The Legacy of Copper Creek Page 2

  She began pacing. What were the odds that somebody would stumble on this cabin in the middle of nowhere? Not just somebody, but the owner. Wasn’t this just her luck? And why should she be surprised? Everything that other people took for granted seemed just out of her reach. In the past year, when she’d thought things were turning around, even the simplest things had been flipped upside down. All her dreams, all her plans snatched from her grasp. She knew she ought to be feeling scared, vulnerable, overwhelmed. Instead, all she was feeling was a deep well of anger.

  She turned, crossing her arms over her chest. She’d thought this little cabin in the middle of nowhere might be her sanctuary, at least until she could sort out her future. And now this cowboy shows up just in time to send her packing yet again.

  She bit her lip as she watched and listened to the man in the bunk. Her bunk, she thought with a rush of annoyance. She couldn’t believe he was actually asleep. One minute he’d come rushing in like a tornado and the next he was out like a light. But at least that gave her time to think. To plot her next move.

  She’d heard the wind howling outside the cabin, of course. But she’d been so sound asleep, she’d never bothered to get up and check on the weather. Who would have predicted a blizzard in early April? Judging by the amount of snow she’d spotted out the door, it could be up to the roof by morning.

  That little trick of Mother Nature’s would require a change of plans. She couldn’t just slip away while the intruder slept. That meant she might be forced to spend a day or more in these tight quarters with an arrogant, hot-tempered cowboy.

  She finished her coffee before turning toward the bunks. First things first. She would sleep while he was sleeping so she would be fresh in the morning and better able to stay one step ahead of him.

  As she switched off the flashlight and climbed the rustic ladder to the upper bunk, she smiled grimly. Wasn’t it just her luck to be trapped in the wilderness with a stranger, who, if that introduction was any indication, had a nasty temper and the muscles to back it up.

  Chapter Two

  As was his custom, Whit awoke instantly. Without moving, he took a moment to gather himself. The mattress of his bunk wasn’t nearly as soft as the one at home, but he’d slept on worse. In his years with the herd, he’d often slept on the ground, cushioned only by his bedroll. If a man worked hard enough, he could sleep anywhere, under any conditions.

  He heard the soft sigh of the woman in the bunk above him and the slight movement as she rolled to her side. Cara Walton. He could smell her in the blanket. On his pillow. A really pleasant scent. Not the sweet, cloying perfume favored by some of the girls in town, hoping to overcome the smells of sweat and horses and wet leather that pervaded Wylie’s Saloon. He breathed it in and found himself grinning. Delicate. Like wildflowers on a spring morning.

  Not that he was going to be fooled by that scent. This was no delicate flower. He didn’t care what she smelled like. And he wasn’t going to let himself think about that amazing body he’d viewed under the blanket she’d worn like a suit of armor.

  Who was Cara Walton, and what in the hell was she doing way out here?

  Just how long had she been holed up in this range shack? As far as he knew, none of the wranglers had used this place for months, not since the herd had been rounded up last autumn.

  She’d appeared genuinely terrified about sharing this space with him, and yet she’d put up a good fight. A good actress? Or an act of desperation? Whatever was going on with her, he’d figure it out sooner or later.

  He’d been too weary to hear her story last night. In truth, he could barely recall sliding into the bunk. He’d been dead on his feet and ready to collapse.

  But today was a new day. And after a good night’s sleep, he was a new man. He’d grab some grub and about a gallon of coffee, and then he’d be ready to deal with the weather and the woman, both of whom seemed full of surprises.

  Cara awoke to the wonderful aroma of coffee. After the night she’d put in, tossing and turning in the upper bunk, she felt vaguely disoriented as she pulled the covers over her head. Then, as she heard the door slam and felt the quick rush of cold air that shivered over her, she sat up with a start.

  The cowboy. Whit MacKenzie.

