Running Wild Part 2

"I try to watch my mouth," Carlin confessed, giving another swipe at the corner, just in case. "The problem is I come from a long line of smart-a.s.ses, and things just...pop out."

"DNA's a b.i.t.c.h." Looking over at her, Kat suddenly grinned, her eyes lighting up. "I guess that explains your name, huh?" grinned, her eyes lighting up. "I guess that explains your name, huh?"

"Carlin? Yeah. At least they didn't name me 'George.'"

They both snickered. Carlin relaxed more now that she knew she didn't have to tamp down her more irreverent observations-everyone remembered a smart-a.s.s, and not drawing attention to herself had been tough. On the other hand, staying alive was really good motivation, so she'd been working on being as anonymous as possible.

"My mom loves George Carlin," Kat said. "She's always said any man who can make her laugh..." the sentence trailed away, as if some unexpected remembrance had derailed her thoughts.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, but the quiet didn't help. Carlin was getting antsier by the second. Why wait until Kat decided to start the questions? Why not begin with some of her own?

"So, what made you decide to hire me? That was a fast decision, especially after I told you I needed to be paid under the table."

Kat looked a little startled, as if she hadn't expected her new employee to take charge. She paused, her head tilting a bit to the side, her pale, clear eyes sharp as she gave Carlin a considering look. "I know what it's like to be afraid of a man," she finally said, her tone completely level. "Never again."

That simple explanation was good enough for Carlin. If she ever got out of this mess, if she was ever free and clear...she'd gladly help another woman who found herself in a similar situation. Call it karma, call it grat.i.tude...call it one woman who had survived helping another to make it through another day. For now, Carlin decided just to call it good luck.

As her employer, Kat could've asked for details, could've demanded them, but she didn't. Instead she went to the jukebox, carefully avoiding the segment of the floor Carlin had already mopped while digging change out of her large ap.r.o.n pocket. She didn't study the selections, just dropped in some quarters and started punching b.u.t.tons, lining up a few songs for them to work by. As Kat turned around, the first song she'd chosen began to play. An instrumental Carlin didn't recognize began, the notes filling the quiet cafe; Kat half-closed her eyes, her body moving in a gentle s.h.i.+mmy and sway. A moment later, Michael Buble began to sing an upbeat version of "Cry Me a River." jukebox, carefully avoiding the segment of the floor Carlin had already mopped while digging change out of her large ap.r.o.n pocket. She didn't study the selections, just dropped in some quarters and started punching b.u.t.tons, lining up a few songs for them to work by. As Kat turned around, the first song she'd chosen began to play. An instrumental Carlin didn't recognize began, the notes filling the quiet cafe; Kat half-closed her eyes, her body moving in a gentle s.h.i.+mmy and sway. A moment later, Michael Buble began to sing an upbeat version of "Cry Me a River."

Why that song? Carlin was suddenly tempted to tell Kat more. She wanted to tell her new boss that she had never cried over Brad, that it hadn't been that kind of relations.h.i.+p, not ever. She had cried over some of the things he'd done, but mostly she'd been angry and frustrated-until Jina died, and after that things had changed. She didn't cry now. Now, she worked hard at surviving.

But Kat simply put on the music and got back to work. She didn't speak, and Carlin pushed away the temptation to talk. Was this Kat's normal way of doing things, or had she fired the jukebox up so it would be possible for them to work without speaking? Questions would inevitably come, but obviously not right this minute. Good enough.

When "Cry Me a River" ended it was followed by Trace Adkins, with a kickin' country song about bars and nice b.u.t.ts. Kat had an eclectic taste in music. Carlin was interested, but not surprised.

Music filled the background, set the pace for their work, made it impossible for either of them to take notice of uncomfortable silences, because there were none.

