The Other Side Of Paradise. Laurie Paige

she couldn’t care less.

      He hesitated, knowing she didn’t like questions, but his curiosity was piqued. “Why the shades? They don’t appear to be prescription. Why do you wear them?”

      “They keep the glare out of my eyes.”

      The answer was too quick, too practiced not to have been used before. “Uh-huh,” he said. “And hide your thoughts?”

      A true smile played around her mouth, fascinating him with the delicate line of her lips. He couldn’t decide if their color was natural or not.

      “I have no thoughts,” she declared.

      Not any that she cared to share, he deduced. He returned the slight smile and polished off the last bites of his breakfast.

      She said nothing more as she finished her own meal. After taking her dishes to the kitchen and putting them in the dishwasher, she filled her mug with coffee and, to his surprise, returned to the table.

      At least she didn’t make a show of waiting on him and trying to please him as the boy-crazy college student employed earlier in the summer had done. She’d brought him no end of annoyance as he employed one evasive tactic after another until her finally let her go.

      He didn’t think he would have that problem with Mary. She bristled with invisible No Trespassing signs. A hum in his veins indicated he was maybe a tad disappointed at this assessment of the newly hired help, but he knew where the boundaries between boss and wrangler were drawn.

      Rising, he bussed his place and refreshed his coffee, then resumed his seat. “There’s a family near here,” he said thoughtfully. “The next ranch over, in fact. Blue eyes and black hair run in their clan.”

      Through the dark lenses, he could see her gaze fasten on his face, but not a whit of emotion came through.

      She blew across the hot coffee, then took a sip. Setting the mug on the table, she gave him a wary glance, then looked past him to the outside. “It’s a combination common to northern Italy. Also to some Irish, I think.”

      “Are you Irish?”

      Her mouth tightened slightly, then relaxed. “I don’t know anything about my ancestry.”

      “Your name sounds Irish.”

      “It was given to me.” She shrugged. “They were at the M’s in the alphabet.”

      “The orphanage,” he murmured in understanding. “How old were you when you went there?”

      “Around five, they decided.”

      He noted her choice of words. “Were your parents killed in an auto wreck or something?”

      She was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know what happened to my mother. My father abandoned me when I was three or four.”

      He tried to make the pieces fit together, but there was something he didn’t understand. “Did you live with relatives for a year or two?”

      Her smile was quick and genuine. “I lived with an old woman. She sort of adopted me, she and a boy who lived down the street. He’s the one who found me sitting on the curb, crying. He took me to his neighbor because she always took in stray dogs and cats. I guess he thought I qualified as a stray, too.”

      “Then what happened?” he asked, intrigued by her story, which sounded like something from a movie rather than real life. He wondered at the parts she was leaving out…and even if her tale was true.

      “They made sure I had food and clothing and went to the county health clinic for my shots. After a year or so, a neighbor turned me in because I wasn’t going to school. The police handed me over to the juvenile authorities. A church group took an interest in my case and got me in an orphanage they sponsored.”

      “The place was also a working ranch?”

      “Yes.”

      “Were you born in Wyoming?”

      The delicate arch of her black eyebrows lifted. “Well, that’s what it says on my birth certificate.”

      He nodded and suppressed the other questions that rose to his tongue. This woman didn’t like being interrogated.

      Well, neither did he, come to think of it. He considered, paused, then said, “I had a cousin who stuttered after his mother died. Was that what happened to you after your father left you?”

      For a second her face seemed set in stone, then she gave a shrug that expertly blended insouciance with defiance. “No, that was after they shaved my head at the orphanage.”

      A mixture of feelings ran through Jonah. Shock was foremost, and he’d have sworn nothing could shock him. “Why?” he demanded. “Why did they shave your head?”

      “It was standard procedure for lice.”

      A beat of silence ensued.

      “You’re a survivor,” he said and heard the rare note of admiration in his voice.

      She laughed. “Aren’t we all?”

      When she rose, he did, too. “Our guests are up,” he told her, hearing footsteps overhead.

      “What am I supposed to do?”

      “Help me set up a buffet. I don’t serve hot breakfasts unless the temperature is freezing.”

      “Let them eat cake,” she murmured, her expression behind the glasses impish.

      The humor surprised him. He liked that as well as the courage and stoic resolve to survive indicated by her past, not to mention the sight of her incredibly long legs as she preceded him into the kitchen, the slender but definite curve of her hips and the way she carried herself—head up and shoulders level.

      The hum of sexual interest increased to a roar. Huh. Maybe he’d better warn her to lock her door at night. Seeing the smiles the hungry men gave her as they piled into the dining room, he thought that was a good idea.

      As soon as the buffet was set with plates, glasses, coffee mugs, a thermal container of coffee, plus various cereal boxes and the muffins, Mary scooted out the back door and down to the stables.

      She checked the horses and mules in the paddock, saw Attila was happy with the group, then mucked out the stalls. Next, she stored the pitchfork and set about cleaning and oiling the tack, a job that obviously hadn’t been done in ages. At the children’s ranch where she’d grown up, they’d had to take good care of the stock and their gear since getting more had depended on the donations they received.

      After conscientiously doing the ranch chores first, she did the same to her gear and stored it in the SUV.

      Finally she tackled the horse trailer, cleaning it and laying the rubber mat out to dry in the shade of a very old oak whose leaves were starting to turn yellow.

      A sign of winter, she thought, pausing to recover her strength after wrestling with the trailer mat made to withstand hundreds of pounds of pressure from shod hooves.

      The westward peaks drew her attention. She stared at them while the oddest feelings raced around inside her.

      Seven Devils.

      Even the name set up a hot swirl of panic or something equally strange in the center of her being. She pressed a hand to her chest to still the tumult, but it seethed and roiled like the boiling mud pots she’d seen at Yellowstone once on her way north to the next rodeo.

      The mountains and her new boss. They both bothered her in ways she couldn’t describe.

      Glad that the first job she’d been hurrying to fill hadn’t worked out, she wondered if this one would and if she could stay long enough for Attila to heal. She would need to start his training all over again and bring him up to speed.

      Being here at the ranch where she received room and board, she could save nearly every penny of her salary, which was