She gave up, shaking her head. She didn’t remember the reason he’d brought her here. The real reason. He still wanted her. It was in his eyes, in the way he smiled at her. And Bess was somewhere nearby...
“Where does Bobby live?” she asked suddenly.
The smile left his face. “There.” He indicated a modern split-level house in the distance. “Almost in Jack’s Corner. Bess used to spend a lot of time in Oklahoma City, but Bobby said she’s started getting interested in local society.” He frowned. “Too bad it’s only tea parties and such. She sure could do a lot of social work if she had a mind to.”
He drove the Lincoln up to the front steps, and Elissa sighed over the big green rocking chairs and the porch swing. “I love it!” She grinned. “Can we sit in the swing?”
“Presently,” he promised, climbing out to open her door and help her, with old-world courtesy, to the ground.
The screen door swung open, and a middle-aged woman stomped onto the porch. Margaret Floyd, the housekeeper, was a big, buxom woman in her sixties with white hair and dark eyes and a mean-looking expression.
“Well, it’s about time,” she said, parking her hands on her broad hips. She was wearing a pale yellow print housedress with purple bedroom shoes, and a splattered white apron hugged her ample middle. “You’re an hour late. What did you do, get hijacked on the way back? I’ve ruined dinner, you’ll be glad to know, and who’s that?”
Elissa was being dragged up the steps and pushed forward like a shield before she had time to catch her breath.
“This is Elissa Dean,” King said, holding her there firmly, even though she wasn’t struggling.
“Well, glory be!” Margaret’s broad face brightened like a sunflower. “Finally!”
She rushed forward, and Elissa found herself engulfed in the smell of flour and apples.
“I thought he’d never get enough sense to bring you home,” Margaret gushed. “Idiot, chasing after them stupid city women.” She glared at King before turning back to Elissa. “You look like a nice girl. He says you still live at home,” she added with unashamed curiosity.
“Well, yes,” Elissa stammered. “My folks wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Margaret looked as if all her prayers had been answered. “Lordy, child, do come in and let me feed you. I’ve got a delicious pot roast, even if I do say so myself, and a pan of homemade rolls, and I baked him an apple pie.”
King went back to get the luggage, muttering things it was just as well Margaret didn’t actually hear. Margaret was a wonderful cook, had a mind like a steel trap and didn’t feel the least bashful about asking the most intimate kind of questions.
King finally ran her off so they could eat their meal in peace. Elissa’s face was beet red by then, and he looked a bit put out himself. Elissa couldn’t know that over the years, only Bess had ever been afforded such courteous treatment by the housekeeper. Margaret had always found not-so-subtle ways of showing her disapproval for the type of woman King had entertained so frequently in his younger days. Bess had been different, because Margaret knew her background and was frankly sorry for her.
“It’s a lovely meal,” Elissa said finally.
“Lovely,” he muttered.
She didn’t attempt conversation again. She finished the food and allowed Margaret to whisk her upstairs to unpack.
King was called out the minute he left the supper table to attend to sixty things the foreman—Ben Floyd, Margaret’s husband—hadn’t been able to, despite neighbor Blake Donavan’s help.
Elissa found herself alone after Margaret went to her own small house below the stables, and when King didn’t come back by midnight, she went to bed. Her first day on the ranch had been an experience.
The next morning, she awoke to strange noises. Cattle lowing. A rooster crowing. The barking of a dog. Clatter from downstairs. She sat up in bed with a lazy yawn and drank in the sweet, clean country air. It wasn’t so far removed from the Florida coast, after all. Country was country, except for the noises.
She got up and dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved blouse, feeling as summery as the weather. She left her hair down and her face clear of makeup.
Downstairs, King was sitting at the breakfast table with a brooding look. But it wasn’t the King she’d become accustomed to. This was a Westerner with a capital W. She stood stock-still in