Chapter 9

9

Fletcher Tyler worked like a beast. Dylan could say that one hundred percent. He was up early every day to deal with whatever livestock he had out there. She hadn’t ventured past the house and the garage yet. Dylan did not like the snow one bit, thank you very much. Not since finding two dead men in it recently and everything.

He came in sopping wet and cold most times; she learned to put him some fresh clothes in the dryer the instant she heard him out there on the back porch. So they’d be nice and toasty. She thought he’d appreciated it, but other than a quiet thank you , nothing was really said about it. Thank you, and then he’d get back to what needed done.

He was one of the hardest-working men she had ever known.

Do, do, do. He was constantly doing something.

Well, so was she. She had made a list that second evening after she’d come back from the diner. Things that needed immediate attention versus those that could wait. She’d cornered him to get approximate times on meals. Mostly, she stayed inside and kept the man’s house, and he did all the rancher-y things a rancher needed to do while spending his very sparse free time studying experimental herd management techniques and soil management—both using really wicked-looking drones and sophisticated monitoring systems. He didn’t have the drones yet, but he had diagrams and specs and literature and reports and everything.

Spread out everywhere.

She’d read it—very, very intriguing. She had so many questions. She was going to get him to answer them eventually.

When he didn’t act nervous and afraid of her and everything.

Four-foot-eleven Dylans were apparently very scary to six-foot-four Fletchies. She was luring him into complacency with…food. The man adored food and turned into putty whenever she fed him. Each and every time.

The man absolutely did not know how to cook for himself. Even if he’d had the time—which he didn’t. No wonder he had spent so much time at the diner or the inn. He was hungry .

Well, eating out got really expensive. Fletcher couldn’t afford that.

The man didn’t just need a housekeeper—he needed a Fletcher- keeper!

She had found his business ledgers on the coffee table, where he had been trying to balance the books. He was doing a decent job of it, but, well, she was better. She had taken classes in the art of running a business, after all.

It wasn’t her place to intervene, but she had seen several places where she could streamline his system. But…she knew how egos worked. She kept that knowledge to herself. It wasn’t the right time now. That whole scared-of-Dylan thing he had going on and everything was a bit prohibitive. She didn’t even know why she was so terrifying, either.

Now, she was just focused on feeding that man so he didn’t starve while he was out there cozying up to his cows or playing science cowboy or whatever—or go broke trying to feed himself at the inn all the time.

Dylan knew how to cook, and she knew how to stretch food. Her father hadn’t always had good jobs when she was a kid. Food hadn’t always been as available as she had wished. They had never gone to bed hungry, ever. But grocery money had been a lot tighter than her parents knew she had realized.

That was the main reason she’d started gardening when she was eleven in the first place. She’d started with lettuce greens back then and then tomatoes. Started zucchini and squash after that. All the basics.

Well, she suspected Truckboy Tyler didn’t know what to do with a vegetable that didn’t come in a can. Or…recognized them, either.

The man so needed a keeper. It was going to have to be her—someone had to do it, after all. He was a busy, busy man, and the experimental ranching techniques he was exploring could seriously impact the ranching industry overall.

He needed kept while he worked on it!

For the first time since relocating to Masterson County, Dylan actually felt like she had a real purpose and everything. Rather than just being the token Talley-on-the-Schedule at Talley Land before.

“What are you working on?” he asked, pulling a shirt over his head. She had warmed it right up for him ten minutes earlier and just left it in the dryer to stay toasty. As she watched, that delicious man chest disappeared beneath the soft blue cotton.

Of course. Talley Inn stared back at her. Such an omen.

The inn waited.

She had to fill in for Daisy at the inn from seven to eleven. It was four now. Well, a real Talley did what a real Talley had to do. Even if the thought of going back to that inn right now really filled her with dread. Her last few shifts had been at the diner, but the inn waited now. “A grocery list. A good housekeeper is supposed to feed her house. And that is just you and me. And the phantom ghost dog who keeps opening the cabinets and doors around here.”

There had been a few times she’d come in and found random obscure cabinets and bedroom and basement and attic and office doors just hanging open. It was kind of weird—and really did make her think of ghosts.

She just hoped they were Casper the Friendly Ghost types and not, well, something a lot more sinister.

“The latches need changed. There is not a ghost dog.”

“Dude, have an imagination, will you? I prefer a fun story like ghost dog over broken latches. This place so needs a puppy. Ghost or otherwise.” Dylan studied him for a moment as she reached out and deliberately closed the kitchen cabinet that had popped open once again just from Fletcher walking around nearby. “You can’t afford to pay me and keep eating at the inn or diner twice a day. I saw your books.”

“You do books too?”

“Actually, yes. I can balance books. I am educated, you know. In spite of what my father thinks.” Her poophead dad had treated her to a fifteen-minute discourse her last time working at the inn. About an education. Fletcher and all three of his siblings, his brother-in-law, and sister-in-law had gotten to witness. Dorie had offered them popcorn and spiced cider. “You need to categorize better. It will speed up your process by about half.”

He just grunted. “Food. You are a housekeeper, not bookkeeper.”

“Dude, you can’t afford both. ” Dylan loved to say things to him. To make that frown right there pop out even more prominently. To scare her Fletchie—just for the fun of it. Scary Dylan strikes again.

He was just so adorable when he was cranky like that.

“Food.”

Okay, one-track mind. She understood now. The Cowboy Fletchie needed refueled. Again.

“Hungry, again, huh? I bet you and your brothers ate your parents out of house and home.”

“Something like that.” He clammed up. She almost bit her tongue. He did that. When his parents were mentioned. She knew the story—and she hurt for him. He had only been around eighteen when he’d lost his mother and twenty-two or so when he’d lost his father, she thought. She couldn’t imagine. As much as her parents drove her crazy, they were her parents, and she loved them. Even the old poophead making her life complicated lately. “Food, woman.”

“Hey, you called me woman. Am I real one yet?” He hadn’t liked it when she’d pointed out that he had told her the first night they’d met that she wasn’t woman enough—and they should just throw her back in the pond until she grew up a bit—Dylan couldn’t resist reminding him of that. Every chance she had.

“Look real enough to me.” He shot her T-shirt a look. “Where is the rest of it?”

Dylan looked down. “What do you mean?”

It was toasty in the house. He’d put a log or two in the woodstove before he’d headed outside. It got hot when he did that.

Dylan stripped down frequently. What would it hurt? He was outside a lot. And everything was covered.

Well, except maybe her belly button did hang out. Was he scandalized? How much of a prude was the man?

“Your shirt. Where is the rest of it?”

“Um, dude, this is my shirt. It got hot in here.” Well, it was an undershirt anyway. No bra. It was laundry day for Dylan. She hadn’t had time to do her laundry before. She’d worked eight hours at the diner yesterday and four at the inn to fill in for that clerk Abby, who’d called off again. And then she’d come back “home” and cleaned out the man’s pantry. She’d found canned goods in there that might have been older than she was. Dylan hadn’t looked too closely. “What’s the big deal? I’m down to my last clean shirt. It’s not like you are going to get turned on or anything. Nothing real woman here, remember?”