Abbie And The Cowboy. Cathie Linz

two sons—Hondo and Randy, as ageless as Shem—had just shown up with him. They were willing to work for room and board. The bunkhouse was empty anyway, so Abigail let them stay on. Neither one of them had what it took to be foreman.

      The two “offspring,” as Shem called his sons, reminded her of Mutt and Jeff, with Randy as tall and skinny as a rail while Hondo was much shorter and heavyset. Neither one was real bright, but they were adequate workers, although they didn’t do anything without being told first. However, at this point, Abigail couldn’t afford to be real choosy. Her uncle had let things go for the past few years, and there was plenty of work to be done.

      Under cover of the noise Shem and his sons made whenever entering a room, Raj sidled up to Abigail to whisper, “I’m not sure how practical it was to hire Dylan when you’ve sworn off cowboys. It’s kind of like putting a box of imported Belgian chocolates in front of a chocoholic who has just gone on a diet.”

      As always, Raj was right. It was one of her less endearing traits.

      

      “Where’s your yodeling friend tonight?” Hondo asked Abigail around a mouthful of mashed potatoes a few minutes later.

      “Ziggy is working. Sometimes he comes over and takes over cooking duties from Raj,” Abigail explained for Dylan’s benefit. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted his fondue.”

      The men all wore similar expressions of horror.

      Abigail had to laugh. “Don’t worry,” she said mockingly. “I won’t try and force you big, strong men to eat sissy food like fondue. Who knows what it might do to you?”

      “You’ve got that right,” Randy declared. “Food like that can affect a man’s performance. Might make him—” he lowered his voice “—you know…competent.”

      “There’s little chance of you ever being competent,” Raj assured Randy.

      “The word is impotent,” Shem told his son. “You’d know that if you read the dictionary the way I do.”

      “I’ve got better things to do with my time than read a book that’s better used as a doorstop,” Randy retorted.

      “Indubitably,” Shem replied.

      “Hey, are you calling me a name or something?”

      “Look it up in your Funk and Wagnalls,” Shem retorted.

      “My what?”

      “Never mind.”

      “Nice crew you’ve got here,” Dylan mockingly murmured from her side. Trust Raj to seat him right next to Abigail.

      Seen through his eyes, she didn’t imagine Shem and his sons looked all that promising. Abigail was well aware that Dylan was only sticking around because he didn’t think she was capable of hanging on to the ranch without his help. The damn thing was, he was right. Not because she wasn’t capable enough, but because she did need help. His help. But she didn’t have to be happy about it.

      “Here, have some more peas,” she said in a grumbly tone of voice, grabbing the bowl and shoving it in Dylan’s direction.

      She also wasn’t happy about this jolt of sexual awareness from something as simple as his fingers brushing hers as he took the bowl from her. But she was a big girl, and she wasn’t about to let something like chemistry control her. She was the one in control now.

      Hondo wasn’t as lucky, wrestling as he was with the yellow plastic container of mustard, turning it upside down and squeezing it as if trying to wring the last gasp of life from it. Hondo was the only person Abigail had ever met who put mustard on everything—including tonight’s meal of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and peas.

      “Works more expeditiously if you tilt it at an angle,” Shem informed his son.

      “Say what?”

      “Better,” Raj translated.

      Hondo did as his father suggested, and sure enough the mustard finally came spurting out, along with the lid, spattering the tablecloth and poor Shem, who was sitting directly across from Hondo.

      Aside from one pricelessly startled look, Shem’s way of handling the situation was to simply keep on eating, as if he didn’t have mustard dripping from his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

      For the second time that day, Abigail lost control, laughing so hard tears came to her eyes and Dylan had to pat her on the back.

      “I know the Himlicking maneuver if you’re choking,” Randy informed Abigail, which set her off again.

      “What’d I say?” Randy asked in bewilderment.

      “I need some air,” Abigail gasped in between the tears of mirth.

      “Right-oh,” Randy said with a crack of his knuckles. “Step aside there, Dylan, and I’ll give her the Himlicking.”

      “No, don’t do that,” Dylan said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “I’ll take her outside so she can get some air.”

      Once they were both outside, the cool night air and the closeness of Dylan by her side brought Abigail to her senses quickly enough.

      Although it was nearly seven, the sun was still fairly high in the sky, nowhere near ready to set yet. This far north, sunset didn’t come until after ten in June. Now it was July, and the days continued to be long and lovely. Abigail had always considered it Mother Nature’s way of making up for the often brutal winters.

      There was something about this time of year that had always given her a sense of peace, of hope. But that was before Dylan had ridden into her life. Now she felt restless and curious.

      So she said, “When you helped me with Wild Thing earlier today, you said something about Gypsy legend-”

      “When I saved your life, you mean?” Dylan interrupted her to say.

      “Was that just a line?” she asked.

      “About saving your life?”

      “No, I meant about your having a Gypsy heritage.”

      His jaw tightened. “Does that matter?”

      She sensed a certain defensiveness in his attitude. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be nosy…”

      “Sure you were.”

      “Okay, so I was,” she amiably agreed. With a shrug, she added, “I’m a writer. I’m interested in people and their roots. Or aren’t rolling stones like you allowed to have roots?”

      “I’ve got roots. Back in Chicago with my family.”

      “You’re from Chicago?”

      Dylan grinned at the way she said the city’s name, with the same sort of disdain used by most westerners to any city east of Denver. “I left home a long time ago. I’m the wanderer in my family. My dad says it’s due to my Rom blood, Gypsy blood, which I got from him. Both my parents came over from Hungary in the early sixties, before I was born. My dad is Rom, my mom isn’t.”

      “Are you an only child?”

      “Nope, I’ve got an older brother and sister—Michael and Gaylynn.”

      “So you’re the baby in the family. That figures,” she murmured half under her breath.

      “What figures?”

      “The baby in the family is often spoiled with too much attention.”

      “You read that in some book? Or are you speaking from personal experience?”

      “I’m an only child.”

      “Which means you were definitely spoiled.”

      “How do you figure that?”

      “Maybe