“We’ll start you off doing just basic things around the ranch until we can teach you how to ride and you’re comfortable in the saddle.” The man quirked a bushy white eyebrow. “Ever muck out a barn?
“No, sir, I don’t believe I have.”
“Chop wood?”
Jake shook his head. “I lived in the city. If I needed wood, I bought it.”
“Milk a cow?”
“No, sir.” Milk came in glasses in the fine restaurants he used to dine in.
Antonio rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t suppose you have ever fed chickens?”
Again, Jake shook his head. There had been some chickens at the boys’ home, but collecting eggs and tossing grain to the birds hadn’t been one of his chores, for which he remained thankful. For as much as he liked cats and dogs, chickens, especially roosters, made him extremely uncomfortable. He much preferred to see them on his plate, fried to golden perfection. “But I can learn anything you want to teach me.”
The man stared at him, a slow smile lifting his mustache. The twinkle of amusement was back in his eyes. “Let’s get your gear.”
A few minutes later, bags in hand, he followed behind Antonio toward a long, low building.
“This is the bunkhouse. You’ll be sharing it with six other men.” Antonio opened the door wide, revealing the interior. Jake had nothing to compare it with, as he’d never been in a bunkhouse, but it seemed nice enough. Clean. There were ten sets of bunk beds, several sofas and chairs, and a big table. There was also a sink, stove, ice box, and glass-fronted wall cabinets filled with dishes. Nice rug on the floor. Red-and-white checkedgingham curtains on the window. A bookshelf crammed with hard-covered books and dime novels, some of the covers torn and tattered, obviously well-read.
“There are rules here, Hannigan, the biggest one being that you will respect your bunkmates. I don’t tolerate stealing, and neither does anyone else. No women in the bunkhouse. No fighting. No gambling. Miss Evie doesn’t approve. Is that understood?”
No gambling?Jake nodded even though his stomach plummeted. Still, it was for the best. If he hadn’t gambled in the first place, King wouldn’t be looking for him now. And he had promised Father O’Malley he would never place another bet.
“You can take that single bunk in the corner.” Antonio pointed to the bed on the far side of the room, near one of the windows. “There’s a trunk for your belongings.” He grabbed a key from a small box hanging on the wall and handed it to him. “Breakfast is at five sharp. If you miss it, you won’t have anything until lunch. Trust me, you’ll want breakfast. Supper is at seven. Payday is every other Saturday. You’re more than welcome to join the others and head into town. There are a couple saloons, if you’re a drinkin’ man, and a bawdy house or two, but I’m thinkin’, since you’re here to maybe marry Miss Evie, you’ll be passing those by.
“Later, when everyone comes in from the field, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the men, but you’ll be reporting to Teddy eventually. He’s the one you’ll have to impress with whatever knowledge you have.” His eyes roamed over Jake, taking in his clothing. “This should be interesting.” He paused. “One last thing, Hannigan.” Any humor that had once been in his eyes disappeared. Indeed, he seemed down-right intimidating. “I’m very fond of Miss Evie. She’s like the daughter I never had. If you hurt her or treat her with disrespect in any way, you’ll answer to me. And after me, you’ll answer to the boys. Teddy, Esteban, andHeath won’t take it too kindly if their aunt is unhappy. Do I make myself clear?”
Jake stiffened. This wasn’t the first time he’d been threatened, but it was the first time he knew the man would follow through. He rather liked his face the way it was. His nose had already been broken once. He didn’t fancy it being broken again. “I would never hurt Miss Evie. You have my word.”
The big man gave one final word of warning. “And don’t ever lie to her, son. Lying would be a big mistake.”
Too late. He’d already lied to her. Granted, it was a lie of omission, but still, it counted. Jake shifted his weight from one leg to the other beneath the man’s unwavering perusal and gave a nod.
“Good enough. Make yourself comfortable, put your gear away, and I’ll be back shortly to show you around.” Antonio stepped out of the bunkhouse, closing the door behind him.
Jake walked over to his bunk, dropped two small suitcases on the mattress, and began to empty them into the trunk. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much—after his house burned to the ground, he assumed by one of King’s henchmen though he couldn’t prove it, he only had some clothing and a photograph in a silver frame.
That silver-framed picture was the only thing left of his mother, Skye Hannigan. It had been with his belongings when he arrived at St. Anselm’s after she passed away. Apparently, there had been no one who could take him in. Certainly not a father, who wasn’t around. Hell, he didn’t even know the man’s name. He had been only three when his mother died.
He let out his breath. It wasn’t good to dwell on the past. He locked the trunk, shoved the key in his pocket, and stood at the window, where he could clearly see the patio at the main house, the garden and yard—and the lovely Miss Miller as she scurried back and forth from the tables set up on the lush, green grass.She was a rather enjoyable sight, much better than the dark thoughts from his past.
The sound of the door opening made him turn. Expecting Antonio, instead an older man, probably about the same age as Antonio, though not nearly as big and certainly not as bow-legged, made a beeline for the big stove. He mumbled to himself as he pulled an apron from a hook on the wall and tied it around his waist. Apron in place, he flipped down one of the hatches on the stove, filled the space with kindling and twists of paper, then struck a match against the sole of his boot. He held the flame to the paper until it was fully engulfed then added larger pieces of wood and snapped the hatch in place with a bang.
Was he singing? Cussing? Jake couldn’t tell, but the man’s muttering was constant. He turned and stopped, stiffening as his gaze fell upon Jake. His eyes narrowed with suspicion and maybe a little surprise. “Who’re you?”
“Jake. Jake Hannigan.”
“Cleaston Jones, but most folks call me Grub. I’m the cook.” He didn’t approach him or offer to shake hands. Instead, he opened the ice box and pulled out a platter filled with ribs and steaks, already cooked. Probably leftover from the party earlier. “The boys’ll be coming in from the field soon, hungrier ’an bears that ain’t eaten in months, even though most of ‘em ate their fill at the party.” He placed the platter on the table, his gaze roaming over Jake, much like Antonio had done. “You cowboyin’ for Miss Evie?”
“I suppose so.”
Grub didn’t say anything more, but the expression on his face spoke volumes. It said, quite clearly, what he thought of Jake cowboying, but then he shrugged and went back to pulling food from the ice box, still muttering.
The door opened again, bringing in late afternoon sunshine, which was blocked momentarily by Antonio. “Ah, I see you’vemet Grub. Best cook this side of the Mississippi. We’re lucky to have him.”
The man blushed, his face turning a shade of red Jake rarely saw on a man. It highlighted the grizzled white whiskers on his chin, making them seem even whiter. He didn’t say a word, but Jake could see he was pleased by the compliment as he shuffled back and forth from the ice box to the table.