When she'd driven into Battle Ridge, Carlin had looked around and pretty much written the town off. She'd asked about a job out of habit, but hadn't expected anything. She hadn't expected she'd find herself here, mopping The Pie Hole, taking on a new job in the blink of an eye. And now she had a place to sleep, two meals a day, and she'd take in a little bit of cash along the way. Perfect. She wouldn't stay here long. She of an eye. And now she had a place to sleep, two meals a day, and she'd take in a little bit of cash along the way. Perfect. She wouldn't stay here long. She couldn't couldn't stay anywhere for very long. But she was safe for now, and that was enough. stay anywhere for very long. But she was safe for now, and that was enough.

When the cafe was spotless and put to rights, they moved into the kitchen. The music came to an end, and there it was...silence. Everything unspoken seemed to hang in the air. Kat stopped working and turned to Carlin, looking at her with those arresting eyes.

Okay, here it was. Carlin didn't exactly hold her breath, but she went still, waiting. This was the moment, and it could go either way. If Kat didn't ask, she wasn't going to volunteer information. But if Kat did ask, she'd have to either lie or simply refuse to answer. Much as she would love to spill her guts, unload on a kindred spirit...The less Kat knew, the better off she'd be.

But when Kat started talking, she went straight into a territory Carlin hadn't expected. "If you're going to be here awhile, there are a few things you should know."

Depends on how long "awhile" is.

"There's a drugstore and a grocery store at the edge of town. Neither of them is much to look at, but they sell the basics: mascara, tampons, cookies, milk. If you want anything fancy you're going to have to drive into Cheyenne."

"Good to know." Amus.e.m.e.nt at what Kat considered the basics made her lips twitch. But she wouldn't be driving into Cheyenne, barring some kind of crisis. The bigger the town, the less comfortable she was. It was impossible to spot a stranger, but larger towns tended to have more security cameras, more curious cops, just...more. Besides, she didn't have any exotic needs; it sounded as if she could get everything she wanted right here in Battle Ridge, Wyoming.

"There's a library just down from the hardware store,"

Kat continued. "They don't have a great selection of books, but they do have a decent fiction section and a couple of public computers, if you have need for that sort of thing." Kat continued. "They don't have a great selection of books, but they do have a decent fiction section and a couple of public computers, if you have need for that sort of thing."

"Thanks." Public computers Public computers. Her cup runneth over. "I could stand to do a little reading while I'm here." She saw no need to share the news that her heart had gone pitter-pat at the mention of a public computer.

"And a warning," Kat said ominously. "Stay away from the cowboys."

"Cowboys?"

"Battle Ridge is lousy with them, I'm afraid."

"You don't like cowboys." The tone of Kat's voice when she said the word made that a fact, not a question.

"They'll break your heart and leave you in a trail of dust," Kat said dramatically, widening her eyes, but then she ruined her own show by laughing.

"Did a cowboy break your your heart?" Carlin asked, her tone as irreverent as her boss's. heart?" Carlin asked, her tone as irreverent as her boss's.

"Oh, h.e.l.l no. I grew up around here. I've known from birth that cowboys are to be avoided at all costs."

She could relate to that; since meeting Brad, Carlin hadn't wanted a relations.h.i.+p with any any man, for reasons both emotional and practical. The emotional part was kind of like the time she'd eaten a slice of bad pizza, and spent the night and next day throwing up; she hadn't wanted pizza at all for the next several months. The practical part was, she couldn't have a relations.h.i.+p when not only did she fully intend to keep moving around, but if Brad did find her and she was involved with someone else, that person's life was then in danger. But instead of going there, she said, in her best John Wayne voice, "I'm sorry to hear you say that, little lady." man, for reasons both emotional and practical. The emotional part was kind of like the time she'd eaten a slice of bad pizza, and spent the night and next day throwing up; she hadn't wanted pizza at all for the next several months. The practical part was, she couldn't have a relations.h.i.+p when not only did she fully intend to keep moving around, but if Brad did find her and she was involved with someone else, that person's life was then in danger. But instead of going there, she said, in her best John Wayne voice, "I'm sorry to hear you say that, little lady."

