Page 19 of Snowed In with the Rancher

She shook her head and sniffed again. “Nope. Put me to work.”

After overhearing her, he realized now that she needed the distraction. If she went into the house alone, she’d text Lorne the Thorne and regret it. If she kept her mind distracted and her fingers busy, she wouldn’t be able to dwell or text.

Nodding, he jerked his head to the hose hanging on the wall. “You’re on water duty.”

Grinning through the sadness, she nodded. “Can do, boss.”

He let her help him as much as he could, but eventually, there was nothing left for her to do, so he sent her into the house and finished up what he needed to do in the barn alone. Normally, he and Nate and whatever other ranch hands they had with them worked in silence. Everyone knew their jobs and what needed to be done. They didn’t require many directions. Triss however, needed a bit of tutelage, but she was also a fast learner, she hadn’t been lying when she said that.

He caught her chatting with Mercy when she went to fill his water. The black beast hung his massive head over the side of his stall and let her pet him. But when Asher came near, the horse’s head started to thrash and he made a big fuss.

What was his fucking problem?

No horse had ever reacted to Asher like that before. It was all he could do to get Mercy out and back into his stall earlier that day, and he was not looking forward to doing it again tomorrow.

He hadn’t noticed any of the ranch hands having such a hard time with the horse, either. Was it just Asher, Mercy didn’t like?

By the time he entered the house, stomping the snow off his boots before he went inside, it was pitch black outside and had started to snow heavily again. The wind was still blowing and he was worried his nose was going to freeze the fuck off in the short walk from the barn to the house.

The smell of roast vegetables and chicken filled his nostrils the second he stepped inside. She was cooking?

The fire in the wood stove was also roaring. Had she stoked the stove, too?

Tinkering sounds in the kitchen prompted him to walk through the house with his coat still on toward the humming woman standing over the sink. She’d ditched the knit cap he gave her and had also apparently had a shower. Her hair was back up in one of those messy bun things on her head, and she had those hip-grazing pajama pants on and a black tank top.

“You cooked?” he asked, immediately cringing inwardly at such a stupid, rhetorical question.

She jumped a little at his voice, having obviously not heard him come in, what with the music she had playing from her phone. Spinning around, and bringing soapy bubbles with her from the sink, she smiled hopeful at him. “I did. Still trying to earn my keep, you know? I found some beer in the fridge, so I hope you don’t mind that I used one to roast the chicken.”

He blinked.

“It won’t be ready for another half hour, so if you want to run and shower and warm-up you have time.” Her smile was closed-lipped this time and flatter.

He stood there for another moment, then with a nod and a grunt, he hung up his coat and headed upstairs to go shower—just like he’d been told to do.

And fuck if he didn’t beat off in the shower to the image of Triss standing there all cute and sexy in her tank top, PJs and messy bun.

He was probably a giant asshole not saying anything to her except the idiotic and rhetorical “You cooked?” but he was just too stunned to say anything else. And not stunned to find her in the kitchen cooking, because she’d made lunch and had mentioned her beer can chicken. It was how good it made him feel inside to come into the house after a long day in the field and barn and find her there waiting for him.

And that feeling shocked the shit out of him.

The fact that he liked having her there, liked how he felt having her in his house, in his kitchen was terrifying, but in an oddly satisfying way.

And no, it wasn’t because she was cooking for him and he wanted a woman in the kitchen and blah, blah, blah feminist rant here. He didn’t give a crap about whether she could cook or not. It was that she was there waiting for him. For him.

He knew she had a job, a career and he would never expect her or any woman with a career to quit their job and become a housewife. He also didn’t begrudge those women who became “domestic goddesses” as his mother had called herself, and tended to the home and children.

If men were free to do whatever they wanted, women should be, too.

And the fact that she was a speech pathologist spoke to him, too. He’d had a slight stutter as a kid and a speech pathologist had really helped him overcome his anxieties and conquer his stutter.

Dressed in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt he went downstairs, not bothering with socks. The smell of roast chicken and veggies was even stronger now and his stomach rumbled in anticipation of what was to come.

“Perfect timing,” she sang, turning around with a large platter heaped with chicken and veggies. She’d set the table, and had apparently found a bottle of red wine and poured them each a glass. She caught him staring at the wine glasses and her cheeks bloomed with color. “I hope you don’t mind that I poured that wine. It wasn’t for a special occasion was it?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s fine.”

Relief flickered in her eyes and she smiled. “Well, have a seat. I hope you’re hungry.”

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