to our deal.” Cyrus poured himself a short shot of whiskey and saluted the missing housekeeper, downing the fiery liquor in one gulp. He checked the clock. The house was silent but it didn’t have its usual empty feel. Lips curled in a sardonic grin, he stood and stretched.
The kitchen was warm when he carried his empty glass to the now spotless sink. A peek under an unexpectedly clean linen revealed rising dough. Half surprised, he murmured, “Guess she didn’t leave, and the boys will at least have bread for breakfast.”
He studied the room. The place looked good and smelled better. She’d hauled away the trash piled in the corner and Cyrus reminded himself to scout around and relocate it to his compost pile.
He put on his hat, went out back to the garden and grabbed two buckets for water. His foreman sauntered up to the pump and began filling the buckets for Cyrus.
“Hope she’s got more for breakfast than a cookie,” Jake muttered. “Any of ’em left?” Evidently the wave of sugar having faded, the ranch hands were ready to rethink their temporary support for Mrs. Lacey. “We’ll give her one more meal to prove herself and that’s it.”
Jake argued for and against Eleanor’s employment while Cyrus watered the melon patch and remained noncommittal. His stomach rumbled its own complaint as Jake mumbled, “Night, boss,” and returned to the bunkhouse.
He had favorites among his crew but didn’t coddle any of them. He wouldn’t keep anyone on the ranch he didn’t trust and he paid the best wages in the state, which made his men loyal to the bone. But dammit, they counted on decent food when they pulled a full day’s work. Mrs. Lacey was an indulgence he couldn’t afford—like one of those fancy cream things she’d served—more air than substance.
It was unusual for Cyrus to be ambivalent about anything. But the woman waiting upstairs made him pause. She was delicate, like an exotic flower, not made for tough housework or rough loving. He shrugged regretfully, making plans to return her to town the next day.
But still—she’d stood toe-to-toe with him, insisting she could handle him and everything he threw at her.
It was late and he suspected Mrs. Lacey was curled up asleep. In spite of his firm belief she was the wrong woman for the job, Cyrus took the steps two at a time, suddenly eager to see what kind of dessert Eleanor had to offer for night duty.
Her scent hung tantalizingly in the air when he entered the bathing room. It was more an essence, a feeling, instead of the heavy, cloying perfume his recent housekeepers had used to cover their smell.
Cyrus stripped fast, scrubbed dirt and sweat from his body and climbed out of the tub. He didn’t deliver the usual hand job to appease his hard-on. Instead, he breathed in the smell of Eleanor, thought about her naked and waiting in his bed and just in case things went the right way, rolled a condom over his rigid cock. In deference to her respectable status, he pulled on a clean pair of denims, leaving them unbuttoned to ease the pull on his groin, and padded on bare feet to his bedroom.
She’d obeyed orders. Mrs. Lacey—Eleanor—sat upright against pillows and headboard, her hands folded in her lap, waiting for him. She’d left the lamp turned low so he could see the shape of her under the sheet drawn across her lap. Her pale yellow nightgown, although a sedate affair, revealed the swell of unfettered breasts beneath the fabric.
The condom encasing his length tightened around him as his cock thickened. He felt like a stallion ramped and ready to cover a mare as he eliminated the distance between them.
“Ready to seal the deal, Eleanor?” Leering down at her, he leaned over the bed, his palms on either side of her hips.
She grabbed the sheet, securing it tighter around her. Cyrus admired the colors playing over her features. She blinked at him from violet eyes accented by strangely dark lashes and darker brows considering her
The kitchen was warm when he carried his empty glass to the now spotless sink. A peek under an unexpectedly clean linen revealed rising dough. Half surprised, he murmured, “Guess she didn’t leave, and the boys will at least have bread for breakfast.”
He studied the room. The place looked good and smelled better. She’d hauled away the trash piled in the corner and Cyrus reminded himself to scout around and relocate it to his compost pile.
He put on his hat, went out back to the garden and grabbed two buckets for water. His foreman sauntered up to the pump and began filling the buckets for Cyrus.
“Hope she’s got more for breakfast than a cookie,” Jake muttered. “Any of ’em left?” Evidently the wave of sugar having faded, the ranch hands were ready to rethink their temporary support for Mrs. Lacey. “We’ll give her one more meal to prove herself and that’s it.”
Jake argued for and against Eleanor’s employment while Cyrus watered the melon patch and remained noncommittal. His stomach rumbled its own complaint as Jake mumbled, “Night, boss,” and returned to the bunkhouse.
He had favorites among his crew but didn’t coddle any of them. He wouldn’t keep anyone on the ranch he didn’t trust and he paid the best wages in the state, which made his men loyal to the bone. But dammit, they counted on decent food when they pulled a full day’s work. Mrs. Lacey was an indulgence he couldn’t afford—like one of those fancy cream things she’d served—more air than substance.
It was unusual for Cyrus to be ambivalent about anything. But the woman waiting upstairs made him pause. She was delicate, like an exotic flower, not made for tough housework or rough loving. He shrugged regretfully, making plans to return her to town the next day.
But still—she’d stood toe-to-toe with him, insisting she could handle him and everything he threw at her.
It was late and he suspected Mrs. Lacey was curled up asleep. In spite of his firm belief she was the wrong woman for the job, Cyrus took the steps two at a time, suddenly eager to see what kind of dessert Eleanor had to offer for night duty.
Her scent hung tantalizingly in the air when he entered the bathing room. It was more an essence, a feeling, instead of the heavy, cloying perfume his recent housekeepers had used to cover their smell.
Cyrus stripped fast, scrubbed dirt and sweat from his body and climbed out of the tub. He didn’t deliver the usual hand job to appease his hard-on. Instead, he breathed in the smell of Eleanor, thought about her naked and waiting in his bed and just in case things went the right way, rolled a condom over his rigid cock. In deference to her respectable status, he pulled on a clean pair of denims, leaving them unbuttoned to ease the pull on his groin, and padded on bare feet to his bedroom.
She’d obeyed orders. Mrs. Lacey—Eleanor—sat upright against pillows and headboard, her hands folded in her lap, waiting for him. She’d left the lamp turned low so he could see the shape of her under the sheet drawn across her lap. Her pale yellow nightgown, although a sedate affair, revealed the swell of unfettered breasts beneath the fabric.
The condom encasing his length tightened around him as his cock thickened. He felt like a stallion ramped and ready to cover a mare as he eliminated the distance between them.
“Ready to seal the deal, Eleanor?” Leering down at her, he leaned over the bed, his palms on either side of her hips.
She grabbed the sheet, securing it tighter around her. Cyrus admired the colors playing over her features. She blinked at him from violet eyes accented by strangely dark lashes and darker brows considering her
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