Summertime on the Ranch by Carolyn Brown (leveled readers txt) 📗

through the gate. Big John lowered his head, and Becca could have sworn the bull sighed.

Dalton slammed the gate shut and started to take off his slicker.

She shook her head. “No sense in both of us being soaked.”

“At least, come up to my house with me and let me throw your things in the washer and dryer,” he said.

“All right.” She wiped water from her eyes and glanced at the house, a good twenty yards away. “But I’m not getting in your truck. It’s only a little way, so I’ll walk. I’m not ruining the seats.”

“They’re well-worn leather. I can dry them with a towel with no problem,” he argued. “And it’s warmer in there. If you get a cold from enticing my prize rodeo bull home, Greta will kill me and never ask me to Sunday dinner again.”

Becca walked through mud puddles over to his truck and climbed inside when he swung the door open for her. Water dripped from her hair, her clothing, and her body and saturated the seat while he drove up to his small house. She left a puddle behind when she stepped out into the still pouring rain. A quick glance at the driver’s seat told her that it didn’t look a bit better than hers.

“You’re going to need a lot of towels to clean that up,” she said as she headed toward the porch.

Tuff came out from under a lawn chair and shook from head to toe. Any other time she might have fussed about the spray, but what were a few more drops when she was already saturated?

Dalton rushed up the steps, slung open the door for her, and apologized for Tuff. “I would have brought him along to help corral Big John, but the bull hates him. He’s the only critter on the ranch that Tuff doesn’t have his bluff in on. Let me show you to the bathroom.”

Becca dripped water on the hardwood floor all the way from the living room down the short hall. The place was even cleaner than Grammie’s house, and that woman had never met a speck of dust that she couldn’t conquer. The aroma of his woodsy shaving lotion lingered in the bathroom. She was surprised to see a big, claw-foot tub on one side of the tiny space and a walk-in shower on the other.

He pointed to a hook on the wall. “You can use my robe until we get your clothes washed and dried. Toss them out in the hallway, and I’ll put them in the washing machine. In an hour, you’ll be all dry and ready to go back to the watermelon shed.”

“You don’t have to wash my things. I can do that,” she said.

“I don’t mind. I’ll put on a pot of coffee. You could use something warm to take the chill off that chilly rain. Crazy, isn’t it, how that even in the summer, the rain can feel cold?”

“Yep,” she agreed.

“Big John doesn’t like most people. I’m surprised he didn’t just run you down and take that melon away from you,” Dalton said.

“Maybe I’m a bull whisperer,” Becca suggested.

“I can believe it after what just happened,” Dalton nodded. “Just follow your nose to the kitchen when you’ve taken a shower.” He finally closed the door and left her alone.

The air conditioner kicked on, and cold air flowing down from a vent in the ceiling sent shivers up and down Becca’s body. She turned on the water in the shower and quickly slipped out of her clothing.

“Of all the days for me to wear faded blue cotton underpants,” she groaned as she peeled them down from her hips. When she was completely naked, she threw her jeans, socks, shirt, and underwear out into the hallway and fought the urge to cuss when the panties landed a foot from the rest of her things.

She stepped into the shower and was surprised to find a bottle of lavender-scented shampoo and matching conditioner. “Well, that proves he keeps things ready for the women he brings home with him,” she muttered as she worked some of the shampoo into her hair.

When she’d finished, she slid back the glass door, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around her long hair and used a second one to dry her body. Then she slipped on the white terry robe and wondered how many other women had worn it while they had breakfast with him. Just as he’d suggested, she followed the smell of coffee down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Have a seat.” Dalton motioned toward the wooden table with four chairs around it. “Have a cookie while I pour coffee. Cream and sugar?”

“Nope, just black, and thank you.” She felt very vulnerable wearing nothing but a robe that could be opened with only a tug on its belt.

“Your stuff is all in the washer. The cycle will be done in a few minutes and we’ll throw them into the dryer. I’m not sure what to do about your sneakers. I sprayed them off in the sink, but…”

“I’ve gone barefoot before.” She pulled out a chair and sat down.

He brought two mugs of coffee to the table and sat down across from her. “Me too, but that was when I was a kid. If your feet weren’t so small, you could wear my rubber boots.”

“Only little part of my whole body. I’ve been told lots of times that someone who’s six feet tall shouldn’t wear a size six shoe.” She picked up a cookie and bit into it. “Are these homemade?”

“My nana believed that a boy should be just as at home in the kitchen as the barn. If I’d had a sister, she would have made her haul hay and work cattle, but I’m an only child,” he answered. “When I can’t sleep, I bake.”

“So do I.” She took a sip of her coffee and then set the mug back on the table. “I like to cook, but I really love baking.”

“We should have