She shook her head. “No. Curly, colored pasta.” She moved to check in the pantry herself, but he moved at the same time…directly into contact with her. Her hands went up in automatic defense and encountered soft, warm denim with the feel of solid muscle beneath—Clayton’s chest. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she felt his hands on her shoulders, steadying himself.
The hot blood rushed to her face, to her hands where they touched him, to her shoulders where he touched her. Every one of those spots felt much warmer than 98.6 degrees. Was this how cases of spontaneous combustion occurred?
“Sorry,” he mumbled, backing away, taking his odd heat-producing properties with him. “I’d, uh, better go check on the guys. Tell them lunch is on the way. In, what, half an hour? Forty-five minutes?”
“Forty-five minutes. Sure.” She had no idea if that would be long enough, but she’d have agreed to anything to get him to leave.
His going made the kitchen seem much larger and more open. She could breathe deeply now. She’d surely be able to get through this cooking ordeal a lot more easily.
So why did the large, open kitchen feel so empty?
Shrugging off the inexplicable feeling, she started scrounging through the pantry, looking for pasta. She couldn’t find any of the colorful, curly kind, but she did unearth a couple of packages of macaroni. A monochrome start, but the bits of olives and other components should liven it up.
Following the advice of the recipe, she checked the package directions for the pasta and carefully measured enough water for both packages into a pan, then set it on the stove to boil.
This was easy. Why had she worried? She was going to be able to do this.
In her mind’s eye she could see Clayton sitting at the head of the big oak dining table they’d passed on their way to the kitchen. She could see a big smile spreading across his face, tilting the corners of his eyes, as he tasted his first bite of her pasta salad.
Stop that! she ordered herself. What was the matter with her? She was no longer an insecure teenager, falling all over herself in a vain attempt to please everybody she met. She had only to please herself. Clayton’s opinion wasn’t important.
She focused on the macaroni package directions. Cook six to nine minutes or until tender.
Six to nine minutes or until tender? What the heck kind of direction was that? A thirty-three and one-third percent variance with an open-ended conclusion? She could just see herself writing instructions for her computer games like that. Click left mouse button six to nine times or until something you like happens.
This cooking certainly was an inexact science. In fact, anything that nebulous could hardly be called science at all. It was more like alchemy.
But somehow she had to figure out these ambiguous instructions.
After all, if she didn’t prove herself competent, why would he listen to anything she had to say about his grandfather? That was absolutely the only reason she wanted to impress him.
Clayton washed up at the outside faucet down by the barn with the rest of the men.
“Okay, fellas,” he said, trying to locate a semiclean spot on the community towel to dry his own hands, “the new cook got here a little late, so lunch won’t be anything spectacular, but at least it won’t be sandwiches.”
Mugger and Dub threw their hats into the air, Bear punched Cruiser on the shoulder, Bob slapped his knee and yelled “Hot Damn!” and everyone cheered.
“And one more thing.” They quieted immediately, and Clayton realized he’d used his this-is-important-so-you’d-damn-well-better-listen-close voice. Well, it was important. “Hannah—Ms. Lindsay—is a little different from Mrs. Grogan. She’s, uh, quieter, younger, prettier—”
Cheers broke out again, interspersed with whistles.
“The first one of you gets out of line with her, I’ll break your face.” The words came out loud and harsh.
Silence ensued as the men looked at each other.
“No problem, man,” Bob mumbled.
“You got it, boss,” Mugger agreed.
He hadn’t intended to snap at them even before they’d done anything. On the other hand, better before than after. Hannah’s big brown eyes were bottomless pools of innocence. If one of the men did anything to destroy that innocence, he’d do worse than break the guy’s face.
“Ms. Lindsay is, um, different,” he said.
“You already told us that,” Bear growled.
“I said she was different from Mrs. Grogan. Now I’m saying she’s different from everybody.”
“You mean she’s not right in the head?”
Clayton flinched at the brutal description. Hannah wasn’t crazy. At least, he didn’t think so.
“She’s different,” he concluded obscurely. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
“All right!”
The men followed him up to the house and into the dining room where the table was set with his mother’s dishes with their elaborate floral design. His fault. He should have told her to use the plain brown ones he’d bought after his mother moved out. Well, it wouldn’t hurt the men to eat off pink and purple flowers. They probably wouldn’t even notice in their excitement over their first hot meal in two days.
“Where’s the food?” Bear demanded.
“Sit down. She’ll be out in a minute,” Clayton said confidently. But he didn’t feel all that confident. No tempting odors drifted from the kitchen the way they did when Mrs. Grogan cooked.
Hannah appeared in the kitchen door carrying a serving bowl with a spoon sprouting from it. Her hair looked even wilder than usual, and her eyes had a glassy look. She hesitated, her gaze taking in the ruffians who were talking and laughing as they settled into the chairs at the table. Her entrance froze them in place, Cruiser and Dub already poised over their chairs.
“Ms. Hannah Lindsay, this skinny guy here is Dub. The big, fierce one, with so much grizzled hair and beard all you can see is the tip of his nose, is Bear. The one with the trim little gambler’s mustache is Mugger. The long drink of water is Cruiser, and the redhead’s Bob.”
Hannah’s gaze went from one person to the next, all around the table, her expression getting wilder with each cowboy. When she came to Clayton, a bright red spot appeared on each smooth cheek. “Lunch,” she blurted, holding the bowl before her.
Cruiser ran to take it. “Let me help you, ma’am.”
Hannah’s face relaxed enough to allow a tentative smile as she surrendered the bowl. Yes, she definitely had a nice smile. “Thank you,” she said in a relatively normal voice.
Dub stumbled from his half-sitting position and pulled out her chair at the end of the table nearest the kitchen.
“Thank you,” she said again, looking and sounding a little more confident. She was communicating coherently, and the blood was redistributing itself from her cheeks to the rest of her body. That was an improvement.
Cruiser scooped out a large spoonful of food from the bowl and plopped it onto his plate. Macaroni mixed with bits of black, green and red sprawled among the painted flowers. Nobody said a word as all attention turned to the concoction.
“What is it?” Cruiser finally asked.
“Pasta salad.” Her voice was again strained as she dipped her head, letting her hair fall over her face.
“Pasta salad,” Clayton repeated before any of the men could say something to upset her more. “Great. This should