Dalton Boys Box Set Books 1-5 (The Dalton Boys) Page 4

  He leaned against the workbench and sipped coffee from the thermos he took into the field daily. Due to sleeping in a different bed—and knowing a pretty little woman was stretched out in his—getting up this morning had been harder.

  He’d lain awake well after 2:00 a.m., thinking of her pink toenails and the way her curls brushed her succulent earlobes.

  Spending half an hour fantasizing about ways to taste her seemed reasonable. He spent another half an hour obsessing over the stressed look she wore. Another two dwelling on why his chest burned with the need to fix everything for her.

  “Start with the car.” He set his thermos among greasy tools and farm implements and wandered to the car he’d pushed into the garage last night. Pa had asked a lot of questions—more than usual for a man who didn’t have a lot of need for words.

  Where did she come from? Was it better to take her into town? Or the bigger city beyond? Was she going to stay on the ranch while Hank repaired her car, because it was going to take a while on top of his work? With his brothers off hunting for wives, Hank was shouldering all of their workloads too.

  In the end, Hank had looked Pa in the eyes and told him he was fixing it and he hoped Charlotte would be welcome to stay until he got her wheels on the road.

  That glint had been in Pa’s eyes—the same he had after one of his sons had done something he felt to be worthy.

  When Hank opened the driver’s door and leaned in to pop the hood, he caught a whiff of perfume. The warm florals hit him square in the chest with all the impact of a cow hoof.

  His mind whirled. Had she slept well in his bed, and what had she worn? His Wranglers grew tight in the crotch as he pictured lacy panties and tank tops. Hell, she’d be adorable wrapped in a feed sack.

  He bit off a groan and forced himself to close the door. For the next part of the morning, he threw himself into tearing apart the engine to get at the right parts, but Charlotte kept returning to his thoughts.

  She was running from something. A bad breakup? An overbearing family?

  Using a wrench, he put his strength into removing a bolt. It suddenly gave, and his knuckles struck the metal, splitting them.

  Ignoring the blood, he kept working, stripping parts to get to the transmission. Unfortunately, the sun was angling into the garage windows, reminding him he needed to start cleaning barns. The cows had been fed—the first chore of the day. Not being a morning person, he usually saved mucking out barns for later.

  His stomach rumbled. He’d grabbed a few pieces of toast and OJ before he left the house, but it had long ago worn off. Soon Momma would be calling him in for a second breakfast.

  And Charlotte would be there.

  He rubbed his face and realized he’d smeared blood on his cheek. Hearing a quiet footstep, he hurried to get a towel to wipe it away, but he was too late.

  “Oh!” Charlotte paused in the doorframe, a snapshot of perfection. Her eyes were round as she stared at him. “You’re bleeding.”

  He gave a small grunt, his chest suddenly tight. “Nah, it’s from my knuckles.” He held them up, and she came forward, curls fluffier than yesterday, and wearing a denim skirt that showcased tanned, curvy legs.

  She stopped a foot away, but her scents clouded around him—perfume that smelled like wildflowers and pure female.

  “Your mother asked me to tell you breakfast’s ready.” She looked at the scattered parts of her car, and that worry was back between her arched brows. “Is it bad?”

  Bad enough that I’ll have to keep you here long enough to explore this attraction.

  “I think I know what’s wrong and I’ll make a list of parts. When I head into town for them, you can go along.”

  She twisted her lips.

  “Or I can pick them up and we’ll discuss prices afterward.”

  Her features shivered, and she bowed her head, staring at her fingers. “I have to be honest. I don’t have much money. I’m not sure I can afford a big car repair.”

  Damn, the tense set of her shoulders and the way her curls tumbled over her forehead were tough on him—he wanted to wind his arms around her and shield her. He could tell himself that he was raised to protect and nurture—it was a cowboy’s life on a ranch where vulnerable animals depended on him. But he’d be lying.

  It was her—a sweet, vulnerable woman down on her luck. And he was pretty sure her curves would mold to him just right.

  “We’ll work it out. Maybe get some used parts.” He knew damn well that even buying everything used, he wouldn’t be able to keep the cost low. If it came down to it, he’d dig into his savings and help her.

