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Blushing profusely, her gaze focused on his mouth, Laura gestured toward the top shelf where his hand had stalled in midair. “If you’re reaching for that whiskey bottle, that isn’t a wise idea. Pain medication doesn’t mix with liquor. Your doctor wouldn’t approve, Mr. Ryder.”
“First off, I decided to forego that pain medication because it makes me woozy.” He ignored her when she muttered something about preferring woozy to downright cranky.
“Secondly, you can drop that mister stuff, professor,” he instructed, then backed away from temptation personified.
“I’m not a college professor,” she clarified. “I’m a secondary school instructor.”
“Yeah, whatever. Fact is that my doctor is Jack Daniel’s and he makes house calls.” He snatched the bottle off the shelf and set it on the counter with a decisive thump. “Hand me two glasses.”
“I don’t want a drink,” she informed him.
“I’d hope not. You’re on the clock. I want two glasses, one for each hand.”
She stared pointedly at his left wrist that was draped in the sling. “You only have one good hand,” she reminded him.
“So what? Just hand me the damn glasses.”
She didn’t move, just stared him down as if he was one of her belligerent students.
“Fine then, I’ll get it myself, which only goes to prove that I don’t need you.”
Before Wade could reach around her to grab the glasses she plucked them off the shelf and set them down with a clank.
“Thanks, professor,” he said, and not very politely.
“You’re welcome, Ryder. But you should know that you don’t get extra credit for doing things for yourself when you’re supposed to be resting all those body parts you injured while bull wrestling.”
“I wasn’t bull wrestling,” he corrected.
“Yeah, whatever.”
When she tossed his caustic words back in his face he gnashed his teeth, then realized his jaw was as sore as the rest of his abused body.
“According to your cousins’ version of the incident that required immediate medical attention,” she went on, “you valiantly distracted the big bad bull before he flattened Vance and Quint. But I suspect that you were just trying to clamber out of the way so that thousand-pound brute could vent his frustration on your cousins.”
Wade’s chest swelled with indignation—which served to remind him that his ribs were exceptionally tender. “I didn’t turn tail and run,” he huffed and puffed and blew her theory down. “My cousins may be ornery cusses, but I didn’t see any sense of all three of us getting trampled so none of us could handle the ranch chores.”
“Oh, I see,” she said in pretended thoughtfulness. “You just wanted an excuse to take some time off and let your cousins handle the hard work.”
The comment cut like a Weed Eater. “Hell no! Are you nuts, lady?” he roared. “The last thing I wanted was to be laid up and have a woman under my roof!”
Wade slammed his mouth shut and cursed himself soundly. It was never wise to let the enemy know your battle plan. If Laura hadn’t figured out that he was trying to get rid of her any way he could, she surely suspected it now.
She regarded him through her narrowed gaze then went back to alphabetically stocking the shelves. “So, you’re saying that you’re afraid of women and that fear defines who you are.”
“I’m saying nothing of the kind,” he said, highly affronted. He twisted the cap off the whiskey with a vicious jerk and purposely slopped the amber liquid on the counter as he filled his glasses. “You think I’m afraid of you? Not hardly. You’re all of five foot nothing and I’m six-three in my stocking feet. Whaddya gonna do? Break my other leg? I don’t think so!”
“I’m not referring to physical fright,” she clarified. “I’m talking about emotional terror.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he protested.
She reached over to grab a dish towel to mop up his mess then tossed him a sly glance. “Then you’re saying that you don’t appreciate women in the same capacity that most men do.”
“If you’re asking if I like sex, which is none of your business, by the way, the answer is: Yes, I like sex as much as the next heterosexual guy. I just want sex on my terms. No strings attached, no commitment.”
“So basically you’re saying you just don’t like women, but you don’t mind using them to scratch the occasional itch,” she paraphrased.
