She hadn’t meant to make Cal the foreman...which wasn’t actually a position for something like this. Or maybe it was. She’d never undertaken the salvaging of a ranch. Lawyering up was merely a threat. Though she was certain she could get the attorney Bud had used for forty years to draft a threatening letter. Regardless she had to get the place cleaned up and Charlie Lowery owed her. Lumping Cal in was sheer insanity. Maybe the horniness she had for the man had blocked out logic. Or perhaps it was the image of him lifting boards and painting fences, shirtless and glistening with sweat in the hot Texas sun.
Oh, God. She needed to have her head examined. Or get laid.
Or both.
Charlie’s face registered agitation. “You’re hiring Cal? He’s not a contractor. He’s a bu—”
“I’m perfectly capable of overseeing the repairs,” Cal interrupted. “If you remember, I spent many summers working ranches.”
Charlie didn’t say anything more in argument. He merely shifted his gaze from Cal to her and then back to Cal again. After a few tense seconds, he uttered, “This is bullshit.”
And then he stalked to his truck, lowered the tailgate and hefted a heavy bag to his shoulder. Without another word to either of them, he disappeared into the barn. Five or six cats followed him, their heads ducked cautiously.
Cal turned back to her. “You’re really going to hire me?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“But...”
She sucked in more hot Texas air. “Honestly, you’re the only person I know here. And you were true to your word—you got me inside the ranch. And I don’t have time to do a huge job search. Please tell me you have some actual experience with—” she threw her hands in the air and spun around surveying the Triple J “—working miracles?”
“They call me the miracle worker,” he said.
She arched her brow.
“Okay, they don’t, but I spent every summer in high school working ranches and construction. If I can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can.”
Maggie squeezed her eyes closed and tried to center herself. This was going to be a huge undertaking and would cost a pretty penny. She had forty thousand dollars in savings and maybe five thousand in her checking account. No way would she cash out any investments. But if she wanted to sell the Triple J for more than a marginal profit, she’d have to spend some cash. Starting with Cal. “How much?”
“For what?”
“To get this place ready to list? I’m assuming you’re unemployed otherwise you wouldn’t have offered your services.” Her tongue nearly tripped on those last words. They’d sounded suggestive, though she’d not intended them to be.
A strange expression crossed his face, but he caught himself. “Four thousand. Should take about five or six weeks if the rain stays away. It’s mid-July so I don’t see an issue there. Probably have to hire some pros for some stuff, but I know a few guys who are good and won’t charge an arm and a leg.”
“That seems fair. I’ll draw up a contract.”
“But I need to inspect the place first. Let’s meet at the Barbwire tomorrow morning,” Cal said before jerking his head toward the barn. “A word of warning—Charlie has a drinking problem and a habit of interfering where he’s not wanted.”
“He owes Bud recompense. The shape this place is in rests on his shoulders. Find something for him to do, or I’ll sue him for breach of contract.” Maggie wasn’t sure if the contract would hold up since most of the terms were unwritten. But she’d bluff her way through. Charlie was a free laborer and free sounded good at the moment.
Cal shrugged. “Your rodeo.”
Yeah. A big, fat, disastrous one where she stood in the center of the arena wearing a barrel as her underwear like those funny rodeo clowns she’d seen in cartoons. “I’m heading back to town. I have a lot to do in order to relocate to Coyote Creek.”
“Relocate? You’re not going back to Pennsylvania?” Cal asked.
“After ten years of paying someone to do a job that didn’t get done, you think I’m going to leave this place unattended? If I’m plopping down money, I’m part of the process.”
“Define ‘part of the process.’”
“I’m a hard worker. I’ll pitch in.”
Cal lowered his gaze, taking in the new wedge sandals she’d scored on a half-price rack last week and the secondhand Louis Vuitton bag her cousin had bought at a yard sale. She could see his thoughts in those pretty blue eyes. He thought she was useless. “You’re going to help clean and repair the Triple J?”
“I know how to hold a paintbrush,” she said, sliding her sunglasses back in place. “As soon as I contact animal control about these cats, I’ll get the house habitable.”
Cal might have smirked, but she didn’t wait around to see. Cowboy Cal and Grumpy Charlie may have preconceived notions about her, but they didn’t know her veneer of sophistication had been shellacked on to survive the snooty world of the Edelmans. Her mother had been the housekeeper and Maggie had scrubbed many a toilet and polished many a silver serving tray. Hard Work was her middle name.
“You’re going to stay in the house?” Cal called to her.
Maggie glanced over at the sad dwelling. Poor place looked as if it had cashed in on existing. But at one time, the Triple J ranch house had been a home. “Have you seen the Coyote Creek motel?”
Cal twisted lips that made her think of morning sex. “Good point.”
Maggie climbed into the car, watching the cowboy through her windshield. He surveyed the house and then walked around back, perhaps looking for a place to park his trailer.
So many questions about him rambled around her mind, but she supposed there would be time for answers. After all, they’d be working together for the next month or so. The faster she sold the Triple J, the faster she could get on with her life.
Maggie slid an apologetic glance to the box holding the ashes of her late boss.
“Sorry, Bud. I know you hoped I’d fall in love with the Triple J, but I don’t even own cowboy boots.”
Though she might want to grab a pair if she was going to be here for a while.
THREE DAYS LATER Cal watched Maggie dip the sponge into the bucket of soapy water and scrub down the front door of the Triple J ranch house. Ten years of lightning bug and moth waste dotted the wooden door with the broken glass insets. Would have been easier to buy a whole new damn door, but Miss Maggie Stanton was tighter than Dick’s hatband when it came to letting go of cash.
She looked damned fine in a pair of cutoff shorts that cupped her ass, a loose tank top and sandals that allowed toenails of bright red to peek out. Her brown ponytail bobbed as she uttered indiscriminant curse words under her breath. Stepping back she tossed the sponge into the bucket, splashing soapy water onto the sagging porch boards.
“Damn it.”
He climbed the steps, avoiding the one with the loose board. “Looks better.”
“No, it doesn’t, but at least it’s clean.” She brushed her hands on her shorts. The waistband dipped giving him a glimpse of apple-green panties. She turned to him. “Did you call the guy about the leak?”
“Yeah. The roofing company’s sending a guy for an estimate.”