A Baby in the Bunkhouse by CATHY GILLEN THACKER Read Free Book Online Page B

hawed. “Rafferty doesn’t do holidays anymore.”
    â€œWhat do you mean he doesn’t do holidays?” Jacey slid the yeast rolls in to bake, alongside the sweet-potato and green-bean casseroles.
    Gabby spoke for the group reluctantly. “Well, not since…you know, the thing with Angelica.”
    â€œWhat thing with Angelica?”
    Stretch looked uncomfortable. “Fellas, I don’t think we should say any more.”
    Gabby nodded. “It’s really none of our business.”
    â€œI don’t want to get in trouble with the boss,” Curly said.
    â€œMe, neither,” Red agreed.
    â€œSorry, Jacey,” Hoss said gently. He gave her a look that was equivalent to a pat on the shoulder. “We just didn’t want you to be disappointed when the boss didn’t show up.”
    She had passed disappointment weeks ago, when he’d kissed her, and then made sure she didn’t so much as lay eyes on him again. Not easy to do, when they were both residing under the same roof, albeit in different wings. “Where is Rafferty?”
    â€œOut working,” Curly said.
    Red nodded. “He was going to burn the spires off the prickly pear on the south side of the mountain.”
    â€œThat had to be done today?”
    The men shrugged, apparently seeing nothing wrong with it.
    Â 
    I T WAS NEARLY FOUR-THIRTY when the Lost Mountain Ranch pickup his father usually drove bumped along the gravel road that connected the pastures on the property. Wondering what was up, Rafferty put down his propane torch. He shoved the brim of his hat back, waiting. It wasn’t long before the driver came into view. Seeing who was behind the wheel, he released a string of swearwords not fit for mixed company. And he was still muttering when Jacey parked in the middle of the lane, left the cab and marched toward him.
    She was dressed ridiculously, in a black knee-length skirt that revealed just how much of her baby weight she had already lost, some sort of thin, cream-colored sweater with a lacy collar and a row of fancy buttons up the front, just begging to be undone, and sexy black suede heels definitely not meant for traipsing through the brush.
    Noting she didn’t look scared or worried, just mad, which meant there was no real emergency, he leaned against a recently sheared prickly pear, crossed one boot-clad foot across the other, folded his arms in front of his chest and simply waited.
    When she got close enough for them to converse normally, she demanded, “What is wrong with you?”
    â€œI’m supposed to be working in the pasture. You’re the one who’s lost.” He hooked his thumb in the direction she’d come. “The kitchen is thataway.”
    Her soft lips formed an irritated line. “You’re a laugh a minute, Rafferty Evans.”
    He settled in against the cactus. “I think so.”
    Sparks radiated from her green eyes. “You’re also unbearably rude.”
    Here it came. The lecture he’d heard at least half a dozen times before. Although never from her. He picked up his propane torch, turned around and headed through waist-high brush. “Go away. I’ve got work to do.”
    As he half suspected, she stormed after him, giving a little cry when her skirt caught on the spires of a cactus he hadn’t yet had time to trim back.
    Concerned, he turned around to see her delicately extricating the fabric from the pointed end of the spire. Luckily, she didn’t appear to be hurt. “Need some help?”
    Another glare. “What I need is for you to talk to me. Why did you skip Thanksgiving dinner this afternoon?”
    He let his gaze drift over her lazily. “Shouldn’t you be doing dishes or nursing the baby?”
    She ignored his rudeness. “The men are doing the dishes for me—they insisted, since the dinner you missed was so fantastically delicious. And Caitlin just nursed and went down