Too Hard To Handle

“Lovely shirt.” Tillie handed it back to Shane and waved at the group assembled around her. “These are my friends. They release water, read palms, hunt and catch people, fly, gamble, fix things, open minds and create.”

Still grappling with the idea of being host to a gathering of UFO hunters, especially those with the qualifications just revealed by their fluttering leader, Shane got to his feet and shrugged on his shirt.

Christy dropped the ointment back into the box of medical supplies and slid between Shane and the seniors. They were a formidable group, individually or collectively, she realized, and it made no sense at all, but she still felt as protective about them as she did Tillie. No doubt it had to do with what the family called her nurturing nature—or an addled mental state resulting from too much contact with her aunt.

“Shane,” she said hastily, “I’d like you to meet our resident dowser.”

A diminutive woman with graying brown hair stepped forward and gave his hand a firm shake. “Ruth Ann Watts. Glad to meet you.”

Christy gestured to a tall, slim man with eyes like blue lasers. “The man who catches people.”

Remaining where he was, leaning against a tree trunk, the man nodded. “Jack Beatty, retired cop.”

Another gesture from Christy. “The man who hunts for people.”

“Search and rescue,” a small, wiry man in dark glasses explained. “Claude Rollins.”

Waving a couple forward who resembled Jack Sprat and his wife, Christy said, “Skip and Opal Williams.”

Skip gave an amiable nod. Opal bustled forward, pumping Shane’s hand. “My husband’s a mechanic, and I read palms.” Before she stepped back beside Skip, she turned Shane’s hand over and took a quick peek at it.

A portly, bald man reached out to shake Shane’s hand. “Jim Sturgiss, retired Air Force. Howdy.”

“Ben Matthews.” Short and muscular as a wrestler, the next man nodded. “I’m the creative one,” he said, dry humor lacing his deep voice.

Grinning at the baffled expression in Shane’s eyes, Christy touched a tall woman in jeans and cowboy boots on the shoulder. “Our gambler.”

“Melinda Rills,” the tall woman said, echoing Christy’s amused smile. “Stock market and casinos.”

The last man stepped forward and extended his hand. Pale and pudgy, he was obviously still reeling from the explosion. “Dave Davidson, the one who opens minds. I’m a retired psychology teacher, and I don’t usually go around blowing things up. I’m sorry this happened on your property.”

“Well, Boss, if I was a bettin’ man, I could’ve lost ten bucks back there. I never thought you’d let them stay.”

“It’s only for a couple of days,” Shane muttered, as he and Hank headed toward the barn. “At the most.”

He wasn’t sure what had happened. Maybe the explosion had rattled his brain. Or it was Tillie looking at him as if he were her last hope for salvation. Or Christy. Hell, he didn’t know. With all of them talking at once, assuring him that they would clean up the area while they waited for the rental people, it had been hard to think.

Partly, though, it was Tillie. The little woman with the weird clothes and incandescent smile had worked some sort of magic. The others he could have kicked off the property without a qualm, but not Tillie.

And, as much as he disliked the idea, not Christy. Not the redhead. Just one look at her had his body on red alert, and that was asking for trouble. Big trouble. Even worse had been the feeling of instant recognition that had poured through every cell of his body when he’d first seen her. If he’d believed in fate or destiny, he would have conceded that she was the one woman he’d been looking for all of his life.

But he wasn’t a dreamer. Two women who had liked his money a hell of a lot more than they’d liked him had helped him grow up fast. And he didn’t believe in fate—at least not where a wife was concerned. None of the women he’d met had ever been right. Not for a lifetime. He doubted one existed. But, damn, at first glance she sure came close.

“How much of the fence did you fix?” he asked abruptly, deliberately changing the direction of his thoughts.

“Not much.” Hank shrugged his lean shoulders. “After the explosion, Milt, here,” he nodded at the gelding, “came flying over the hill and it took me a while to catch him.”

“We’ll head back tomorrow and finish up.”

“What about them?” Hank gestured over his shoulder at the people milling around the motor homes, his hazel eyes questioning.

“We’ll leave that one section of fence open for them.”

“What about the herd?”

“We’ll have to wait to move it in there until they’re gone.” Shane dismounted when they reached the barn. “Who’s cooking tonight?”

