Running Blind Read online

“A horse, then.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, I don’t need your attention, either,” she said, and then she literally shooed him toward the mudroom. “Go dig a hole, or something. Put a post in it and call it a fence.” Because the whole point of what he was trying to do was get her to trust him, he allowed himself to be shooed. As he did, though, he noted to himself that she still hadn’t called him a damn thing. At this rate, he’d settle for “asshole.”

  In the mudroom, he stopped to pull on a coat. When he looked down he spotted a pair of small, ugly green boots. He bent down and picked up one, turned it over to check the sole. What a piece of crap. “Please tell me these aren’t your boots,” he called, raising his voice so Carlin could hear him.

  He heard something that sounded like a snort, then she called back sharply, “No, they belong to the other ranch employee who wears a woman’s size seven.”

  Zeke headed back toward the kitchen, one size-seven boot in his hand. She’d wasted her money, because these boots wouldn’t hold up to a Wyoming winter. They were good for rainy weather, at best. He knew what she needed and he’d damn well tell her: a decent pair of boots, a heavy coat, thermal socks and underwear, something to cover her head. Then he stopped. He knew why she’d bought these boots: they were cheap. She was saving every dime she could, so she could continue to hide from the psycho who had her running scared.

  He returned the boot to its place and headed out the door, into a cold wind. He’d taken a few steps before he realized that Carlin had run him out of his own damn house.

  CARLIN WATCHED THE faces of the hands as she placed the cake on the table. They recognized the cake, of course, and the expressions varied from wary to alarmed. She heard a muttered curse word or two, and more than one very sad sigh. It was Spencer who finally said, “Miss Carly, that cake sure is pretty, but I’m not sure I can eat another bite.”

  That got them going. There was a round of very polite “I’m so full” and “I shouldn’t have eaten so much” and one apologetic “I think I’m allergic to white cake.”

  She wasn’t surprised, but she was a tad disappointed. She’d worked hard on the cake, and though the batter had tasted good, there was no way to tell if the finished product was any better than the first one if no one tasted it. It looked as if she’d be the sole guinea pig, and even if it was good and she told them so, they probably wouldn’t believe her.

  She wheeled around to return to the kitchen with the entire cake, when Zeke stood, reached across Walt for a plate and knife, and motioned for her to move closer.

  Brave man. Or foolish—she wasn’t sure which. Still, she couldn’t help being grateful. She placed the cake in front of him, and watched as he cut a big piece. “If everyone else is too full, that just means more for me,” he said without looking at her.

  She turned and hurried into the kitchen for the decaf, poured a cup as Zeke sat down and eyed the huge piece of cake as if it were an obstacle he had to overcome, a task, a challenge. She scowled at him, gratitude turning to ire. He must have sensed he was dragging this out too long, because finally he dug in. He forked a big piece and carried it to his mouth. Everyone watched. Carlin didn’t breathe, and she didn’t think anyone else at the table did, either. Zeke chewed, swallowed, and the relief in his eyes told the story.

  It was good.

  She gave a whoop, and pumped her fist in the air, and everyone except for Darby burst out laughing.

  Zeke washed down the big bite with a sip of coffee. “You guys are missing out on some good cake. Like I said, more for me.”

  Walt cut himself a piece then, and Spencer decided maybe he wasn’t too full after all. One by one, the men helped themselves, laughing and joking but generally having good things to say about the dessert. Well, Darby had nothing good to say, but that wasn’t unusual. Probably everyone would have fallen out of their chairs if he’d given anyone or anything a compliment. Carlin went back toward the kitchen for more coffee mugs, but she stopped in the doorway and looked toward Zeke. She caught his eye, and even though she knew it was a bad idea she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  He acknowledged her thanks with a slight nod of his head. No one else noticed the little byplay; they were all too busy eating.

  Her step was a light one as she gathered more mugs. The white cake was a success! She’d taken it on, and won.

  Next up?

  Biscuits.

  Chapter Fifteen

  CARLIN SWISHED THE brush around the inside edge of the toilet bowl, then flushed. The bathroom smelled piney fresh now; the shower had been cleaned, the bathtub had been dusted—she doubted the tub had seen any water since Zeke had moved into the master bedroom—and now the john itself, in its private little room, was finished. She’d mopped the tile floors, polished the mirrors over the double vanities, polished the faucets and handles.

  Maybe it was overkill, but she’d also lit scented candles in there and in the bedroom while she worked. It wasn’t that the rooms stank; in fact, she liked the smell of man—of Zeke—that came from his choice of clothes, the leather boots and belts and felt hats, the flannel shirts, the jeans, the man himself. A closet full of silk suits would have smelled completely different. And could the pheromones of a diplomat ever compete with those of a man who did hard physical work? Maybe for some women, yeah, but Carlin had discovered her own cavewoman core that definitely preferred the hard-muscles/hardwork variety. So: scented candles to overpower the pheromones. That might work. Maybe. Couldn’t hurt.

  It was a measure of how bad her case of Zeke-itis was that she didn’t mind swabbing his beard shavings out of the sink, or cleaning his toilet. Okay, it helped her feelings that she was being paid to do those chores, but even if she’d rather have her toenails pulled out than be honest with him about how she felt or even who she really was, she had to be honest with herself, and that meant admitting she liked being in his bedroom, liked doing his laundry and hanging up his clean clothes, liked stripping off the Zeke-scented sheets from his bed and remaking it with fresh sheets.

  At least she could honestly say that, though she didn’t mind cleaning his toilet, no way did she like it, so maybe there was still a shred of sanity left in her pheromone-drunk brain.

  She hung fresh towels and washcloths on the racks, then put all her cleaning stuff in the bucket she used to cart it all from one location to another. In one arm she gathered the used towels from the floor, opened the bathroom door with her free hand, then did a quick dip to pick up the cleaning bucket. Head down, preoccupied, both arms laden, she hurried out of the bathroom and barreled straight into a solid obstacle.

  The flood of adrenaline through her was like being electrified. It was akin to panic, but somehow different. Seeing someone in the grocery store who reminded her of Brad had been one thing; the terrifying realization that someone was in the room with her was something else entirely. She shrieked, her body reacting before thought could form, before any semblance of logic could kick in. There was no logic, there was only the jarring knowledge that someone was in the house, that this supposedly safe haven had been breached.

  Going from safe to unsafe in a nanosecond literally jarred her out of her wits. She had a weird sensation of leaving reality, of drawing deep inside herself where she was safe even while her body reacted in a primal bid to survive. Everything was distant, blurred. She could hear herself screaming, though the sound was oddly muted; there was a deep voice, the words indistinguishable. She had a brief glimpse of bare flesh, but her instincts didn’t give her time to put two and two together and come up with a logical identity for the half-naked man in the bedroom. Before her synapses could click and the name Zeke form in her brain, she was already moving, dropping everything to the floor and swinging her right fist with everything she had behind the punch.

  Existing on two different planes was so disorienting she couldn’t tell what she was doing until she’d already done it. Here was her body, moving, acting, and her brain was somewhere