‘You’ll find the hours long.’
‘No longer than the ones I’m used to working.’
‘The heat will get to you.’
‘I like heat.’
‘Not the kind we get here,’ he said grimly. ‘You were wilting outdoors. You asked to go inside.’
‘You have to admit it’s a scorcher.’
‘It is,’ Jason admitted after a moment. ‘The heat will get to you, nonetheless.’
‘If it does it will be my problem, not yours.’
‘And the dust.’
‘I’ve been in other dusty places. Dust does wash off.’
She was spirited—he had to hand her that much. If what she said was true—the experience with Vera had taught him not to take a woman’s words at face value—then she was certainly determined and fearless.
‘You’ll have to be up long before dawn to prepare breakfast.’
‘When I’m modelling my day often starts at that time.’
He was running out of ways to put her off. ‘If there’s a round-up you could find yourself cooking out on the range, preparing food in a chuckwagon. You wouldn’t find that much fun, Morgan Muir.’
‘Oh, but I would! I’m longing to see a round-up! It’s one of the reasons I’m here.’
Her eagerness startled him. ‘You are?’
Morgan smiled at him, the kind of smile that had a way of shafting its way straight to a man’s heart. ‘Cooking in a chuckwagon—that’s all part of the dream, part of the adventure. So stop trying to frighten me, Mr Delaney. Can’t you see by now that I don’t frighten so easily?’
Jason did see; he saw many things. But he still had a challenge left in him. ‘Don’t assume that the fact you’re a woman—and a model—will carry any weight around here. The cowboys are concerned with cattle and horses; they don’t know the first thing about fashion.’
‘If they did I wouldn’t be here.’
‘I’m not interested in your career either.’
She shot him another one of those heart-melting smiles. ‘I never thought you were.’
His eyes sparkled back at her, and for a second his lips curved in a grin. ‘You’ll be treated just like the men.’
‘Haven’t we been over that already?’
‘I want to be sure you understand.’
‘I do. Feel absolutely free to think of me as one of them.’
The suggestion was so absurd that he gave a shout of laughter. ‘Difficult—when we both know you’re not a man.’
‘Mr Delaney—’
“That’s one thing even you can’t argue about, Morgan Muir—you are not a man.’
Once more he studied her, only this time his eyes went from her face to her delectable body—skimming the line of her slender throat, lingering on the curve of soft breasts and descending to her waist and hips and thighs. When he looked up again he saw that her cheeks were flushed once more and her eyes stormy.
‘I don’t know how to convince you, Mr Delaney. True, I’m not a man, but nothing would please me more than if you treated me like one of the men. I wish you’d believe me. As far as you’re concerned, I’m just one more ranch-hand.’
‘Ranch-hands know they’ll be fired if they don’t perform satisfactorily. This contract...’ Jason handed it back to her contemptuously ‘...doesn’t protect you from that.’
Morgan gave him a cheeky grin. ‘Thanks for the warning. I won’t give you cause to fire me.’
Once more their eyes met. Then Jason glanced at his watch. ‘The men will be returning from the range soon. They’ll be hungry. Time to prepare your first meal, Morgan Muir.’
CHAPTER TWO
MORGAN had just finished making supper when the cowboys began to enter the cookhouse.
They came in singly and in little groups. They were tall, broad-shouldered men, with arms and chests that rippled with muscle. Men with faces that were deeply tanned, despite the stetsons they wore at all times, with far-seeing eyes—as if they were accustomed to looking across great distances. Attractive men, though not one of them was anywhere near as attractive as Jason Delaney. Morgan made the comparison without thinking.
She stood quite still for a moment as she remembered the quiver that had shot through her at her first sight of the ruggedly good-looking rancher. He was so handsome that he could have stepped straight out of a western movie—a gorgeous younger version of a tough Clint Eastwood—the good guy who could take on ten mean men single-handed and not be defeated.
She gave herself a small mental shake. So what if Jason Delaney was the most attractive man she had ever met? He was also impossibly autocratic and arrogant, and he had better not become her yardstick for all men. In fact, the less time she spent in the company of the man the better.
Almost to a man, the cowboys seemed amazed to find her standing at the long cookhouse table.
‘Hi, I’m Morgan Muir,’ she introduced herself. And when they continued to stare at her she elucidated, ‘The new ranch cook. Didn’t Brent tell you about me? Well, maybe not.’
They glanced at one another and then back at her, almost as if she were an alien being blown in by the hot Texas wind—as if they couldn’t quite believe that she was real. Morgan reminded herself that they probably had little daily contact with women. She’d have to give them time to get used to her.
‘I’m really looking forward to getting to know you all better.’ She smiled, the unconsciously lovely smile that had affected Jason so strongly.
‘Sure look forward to it, too, honey—sooner the better,’ responded one of the men. He stood a little apart from the others, a man with a cruel face and lascivious eyes. She’d been wrong about this particular cowboy, Morgan realized. She’d have to watch out for him.
A moment later another cowboy said, ‘Take it easy, Hank.’
‘Don’t need no warning from you, Charlie.’
‘Take no notice of him,’ Charlie advised Morgan. ‘Glad to meet you, Miss Muir. All the men are. Welcome to Six-Gate Corral.’ In contrast to Hank, Charlie had a gentle face and his smile was warm and welcoming.
At least she’d have one friend at the ranch, Morgan thought gratefully. ‘Thanks, Charlie. Please don’t call me Miss Muir, guys. I’m used to being called Morgan.’ Her eyes swept over the men, all except Hank. ‘I guess you’re all pretty hungry after a day out on the range. Supper’s ready.’
She had taken great care with the meal. The cookhouse cupboards and freezers were well stocked with frozen foods, as well as with perishables. Without Brent to -tell her what to prepare and reluctant to ask Jason, Morgan had planned the menu herself. Although she had never cooked for thirty men—a finger-foods party was more up her particular alley—she had always been resourceful.
Steak. The cowboys would like that, and there was loads of it in the freezers. Morgan had marinated the meat in a sauce made of lemon juice and spices, then broiled it and topped it with mushrooms. To accompany this were potatoes, halved and herbed and baked to perfection, a medley of carrots and peas and also a salad. And for dessert there was the frozen apple pie she had found in one of the freezers, warmed up to be served with ice cream. The cookhouse table was well scrubbed but bare. Morgan’s final touch consisted of two glasses—she had been unable to find a vase—filled with wild grasses and placed at either end of the long table