  She’d gone over and over again in her mind the story she would tell him. By the time she’d finally given in to sleep, she was satisfied that it would work.

  She descended the ladder and hurried into the tiny bathroom to prepare for the day while he was outside.

  She’d never showered and dressed in such haste, but since coming here she’d learned that there was nothing like freezing cold water to turn a shower into a torture chamber. She would have taken a pass today, but she wanted to look casual and disinterested by the time the cowboy walked in.

  She glanced at her reflection in the mirror over the sink and shuddered. With no makeup, and no way to dry her hair, she looked like something out of a horror flick. Not that it mattered. She certainly didn’t need to impress this backwoods bozo, even if he was good looking. But, she cautioned herself, she needed him to believe her.

  She winced before muttering, “Yeah. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

  She stepped out of the bathroom just as the door was opened on another blast of frigid air.

  Whit’s arms were filled with logs. He used his hip to nudge the door shut before crossing to the fireplace and depositing them on the hearth, where he knelt to add more logs to the already blazing fire.

  When he was done, he stood and wiped his palms down his pants before turning. “Hey. Morning, Goldilocks.”

  His obvious good humor caught her by surprise. His use of that stupid nickname, however, had her smile turning to a frown. “If I’m Goldilocks, I guess that makes you one of those smelly old bears.”

  When she got no reaction from him, she added, “I see you’ve been busy.”

  He nodded as he removed his parka and hung it on a hook by the door. “The first rule of ranching: Start your chores early if you want to stay one step ahead all day.”

  “And you like staying ahead of the game?”

  Another quick nod. “You bet. It’s a MacKenzie law.”

  He walked to the tiny kitchen and hauled powdered eggs and canned ham from a cupboard before rummaging around in search of utensils.

  She found herself staring at the ripple of muscle beneath the sleeves of his shirt. “Is there something I can do?”

  “Not unless you can cook.”

  “I cook a little. Enough to get by.” She bent down and retrieved a skillet. “How do you like your powdered eggs?”

  “Any way you can fix them.” He retrieved a loaf of bread from his saddlebags. “I’ll make the toast.”

  Cara set the ham in the skillet on a rack over the blazing fire. Then she began stirring powdered milk, water, and half a dozen different ingredients into the egg mixture before pouring it into a second skillet.

  A short time later the little cabin was filled with the most wonderful, mouthwatering scents.

  Whit carried a plate of toast and jelly to the small wooden table before pouring two mugs of coffee. He handed one to Cara and watched as she sliced the steaming ham before turning the bubbling egg mixture onto a second plate.

  He carried the ham while she carried the eggs. He held her chair before taking the seat across from her.

  She was caught off guard by that little touch of courtesy. It wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting from the owner of this cabin, who’d found a squatter taking up residence.

  Whit filled his plate and tucked into his breakfast. He didn’t say a word for long minutes while he emptied his plate, then filled it a second time and emptied that as well. Finally he lifted his coffee to his mouth before smiling.

  “You lied.”

  Her hand bobbled and coffee sloshed over the rim of her mug. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He met her worried look. “You said you cook enough to get by. After ta
sting those eggs, I’d say you do a lot more than get by. Anybody who can turn powder into something that tastes like heaven is a miracle worker.”

  She relaxed and gave him a smile. “Actually, I’ve done a good bit of cooking.”

  He nodded and stabbed at a last bite of egg. “Where’d you do this cooking?”

  “A little town called Minerva, Montana. Ever hear of it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Neither has anybody else. Minerva’s so small, if you hiccup, you miss it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Miss it?”

  She sat back, fiddling with her spoon. “I used to think that if I could just get out of Minerva, I’d never look back.”

  Whit watched her. “Copper Creek isn’t much of a town either, but I’d miss it if I left.”

  “Then you’re one of the lucky ones. When I left Minerva, I promised myself I’d never be back.”

  “Where’d you go when you left?”

  “All over Montana. College, then jobs at a dude ranch, and finally a job at a ski resort.”