Hoo-kay, so that sounded cold and insensitive. But yeah, she’d pretty much hit the nail on its proverbial head. Thanks to Bobbie Lynn he’d never let a woman close enough for prolonged periods of time to form an emotional attachment. “Right,” he replied. “Sex is impersonal. You get some when you need some. Like filling an empty fuel tank.”
She paused momentarily from her chore to glance sideways at him. He could tell she was offended, which was fine by him. He didn’t want to like her and he didn’t care if she liked him, either. The less she liked him the sooner she’d realize working here was a mistake and she’d take a hike.
“This is fascinating,” she said, staring at him with those luminous baby blues that had the power to make him weak in the knees. “Explain to me how sex can be impersonal when the act itself involves baring pretty much everything you are to someone else in the most intimate manner possible?”
Wade grabbed some ice cubes from the fridge, plunked them in his glasses and then tossed back a shot of booze. It gave him time to formulate his reply. “Well, ya see, professor, this is where we get into the differences between men and women,” he lectured authoritatively. “Women think you’re supposed to attach meaningful emotion to sex, but men just like to get laid because it makes ’em feel good all over.” He noticed her face had become splotchy with color, so he pressed the issue. “A man’s psyche isn’t so difficult to understand, despite all that mumbo-jumbo those psychological experts like to spout. We just want two things from life. One—” he waved the glass of Jack Daniel’s in her face “—is a swig of booze, and the other is getting naked with a woman when the mood strikes.”
She was highly offended or extremely embarrassed—he wasn’t sure which. Her peaches-and-cream complexion turned candy-apple red. Her eyes were shooting sparks, too, he noted.
“You want to know what I think?” she asked in a tone that reminded him of a hissing cat.
“No, not particularly.” He downed another slug of booze. “But you’re probably planning to tell me anyway, right?”
Apparently that really ticked her off because she glared at him and said, “I think you’re a throwback to the caveman era and your Neanderthal mentality sucks!”
Unfazed, he took another drink. “You’re entitled to your opinion, professor, but don’t come crying to me when you think you’ve landed Mr. Right and he doesn’t meet all your fairy-tale expectations of love and romance.”
He winced when her fuming glance zeroed in on his right hand that held his sweating glass of booze. He knew what she was going to ask before the words were out of her mouth.
“Is that a wedding band? It certainly looks like one. Why are you wearing it on the wrong hand?” she quizzed him like any self-respecting schoolmarm.
“Because I married the wrong woman. It’s a reminder never to make that disastrous mistake again, so long as I live.”
“Ah,” she said pensively. “No wonder you have so many hang-ups. That explains a lot.”
He stiffened and glowered down from his advantageous height, annoyed by that smug little smile on her rosebud mouth. “That doesn’t explain squat. I don’t have hang-ups.”
“Sure you do.” She returned to her task of stocking the cabinets. “You probably got your itsy-bitsy heart broken and you’re holding all women responsible for the traitorous act of one femme fatale. What did she do? Cheat on you?”
“None of your damn business,” he said through his teeth.
“That’s why this house shows no signs of a woman’s touch. You’ve become a card-carrying woman-hater, haven’t you?”
She thought she was so damn smart, did she? Well, she was right, but he didn’t cotton to how easily she’d read him.
“You tried to erase all evidence that there was a woman in your house who got under your skin.” She stacked three cans of tuna then reached over to grab three cans of turkey. “You figured you couldn’t make a woman happy so why try, right? It’s easier to give up, to quit.”
She turned toward him then, all fierce determination. “Well, you need to know that I’m not a quitter, Mr. Ryder, no matter how hard you try to drive me away. I intend to do my job exceptionally well. One look at you testifies to the obvious fact that you need my assistance to keep this place shipshape while you recuperate. Now, go take a load off your broken leg while I whip up supper. Go on, scram,” she ordered, shooing him on his way. “You’re slowing me down.”
Wade was so frustrated by the unexpected turn of events that he was halfway across the room before he realized he’d allowed her to boss him around. Hell! He’d let that woman have the last word. That would never do.
