot of home cooks—use certain flowers in salads all the time. But mostly I’m talking about table flowers, not edible. Whether or not we eat them, we handle them. If a restaurant is going to all the expense and trouble to provide chemical-free food for their customers, shouldn’t their table flowers also be organic?” She drained her water bottle, set it aside, then tugged on her gloves. “My goals were taken into consideration when I applied for a federal grant for the high tunnel and got it. I want to build a standard greenhouse, as well. But first I need to prove I have enough business to warrant it. I’m not certified yet, but I’m working on it. I’ll succeed. I have to.”
“I gathered that,” he said, then shook his head. “Flowers. Who knew?”
She smiled, which took years off her face. “You probably don’t make a habit of decorating your dining room table with a bouquet.”
“How’d you guess?” He set his bottle next to hers.