“Red.” Hank sighed. “Beans again. You know, we’re gonna have a mutiny on our hands if we don’t get another cook out here. And don’t even suggest Adelaide. Half of us got food poisoning the one time she tried.”

“Yeah. I know.” Remembering, Shane winced. The housekeeper was a jewel, but not in the kitchen. “I’ve called all the temp agencies in Vegas, but the odds of finding someone are slim to none. Anyone who can cook for more than one person at a time has been snatched up for the summer by dude ranches or local camps. And Hector called this morning with more bad news after he pulled into Dallas. Said his dad is worse off than he thought, and he’d probably have to stay two or three weeks.”

Hank groaned. “A couple of days without a cook is bad enough, but two or three weeks? Boss, you gotta do something.” Taking the reins from Shane’s hand, he said, “I’ll take care of the horses, you go make a miracle.”

An hour later, Shane closed the telephone directory with an irritated thump. Nothing. There wasn’t a cook to be found in the whole damn county.

Maybe there was hope for Shane after all.

Christy braked to a stop and hopped off her bicycle at the front gate, looking at the gracious old house surrounded by lush, well-tended grass. It was no Tara, but then she had always thought such magnificence was overrated. This was a home—pale creamy yellow, two stories, with a wraparound porch that was cozily furnished with an oak swing and wicker chairs punctuated with bright floral cushions. Enclosed by a white rail with gently curved spindles, it all but shouted a welcome. It was the kind of home she had dreamed about as a child moving from place to place. It was a deeply feminine house, she reflected, for such a hard man.

But a man who appreciated a home like this couldn’t be all bad, she thought. Not that she was interested on a personal level, of course, but she made a point of giving credit where it was due. And he did appreciate it; it showed in the recent paint job, the tidy shrubbery, the profusion of pink and white flowers tumbling here and there.

Shane walked around the corner and caught her gazing dreamy-eyed at the house. With her hand on the gate of the picket fence, she had the tranquil look of a woman coming home. She looked nice there. She looked…right.

Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. No way was he going down that road. With her green eyes, high cheekbones and full mouth, Christy was one hell of a looker. Her blazing mass of red-gold hair didn’t hurt, either. But she was going to be here two days, tops, and he could manage to keep his hands off her for that long. Maybe. Pushing down the surge of lust that slammed through him, he strode toward her. It would be helpful if his imagination would just simmer down, he thought, muttering a quiet oath. Mighty helpful.

Pulling the gate open, he scowled at her flushed face. “It’s almost a hundred degrees out here and dry as dirt. What the hell are you doing on a bike? Without a hat?” When her narrowed eyes glittered with irritation, he heaved a sigh. “Can I get you something cold to drink, iced tea, beer?”

Christy ran her hands through her hair to control both it and her temper. “First, a bike is convenient,” she snapped. “Second, I don’t need a caretaker, and third, no thank you. My aunt wants to be sure you know how much we all appreciate being able to stay here, and—”

“All?”

Taking a deep breath and releasing it, she nodded. “All.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “All right, I’m not thrilled about it, but you were kind—”

“Kind?” His brows rose.

“And courteous to my aunt and her friends,” she said through clenched teeth, “and I am grateful for that. Can I get on with this?” she asked, stopping him before he could interrupt again.

“So they asked me to tell…I mean we want to invite you to dinner to show our appreciation.”

A corner of his mouth kicked up in a slow smile. “This is killing you, isn’t it?”

“You bet.” Tightening her grip on the handlebars, Christy backed up a cautious step. His grin was a lethal weapon, she decided, and it shouldn’t be aimed at unsuspecting women. Reminding herself that she was immune to his brand of charm, she asked abruptly, “Are you coming or not?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Chapter Two

“More than likely, the RV had a ruptured fuel line,” Skip said. “It happens every now and then. Smoke, flames, a big boom and bingo—you got nothing left.”

“Dowsing is simple,” Ruth Ann commented to Jack with a grin. “Even a cynical cop can do it. You don’t need anything fancy, a forked stick does the trick. Willow works well.”

“Keno loves her job.” Claude ran a hand over the German shepherd’s head, pausing to scratch behind the erect ears. “And she’s damn good at it, too.”