“Just stay out of my way, professor, and I’ll stay out of yours,” he felt to compelled to say.
“Fine.”
“Good!”
Muttering at his live-in housekeeper, he limped off on his crutch. He cursed his devilish cousins with every uneven step and returned to the living room with his glasses of whiskey. As he lowered himself gingerly into his recliner he watched John Wayne’s character drop Liberty Valance in his tracks. If only he could dispose of Laura Seymour that easily! She might have thought she had him all figured out so she could deal effectively with him, but she was way wrong about that.
Now, more than ever, Wade wanted her gone. When a woman started picking around in a man’s brain, he was in heap big trouble. And this particular woman was too blasted smart if she could analyze him in the course of one afternoon. He’d have to work harder at driving her away so he could reclaim his private, female-free domain. Besides, he’d kept his emotions in cold storage for years and he didn’t want Laura to defrost them. Keeping them frozen solid worked best.
As for his traitorous cousins, he wasn’t going to kick their butts, as soon as he was able. He’d decided to murder them for foisting this particular woman off on him. He suspected Vance and Quint were trying to do a little matchmaking—kill a couple of birds with one stone, as it were. Well, they’d wasted their time with this prank. Laura Seymour wasn’t the kind of woman he wanted in his life—not that he wanted any kind of female in his life, mind you, because he didn’t. He especially didn’t want to share his personal space with a female as tempting and intelligent as Seymour. She stirred up his hormones and put his conscience under duress.
True, he’d been raised better than to be unspeakably rude and disrespectful to women—his mother would’ve killed him if she’d overheard that exchange in the kitchen. Of course, his mother didn’t fall into the Women category. She was, after all, his mother. And okay, so maybe all women weren’t as treacherous as Bobbie Lynn. But Wade’s track record indicated that he was a lousy judge of the female of the species and he naturally attracted women who were all wrong for him. That said, the best course of action was to avoid close association with all varieties of females.
Furthermore, he mused as he sipped his hooch, he wasn’t about to let his younger cousins pick women for him. They enjoyed all varieties of women. The more women the better, so they claimed. What did they know about finding the elusive Ms. Right? Nothing, that’s what. Otherwise those two clowns would be wedlocked by now.
Wade knew that when it came to women Vance and Quint had stumbled and fallen a couple of times themselves. They chose to handle their humiliation in different ways. Quint preferred to shield his emotions by flirting outrageously with everything in skirts and he was swift enough of foot to dodge wedding nooses that flew his way. Vance relied on teasing humor to sidestep emotional land mines. As for Wade, he chose avoidance and barbed-wire barriers to protect his heart.
Whatever worked, he supposed. But the fact remained that the Ryder cousins—even the absentee Gage—were considered highly prized bachelors in Hoot’s Roost. Come to think of it, his maternal cousins were in great demand as well. The whole passel of male cousins were decent looking—if that mattered—and they were successful—and that did matter to females who power-shopped for low-maintenance husbands who could provide for their wives in the wealthy manner to which they aspired.
Well, gold diggers need not apply at the Ryder ranches, Wade mused. As for Laura Seymour, he wanted her to vamoose—pronto. Now that he knew he had the ability to make her mad he’d push and prod until she lost her temper and spit out the four-letter Q word. Then he’d have her exactly where he wanted her…besides naked in his bed….
Wade jerked upright, shocked by that whimsical thought. He didn’t want to visualize how Laura would look naked because that would lead to more trouble than he had already. Wade squelched the testosterone-induced fantasy that leaped to mind and concentrated on the movie. He wasn’t going to give his new housekeeper another thought—except to conjure up ways to get rid of her, while he listened to her rummage around in his kitchen, as if she owned the place.