  It’s what a Dalton boy did.

  When she didn’t reply, he laid a hand on her forearm. She jumped, and he removed his hand. Feeling awkward, he scuffed a boot on the floor. “We’d best not keep Momma waiting. She looks sweet, but you’ll see her bad side if you dawdle when she calls. One time she threw a whole stack of flapjacks at Cash. He had to wash his hair three times to get the butter and syrup out. And he went to the fields hungry.”

  She giggled, and he relaxed. Leading her out of the garage and across the yard to the house felt as natural as walking with one of his brothers. None of that weirdness he’d experienced the few times he’d taken girls to dinner or the movies. He bit off a laugh, thinking of the hoops his brothers must be jumping through.

  As they reached the house, Charlotte mounted the porch steps before him. She stood at the top, head high, scanning the fields beyond him. His breath caught, and another snapshot was captured, imprinted in his mind.

  The breeze toying with her wild curls, a slender hand set on her hip, eyes stormy gray. Even the stubborn set of her little jaw made his heart do a belly flop.

  For a second he couldn’t breathe or move. This was more than some small attraction—if he’d met her anywhere besides on the road under duress, he would have pursued her hard and fast.

  Luckily, he had her trapped on the ranch, where he could get to know her. And if he took his time fixing her car, maybe he’d get a chance at those ripe lips.

  She moved toward the door, and he leaped the steps to get there first. When he pushed a hand between them to turn the knob, she looked up, startled. Craning her neck, lips parted.

  His gaze zeroed in on that sumptuous pout, hungry for a taste. Need was a giant fist in his gut. Charlotte issued a soft sigh.

  With as much strength as he could muster, he pushed the door open and gestured her inside. She went, but he’d swear her cheeks were pinker.

  What was he thinking to stare at her like that?

  He hadn’t—he’d been feeling.

  The house was filled with the aroma of frying bacon. Pausing in the mudroom, he knocked most of the dirt clumps off his boots and followed Charlotte’s tormenting backside into the kitchen.

  Momma and Pa were already seated, platters of scrambled eggs and bacon before them. A basket of muffins was settled between two empty places—for him and Charlotte.

  “Have a seat and dig in.” Pa’s gruff tone made Charlotte stop in her tracks.

  The urge to remove the tension from her spine burned hot and bright. Hank pulled out her chair, and she took her seat.

  “Have you met my pa yet? Charlotte, this is Ted. Pa…” He wanted to say “be nice,” but that might invite teasing. So he leveled his gaze at his father instead.

  Amusement played around the corner of his lips, and he forked some eggs. “Nice to meet you. You’re a might down on your luck.”

  “Yes, a bit. Hank was kind enough to stop and help me. Otherwise, I might still be walking.”

  “Boy’s good that way. He’s always taking in strays.” Momma kicked him under the table, in a very noticeable way. He laughed and went on. “Not that you’re a stray, miss. I’m just saying Hank has a soft spot for helping.”

  “He hasn’t brought home any stray animals for a while,” Momma interjected, joyfully buttering her muffin. Actually, her joy came from ribbing Hank for the nine dogs, cats, goat
s and a fawn he’d carried home over the years.

  He groaned and held a spoon of eggs over Charlotte’s plate. She nodded, and he served her. Then he passed her bacon and a muffin.

  “It’s nice to have animals around. I never had pets growing up,” Charlotte said.

  “No? That’s a shame. Animals make life happier.” Pa polished off his eggs. “What are your plans while Hank’s fixing your car?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Why, she’ll stay right here. We have room and there’s no need to abandon the girl at a costly hotel in the city without her vehicle,” Momma said.

  “No, I couldn’t impose—”

  “Of course you can. The other Daltons won’t return home till the end of the week. When they do, we’ll kick Hank out to sleep in the barn. You’ll still have a bed.”

  Charlotte’s gaze flashed to his, and his heart began to beat faster, a steady drum that sounded like the opening number of a lust-filled night. “I couldn’t put him out.”

  “I’d rather sleep on the porch. Nice and cool, and the horses don’t wake you up munchin’ hay.” Charlotte smiled at him, a clear, genuine curving of lips without a hint of that worry she’d come to the ranch with.