Kat laughed again, finished wiping down a stainless-steel counter beside the large stove, and directed Carlin and her mop to an area by the oversized freezer. Carlin smiled as she continued to clean. How long had it been since she'd relaxed enough to laugh? smiled as she continued to clean. How long had it been since she'd relaxed enough to laugh?

Too long. But at the same time, getting too comfortable in Battle Ridge would be a Bad Idea.

They finished up at about the same time, and Kat said, "I officially call this finished, and in half the time it usually takes me. Good deal. How about a decaf, or a cup of tea?"

Carlin glanced at the clock on the wall, a little startled to see how much time had pa.s.sed. They'd been working for a couple of hours. Hard work deserved a treat. "Tea would be great."

"Something else to eat? There's pie left. Or I could throw together some sandwiches."

"No, that's too much-"

"No trouble at all. I have to eat, too. I can either eat here, or I can drive home and eat, but it'll be a sandwich, regardless. After cooking all day I never cook dinner for myself."

Her tone was wry, and completely honest. Carlin wasn't hungry, but she knew she would be later if she didn't eat something now. Besides, she couldn't a.s.sume this little town was as safe a haven as it appeared to be, that Brad couldn't find her here. She didn't see how he could could, but she'd underestimated him too often. She might well be running again tomorrow.

"Okay, thanks. That would be great. I'm not picky, and I don't have any strong likes or dislikes. Except for cabbage. I hate cabbage. And caviar. Blech Blech. Whoever thought eating fish eggs was a good idea? And rutabaga. I don't like rutabaga."

Kat waited a moment, then said, "Is that all?"

"Pretty much."

"Good. I can firmly promise you that I won't make a cabbage, caviar, and rutabaga sandwich."

"Good G.o.d, that's a repulsive idea," Carlin said, shuddering.

The sandwiches Kat slapped together were regular ham and cheese, and the two women sat on stools in the kitchen, eating and sipping hot tea. In between bites Kat shared tidbits about Battle Ridge. This was home for her, and while she loved the place, she recognized its faults. And yet she stayed. Carlin started to ask why, and stopped herself. She didn't need to know; didn't need to like Kat Bailey any more than she already did. Maybe the fact that this was home was reason enough for Kat to stay.

Carlin didn't want to get personal, but she did ask questions, about shopping and parking and business, about her new job, and the clientele-lots of cowboys, apparently. They even talked about pie, which was evidently a subject near and dear to both of them. Kat had learned the art of pie-baking from her mother, and Carlin loved to eat pie, so there was an instant connection. She'd seen some of her girlfriends get married with less in common with their new husbands than that.

The shared meal and the conversation were nice. Comfortable. Carlin felt herself relaxing even more, almost as if something inside her was uncoiling. She shook it off, gave herself a good, hard mental poke in the ribs.

Getting comfortable was not an option. Relaxing could get her killed.

Chapter Three

ZEKE HAD BEEN up for two hours, and the sun had been up for one. He was already frustrated, irritated, and so hungry he was ready to gnaw on anything that resembled food-even Spencer's earliest attempts at cooking. up for two hours, and the sun had been up for one. He was already frustrated, irritated, and so hungry he was ready to gnaw on anything that resembled food-even Spencer's earliest attempts at cooking.

The morning had started out at five a.m. with the discovery that part of the fence was down and all of the horses were out. He and all of the hands should have been heading out to the hay fields; instead they'd been cussing and chasing horses. The good news was that the horses hadn't gone far and they'd stayed together. The bad news was that they evidently weren't of a mind to go back into the fenced pasture, so rounding them up had taken longer than it should have. Spencer was the best on the ranch with animals of any kind, so Zeke had had to enlist the kid in helping with the horses, which suited Spencer just fine because he hated his cooking duties and made no bones about it. Unfortunately that meant the rest of the men either had to start the day without hot food, or be delayed. It was Zeke's ranch, his men, and his call. First and foremost, he took care of his men, so his only remaining option was a late start.

