The Reluctant Rancher. Leigh Riker

why he’d called Sam by his first name. The agency hadn’t given her any details. All the woman had said was that the owner of the Circle H needed in-home care.

      “He’s my grandfather—stepgrandfather, actually. When my folks died, my grandmother was already a widow herself. This ranch—which my dad had run for her—belonged to my family. Then she married Sam and he took over. They raised me here on the Circle H. Sam adopted me.” He kept going up the steps. “He’s not sick. He broke his leg in three places.” Logan sighed. “He cracked his skull. And to complicate matters, he had an intracranial bleed.”

      Logan didn’t trip over the big word, which made her unsteady stomach churn. Maybe she should have thought twice before signing on with the Mother Comfort agency, which had admittedly been a last resort. As she’d heard often enough, she was no homemaker. She was surely no nurse. Frankly, she didn’t know what she was. Out of money and stranded in the nearby town of Barren, Blossom had largely faked her experience on the agency application.

      “He came home from the hospital a few days ago,” Logan went on, “but his memory’s not so good. He gets confused.”

      Predictably, her heart melted. “Poor man.”

      “Don’t feel sorry for him. He needed his head examined.”

      At his dry tone, Blossom couldn’t resist. She made a face at Logan’s back. If she didn’t need this job so badly, she wouldn’t work for a man who didn’t have so much as a soft spot for his own grandfather. Or was he smiling? She couldn’t see his expression.

      They’d just reached the top of the stairs when a crash sounded, and Logan lit off down the hall. He flung open the door of the end room and sent his black hat sailing onto the nearest chair, where it settled perfectly, like a lasso around a calf’s neck.

      “Still alive, I see,” he said, his tone gruff. “You’re not safe even from yourself.”

      Blossom followed him into the room, a sinking feeling in her uneasy stomach. Maybe she’d bitten off more here than she could chew—as usual.

      An older man who didn’t fit her idea of an invalid, except for the large cast on his right leg, sat in the middle of the hardwood floor rubbing his head. “Didn’t you hear me call?” Whipcord lean, he looked like a much younger person than she’d envisioned, and his dark hair had only a few broad streaks of gray. He peered around Logan, who had knelt in front of him. “Who’ve you got there? You finally get some sense and answer that ad I picked out for you in the paper?”

      “No,” he said. “She’s from the agency.”

      “The Department of Agriculture? Well, I’ve got something to say to—”

      “Not the government, the health care people.” His voice had gentled, the same way he’d treated the kitten.

      “I don’t need health care,” his grandfather said.

      Logan searched his limbs, probably for more fractures, then his head for lumps. He stared into his grandfather’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

      “Samuel...uh, Hunter.”

      Logan didn’t look happy with the hesitant answer. “I can’t leave you alone for fifteen minutes. You know how dizzy you get when you try to stand up. Where did you think you were going?” He tugged lightly on his arm. “Come on, now. I’ve got you. Let’s get you back in bed.”

      “I’m dizzy because I was in bed. All day,” Sam said, still studying Blossom. “I told you those ads would pay off.”

      “Forget the singles ads.”

      Sam snorted. “I may have smashed my head, but you don’t know the first thing that’s good for you. One bad experience, you don’t stay off the horse—”

      “Are we talking about you or me now?”

      Sam sagged onto the bed, his face white. He gazed at Blossom again. “Come over here, girl. Let me get a better look at you. My eyes don’t work so good these days, but I sure do like what I can see, which is two of you.”

      Startled, she stepped closer to the bed. In her view he was a dear, all right. Crusty as the outside of a loaf of country bread, but with a soft center that she favored in bread and in people for that matter. Was that why she’d been called a pushover? She glanced out the window, past the lace curtains blowing in the breeze, to make sure the coast was still clear.

      “You’ve had a bad time,” she said.

      He grinned. “Not that bad, it turns out. I sure know how to pick ’em.”

      “Sam,” Logan muttered.

      “We’re going to get on just fine,” he continued as if Logan hadn’t spoken. His blue eyes twinkled. “What kind of cook are you?”

      “A...reluctant one.” She wanted to stay, to help, but she couldn’t fib anymore. She’d used up her quota on the agency application.

      Blossom waited for Logan to take her arm and steer her down the stairs to her car right that moment, but instead, he sighed then let Sam continue the interview.

      “Can you keep house?”

      “If I have to.” She added, “I try.” That was one thing you could say about her.

      Sam smiled. “A clean rag, some lemon oil...there’s nothing to it.”

      “You never cleaned house in your life,” Logan pointed out.

      “And we have a laundry setup on the back porch.”

      “No, it’s in the basement.” Logan was standing by the door now.

      “I guess I can figure out a washing machine,” she said, giving in to a smile, “as long as it’s not the old-fashioned wringer kind or a washboard. And takes quarters.”

      Sam cackled. “You got a good sense of humor. I like that.” He glanced at Logan. “This house could use a few laughs.” His sharp gaze pinned her like a butterfly to a mounting board. “How old are you?”

      “Twenty-nine last month.”

      He sank back against his pillows. “You want babies?”

      Logan shifted his weight. “All right, Sam. Time for you to sleep.”

      “I don’t need a nap. I’m ready for supper.” He paused. “As long as it’s not more canned stew—and I don’t want some TV dinner tonight either. No one ever called me picky but...” He pointed at her. “While you’re at it, make me some decent lemonade.”

      “If life hands you lemons...” she said, which was the story of her life.

      Blossom actually believed the old saying, but she’d think about the disaster she’d made of things so far, and about her dubious future, later.

      She was already half in love with Logan’s grandfather. Better still, the isolated Circle H offered a temporary hiding place.

      * * *

      “WHAT IS THIS stuff I’m supposed to eat?”

      Logan stared at the yellow glop on his plate. After calling the Mother Comfort agency to say Blossom could stay temporarily but to keep looking for a male replacement, he’d left her to Sam for the rest of the day. Because bison rarely had trouble giving birth, Logan had watched half a dozen cows safely deliver the first spring babies in six far-off pockets of the ranch. He’d brooded the whole time.

      That haunted look in Blossom’s eyes was enough to bring a man to his knees. Determined to suppress the disturbing thought, he’d ridden home near sundown hoping for some peace of mind and a hot, home-cooked meal. Not too much to ask, was it?

      He could hardly blame Sam for complaining about the stew. Logan had fixed too many skimpy frozen dinners in the past few days, too many cans of mediocre chili. He’d had to admit it would be nice not to have to rustle up something