Shane sat in the same camp chair he’d been in earlier, only this time he held a bottle of beer and listened to the fragments of conversation coming from the clusters of people around him.

His guests.

Some were setting the two long tables in the center of the clearing for dinner. They had a rhythm, as if they’d been doing it for weeks rather than just four days. Others lounged in chairs, idly chatting.

They had cleaned the area as promised, he had noted as he’d ridden Milt into the hollow. The debris had been tossed in a heap near the carcass of the burned RV, and the rest of the motor homes encircled the large area obviously pinpointed for community activities.

As before, Tillie sat across from him, her yellow alien shirt complemented by the green suspenders. His lips twitched as she beamed at him, her approval as obvious as the setting sun. She seemed especially taken with his shirt, a duplicate of the denim one he’d worn earlier. Of course, she seemed fascinated by a number of things; she just didn’t make much sense when she talked about them.

Amused, he decided to see if he’d have better luck with another subject. Any subject. “What are you thinking about?”

“Cows.”

Shane blinked. “Cows?” Could’ve fooled him. He was sure she had shirts on her mind.

“Your cows.” She gave him a quick look.

“Cattle,” he said absently, wondering at the sudden shift of emotions playing across her face. Anxiety had replaced approval.

“The ones here,” she clarified.

“By ‘here,’ do you mean on the ranch?”

“No, right here.” Tillie pointed a slim finger at the ground, then waved vaguely, encompassing the area around them. “Walter mentioned…that is, he thought…the cows might not be happy. Of course, you don’t have…at least, not yet.”

Determined not to laugh, Shane settled for clearing his throat and selecting a word from the maze. “Uh…happy?”

“Here,” she repeated.

He gave up. Grinning at her earnest expression, he looked around, wondering if there was an interpreter in the group. Happy? Cows? “Well,” he said slowly, “it’s not real easy to tell how they feel. Actually, I think they’re fine as long as they have good grass and water. That’s why I’ll be moving them down here. It’s also one of the reasons I was fixing the fence.”

“They wouldn’t…like it over there?” She pointed over the hills behind them.

Shane shrugged. “Who knows? But they won’t crowd you,” he promised, hoping to erase the crease between her brows. “I’ll wait until you’re gone before I move them in.” He blinked, narrowing his eyes at her. “Who’s Walter?”

“Perhaps it would be better if…” Her words faded away, then she brightened and leaned forward to pat his hand. “But I wouldn’t worry. Walter says—Oh good, it won’t be long now.”

Shane’s brows rose at the cryptic statement. Worry? About what? And what wouldn’t be long? Until they were gone? His stomach rumbled, reminding him that breakfast had been early and lunch nonexistent.

“Until we eat,” Tillie said matter-of-factly.

Just then, the door of the nearest motor home opened, releasing an aroma that made his mouth water. One thing was certain, he decided: beans weren’t on the menu.

“Dinner’s ready,” Christy called.

Ruth Ann, Jack and Claude trooped over to the door and returned with large, covered dishes. After depositing them on the tables, they went back for more.

Tillie grabbed Shane’s sleeve. “Come on. Walter always says the end of the table is best. Less confusion.”

Shrugging, Shane rose and allowed himself to be tugged along. Tillie sat at his right, nodding when Christy slid in on his left side. Within seconds he was surrounded by UFO hunters silently passing plates of food. His guests, he reminded himself again.

He took a bite of tender Swiss steak, closed his eyes and savored it while his taste buds broke into the Hallelujah Chorus.

Christy’s brows rose at his awed expression. “Did you think we invited you for burned hamburgers?”

“The way I’ve been eating lately, I would’ve enjoyed even that. But this, it’s…”

“Wonderful? Extraordinary? Phenomenal?”

He nodded. “All of the above.”

“I’d like to take the credit, but this is my week to be scullery maid. Ben’s the magician.” She pointed to the short, muscular man with a gray crew cut. “He only lets me wash and cut veggies.”

“He cooks for everyone?”

She nodded. “Dinner only. We’re on our own for breakfast and lunch.”

“How’d you con him into that?”

Christy turned to look at Ben, her expression thoughtful. “I’m not sure. It was a done deal before I came along, but I think he was bored silly. He’d recently retired as head chef from a really great restaurant and cooking just for himself wasn’t cutting it. As it is, he can produce a meal like this easier than I can make a batch of cookies.”

