Salvation in the Rancher's Arms(30)
“I’m not asking you to get my permission—”
“Good thing, seein’ as how I don’t need it.”
The muscle in her jaw danced beneath her smooth skin and fire sparked in her eyes. The sight spread quickly to his groin. He had the sudden urge to touch her skin and see the fiery anger turn into something else. He shifted uncomfortably. This really needed to stop before he embarrassed himself.
“Thank you for your oh-so-gentle reminder of my situation, Mr. Beckett.”
“Thought we agreed you were going to call me Caleb.”
“You agreed. But seeing as how you don’t require my permission to do whatever you want with this property, I see no reason why I’m required to call you whatever you dictate I should.”
“You have to if you’re in my employ.” He didn’t know what made him say such a thing. Last thing he wanted was her feeling indebted to him. Though he certainly did appreciate seeing the spark in those deep brown eyes fire up again and the flush color her cheeks as she tried to hold her anger in check.
Rachel Sutter did not like losing control, and yet there was nothing else at this particular moment Caleb would like to see more. Besides, he liked how his name sounded when she said it, even if she spit nails as she did.
“Are you suggesting—”
“That I make it a mandatory condition of your employment that you call me by my given name? Yes, I think I am.”
“You can’t be serious.” She stared at him in amazement. The kind of amazement that made him feel like an annoying bug she wanted to stomp on with her boot.
He shrugged. “If I let you call me anything you feel like, my guess is you’d be callin’ me a horse’s ass—”
“You got that right.”
“And seein’ as how I don’t particularly like being called that, regardless of how much I might deserve it, I’m thinkin’ it best I insist you call me Caleb. It’s better than whatever alternative you might come up with given your current state of mind.”
Her nostrils flared and she glanced down at the bucket of oats near her, then over to him. No doubt she was contemplating dumping it over his head, but given her restraint, he didn’t fear she’d actually go through with it. He almost wished she would. Just a glimpse of her letting go would be worth wearing Jasper’s dinner.
“Fine,” she said, taking a step toward him, smiling sweetly. “I will call you by your given name. But please be aware, that every time I utter it, it’s the other name I’m thinking of.”
She turned slightly and bent to pick up the bucket of oats, giving him a clear view of her shapely backside. The image of fitting that derriere against him made the temperature in the barn rise exponentially.
Caleb cleared his throat and gave his head a shake. “Great. Good. Glad we got that all cleared up.”
He turned his attention to unhitching the draft horse from the buckboard and tried to scrub his mind of the pictures it kept producing about his enticing new employee. He was treading on dangerous ground here. The question was, how long before the ground gave way and sent him hurtling down a landslide, bringing her along for the ride?
The mournful strains of music derailed Rachel’s train of thought, pulling her away from the worry over her family’s future and mollifying her fears. She stopped wiping down the kitchen counter and closed her eyes. The music washed over her as it drifted in through the open window carried on a light evening breeze.
The sound reminded her of her father, of happier times before he left to work on the railroad. Before her mother turned traitor to their family and sought the company of another man. It took Rachel to a time when she would sit by her father’s knee on a warm summer’s eve and he would play his harmonica. Sometimes it would be a lively tune and she and her mother would clap and dance, and the house would be filled with laughter. Other times, he would play a quiet, sorrowful ballad and her mother would hum along.
It had been a long time since she’d heard anyone play the harmonica in such a way. Foster often played his fiddle, but it was a much different sound than—
Rachel’s eyes snapped open and she leaned over the counter to see out the window. Who was it? None of the other men played the harmonica. Her gaze searched through the fading light, squinting at the two figures sitting outside the bunkhouse, one on a ladder-back chair, the other on the narrow step.
The music stopped abruptly and the two bodies leaned close as if deep in conference.
“What on earth is Caleb doing?”
Rachel debated confronting him. She had avoided Caleb as best she could for the past few days, ever since he insisted she call him by his given name. In truth, she had no trouble referring to him as such. What she took issue with was being ordered to do so. In her own home. Which was not her home any more.