Running Blind Read online

  Another truth: he missed Libby way the hell more than he’d ever missed Rachel. This morning he’d discovered—again—that he was out of clean socks. Maybe he’d have noticed beforehand if he’d folded his laundry and put it away in the dresser drawers the way Libby had always done, but this was summer and all he had time for was taking the clean clothes out of the dryer and dumping them in a laundry basket. That was his system: dirty clothes on the floor, clean clothes in the laundry baskets. Unfortunately, in the tangle of underwear, he hadn’t noticed that there were no more clean socks. He’d taken the time to throw a bunch of clothes in the washer and turn it on, and he just hoped to hell he remembered to transfer them to the dryer when he dragged himself back to the house tonight.

  Come to that, he hoped he’d put detergent in the washer, but he couldn’t remember if he had or not. Shit. Maybe he’d be able to tell by smelling the wet clothes whether or not they’d been really washed, or just rinsed. If not, he guessed he’d have to run the washer again, just to be sure. He sucked at this housekeeping stuff.

  He swung the hammer and it glanced off the heavy nail, catching him on the side of the thumb. “Fuck!” He said several more swear words, shaking his hand. That was what happened when you let your mind wander while you were trying to hammer something. Good thing he hadn’t been on a horse, or he might have ended up sitting on his ass on the ground.

  But thinking about his domestic arrangements—or lack of them—wasn’t exactly letting his mind wander. Since Libby’s departure, all of that crap had been an ongoing problem. He and the men worked hard; they needed meals prepared for them, he needed clean clothes, by now it would probably take a pitchfork to clean out the house, and all of that made running the ranch harder than it needed to be.

  But damned if he knew what the solution was. In the months since Libby had left he’d hired three different women to take her place. Well, no one could take her place; all he wanted was someone to cook, clean, and do laundry. Was that too much to ask of a decently paid employee? Apparently so, because none of the three had stayed. One had sat on her ass watching TV most of the time instead of getting things done. Another had said it was driving her nuts to be so far away from everything. In Zeke’s opinion, that particular drive hadn’t been a very long one. And the third one had caused trouble between the men, which had taught him a lesson about hiring a young single woman who was even remotely attractive.

  So they were back to eating Spencer’s cooking again, and Zeke had been doing his own laundry, when he happened to remember it. As for cleaning the house … well, it would get done, eventually.

  Aggravations aside, Zeke was a man who knew his place in the world and was happy in it—as happy as a man who didn’t have any clean socks could be, anyway. While other ranches were losing money, being sold, even turned into—God forbid—dude ranches or summer homes for movie stars with more money than sense, he worked hard to keep his corner of the world the way he liked it. Maybe the cash didn’t flow in nonstop, but he always found a way to get by, to keep his accounts in the black. It didn’t hurt matters that he’d been a big saver back when things had been great. Those savings had come in handy over the years.

  His gaze went beyond the men to the mountains in the distance. He wasn’t a sentimental sap, but this was home. He didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  Just about the time they finished repairing the fence, Zeke saw Spencer step out onto the bunkhouse porch. “Come and get it!” the kid yelled before ducking back inside.

  Zeke pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. After putting away their tools, everyone trooped toward the bunkhouse. As ranch accommodations went, the bunkhouse wasn’t too bad. Only five of the men actually lived there; two were married and had their own houses, and the foreman, Walt, who was both the oldest and had been with Zeke the longest, had his own very small private house beside the bunkhouse. The larger building had six small bedrooms and three full baths, as well as a sizable common area that was furnished with battered recliners and a big-screen TV, and a full, if not very modern, kitchen. The bunkhouse was solidly built, had a wood-burning stove to back up the heating system just in case, and essentially served its purpose. The long trestle table would comfortably fit all of them; sometimes Zeke ate with them, though most of the time he opted for a sandwich, eaten alone, while he slogged through paperwork.

  As soon as he stepped into the bunkhouse, his heart sank. It was oatmeal, all right, but then all he’d specified was that the food be “hot and fast.” Spencer had also added some cheese toast to the mix. The consistency of Spencer’s oatmeal aside, cheese toast wasn’t something Zeke would ever have picked to go with it. He felt like gagging. Judging from the expressions on the other men’s faces, he wasn’t the only one. Jesus. When he had time to do something about it, he seriously needed to look for a cook.

  But not a woman. After the last fiasco, never again would he hire a woman unless she met the triple criteria of being at least middle-aged, married, and completely uninterested in horny cowboys. What he really wanted, now that he thought about it, was a male cook. Men could cook as well as women. Weren’t all the great chefs men? The fact of it was, nine dicks and one vagina together on one large slice of land just didn’t work, unless the woman was married to one of the men.

  With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, some of the men sat down to shovel in a bowl of the gluelike oatmeal. Others opted for the cheese toast. None of them ate both. Patrick mentioned, in an almost offhand way, that he’d had instant oatmeal before and it wasn’t too bad. Figuring the cheese would stick with him longer than the oatmeal, Zeke grabbed a couple slices of toast before the others beat him to it.

  Hell, he couldn’t fault Spencer. The kid hadn’t hired on to be a cook, didn’t want to be a cook, but did whatever Zeke asked of him. He did a marginally decent job in the kitchen, but he wanted to be a cowboy. God knew he’d never be a brain surgeon.

  “Where do you need me, boss?” Spencer asked eagerly, around the toast he’d stuffed in his own mouth. His gaze went to the window, scanning the land before him and the mountains in the distance with the same kind of reverence Zeke himself felt. It would be cruel and unusual to put him to housework full-time. “Won’t take but a minute to do the dishes.”

  “All hands in the hay fields,” Zeke answered briefly. Until the hay was in, everything else was on hold, including collecting semen from his prize bull, Santos. Selling bull semen had turned into a profitable business aspect of the Decker ranch, and no one was better with animals than Spencer. Whatever it was about him, he had a calming influence on them: horses, dogs, cattle—even bulls. When you were collecting semen from a two-thousand-pound bull, keeping him calm was important—or at least as calm as could be expected, under the circumstances. Therefore it only made sense that even though he was the youngest of the hands, and the one who had been here the shortest time, Spencer was the one in charge of this job.

  Sperm collector and cook. Wouldn’t that look impressive on a résumé?

  Walt cleared his throat. “Any answers to your latest want ad?”

  Spencer looked up, hope in his eyes.

  “None that’ll do.” He’d had one query, but the “no housework” stipulation had stopped that one cold. He’d rewrite his ads. He didn’t think he could get away with “elderly battle-ax preferred,” but he could sure add that a man was preferred. “Someone will turn up, though. Let’s get going, boys. This hay won’t get cut and baled by itself.”

  SUMMERTIME, AND IT was barely seventy degrees in the middle of the day. After the broiling heat of Texas, Carlin enjoyed the mild temperatures, but she couldn’t help but wonder what winter would be like here—not that she’d be around to find out. Winter was months away, and there was no telling where she’d be by then, but it almost certainly wouldn’t be here.

  The thought of moving on was surprisingly tough; the regular customers already treated her like she was one of their own, and always had been. She’d have been suspiciou