“You don’t say.” Shane gazed at the muscular wizard, knowing his luck had just changed. A real live chef, a bored chef, was sitting across the table from him, and he was damn well going to do whatever it took to keep him right here. For at least three weeks.

Of course, if he kept the cook, he’d more than likely have to keep the rest of them. They seemed to be a package deal. Glancing around the table at the yellow-shirted bunch, he sighed. The thought of them running tame on his land searching for UFOs was enough to turn his hair gray, but hell, he could control them. What was important was talking Ben Matthews into cooking until Hector returned. Wondering if immediately after dinner was too soon to tell Ben that the Circle M would gladly help ease the strain of his retirement, Shane reached again for the platter of Swiss steak.

He stopped chewing when another thought occurred to him. If they stayed, Christy stayed. And that changed everything. If she wasn’t leaving in two days, he could do something about the fire that flooded his body every time he looked at her. Hell, who was he kidding? Every time he thought of her. Turning to look down at her wispy bangs and glorious mass of hair, he held back a smile. Yeah, his luck had definitely changed.

When her elbow brushed Shane’s arm again, Christy shifted her chair a bit to the left. It was one thing to make nice with the man, entirely another to sit so close she was scorched by the heat radiating from his big body.

She would do a lot for Aunt Tillie, but being agreeable to him wasn’t easy. He was too much like her three exes—high-handed and forceful. Of course a lot of men faced with an exploding RV and a gaggle of UFO hunters on their property would probably react the same way.

Even so, he was dangerous. Of course, it wasn’t his fault that she was wary of men—especially the alpha types. Or that what she craved right now was a peaceful life, a life dedicated to her new job and simple pleasures. A life rid of complications—especially the ones created by demanding men.

She hadn’t been a bit interested when he’d taken off his shirt so she could deal with his back, she assured herself. Yeah, right. The sight of his hard body hadn’t doubled her pulse rate either, and his heat hadn’t sizzled through her fingertips, warming her from head to toe.

She was accustomed to attractive men. All three of her exes had been disciplined, keeping their bodies in first-rate condition. Health, number two had told her, was a big advantage in beating down the competition. And they had muscles. Plenty of them. So there had been no reason for her to gape at Shane like a hormone-crazed teenager. She should be able to take broad shoulders, a wide chest lightly sprinkled with dark hair, and a flat, hard stomach in stride.

So he was spectacular. So what? He was still a royal pain. He was the prototype of all the trouble-some men who had caused her to swear off men, for heaven’s sake.

Grateful they would be leaving in a day or so, she decided she could be polite until then. It couldn’t be that difficult, despite the waves of tension radiating from him. Noting that Tillie was complimenting Ben on the dinner, she turned to Shane.

“How’s your—”

“Who is—”

They both stopped, waiting.

“You first,” Shane said, leaning back when Melinda reached over his shoulder to collect his plate.

“I just wanted to know if your back is bothering you. I have plenty of ointment if you—”

He shook his head. “No thanks. It stings a little, but it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Her voice was cool. “Now it’s your turn.”

Nodding toward the cluster of seniors, Shane asked, “Which one is Walter?”

A chill shot straight up Christy’s spine. “Walter?” Her voice cracked midword.

Peering around him at her aunt, who was comparing notes with Opal, the palmist, Christy groped for a response. Tillie had no inhibition about quoting Walter—anytime, anywhere, with anyone. It was perfectly reasonable for Shane to want him identified.

It was also a problem because there was no reasonable explanation for Walter—especially to a man who already thought they were a bunch of lunatics.

“Walter is…Aunt Tillie’s husband,” she said, opting for truthful evasion for as long as she could. Even the verb was honest because, unfortunately, there was nothing past tense about the blasted man. Except his body.

“I don’t remember meeting him.”

She shook her head, deliberately ignoring his puzzled expression. “You didn’t. He…couldn’t come on this trip.”

“Then why was he talking about my cattle?”

Choking on a sip of iced tea, Christy asked weakly, “Your cattle? You sure it was Walter?”

“That’s what Tillie said.”

“Exactly what did she say?”

“Something about my cattle not being happy in this hollow.”