Spencer had tried to get by with serving m.u.f.fins and cereal for the first meal of the day, he'd even tried doughnuts once. But without a hearty breakfast the men were all hungry before mid-morning rolled around, and hungry men were not efficient workers. They needed a hot, filling meal, and for now it was Spencer's job to provide that meal, as well as two others. once. But without a hearty breakfast the men were all hungry before mid-morning rolled around, and hungry men were not efficient workers. They needed a hot, filling meal, and for now it was Spencer's job to provide that meal, as well as two others.

As soon as the horses were back in the pasture, Zeke told Spencer, "Throw together something hot and fast while we fix this fence." They'd be working late tonight, thanks to the d.a.m.n fence and the d.a.m.n horses.

"Sure, boss." Spencer bobbed his head and headed for the bunkhouse kitchen at a fast trot. Zeke spared a brief moment of appreciation for the kid. The other hands rode him hard, teased him about all the s.h.i.+t ch.o.r.es that got thrown his way, but the way Zeke saw it, Spencer was showing his mettle by doing what was asked of him, instead of quitting. Give the kid another ten years or so, and he figured Spencer would be foreman here, bossing some of the same men who were giving him such a hard time now. Not all of the crew would still be here, of course; some would move on to other ranches, some to different jobs, but a few would hang in there. He had a good crew now, so he hoped they'd hang together for at least a few more years.

"Hope he doesn't cook that oatmeal s.h.i.+t again," Darby grumbled as he nailed a heavy board into place.

"We'd still be chasing horses if it wasn't for him," Zeke said, no temper in his tone but enough grit to tell the men to lay off Spencer no matter what he served up for them to eat-not that he'd he'd be real thrilled to get oatmeal. It wasn't that he didn't like oatmeal... normally... but Spencer's oatmeal tended toward a gluelike consistency. be real thrilled to get oatmeal. It wasn't that he didn't like oatmeal... normally... but Spencer's oatmeal tended toward a gluelike consistency.

They needed something more substantial for the long day ahead of them. Ranch work didn't pay any attention to the clock; summer was short, and they had only a set amount of time to get enough hay cut and baled to last through the long winter. a set amount of time to get enough hay cut and baled to last through the long winter.

His ex-wife, Rachel, had called the winter weather "inhuman" and "brutal" and insisted no one with any sense would live here. If he wanted to be strictly fair, he had to admit she had some truth on her side, but "strictly fair" had gone out the window with the divorce, and as far as he was concerned she was a spoiled b.i.t.c.h who wouldn't know what real work was if it bit her on the a.s.s. He was a Wyoming native, he loved where he lived and what he did, and he figured everything else more than made up for the winters.

The hard truth was that he hadn't missed Rachel after she left. By then all he'd felt was a sense of relief at having some peace and quiet again. h.e.l.l, with Libby there taking care of the cooking and cleaning and his laundry, life had rocked on exactly as it had before Rachel had come along. She hadn't made a place for herself, hadn't put her stamp on the household, hadn't taken over any of the decisions. Instead she'd left all of that to Libby, and spent her time sulking because there was no place to shop, no coffee bar, no friends nearby. She could have had friends; it wasn't as if there weren't women in town. But Rachel hadn't wanted Wyoming friends. She'd wanted her friends-or others just like them-from Denver.

Yeah, like people flocked to Denver for its great winter weather.

Rachel hadn't liked summer in Wyoming, either. Summers meant unrelenting work, from before sunrise until sometimes long after sunset, getting ready for winter. Hay became the most important thing in his life, and a bad growing season could spell disaster for the ranch. The ranch hands traded horses and four-wheelers for tractors. Every night he'd pray for good weather, because any rain caused a delay he couldn't afford. His hay fields weren't counted in acres, but in square miles; that was a lot of hay that had to be cut, dried, and baled. When he'd come dragging in at ten o'clock at night, after an eighteen-hour day, Rachel had wanted attention and he'd wanted a shower and then sleep, another thing that had made his wife very unhappy. lot of hay that had to be cut, dried, and baled. When he'd come dragging in at ten o'clock at night, after an eighteen-hour day, Rachel had wanted attention and he'd wanted a shower and then sleep, another thing that had made his wife very unhappy.

