Harper passed the turnoff to the Lawson place and watched the odometer. As soon as the green and orange fish-shaped mailbox appeared, she turned. Although the road was plowed, it was still slick, so she slowed to a crawl.
The buildings came into view over the next rise. A traditional wooden barn. Alongside it were four metal structures of varying sizes and an old farmhouse that appeared to be abandoned. Off to the left a trailer and two pickups were parked in front of an enormous detached garage.
Her heart beat faster. This was a real working ranch. This was way out of the realm of her job experience. Out of her comfort zone. What if she couldn’t do it?
You can do it. You have to. Just a few months and then you’re outta here.
She parked behind the older pickup and gazed across the yard to the metal structures and the enclosed pens. Did Bran have chickens as well as cattle? Would taking care of those critters be part of her chores?
Only one way to find out.
Harper climbed out of the car and scaled the steps of the deck attached to the front of the trailer. Standing on the mud-covered mat, she gathered her courage and knocked.
The door didn’t immediately open. Just as she was about to knock louder, the handle turned and the door swung inward.
The stunned expression on Bran Turner’s face might’ve been comical if it hadn’t filled Harper with dread.
His mouth tightened. His dismissive gaze swept over her as if she’d coated herself in skunk oil. “You’ve got to be f**kin’ kiddin’ me. You’re my new hired hand?”
Chapter Two
Bran glared at Harper Masterson, wondering if he’d become the butt of some joke. He said as much to her, steeling himself against the tears he imagined would fill her eyes.
But her golden brown eyes narrowed. A bit haughtily, in fact. “Celia didn’t tell you I was coming?”
“Celia told me she’d found me a hired hand. She didn’t say a damn thing about it bein’ you.”
Harper’s chin shot up. “You don’t have to sound so disappointed.”
“I am.” Shit. Not the right thing to say. “Look, I don’t know what Celia told you about this job—”
“She didn’t tell me anything except to drive out here and talk to you. So here I am.” She pierced him with another lofty look. “Are you conducting the job interview on the porch?”
He scowled, biting back, “Ain’t gonna be a job interview.” Instead, he stepped away from the doorframe and said, “Might as well come in instead of standing out there freezin’.”
“Thank you.” Harper wiped the soles of her dominatrix boots and peeled off her pink leopard-print gloves. When she pushed the cowl of her wool coat back, her golden hair stuck up in a million directions, making her seem approachable, not like a goddamn beauty queen.
A beauty queen. As his hired hand.
She smoothed her hands over her head, taming the wild strands. Then she jammed them in the front pockets of her fancy velvet suit jacket, with its gold embroidery, and ignored his pointed stare.
Jesus, she was stunning. A wide face composed of such sharp angles and strong lines shouldn’t look so startlingly feminine, but it worked perfectly on her. Add in a generous mouth with a tiny beauty mark above the curve of her full lips and those brandy-colored eyes, and Bran was nearly struck stupid by her magnificence.
Get a grip, man.
He gestured to the couch. “Have a seat. Coffee?”
“Yes. Please. Black.”
Bran poured two cups, handed one to her, and parked himself in the easy chair across from her. They both took a sip. He waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he said, “Why would you even be interested in this job? Don’t seem like your kind of thing.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on the dark liquid in her mug.
“Harper?”
Finally she glanced up. “With all due respect, Mr. Turner, you don’t know anything about me. So how would you know if this was my kind of thing?”
Damn. She did have a little fire. “I’ll give you that. And that answers the last part of my question, but not the first. Why do you wanna work as a hired hand?”
“Honestly? Because I’m out of options.” Harper set her mug on the table and rubbed her hands across her skirt. Her tight skirt that’d inched halfway up her thighs the instant she’d primly perched on the edge of his lumpy sofa.
Good Lord. The woman had worn a miniskirt, a silky shirt, and hooker boots to apply for a job . . . as a ranch hand. Didn’t she realize that most days she’d be covered in cow shit, mud, and hay?
Probably not. This would be the shortest “interview” in history. Pity, really. He’d almost like to see what outfit she’d wear to the branding. Images of her rockin’ a red thong, topped with metallic chaps and a teeny bra with strategically placed silver stars and blue fringe popped into his head.
“I went to work this morning at Tan Your Hide and Alice informed me she’s shutting it down.”
“Is that your only job?”
“No, I also work part-time at Get Nailed, which is part of Bernice’s Beauty Barn, but that hardly pays the grocery bill. So when Celia called me and heard my tale of woe, she lined this up.” She locked her troubled gaze on his. “Believe me, I had no clue she hadn’t told you that I was the one applying for the job.”
“Have you ever worked on a ranch?”
She shook her head. “That’s why I was suspicious when Celia suggested it. She knows I’m not a ranch kid.”