Her neighbor cleared his throat. “Maybe I should come back later.”
“No.” She pushed away her sadness. “No, Mr. O’Connell, I’d like to get this settled now if we can. I really do need a job. I’ve got to make repairs to this place before winter rolls around, but my funds are limited.” She waved a hand toward the cabin. “You probably have a good idea why I need the extra cash if you did work for my aunt in the past.”
He smiled. “Yeah, there’s plenty that needs done around here.”
For a moment, Shayla forgot the leaky places in the roof, the plumbing that failed with wretched regularity, the faulty lock on the back door and the wood stove that didn’t draw right. She couldn’t think of anything except Nat’s smile. It was charming, complete with dimples and one slightly crooked tooth.
And the rest of the Nat O’Connell package wasn’t bad, either. He was tall and lean, tanned and muscular. His thick black hair was disheveled from the cowboy hat he’d removed earlier. His brown eyes were the color of strong coffee, almost black, and the outer corners crinkled when he smiled, which he seemed to do often.
“Maybe I should tell you what I need from a housekeeper, Miss Vincent. It won’t be easy work.”
She suddenly remembered her own appearance. Most of her clothes were in the hamper, awaiting a trip to the Rainbow Laundromat. When she’d dressed that morning, she’d laughed about the awful T-shirt she wore, then thought, Who cares? Who will see me? The memory made her want to groan.
Here she was with Mr. Charming Smile himself, and she was dressed like a bag lady, wearing no makeup, her kinky-curly mop of mousy brown hair caught in a clip atop her head, no doubt sticking out in all directions, as usual.
She felt a flush of embarrassment rushing into her cheeks. No wonder he’d thought her crazy.
Nat seemed unaware of her private agony. “I’d need you to come in for a few hours every day at first. I haven’t had a housekeeper in more than a year, and the place is in sad shape.” He paused, grinning sheepishly. “I guess that’s an understatement.” He shrugged. “I’m a cattle rancher, and there’s always plenty going on that needs my attention, always other things to spend my time and money on, if you know what I mean. I never give much thought to the house, living alone like I do.”
He lived alone. That was hard to believe. There must be something wrong with the women in this valley—or something wrong with him. She wondered which it was.
“My mother’s been talking about coming for a visit later this summer,” he continued. “If she sees the house like it is right now, she’ll skin me alive. She's always taken great pride in a tidy, well-run home.”
Shayla nodded. She’d seen the enormous O’Connell ranch house from the highway. It looked more like a log castle. She knew a place like that had to be spectacular on the inside and, sight unseen, could understand a woman taking pride in it.
“Once the deep-down cleaning’s done and things are organized again, I imagine you could keep things up without much effort. Maybe come over once or twice a week, a few hours each time.”
“You said you live alone. What about the men who work for you?” The last thing she wanted was to be cleaning up after a bunch of cowboys. She’d had enough of housekeeping for a large brood when she lived with her parents and six younger siblings.
“Nope. My ranch hands don’t bunk there. They’ve got their own homes and families to go to. Like I said, it’s just me.”
“No cooking.”
“No cooking.” That charming grin returned. “No windows, either.”
“And this trade in services would mean you’d do what around here?”
He put the Stetson on his head as he stood. “Well, we both know the roof needs patching. Why don’t you show me around so we can figure out what else needs to be done and what needs attention first?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
Half an hour later, Shayla watched from her deck as Nat mounted his dappled-gray horse. He made it look easy, sliding the toe of his boot into the stirrup, then stepping up and swinging his other leg over the saddle in one fluid movement.
Hmm, she thought, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. Cowboys were popular. Maybe the protagonist in her book should be a rancher. With a bit of tweaking, it might work. A cowboy sleuth. Had that been done in a mystery novel before? It would make sense.
All the how-to-write books said to write what you know. She was already using this valley and her cabin as the setting for her book. Instead of a small town sheriff solving the murder, she could have her lead character be a cattle rancher with a charming smile and dark hair and kind brown eyes—
“See you this afternoon,” Nat said as he bent the brim of his hat between index finger and thumb in what must be true cowboy fashion.
Oh, yes. Male readers would like the rough, tough qualities of a cowboy protagonist. And female readers would be drawn to that smile and his lean, rugged look.
Absentmindedly, she replied, “I’ll be there around two.”
She turned and hurried inside, making a beeline for the computer. If she could get down a few of these ideas before they disappeared. It wouldn’t take long at all. After that, she could change her clothes and go over to the O’Connell ranch.
Nat checked the anniversary clock on the mantel. It was almost three o’clock, and still no sign of Miss Vincent. She couldn’t be lost. Her property bordered Paradise Ranch. All she had to do was take the dirt road to the highway, head south, then turn into the well-marked driveway. True, the driveway was two miles long, but it wasn’t as if she couldn’t see the big house from the road, set as it was on the hillside.
He frowned. Maybe she’d had a flat tire. Or maybe she’d had an accident. There were some bad boards in that deck of hers. If she’d broken through one of them, she could be lying there, helpless. If she had no telephone, as he suspected, she couldn’t call for help if something was wrong.
He’d almost convinced himself to go look for her when he heard the whine of a compact car’s engine as it raced into the yard. A moment later, a cloud of dust whirled past his living room window. Then he heard the slam of a car door.
He stepped onto the porch in time to see Shayla checking her reflection in the side-view mirror. And an attractive reflection it was, too. Unconventional, perhaps, but appealing.
She’d applied some makeup before coming over—shadow and mascara to her eyes, pink lipstick to her mouth—and her wild curls had been tamed a little, though not much. She’d also changed from her extra large T-shirt and frayed cutoffs into a silvery gray blouse and a pair of jeans. Very appealing indeed.
Get a grip, O ’Connell. She’s not your type.
She straightened, and that’s when she noticed him watching her. Twin patches of pink dotted her cheeks. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Car trouble?”
“No.” She grew more flushed. “I lost track of the time. That happens to me when I’m writing. I get so involved in the story that I forget to look at the clock.”
At least she hadn’t tried to make up an excuse or sound as if it wasn’t her own fault. He appreciated honesty.