  “You’ll like this butter, dear. I made it myself.” Momma pushed the glass dish in Charlotte’s direction.

  “You make your own butter?”

  “My menfolk are spoiled. I tried some store-bought sticks once and that went over badly.”

  “Tasted like chemicals,” Pa said around a mouthful of bacon.

  “I’ll try some.”

  Hank caught himself watching the graceful, economical way she moved as she spread butter. Hell, he was in trouble. He was way too engrossed in her.

  “You didn’t say where you’re from.” Pa’s offhand comment made Charlotte suck in a breath. Redness crept up her throat and coated her cheeks. Hank’s heartstrings twanged like a country guitar on a Friday night.

  “Uh, Phoenix.”

  “That so? Now I realized you’re a city girl, but I thought you were farther from home. What brings you through these parts?” Pa was just making conversation, but Charlotte shifted in her seat.

  Hank longed to place a hand on her thigh and calm her as he would a troubled horse.

  “I’m searching for a new life.” She tipped her stubborn jaw up, giving them all a glimpse of the steel within her. “I’m tired of Phoenix.”

  “So you’re headed for San Antonio? Houston maybe?”

  “I don’t think so. While I was driving I…found I really love this country. I do need to settle in a town of some size, though. I need work and an apartment.”

  “Bet you broke a lot of hearts back in Phoenix.” Momma’s tone was teasing, but Charlotte seemed to cave inward.

  She dropped the muffin to her plate, buttery goodness forgotten. She curled forward, rocking a bit.

  Alarm bells sounded in Hank’s mind. Some of that darkness he saw in her eyes wasn’t all worry over breaking down or being stranded with strangers.

  He ached to touch her, to let her know it was okay. Seeing the changes in her, Momma intervened by bustling to the coffeemaker and refilling everyone’s mugs. “Drink up, dear. Then maybe you’ll want to go with Hank into town after the car parts.”

  Charlotte wrapped her too-white fingers around the mug, eyes downcast. “I should, but I’m feeling a bit worn out.”

  “That’s okay. I can handle things.” While he’d miss having her beside him in the truck for a long drive, her distress bothered him. Rule one, when dealing with a wary animal was leave them alone in small spurts. Charlotte was pretty damn wary.

  He finished his breakfast, thanked Momma and took care of clearing his plate. After agreeing to do a few things for Pa around the ranch, he headed out to his truck with his parts list. As he slid inside, the image of Charlotte’s pink toenails flashed through his mind.

  On the heels of that was the way she’d curled up like a wounded animal when prodded about breaking hearts. If Hank had his guess, he’d say she hadn’t broken hearts—she’d had hers broken. She was running from heartache and memories.

  Chapter Three

  With so much to do around the house, Mrs. Dalton kept Charlotte busy. She did the washing up after breakfast and marinated beef for supper. It was the least she could do to earn her keep, but she was eager to get on the road.

  The longer she stayed, the more information the Daltons would want. She wasn’t about to discuss Stephen and how she’d believed their relationship to be in a slump. Never in a million years would she have guessed he intended to harm her.

  No, kill her. He hadn’t set that fire believing she’d get out.

  She spent some time tidying Hank’s room, wondering if he made his bed after sleeping. Then she did something totally out of character—she snooped in his closet.

  It was a jumble of plaid and western shirts. Easily, she imagined the clothes on his hard body. A shiver ran through her.

  She fingered a few belts and a childhood trophy. The man’s closet was as spare and normal as he was.

  And it smelled good—like leather and spice.

  Shaking herself, she went downstairs to see if Mrs. Dalton could use more help. Talking to the woman was soothing compared to her mother’s constant nagging.

  Mrs. Dalton looked up from cutting onions. “Just in time. I was thinking how lonely it is around here without my boys banging through that screen door a hundred times a day.”

  Charlotte smiled at the vision. Sighing, she stared out the kitchen window over the fields. Calm infused her. It was hard to remember the things she’d come from while gazing at such beauty.

