The Way to a Cowboy's Heart. Teresa Southwick

her cookie dough.

      This was the worst, the most disturbing thing of all. The way she responded to his blatant masculinity was nothing short of humiliating. She’d sworn after Dave, she would never fall for a good-looking, emotionally unavailable man. She’d meant it too. But Cade McKendrick was different, and she wasn’t even sure how. A minute ago, she had been mad at him for brushing Steve off. Now, she held her breath, alternately wanting him to touch her and praying that he wouldn’t.

      “I know you have work to do,” she said. As she talked, she pulled potatoes from the bowl and dried them so the oil wouldn’t splatter when she cooked. “But your father must have known what it takes to run a ranch. He set the program in motion and apparently felt that he would have time for all of it.”

      “Yeah. Strange, too, considering he never had time for me.”

      She turned around and looked at him. The expression on his face reminded her of Steve. He quickly shuttered his feelings, but not before she made a guess. “You’re ticked off because your father had time for strangers, and not for you, his own son.”

      His eyes narrowed. “You teach psychology too?”

      “No. But it doesn’t take Freud to figure out what’s going on.”

      “Maybe it does, because frankly, lady, you’re not even in the corral on this one.”

      “No?”

      “No.” Blue eyes narrowed on her as he glared.

      She was about to call him on that when her peripheral vision registered a bright flash. Her heart leaped as she realized that the pot of oil had ignited. “Uh-oh. Fire.”

      He whirled around. “Damn it! Where’s the fire extinguisher?” Frantically, he started opening cupboards, looking for it.

      Calmly, P.J. picked up the lid for the pot and carefully dropped it over the flames. Determining it was safe, she took potholders and lifted the kettle to a cool burner. When the smoke dissipated, she cautiously lifted the cover to make sure the fire was out. Satisfied that the cut-off-the-oxygen method of fire knockdown had been effective, she breathed a sigh of relief. Cade was still haphazardly searching above the refrigerator.

      “What are you doing?” she asked.

      He glanced at her. “Fire extinguisher. There’s got to be one.”

      “It’s called a lid.”

      “What?”

      “The fire extinguisher. I just put the cover on the pot. The fire’s out.”

      He glanced from her to the Dutch oven, and back again. As his body slowly relaxed from the nearcrisis, he shook his head and grinned. “I don’t believe it.”

      “What?”

      “The way you did that.”

      “Not flashy, but effective.” She wasn’t sure if she was being insulted or not. “What did you expect?”

      “A little more hysteria for starters. Then I wouldn’t feel like such a jerk.”

      She smiled back. A compliment. “How often do you cook in here?”

      He shrugged and said, “Almost never. I’ve only been back a few months.”

      “Then you’d have no reason to know the extinguisher is in the cupboard closest to the stove.” She opened the door and pointed it out.

      If she sidetracked him, maybe he wouldn’t realize why she’d forgotten to watch the stove. He was far too good-looking for her peace of mind, and that dash of vulnerability she’d glimpsed had tugged at her heart, nearly pushing her over the edge. The crisis was her fault for not watching what she was doing. Thankfully it was nothing more serious that a ruined batch of oil.

      With her unsettled feelings too close to the surface, P.J. couldn’t look at him. She busied herself turning off the heating element on the stove. “Grease fires are the most common in the kitchen. The easiest way to smother them is with the pan lid.”

      “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

      “I took a class.”

      “That’s not on your résumé too, is it?” he asked, sounding annoyed with himself.

      “No,” she said, glancing up. She laughed at the look on his face. “You’re off the hook on that. If you haven’t read it by now, I don’t hold out much hope that you ever will. Besides, if you’re not happy with my work, at this point you’d just fire me.”

      “Haven’t we had enough of that for one day?”

      She chuckled, then stared at him. “You actually have a sense of humor.”

      “You sound surprised.”

      “I am,” she agreed

      And wary too. Western-movie-hero looks and a sense of humor to boot. A lethal combination. This was the first time she’d ever spelled trouble c-o-w-b-o-y.

      Chapter Three

      “Where’s my mom?”

      “Shopping for groceries.” Cade looked down at the little girl beside him on the porch swing. She’d insisted on sitting there to wait for her mother. After the fire the previous night, P.J. had said there were things she needed from the store. Her exact words were, “The idea of three ravenous teenage boys is too ugly to contemplate.”

      “Why’d she go without me?”

      He sighed. He’d already answered this one. “She was going to get you, but you were busy playing with the new kittens. I told her to go on, that I’d watch out for you.”

      “But she’s been gone all day.”

      “Not quite.” Although it felt that long. After thanking him repeatedly, P.J. had said she could shop much faster without Emily. Now he was beginning to wonder.

      “What if the car broke?” Emily looked up at him, her green eyes begging for reassurance.

      “It’s fine.”

      “How do you know? What if she got a flat tire? Or the engine blew up?” She brushed a strand of hair, the same shade of brown as her mother’s, back from her face. “Mommy doesn’t know about that stuff. I heard her say so.”

      “If she was stuck, she’d have called.”

      “What if we were all outside?”

      “There’s a message machine. Did you check it?”

      “Nope.” She hopped off the swing. “I’ll go look.”

      “Good idea.” When the front door slammed behind her, Cade took a deep breath, bracing himself for the next go-around.

      A moment later, she appeared at the screen door. “How do I know if there’s a message?”

      “Was the red light blinking?”

      “No.”

      His stomach tightened. He’d hoped for word from P.J. “Then no one called.”

      “Where’s Mommy?” She came outside and stood in front of him, her lower lip quivering.

      He rested his elbows on his knees. “Buying groceries. Do you know how much boys eat?”

      “I watched Steve last night. He had two hamburgers. Then he finished mine. Why didn’t Mommy make French fries the way she usually does? Those weren’t the best.”

      He thought about the fire and how competently she had handled the situation. She’d finally baked the potatoes. He’d thought they were pretty tasty. The ones she normally made must be a world-class ride.

      “She couldn’t do them the way she wanted to because there was an accident.”

      “Accident?”