“Ike the Swinger, the ugliest hound around, with his tongue constantly hanging out the side of his mouth,” Fontana said.
Challie straightened. “Swinger?”
“He’s always in trouble for chasing the horses, swinging by their tails. I’m surprised he’s still here. Dogs come and go like ranch hands.” He glanced around the premises. “Looks like no one’s home. You’ll meet the foreman, Charlie Lawson, but stay away from him. The man drinks like a fish, gets belligerent sometimes. He lives in a cabin down by Bloody Dick.”
Huh? “Say again?” she asked, embarrassed.
His devilish chuckle rumbled through her body. “Local legend says Richard, an English trapper, lived up the creek back in the old days. He cursed a lot. Everything was ‘Bloody this, bloody that.’ So, people called him Bloody Dick. The creek was named after him.”
“Oh.” She looked down at the ground because he continued staring at her.
“Paul’s son, Ray, should be somewhere nearby, or maybe he’s out in the pasture. He’s married. Got two little girls.”
Knowing another woman lived close by lifted her sagging spirits.
“You won’t meet the family this trip unless they come back from Washington early. Usually they stay until school starts.”
And Challie’s spirits settled back into darkness.
When Fontana pointed to the large house directly in front of them, Challie sighed. Another mansion to clean behind a man living alone. Ugh. Maybe his wife had taught him something about hygiene and filth before she left. Or maybe they had a maid of their own.
“Ray’s place. Brand new, built last year. I’ll have to ask him to give you a tour. It’s sweet inside, but I miss the original farmhouse. In fact, I’ll always see it standing here. Gave this place character. We’re not staying there.”
She looked over her shoulder. Grimaced. The little hut-style log building reminded her of the pictures she’d seen of the Old West. Was this where they would be staying? It was smaller than Hattie’s apartment. Where was she supposed to sleep, on the floor? It still beat bedding down on dirt and rocks with the animals, even when she thought she’d never have to sleep on anything other than comfortable mattresses again.
“Bunkhouse,” Fontana said. “Hired hands sleep there sometimes. We’ll stay in the old foreman’s cabin over there. Four bedrooms, kitchen, living room. Only one bathroom, though.”
Thank God.
Not wanting or needing his help, she grabbed her tattered, brown suitcase from the backseat before he got hold of it. She went around the blue tank. Challie stopped dead. The buzzing sound was loud, all around the yard.
Shrieking, she backed away. “Nyuki!”
“What?”
“I mean, bees. Big bees.”
Her aunt had warned her of these killers. Swarms had moved into many areas of Arizona. They were relentless stingers, according to Hattie. Removing colonies required expertise. The Tedescos had hired professionals. Challie was fast on her feet, but these easily angered creatures were said to chase intruders longer than she cared to run at top speed.
“Haven’t you ever seen hummingbirds before? They’re harmless.”
Birds? “Oh. Oh,” she said, panting, trying to slow her racing heart. She hurried toward the porch anyway.
Surprisingly, Fontana showed one gentleman’s quality, probably the only one he had. He held the screen door open for her, but when Challie stepped inside the house, the sight brought her up short. The suitcase slipped from her hand, landing with a noisy thud.
“Kind of funky, huh?” Fontana said.
Funky? Dust and cobwebs were everywhere. Somebody had covered the furniture with bed sheets. She’d have to wash them twice to clean the dirt from the linens. Was there a clothes washer in this place? Or a stream nearby? A scrub board?
Filth and oily grime layered thick on windows. The linoleum floor needed scouring. The kitchen, which she could see from here, was worse than the oldest hut’s nastiness. When a mouse scampered past, Challie gasped an air tank worth of stale oxygen. It hid under the refrigerator. She hated mice, hated anything creepy-crawly. Whoever had stayed here last hadn’t cleaned at all with these tiny beasts making a home.
“We need a cat,” she heard that man say from behind her.
What they needed was a new cabin. She picked up her suitcase, whirled around and started for the door.
“Where’re you going?”
“Home.”
“Home? You can’t. We’re forty-some miles from nowhere. The plane is headed back to Scottsdale.”
“I’ll walk. Hate mice.”
“Challie,” he said, grabbing her arm. A tug-o’-war for her suitcase resulted, but he finally gained possession and set it beside the couch. “I’ll get a cat from somewhere. From town or a neighbor.”
“Hate filth too.”
“Then I’ll help clean. You can’t leave.”
Help? He had gorgeous, begging eyes, the same look in them when he wanted to sleep with a woman. She’d seen the gigolo on the prowl before, only this time he needed a woman to clean for him. Servitude. When they wanted something, they always begged. Men.
Well, she’d promised Hattie, being how she supervised all household workers—maids, chef, Tupa, temporary employees—that she would do the job to perfection. Challie started back toward the couch. She picked up her suitcase when another rodent skittered by her feet. Screeching, she backed into the beggar, who held her a little too tightly. Blazing heat from his body penetrated every molecule she owned personally. She tried to wiggle free. Forget the mouse. Something really hard pressed against her bottom.
“Stop wiggling.”
“Let me go and I will.”
When he released her, Challie spun around, stared down at…surely not. The bulge strained against his jeans. She looked up into his eyes, witnessed…lust? Stepping back, she stared down at his jeans again. Goodness. Had she caused his man-thing to swell?
“Sorry,” he said, grinning, pumping his eyebrows. “The wiggling.”
Lordy. Biggest thingy she’d ever seen. Of course, she’d only seen one, long ago on her twenty-fifth birthday—four years in the past. Big mistake, too. If sex was supposed to be good, and her first encounter was good, well, she could do without, which was exactly what she’d done. She’d satisfied her curiosity. Man-things were like snakes, slithering and slick. She hated snakes as much as she hated mice. But this one…this python would rip her straight up the middle, tickle her tonsils, maybe strangle her if it got inside her body. Throbbing. Slick. Slithering.
Blood raced through her arteries, opening every pore in her body. Breathing had become a real problem. Belly tingling, wetness dampening her panties caught her by surprise. She had the urge to pee, thought she had when her body caved in to a violent shudder.
“Wapi…I mean, where’s the bathroom?” Good Lord. Every time her emotions turned topsy-turvy, she’d slip into her native tongue. She needed to think before she spoke.
“Through there,” Fontana said, pointing down the hallway behind her. “On the right.”
He wore an unsettling grin on his face. Could he tell what had happened to her? Thank God, she’d worn a skirt, except she hadn’t felt wetness running down her legs.
Challie turned on her heels. She walked away stiffly, trying to keep her knees from buckling and her dignity intact.
Donnie chuckled. Her hips swayed gently. Women didn’t bust