“I’ll track them down.”
He held up a hand. “I wish you more luck than you had finding a motel.”
She took a deep breath, ready to argue some more, but all the steam when out of her. He was probably right about the vegetables. After all, he was from round here. She was the visitor, the outsider.
This was not a role she relished. She hadn’t enjoyed being considered “different” when she was a child, and she didn’t like it now. Back in New Hampshire, she fit right in. She had friends, business associates, acquaintances. She had like-minded e-contacts around the globe.
But in Texas, at least in this part of the state, she was definitely odd.
“If we can’t prepare a meal together, may I at least use your kitchen? I promise to clean up after myself.”
“Of course. I’d fix you a meal, but you probably wouldn’t eat it.”
She swallowed her affirmation. “I’m sure you’re a fine cook.”
“Beef, beef and more beef.”
“Yuck, yuck and more yuck. Do you ever think about how cruelly the cattle are treated?”
“It barely crosses my mind. And really, that’s a small part of their life. Most of the time, they get to graze in a pasture, hang out with their friends and eat all they want.”
“Before they are suddenly taken away from everything they know and placed in an overcrowded, dirty stockyard, then prodded into a slaughterhouse!”
“Look, I think of animals as animals, and you obviously want to give them human emotions. We aren’t going to agree on this. Can’t we just move on?”
Raven wasn’t so sure she could “move on” past his beef-obsessed views. However, she was a guest in his home and it was her duty to be more polite than she’d been.
“I’m sorry. You’re right—let’s just not discuss it.”
“Right. Now, would you like to go first?”
“What?”
“In the kitchen. That way, it won’t be…well, contaminated by my meal.”
“I don’t think your food is toxic. Well, not exactly. In the long term, perhaps.”
“And there we were, getting along so well,” he teased.
Raven sighed. “I’ll get the rest of my food out of Pickles.” She’d brought jars of homegrown food from New Hampshire—beans and potatoes, carrots, squash and vegetable soup—that she’d canned herself, plus bread and cheese she’d made. She’d been on one of these assignments before and knew she might not find any organic or wholesome food to eat.
“Pickles?”
“My car. Her name is Pickles.”
He muttered something that she couldn’t quite make out, and probably didn’t want to.
“Won’t be a minute,” she said, scooting around the desk.
“I’ll give you a hand.”
“No, that won’t be…” And then she thought twice. Those boxes and canvas satchels were pretty heavy, and Troy Crawford looked as if he could carry a lot on his big shoulders.
She reminded herself that she didn’t really like overbearing men who could pick up whatever, whenever they wanted. As if they were superior because they were stronger than nice intellectual males. And she especially didn’t like men who made teasing remarks about important issues!
All right, that was better. She was much more centered now. She and Troy had nothing in common, and even if they did, he wasn’t an academic or an artist.
“Yes, thank you,” she finally said. Being a gracious houseguest was much harder than she’d anticipated. She only hoped they could keep being civil to each other until the mix-up was resolved. Somewhere around here was a garden that needed her help, and she was going to find it before she bid a not-so-fond farewell to Texas—and Troy Crawford—forever.
RAVEN YORK WAS TRYING WAY too hard to be cooperative. Besides, she was too cheerful in the morning. She bustled around the kitchen before dawn making tea and toasting some dark, yeasty bread she’d brought from New Hampshire. As he’d filled bottles with milk for the calves, she’d asked twice how she could help him.
She wanted badly to feed those calves. He knew it, and he was standing firm.
“If you really want to do something, make a decent pot of coffee,” he finally answered as he pulled a flannel shirt on over his T-shirt.
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“I do, but I’m not good at making it. So, like I said, if you want to be helpful, learn to make coffee.”
“I can do other things, too.”
Like feeding calves. “I’ve got it covered.” Being personable this early was too tough to handle, especially without decent coffee. He’d never admit it to anyone in Brody’s Crossing, but he missed his double-shot latte with the morning paper at the coffee shop near his condo in Fort Worth. He missed Starbucks in the airports when he traveled. Raven York probably thought he was a cowboy through and through, but in the past fifteen years or so, he’d become downright civilized.
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said, “then I’m grabbing some breakfast and coffee, and heading out for the morning.”
“Are you going to town?”
“No, the ranch hands will be here by then and we’re going to saddle up and check the fences. It doesn’t take much for the cattle to wander off.”
“Oh, that would be a huge shame,” she said with such deadpan sarcasm that he had to smile, but then he remembered why he had to get blisters on his butt.
“Yeah, until they get onto the highway and walk in front of a school bus full of children.”
“Oh.”
“Right. So, I’m checking fence.”
“I’ll attempt the coffee.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
As soon as the door closed behind Troy, Raven tackled the old metal percolator. Despite what she’d implied, she knew how to make coffee, she just didn’t drink it. As a matter of fact, she’d worked for a short time as a barista in a coffee shop in Manchester during college. Of course, the Crawford ranch didn’t have anything similar to the commercial espresso machine she’d used there. Still, a little cleanliness went a long way, and this percolator was proof that only men had lived here for many years. Now if she could just find some white vinegar and baking soda.
When Troy returned thirty minutes later, Raven poured him a steaming mug of coffee that even she secretly admitted smelled pretty good. Perhaps she’d see about some organic coffee beans…
“Thanks. What’s that smell?” He blew on the steaming mug, smiled, then added, “I mean, it smells great.”
“Almond butter on whole wheat toast, and scrambled eggs with a little goat cheese.”
She watched his smile fade. “Oh. Like I said, it smells…great.”
“It tastes great, too. Come on, be adventurous.”
“I’ve eaten goat cheese before. It’s just not my favorite. Give me a good sharp cheddar every time.”
“I brought this all the way from New Hampshire. I make it on my farm.”
“Okay, but it’s still from goats.”
She rolled her eyes and didn’t try to convince him that her goats produced the best milk, and consequently the best cheese, around.