  “I’m planning to make some pickles today. We’ve got a bumper crop of cukes from the garden.” Mrs. Dalton dug a big jug of vinegar out of a cupboard and set it on the counter. “I’d appreciate a little help if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I’ve never made pickles.”

  “You’re in for a treat then. I’ll set you to work cutting the onions. Meanwhile, I’ll fetch the jars.” She crossed the room quickly, and Charlotte marveled at how she appeared to glide.

  She went outside. Charlotte chopped two whole onions. Then three. Still, Mrs. Dalton hadn’t returned.

  After wiping her hands on a towel, Charlotte went outside to see if she needed help. She swept her gaze over the property and saw no sign of the woman. “Mrs. Dalton?”

  “Help!”

  Adrenaline surged into Charlotte’s system. She lunged toward the voice, swinging her head left and right and scattering chickens. Where was she?

  “Here! Help!” Mrs. Dalton’s voice broke, and Charlotte hurried faster. When she discovered the storm cellar, worry was a sick weight in her stomach. At the bottom of the wooden stairs lay Mrs. Dalton.

  “Oh no!” She descended the steps with no memory of doing so. The woman’s leg was bent, but her ankle…it was cocked in the wrong direction. Shaking inside, Charlotte tried to think of first aid. She examined Mrs. Dalton’s white face. “It will be all right. We’ll get you out of here and to the hospital. Your ankle’s broken.”

  “Yes,” she said through clenched teeth. “Get Ted. I’ll never make it up the stairs without my man.”

  Something about the way she said that—relying so much on her husband—warmed Charlotte. She nodded. “Where do I find him?”

  Panting shallowly against the pain, she said, “Top field. Go to the barn and head straight. You should see him checking over the herd.”

  “Okay.” Charlotte paused to grip Mrs. Dalton’s fingers. “Hold on. Stay calm.” She dashed back up the stairs. Blinking into the blinding sunlight, she ran toward the barn. Her stomach hurt at the thought of the pain the woman must be experiencing. Her bone was broken clean off and they were far from a hospital. How did people live this way, so isolated?

  “Population of seven,” she muttered, taking off in a dead run. A few months ago she wouldn’t have been able to do this—the skin on her thigh was
too raw and new. Thank goodness, she’d had enough time to heal.

  She ran up the slope to the top field, spotting Ted. She waved her arms, but he didn’t see. Calling out, she barreled forward. “Mr. Dalton! Come quick, it’s your wife!” She yelled twice before he spun and saw her.

  From this distance he might be Hank—solid, strong body and dark hair. Hank would age well, and he’d be a good husband for some lucky lady someday too.

  He came at her jogging. “What’s happened?”

  “Your wife’s broken her ankle. She was in the storm cellar fetching jars. Hurry, it’s bad!”

  He paled under his tan, running now. Over his shoulder, he hollered, “Go inside and call Hank’s cell. He’ll be in town by now, so you’ll reach him. His number’s on a notepad by the phone.”

  Wheeling around, she took off at a dead run to the house. Surely they wouldn’t wait for Hank to return before taking Mrs. Dalton to the hospital.

  When his deep voice filled her ear, warmth coated her insides and her nerves steadied. “Hank, it’s Charlotte. Your mother’s broken her ankle and your pa told me to call you.”

  “Dammit.” She could almost see his full lips pulled tight against his teeth. There was a little background noise, followed by a heavy sigh. “Of course all this shit happens when my brothers are away. Okay, tell them I’ll meet them at the hospital.”

  Guilt flooded her. She was only adding to the trouble—if not for her, Hank would be home sorting this out right now. Instead he was taking time away from the ranch to help her.

  “Look, why don’t we forget about you fixing my car? I can pay for the tow into a garage and stay in town—”

  “No.” His tone was hard and gritty—and it raised goose bumps on her forearms. Warmth slid into her belly, then lower.

  He went on, “The car isn’t the trouble. It’s my parents’ hair-brained scheme and my brothers running off to make it happen.” He sighed again. “Are you okay, Charlotte?”

  “I’m fine. Just worried about your family.”

  “Sit tight if you don’t mind. I’ll meet my parents here at the hospital and be back in time to do evening chores.” Was that a smile she heard in his voice?