SWIFTLY AND EFFICIENTLY, Laura bustled around the kitchen, preparing the evening meal that she felt certain Wade couldn’t fault. She’d covered the basic food groups to provide a well-rounded, nutritious supper. Immensely pleased with herself, she sauntered into the living room, toying with the devilish urge to dump the food on Wade’s head rather than politely placing the tray on his lap. To her disappointment he stared distastefully at his plate.
“What the hell is this?” he asked incredulously.
“Well, duh, it’s supper. What does it look like?” Laura mentally patted herself on the back for her sassy rejoinder. Already, she’d learned to counter Wade’s intimidation with lightning-quick sarcasm. After a few weeks of dealing with him she was positively certain she could hold her own with any man. She might have been a little timid and unsure of herself in the past, since her brothers tried to map out her life and speak in her behalf, but she was learning fast.
Wade glanced up from the tray and said, “Do you have the slightest idea where you are, Seymour?”
Puzzled, she replied, “On an Oklahoma ranch?”
“Well, if you figured that out all by yourself, did you also notice this is cattle country?”
She had no idea where he was going with this line of questioning. “Yes, I do believe I saw a herd of cattle grazing the pastures.”
“Good, it’s a relief to know you’re not blind, just dense.”
She could feel her temper simmering, but she valiantly suppressed her mounting irritation. “And your point, provided there is one, would be?”
He made a stabbing gesture toward the stuffed poultry and dressing, smothered in gravy, on his plate. “I raise cattle, therefore I support the beef industry, not poultry. You don’t feed a cattleman a damn chicken. Jeez, Seymour, are they giving away teaching certificates to the highest bidder these days?”
“Jeez, Ryder, if you don’t eat chicken, then what are all those frozen breasts doing in your freezing unit?”
A wave of heat flooded through her when his gaze focused deliberately on her bosom. He delighted in rattling her—that conversation they’d shared in the kitchen about the depersonalization of sex indicated as much. She should be highly offended by his telling glance. Indeed if another man stared so blatantly, unblinkingly, at her chest she would have been outraged and insulted.
For some unexplainable reason the red-hot, seductive glimmer in Wade’s green eyes sent her senses reeling and heightened her awareness of him. Which she didn’t need, thank you so much. She was aware of him—to the extreme. His deep, smoky voice sent hot chills down her spine. His muscular physique kept drawing her unwilling attention and feminine speculation. He was distractingly handsome with that thatch of raven hair, those hypnotic eyes, those deeply tanned and chiseled features, those broad shoulders and horseman’s thighs. He looked solid and unyielding and he exuded some mystical aura that fascinated her on an elemental level.
She tried to tell herself that she was intrigued because she wasn’t accustomed to hanging out with cowboys. Teachers, yes. Businessmen, you bet. But not rugged, macho hunks like Wade Ryder.
“Hello? Anyone home?” Wade taunted.
Color splashed across her cheeks in such a rush that Laura feared the sudden pressure would blow off the top of her head. He’d caught her ogling him. Worse, she was probably drooling. Enough of this nonsense! She wasn’t going to let herself become the least bit interested in this woman-hating cowboy and his hang-ups. He was a waste of time and effort.
“Earth to Seymour,” he prompted again.
“What?” she mumbled.
“I said…” he drawled very deliberately, “I like plump, juicy breasts occasionally, but not on a regular basis. Beef is my mainstay, so don’t forget it when you’re puttering around the kitchen, throwing together some slop to feed me.”
Puttering? Throwing together slop? She’d slaved over this meal, damn it. She glared at him, then noticed he was trying to get a reaction from her. He was waiting for her to pop her cork so he could toss out another insult that would infuriate her to the point of quitting. Well, it wasn’t happening, she vowed fiercely. She would not be provoked!
Before she could respond he thrust both empty glasses at her. “Make yourself useful and fill ’em up, will ya?”
She snatched up the glasses, careful to avoid contact with his long, lean fingers. “With poison? Gladly. I’ll be back in a flash with a deadly dose.”