  He chuckled. “I guess you were eager to leave Minerva but not the state of Montana.”

  “Maybe I’m a country girl at heart.”

  She set aside the spoon and looked up to find him watching her a little too carefully. “Tell me about your ranch.”

  He sipped his coffee, aware that she was trying to change the subject. “It’s big. We raise cattle. It takes a whole lot of work. What else would you like to know?”

  She noted his sarcasm. “Did you grow up here, working the ranch?”

  “Yeah. My grandfather had a ranch next door. After his accident, he moved in with us and merged his land with ours.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “A truck on a slippery road. It flipped, and by the time he was rescued, he needed a wheelchair.”

  “That sounds tragic.”

  “It’s not a tragedy if you deal with it. Mad deals. He’s always dealt with whatever life throws at him.”

  “Mad?”

  “Maddock MacKenzie. He’s Mad to everyone.”

  She chuckled. “Just as long as he isn’t mad at everyone.”

  “Sometimes he is. There’s a lot of bluster in the old man. The MacKenzie family is known for a hot temper. But once you get past that, he’s got a heart of gold.”

  “Is that true of all of you?”

  He shook his head. “Just the others. I’m the heartless one. But Mad…” Whit grinned. “Despite his sharp tongue, he wears his heart on his sleeve.”

  “So you don’t mind having your grandfather living with you?”

  “Mind?” He grinned. “When he moved in, he took over the kitchen from our long-time housekeeper, Myrna Hill.” Whit arched a brow. “You’d like her. The two of you have something in common. You’re both good cooks. But so is Mad. He’s self-taught, and he makes a mean pot roast.”

  That piqued Cara’s interest. “So there’s more than you and your grandfather and a housekeeper? How many does he cook for?”

  Whit paused. “Let’s see. My mom and two brothers and their wives, plus little Casey and Ethan. They’re my newly acquired nephews. Our ranch foreman and any of the wranglers who are spending the night in the bunkhouse. Oh, and any friends or neighbors who happen to stop by. Most of them arrange a visit in early evening so they’re sure to be included in our supper plans.”

  “So many people. Sounds as though the MacKenzie ranch is a pretty popular place.” She paused. “You didn’t mention a father.”

  Whit’s smile faded. “He’s dead. He was shot almost a year ago. The coward who shot him in the back hasn’t been found yet. But he will. We intend to see that he pays for what he did.”

  “I’m sorry.” She stood and began gathering up the dishes, aware that her question had struck a nerve.

  Whit surprised her by rounding the table and taking the dishes from her hands. “You cooked. I’ll clean up.”

  He carried them to the sink and filled it with dish soap and hot water from a kettle he’d warned over the fire. Without a word, Cara removed a clean dish towel from a stack in a drawer. Stepping up beside him, she began drying the dishes and setting them in their proper cupboards.

  Standing this close, she became even more aware of him. Of the muscled arms as he washed each dish. Of the size of his big, work-worn hands. Of the way he towered over her. Her head barely reached his shoulder. “I bet you don’t wash dishes at home.”

  He grinned. “You’d win that bet. The kitchen is Mad and Myrna’s territory, and they guard it jealously. None of us would ever dare to intrude.”

  “Do you know how to cook?”

  He glanced over. “I won’t ever starve. But it’s pretty basic stuff. Steak and eggs. Toast. Coffee. When I’m up here in the hills with the herds, I don’t much care what I eat as long as I have something that fills me up.”

  “What do you do when you’re way up here, away from civilization?”

  “Play poker with the wranglers. But I prefer being alone so I can think. Watch the stars. Read.”

  Her head came up sharply. “You read?”

  He gave a wry laugh. “From the expression on your face, I guess that means you figured I’d just look at the pictures.”

  She joined in his laughter. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything. But I didn’t think reading was something a cowboy would enjoy.”

  “This cowboy loves it.”