Another truth: he missed Libby way the h.e.l.l more than he'd ever missed Rachel. This morning he'd discovered-again-that he was out of clean socks. Maybe he'd have noticed beforehand if he'd folded his laundry and put it away in the dresser drawers the way Libby had always done, but this was summer and all he had time for was taking the clean clothes out of the dryer and dumping them in a laundry basket. That was his system: dirty clothes on the floor, clean clothes in the laundry baskets. Unfortunately, in the tangle of underwear, he hadn't noticed that there were no more clean socks. He'd taken the time to throw a bunch of clothes in the washer and turn it on, and he just hoped to h.e.l.l he remembered to transfer them to the dryer when he dragged himself back to the house tonight.

Come to that, he hoped he'd put detergent in the washer, but he couldn't remember if he had or not. s.h.i.+t. Maybe he'd be able to tell by smelling the wet clothes whether or not they'd been really washed, or just rinsed. If not, he guessed he'd have to run the washer again, just to be sure. He sucked at this housekeeping stuff.

He swung the hammer and it glanced off the heavy nail, catching him on the side of the thumb. "f.u.c.k!" He said several more swear words, shaking his hand. That was what happened when you let your mind wander while you were trying to hammer something. Good thing he hadn't been on a horse, or he might have ended up sitting on his a.s.s on the ground.

But thinking about his domestic arrangements-or lack of them-wasn't exactly letting his mind wander. Since Libby's departure, all of that c.r.a.p had been an ongoing problem. He and the men worked hard; they needed meals prepared for them, he needed clean clothes, by now it would probably take a pitchfork to clean out the house, and all of that made running the ranch harder than it needed to be. problem. He and the men worked hard; they needed meals prepared for them, he needed clean clothes, by now it would probably take a pitchfork to clean out the house, and all of that made running the ranch harder than it needed to be.

But d.a.m.ned if he knew what the solution was. In the months since Libby had left he'd hired three different women to take her place. Well, no one could take her place; all he wanted was someone to cook, clean, and do laundry. Was that too much to ask of a decently paid employee? Apparently so, because none of the three had stayed. One had sat on her a.s.s watching TV most of the time instead of getting things done. Another had said it was driving her nuts to be so far away from everything. In Zeke's opinion, that particular drive hadn't been a very long one. And the third one had caused trouble between the men, which had taught him a lesson about hiring a young single woman who was even remotely attractive.

So they were back to eating Spencer's cooking again, and Zeke had been doing his own laundry, when he happened to remember it. As for cleaning the house...well, it would get done, eventually.

Aggravations aside, Zeke was a man who knew his place in the world and was happy in it-as happy as a man who didn't have any clean socks could be, anyway. While other ranches were losing money, being sold, even turned into-G.o.d forbid-dude ranches or summer homes for movie stars with more money than sense, he worked hard to keep his corner of the world the way he liked it. Maybe the cash didn't flow in nonstop, but he always found a way to get by, to keep his accounts in the black. It didn't hurt matters that he'd been a big saver back when things had been great. Those savings had come in handy over the years.

His gaze went beyond the men to the mountains in the distance. He wasn't a sentimental sap, but this was home. He didn't want to be anywhere else. distance. He wasn't a sentimental sap, but this was home. He didn't want to be anywhere else.

Just about the time they finished repairing the fence, Zeke saw Spencer step out onto the bunkhouse porch. "Come and get it!" the kid yelled before ducking back inside.

Zeke pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. After putting away their tools, everyone trooped toward the bunkhouse. As ranch accommodations went, the bunkhouse wasn't too bad. Only five of the men actually lived there; two were married and had their own houses, and the foreman, Walt, who was both the oldest and had been with Zeke the longest, had his own very small private house beside the bunkhouse. The larger building had six small bedrooms and three full baths, as well as a sizable common area that was furnished with battered recliners and a big-screen TV, and a full, if not very modern, kitchen. The bunkhouse was solidly built, had a wood-burning stove to back up the heating system just in case, and essentially served its purpose. The long trestle table would comfortably fit all of them; sometimes Zeke ate with them, though most of the time he opted for a sandwich, eaten alone, while he slogged through paperwork.