“Oh.” A nasty vision of cows keeling over by the dozens ran through her mind, then she looked around and brightened. “You don’t have any cows here.”

“Not yet. But they’ll be here as soon as you leave.”

She angled a quick glance at him before concentrating on her perspiring glass of tea. “Uh…you couldn’t wait a while before moving them?”

“Why? I want to do it before they overgraze the area they’re in.”

“No particular reason.” Except that there was usually some sort of logic—absurd or otherwise—behind Uncle Walter’s suggestions.

“I don’t get it.” Shane turned to face her, his wide shoulders concealing the people behind him. “If he isn’t here, how could he know about my ranch? And why would he care?”

Give the man a cigar. He had some good questions. “Aunt Tillie probably described the place to him,” she said vaguely, checking her options again. So much for honesty. It never lasted long when the subject was Tillie or her talkative mate. Two days, she reminded herself. Just a measly forty-eight hours and they’d be on their way. And being around Tillie had taught her a few things; she could dodge his curiosity and pointed questions for that long.

Shane gave her a last, exasperated look before turning to the man across the table. “Ben, that was a wonderful meal. I wonder if we could talk for a minute.”

Tillie turned to face him, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Not trusting her aunt’s look of anticipation, Christy felt the chill skitter back down her spine.

Ben leaned back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest, and nodded.

“I need a good cook for about three weeks,” Shane said bluntly. “What can I do to interest you in the job?” Listening in dismay while he explained, Christy looked from one face to the next with a sinking feeling. No one jumped up to violently object. No one even looked upset.

“How many men do you have?” Ben asked.

“Ten.”

“What’s your kitchen like?”

“It was remodeled last year with commercial appliances.”

Ben shrugged. “I’m listening.”

Christy groaned at the avid interest in Ben’s brown eyes as he heard the details. The blasted man couldn’t wait to get back in a hot kitchen with twenty pans going at once.

“I could do it.” Ben’s words were measured as carefully as the ingredients in his sauces. “But we’re all together on this trip. If I stay, we all stay; it has to be a group decision. And I still cook dinner for everyone here.”

Shane gave a brief nod. “I figured that. Do you want me to leave so you can talk it over?”

“No need. We’re not shy.” Turning to the others, Ben said, “What do you think?”

Doomed. Christy slumped in her chair, remembering her cousin’s words as they all gazed at Tillie. But it was only fair they defer to her, she reminded herself. After all, the trip had been Tillie’s idea. She had determined the itinerary, announced it on the Internet and found compatible people. Each of them doted on her, recognized her special ability and would follow her through the gates of hell. It didn’t take a psychic to know what her aunt’s decision would be, Christy thought gloomily.

“How wonderful!” Tillie beamed a smile at each of them. “We’re exactly where we are meant to be.” Sliding a glance at Shane, she added, “Practically at the door of Area 51.”

Christy’s groan was lost in the excited conversation. She wondered how she had lived her entire life—before Aunt Tillie—without hearing of the famed Area 51 and the Nellis Air Force Base Bombing and Gunnery Range. While the Air Force had recently, and reluctantly, acknowledged that it had “operations” at Area 51, it still wouldn’t reveal what was happening there.

Skeptics believed that the government was testing exciting new jets that looked bizarre because they were experimental. UFO buffs believed the government had captured alien spacecraft and had made, and were testing, their own spaceships. There was no doubt which angle these people subscribed to.

The general area had been designated on their itinerary as the first major “hot spot” to be investigated, with a proposed stay of three weeks.

Jack grinned at Tillie. “Are you suggesting we use the ranch as a base of operations?”

“If it’s agreeable with everyone.” Tillie took another peek at Shane’s face and nodded, satisfied.

“Why not?” Ruth Ann looked at each of them, inviting comments. When there were none, she turned to Ben. “Of course, how much loot you can squeeze out of Shane is strictly your own business.”

Ben got up, looking across the table at his new boss. “Looks like you might have a deal.”

“Good. Before we take a walk and settle things, I have one more suggestion.” His quick glance, resting on Christy’s resigned expression for a moment, included them all. “How about moving closer to the house? I have an empty bunkhouse you can park by. You’ll probably want to stay in your RVs, but you can use the tubs and showers in the cabin.”