  “So do I. Sometimes I just want to get away from people.”

  “To read?”

  She nodded. “I love it, too. But sometimes I just want to write.”

  “What do you write?”

  “Just…stuff.” She turned away, ducking her head.

  He drained the soapy water and dried his hands on her towel before starting across the room. “I’m going outside to get another armload of firewood. It doesn’t look like this storm is going away any time soon.”

  Cara simply stared at his retreating back.

  He hadn’t asked her how she happened to be here, or where she was going, or anything about her personal business except where she’d been born.

  Strange. And as if that wasn’t enough, he’d been relaxed, fun, and a real gentleman.

  Not that she was complaining. She would take this Whit MacKenzie over last night’s angry version any time.

  Still, it wouldn’t do to let down her guard. From the look of him, she had the impression that this rugged cowboy could go from sweet to snarling in the blink of an eye. And she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the MacKenzie temper he’d boasted about.

  Cara decided that two could play this game.

  As long as he was making nice, so would she.

  Chapter Three

  Whit swung the ax and felt the blade bite into the log. It felt good to breathe the frigid air deep into his lungs while he worked up a sweat. The smooth, easy rhythm of chopping firewood allowed his mind to work overtime.

  The nervous, jumpy-as-a-cat female he’d encountered last night was gone this morning, replaced by a composed, rather pleasant woman. She hadn’t lied about being able to cook. Anybody who could take powdered eggs and turn them into a feast had a gift for cooking. Still, though she may have passed the cooking test, she had yet to pass the truth test.

  He’d thought about grilling her over breakfast, but he’d been sidetracked by the surprisingly good food. Now, fortified, he figured he’d let her stew while he took care of the basics. Once he laid in a supply of firewood and checked on Old Red, he’d find a way to engage her in an in-depth conversation. And she had better offer him a plausible explanation for what had brought her here, to the middle of the wilderness.

  As far as he could figure, she had to be on the run. If she turned out to be an ax murderer, he’d turn her in to the authorities. If she was running for her life…He grinned. He’d still turn her into the authorities. For her own good.

  When he’d chopped enough wood
to get them through the day and night, he made his way to the lean-to and filled Old Red’s troughs with feed and water.

  Then he lifted as many logs as his arms could hold and trudged through waist-high snow to the door of the cabin.

  Inside, he breathed in the scents of wood smoke and coffee and found himself smiling as he deposited the firewood on the hearth. Turning, he wiped his hands on his pants.

  “You look happy, Cowboy.”

  He glanced over at Cara, who was filling two mugs with fresh coffee.

  “I am.”

  “I don’t know too many men who would be happy spending hours in snowdrifts, chopping wood.”

  “Then you don’t know too many ranchers.” He hung his parka on a hook by the door before crossing to the tiny kitchen area. “This is one part of my life that never gets old. My herd is safe and well fed. I’ve got food and shelter and a warm fire. Add to that a pot of fresh coffee”—he lifted his mug in a salute to her—“and life couldn’t get much better.”

  “Is your life always this simple?”

  He thought about that while he drank. “It’s not complicated. Whether I’m up in the hills or working on the ranch, my life revolves around my family and the whims of the weather.” He fixed her with a steady look. “How about your life? Simple or complicated?”

  She looked away. “Not as simple as yours, I guess. But not very complicated.”

  “So hiding out in the middle of nowhere, in a cabin that belongs to strangers, is your idea of not very complicated?”

  She turned and met his look. “Score one for you, Cowboy.”

  He drank again and topped off his mug before crossing to the fireplace. “I’m not looking to score points. I’m looking for the truth. You said you were born in Minerva and moved around the state. Where’s your home now?”

  “I…don’t actually have one at the moment.”

  “Where were you living before coming here?”

  “In a condo at a ski resort.”

  “It’s a big state. Where, specifically?”

  “Ghost Mountain. A…friend’s place.”