As soon as he stepped into the bunkhouse, his heart sank. It was oatmeal, all right, but then all he'd specified was that the food be "hot and fast." Spencer had also added some cheese toast to the mix. The consistency of Spencer's oatmeal aside, cheese toast wasn't something Zeke would ever have picked to go with it. He felt like gagging. Judging from the expressions on the other men's faces, he wasn't the only one. Jesus. When he had time to do something about it, he seriously needed to look for a cook.

But not a woman. After the last fiasco, never again would he hire a woman unless she met the triple criteria of being at least middle-aged, married, and completely uninterested in h.o.r.n.y cowboys. What he really wanted, now that he thought about it, was a male cook. Men could cook as well as women. Weren't all the great chefs men? The fact of it was, nine d.i.c.ks and one v.a.g.i.n.a together on one large slice of land just didn't work, unless the woman was married to one of the men. of being at least middle-aged, married, and completely uninterested in h.o.r.n.y cowboys. What he really wanted, now that he thought about it, was a male cook. Men could cook as well as women. Weren't all the great chefs men? The fact of it was, nine d.i.c.ks and one v.a.g.i.n.a together on one large slice of land just didn't work, unless the woman was married to one of the men.

With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, some of the men sat down to shovel in a bowl of the gluelike oatmeal. Others opted for the cheese toast. None of them ate both. Patrick mentioned, in an almost offhand way, that he'd had instant oatmeal before and it wasn't too bad. Figuring the cheese would stick with him longer than the oatmeal, Zeke grabbed a couple slices of toast before the others beat him to it.

h.e.l.l, he couldn't fault Spencer. The kid hadn't hired on to be a cook, didn't want to be a cook, but did whatever Zeke asked of him. He did a marginally decent job in the kitchen, but he wanted to be a cowboy. G.o.d knew he'd never be a brain surgeon.

"Where do you need me, boss?" Spencer asked eagerly, around the toast he'd stuffed in his own mouth. His gaze went to the window, scanning the land before him and the mountains in the distance with the same kind of reverence Zeke himself felt. It would be cruel and unusual to put him to housework full-time. "Won't take but a minute to do the dishes."

"All hands in the hay fields," Zeke answered briefly. Until the hay was in, everything else was on hold, including collecting s.e.m.e.n from his prize bull, Santos. Selling bull s.e.m.e.n had turned into a profitable business aspect of the Decker ranch, and no one was better with animals than Spencer. Whatever it was about him, he had a calming influence on them: horses, dogs, cattle-even bulls. When you were collecting s.e.m.e.n from a two-thousand-pound bull, keeping him calm was important-or at least as calm as could be expected, under the circ.u.mstances. Therefore it only made sense that even though he was the youngest of the hands, and the one who had been here the shortest time, Spencer was the one in charge of this job. as calm as could be expected, under the circ.u.mstances. Therefore it only made sense that even though he was the youngest of the hands, and the one who had been here the shortest time, Spencer was the one in charge of this job.

Sperm collector and cook. Wouldn't that look impressive on a resume?

Walt cleared his throat. "Any answers to your latest want ad?"

Spencer looked up, hope in his eyes.

"None that'll do." He'd had one query, but the "no housework" stipulation had stopped that one cold. He'd rewrite his ads. He didn't think he could get away with "elderly battle-ax preferred," but he could sure add that a man was preferred. "Someone will turn up, though. Let's get going, boys. This hay won't get cut and baled by itself."