Wade watched her stalk off, her hips swishing like an angry cat’s tail, and he sighed gratefully. Thank you, God! He needed a quick time-out. Staring at her well-proportioned chest and watching her blush got his male body all riled up. That he didn’t need—not in his condition. When she’d given him that thorough once-over he’d been positively certain that not all his body parts were nonfunctional. If not for the supper tray on his lap, Laura would’ve noticed his aroused condition and likely razzed him unmercifully about it.
Damn it, he didn’t like the way Laura made him feel, the way he reacted to her, the way his thoughts detoured down lusty avenues when she got within five feet of him.
On the spur of the moment he decided that he wasn’t going to repay his cousins by killing them swiftly and mercifully for dumping Laura on his doorstep. No, he’d roast them over an open fire…or drag them behind a galloping horse around the perimeters of the ranch…or stake them over a den of fire ants, that sort of thing.
Wade pretended a fascinated interest in the television when he heard Laura stamping back into the room. When she slammed down the glasses of whiskey on his tray, he said, “Took you long enough.”
“I had to scrounge around the cabinets to locate the hemlock and arsenic,” she muttered spitefully. “Here, pick your poison. Anything else, Your Grumpiness?”
He flicked his wrist, dismissing her. “That’ll do it.”
“It’d better.” She performed a quick about-face toward the kitchen. “Otherwise I’ll have to restock the poisons because we’re fresh out. Just my luck that I got stuck with a man who’s just too darn mean to roll over and die after a couple of lethal doses.”
3
WHEN LAURA STORMED OFF, Wade broke into a reluctant smile. Who would have thought the timid schoolmarm he’d met only a few hours ago possessed quicksilver sass and lively spirit. Of course, it made getting rid of her more difficult, but it was an entertaining challenge.
Wade recalled that if he dared to use that snotty tone on Bobbie Lynn, she simpered and mewled until her thick mascara bled like hot tar down her makeup-coated cheeks. However, Laura Seymour didn’t bleed mascara because she didn’t coat her face with war paint. She had the kind of natural beauty and flawless skin that Bobbie Lynn tried to acquire artificially.
Gawd, why he’d married that woman he couldn’t recall. She’d whined incessantly about the isolation of ranch life. She’d demanded favors for passion and dangled sex in front of him like a carrot before a mule. Fool that he’d been, he’d tried to make her happy, had given into her to make their marriage work because Ryders were supposed to wed forever. At least his parents had. Same went for Vance’s parents, Quint’s parents and Gage’s parents. The four older-generation Ryder brothers had discovered everlasting love and produced four Ryder cousins who’d never found their soul mates.
Maybe love skipped a generation, Wade mused. He was the only one of the Ryder cousins who’d waded into the wedding pool. He’d failed big time. He’d been such a blind idiot that he’d been the last one to know Bobbie Lynn was fooling around on him and took him to the cleaners when she trotted merrily off to Dallas, leaving him to deal with the humiliation and small-town gossip that spread faster than a plague of locusts.
Wade had worked double shifts after the financial disaster left in ex-wife’s wake. He’d learned his lesson well. Women would screw you over if you gave them half a chance.
The reminder of his ex reaffirmed his belief that he never wanted to put himself in a position to be betrayed or rejected again. He was better off without a woman in his life. Yup, he’d just keep hammering away at Laura until she threw up her hands and stalked out—for good. He had enough trouble trying to recuperate from the painful accident. He didn’t want to play the fateful hand women dealt out to men.
Wade had learned—the hard way—that women always played with loaded dice and they stacked the deck. Yet, even knowing that, Wade couldn’t keep his mind off Laura while he prepared for bed that night. She was in the room next to his, probably peeling off her clothes. All that soft, silky skin bared—
He inwardly cursed the wayward direction of his thoughts, struggled from his jeans then plopped on the bed. When he noticed a moving shadow in the hall he hurriedly snatched the bedspread over his lap to cover himself.
