floor with money she couldn’t spare.
It had to be done. She wouldn’t have minded coming home to bunnies hopping around her house, but mice...she didn’t do mice. The floor needed to be fixed.
So what now? Pick the name of a handyman at random? The way her luck was running, she’d hire a scam artist.
She needed advice in the worst way, and even though she hated to call her grandfather with a sad story again, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed his number. Miraculously, he answered, so after making certain that all was well on his end, she launched into a description of what Cole had called the bunny attack, leaving out the part where she’d mistaken Thumper for a rat, as well as the part where she’d locked herself in her car. She had to hold on to some small shred of dignity. It was bad enough that her farm-mate had seen her. She ended her story with a description of the damaged boards under the sink.
“So what do I need? A plumber or a carpenter?”
“Why don’t you ask Cole to fix it?”
Because she’d had it up to there with tall, dark and irritating. “He’s pretty busy with farm stuff. I thought I could hire someone to do it.”
“Yeah, you could.”
“It’d be pricey, right?” She was guessing based on his tone of voice.
“I’ll call Cole.”
“No.” The word popped out in a way that made it necessary to do damage control immediately afterward. She forced an easy smile into her voice. “I can handle things. I was just looking for a little guidance.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
Half an hour later she realized just how long her grandfather was going to have to wait to hear that all was well. All the carpenters and plumbers were booked out for many weeks due to new construction in the area. The two local handymen were also seriously booked up.
“I’ll tell you what,” the last guy said, perhaps hearing the distress and desperation in her voice, “if you can cover the area with thick plastic and duct tape, that might keep the mice from coming in. If they’re not hungry enough to chew. Don’t keep food in the house.”
Taylor rolled her eyes. No food. Right. “And you’ll put me on the schedule?”
“Three weeks out.”
“If there’s a cancellation?”
She heard him suck a breath in between his teeth. “Five people ahead of you, but I’ll slot you into the waiting list.”
“Thank you.” It was kind of hard to say the words in a meaningful way, but she knew better than to annoy a handyman.
Taylor didn’t allow herself any breathing room between ending the call and heading for her car. She had to keep moving because if she stopped to consider her reality—no bras, possible mice, sleeping in a place in which she didn’t yet have a mattress—then she might not move forward at all.
Temporary. Remember?
Maybe she needed to write the word on the back of her hand in indelible ink.
She carefully closed the bunkhouse door as she left so as not to let in more rabbits, and then headed for her car, only to stop when she caught sight of Cole in the big shed where the baler and swather were parked. Abruptly she shifted course. Why? She hadn’t a clue. Maybe because she was still steamed about him calling her entitled. Taylor had never been good about leaving a fight alone. The same obsessive tendencies that had made her a great student also made it hard for her to handle unfinished business. He was bent over the baler, denim hugging the back of his thighs. Yeah, the guy was built. And yeah, he wasn’t getting any points for that. She was more about attitude, and his sucked where she was concerned.
“Hey,” she said. His head jerked up and he turned, the pained expression on his face clearly asking “What now, lady?” He was as ready for a fight as she was...so she wasn’t going to.
“I’m heading to town. Want anything?”
He blinked at her as a suspicious frown formed. “No.”
“Just checking,” she said smoothly.
“Right.” He turned back to the baler.
Dismissed. She didn’t think so. She ambled closer, saw the muscles of his shoulders bunch just a bit. He glared at her again, and she wondered if he knew that scowling only made him look hotter—in the sensual sense, rather than the angry sense.
“I need access to the house this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“Karl said I could have the mattress in the guest room.” And rather than ask him to help her move it, she figured she could back her SUV to the side door, lay the seat down and shove it in. Awkward, yes, but she wasn’t going to ask this guy for help.
“Fine.”
She waited. He waited. Taylor was used to charged atmosphere—and there was a definite edgy vibe developing between them as each waited for the other to make a move—but apparently Cole also seemed to be comfortable with tense silences. Neither of them blinked, but Taylor was the one who had to get the rental trailer back within the hour or pay for another day. She’d certainly rather spend her money on new bras than a now-useless trailer.
Finally, she gave in—but only because of extenuating circumstances. With a curt nod she started to turn, but not before she saw the glimmer of victory light his eyes.
Walk away. Return the trailer. This is just one battle, not the war.
Taylor didn’t let battles go lightly, but this time she would.
For now anyway.
* * *
AFTER WINNING THE FACE-OFF, Cole watched Taylor march out of the machine shop to her SUV, wondering what had happened to her Z. Had she done the sane thing and sold it to help make ends meet? Or hung on to it as she waited for some kind of miracle rescue for the situation she’d gotten herself into? A few seconds later he cringed as she peeled out of the driveway. Cool. She could pay to have it regraveled.
Cole stepped back into the machine shop. He could dig into the scrap lumber and fix the floor while she was gone, but he was still pissed about her assumption that he would fix things ASAP for her. More than that, he was irritated that she was there at all. He’d leased the place, and therefore it should be his...but Karl was a longtime friend of his grandfather’s, and had given Cole a healthy break on the farm’s lease. The least he could do was play ball for the undoubtedly short period that Ms. Taylor Evans would be in residence. Which was another good reason why he wouldn’t fix the floor. The more uncomfortable she was, the quicker she’d be out of here. But if Karl asked him to fix it, he would.
Hell, if she asked him to fix it again, he probably would.
The wrench slipped and he banged his knuckles. Shaking his hand and cursing, he then braced his hands on the edge of the baler and let out a breath. It sucked being a decent guy sometimes. Decent guys tended to get taken advantage of. Miranda had taken advantage of him whenever she could, and since he had a conscience as well as a younger sister to protect, he stuck things out on the ranch until Jancey finished high school. Then he told Miranda he was through. The look on her face had been rather satisfying. And even though he no longer managed the ranch, he still had a stake in the place. A stake that Miranda would dearly love to relieve him of.
“Good luck with that,” he muttered.
Once upon a time, the Bryan Ranch had been a joint venture between his father and his uncle. They hadn’t made a lot of money, but they’d eked out a living—and then his uncle married his second wife, Miranda, who proceeded to talk the brothers into increasing their profits by turning one ranch into a guest ranch and leaving the other as a small working ranch for the entertainment of