SUMMERTIME, AND IT was barely seventy degrees in the middle of the day. After the broiling heat of Texas, Carlin enjoyed the mild temperatures, but she couldn't help but wonder what winter would be like here-not that she'd be around to find out. Winter was months away, and there was no telling where she'd be by then, but it almost certainly wouldn't be here. was barely seventy degrees in the middle of the day. After the broiling heat of Texas, Carlin enjoyed the mild temperatures, but she couldn't help but wonder what winter would be like here-not that she'd be around to find out. Winter was months away, and there was no telling where she'd be by then, but it almost certainly wouldn't be here.

The thought of moving on was surprisingly tough; the regular customers already treated her like she was one of their own, and always had been. She'd have been suspicious of a stranger showing up out of nowhere, but Kat simply told everyone she was a friend, and that was good enough for her customers.

Had she she ever been that trusting? Yeah, she had-once upon a time. But not now, and maybe not ever again. Before waiting on her first customer, she'd decided to tell them all to call her Carly. It was nice that Kat called her by her real name, that she hadn't disappeared completely into ever been that trusting? Yeah, she had-once upon a time. But not now, and maybe not ever again. Before waiting on her first customer, she'd decided to tell them all to call her Carly. It was nice that Kat called her by her real name, that she hadn't disappeared completely into a false ident.i.ty, but to have an entire town-no matter how small-knowing her name wasn't a good idea. One post on a social site about Carlin at The Pie Hole might be enough to bring Brad here; it simply wasn't worth the risk. Besides, Carly was close enough so that she didn't stumble when someone called her by that name. a false ident.i.ty, but to have an entire town-no matter how small-knowing her name wasn't a good idea. One post on a social site about Carlin at The Pie Hole might be enough to bring Brad here; it simply wasn't worth the risk. Besides, Carly was close enough so that she didn't stumble when someone called her by that name.

Not for the first time in her life, she wished her parents had given her a normal name, like Mary, or Maggie, or any one of a hundred well-used names that didn't stick out like a sore thumb. Her brother and sister hadn't been spared the family curse, but Robin was a relatively normal name for a woman, and Kinison could be shortened to Kin. Her parents had loved to laugh so much they'd named all three of their kids after their favorite comedians. G.o.d, she missed them. They'd died too soon.

Today's lunch crowd was a good one: mostly men, as usual, but there were a couple of women chatting away in a corner. One of the regulars was a skinny cowboy named Sam who tipped his hat and winked as he walked in the door. Carlin had already learned to dismiss the flirts, taking her cue from Kat. Usually all she had to do was simply ignore any overtures. If that failed, a cool look would do the trick. Maybe single women were a hot commodity in these parts, because a new one certainly did stir up a lot of interest.

Kat said business was up some since Carlin had started working there. Two single women, serving pie and burgers and endless cups of coffee, were apparently an irresistible draw for many of the cowboys Kat had warned her about.

That kind of attention made her a little nervous, but the flirting was good-natured, and most of the men-once rejected-seemed resigned to satisfying themselves with baked goods, caffeine, and a little harmless staring. She hadn't had any real trouble with any of them, so she stayed.

She was settling into a comfortable routine. In the back of her mind she knew comfortable meant dangerous, but it felt good to just relax a little, let her guard down a notch and pretend she had a halfway normal life. She liked what she was doing, liked her employer, liked the lack of drama. She wanted to hang on here for just a while longer.

Routine was nice. Once lunch was done and the doors were locked, she and Kat would clean to whatever music Kat was in the mood for that day, which could be anything. Kat might get some baking done while Carlin cleaned, depending on whether or not she had any special orders. Then they'd share a quick, early supper, and Kat would head home, while Carlin went upstairs to quiet and solitude, which went a long way toward healing her tattered nerves. The next day they'd start all over again, except for Sunday, which was two days away. The cafe was closed then.

Carlin wasn't sure what she'd do with herself, with an entire day and nothing to do. Well, nothing except her laundry, and cleaning her room, but that wouldn't take long. It seemed forever since she'd had the luxury of time.

Maybe she'd read, or watch a baseball game in the kitchen.

Then again, maybe she'd have too much time to think, get antsy about this too-good-to-be-true situation, and run.