"I’ll take care of that," he said.

"Thanks, but I can – "

"Want to get me fired?" Ten interrupted, taking the heavy pot from Carla’s hands, pot holders and all.

"Of course not!"

"Then make real sure I do the heavy lifting when Luke isn’t around or he’ll have my butt for a saddle blanket. He was very particular about not having you wrestle with gallons of boiling stuff."

The realization that Luke had told Ten to help her made emotions shiver invisibly through Carla.

"Thank you," she said huskily. "I have to admit I’ve been thinking of rigging a block and tackle for the stove."

Ten smiled as he set the pot full of stew on the worn counter. "Smells like heaven."

She gave him a sideways look. "I’d have guessed you were more familiar with unheavenly smells."

He laughed and began filling two huge serving dishes with stew, using a ladle the size of a soup plate. Smiling, Carla turned back to her other dinner preparations, grateful for Ten’s quiet help…and at the same time unable to keep from wishing that it were Luke’s hands lifting the heavy pots, Luke’s arms flexing with casual strength, Luke’s broad shoulders making the kitchen seem small.

"Is Luke coming in for dinner?" Carla asked two seconds after telling herself she wouldn’t.

"Nope."

"Is he…camping again?"

"Not this time. Some fool cow took a notion to tangle with barbed wire. Luke will walk her to the barn after he sews her up a bit." Ten looked up at the clock. "Be a few hours yet."

"Ladle some of that into the small pot, would you?" Carla asked. "I’ll keep it warm for him."

"You’re spoiling him shamefully."

She shrugged. "Just doing my job."

"None of the other cooks ever kept food warm for the man who worked through dinner."

"From what I’ve heard, none of them cooked anything worth keeping warm," Carla said dryly.

Ten bent over the ladle and inhaled. "Damn, but that smells really fine. What’s in it?"

"You wouldn’t believe me."

"Sure I would."

"The usual things, plus bourbon and juniper berries."

Ten blinked. He sniffed again. "Juniper berries?"

"Think of them as Rocking M peppercorns."

"You think of them. I’m going to eat before you tell me something I don’t want to know."

Cosy’s voice called plaintively from the next room. "Hey, ramrod, you planning on sharing any of that with the men what do the real work or are you going to keep it all for yourself?"

"Don’t get your water hot," Ten retorted. "If we fed you on the basis of work, you’d have starved to death long before now."

Carla just managed to remove the smile from her face before she walked into the dining room carrying a tray of steaming biscuits and a pot of dark mountain honey. Ten followed with the big bowls of stew. The food vanished shortly after it was put on the table.

The speed with which Carla’s cooking disappeared no longer appalled her, for she had become accustomed to thinking in terms of feeding men who routinely burned three and four thousand calories a day. During roundup, branding, calving and other seasonally demanding kinds of work, the men would work sixteen-hour days, during which they would eat a minimum of four big meals and all the "snacks" they could cram into their pockets, saddlebags or the glove compartments of their pickup trucks.

Before Carla sat down to eat, she went back to the kitchen with the stew bowls, rilling them again from the much-reduced volume of the cooking pot. After bringing the new bowls of stew, plus coffee refills, two more trays of biscuits and a new pot of honey, she sat down and ate her own dinner.

She didn’t lack for company; the men who weren’t polishing off second helpings were working their way through a third plate. By the time she had eaten her first – and only – serving, the men were through eating. It was the part of the meal Carla enjoyed most, for the full, satisfied men tended to sharpen their wits on one another while she brought in dessert.

Sometimes it was Carla who came in for her share of ribbing, but she enjoyed even that. It reminded her of the good-natured give-and-take she and Cash shared – and Luke, too, until that disastrous summer.

"What’s this I hear about you running off tomorrow and leaving us to starve?" Cosy asked as he mopped up the last of the savory gravy with a biscuit.

"True," Carla said cheerfully. "I’ve saved up some days off."

"And you’re going to run off to the city and never think of the brokenhearted boys you left behind."

"Actually," Carla said, standing up and gathering dirty plates, "I’m running off to September Canyon."

"Same difference," mumbled Cosy.

"It is?"

"Sure. We’ll starve just the same."

"You can live off the fat of the land," Ten pointed out to Cosy.

"Speak for yourself, boy. I’m trim as a rattlesnake and twice as mean."

"Three times as ugly, too," called Jones from the end of the table. As the other men laughed, Jones kicked back and lit up a cigarette, sending a streamer of smoke across the table. "But that’s still one hardhearted woman," he added, gesturing toward Carla with a burned match. "Leaving us to starve and not turning a hair over it."

"Hate to disappoint you boys," Carla said, pausing in the doorway with her arms loaded with dishes, "but I doubled up on everything I made this week and froze half. You won’t starve."

Shaking his head, Jones rocked back from the table and blew out another stream of smoke. When Carla returned and began passing out dessert, Jones watched her closely and said as though no time had passed, "It’s not the same a’tall. Nothing’s as good as fresh." He gave Carla a thorough, up-and-down look and took another drag on his cigarette. ‘"Course, I might forgive you if you gave me a big kiss before you leave."

"Nope," Carla said instantly, hearing Ten’s chair creak as he turned toward the brash young hand.

"You sure about that?" Jones asked, blowing out smoke again, looking at her with open appraisal. "Bet I could change your mind, little darling."

"Not a chance. Nothing personal, but kissing you would be like licking an ashtray."

The men laughed loudly. After a moment, Jones shook his head and laughed, too. Ten’s smile flickered very briefly, but there was a look in his eyes that told Carla a ranch hand called Jones would be hearing the rough edge of his ramrod’s tongue. And, she admitted to herself, it might be just as well; during the past few weeks she had become increasingly aware of Jones. Of all the hands, he was the only one she took care not to be alone with. It was nothing he had said or done; she simply didn’t like the way he looked at her.

Ten lingered while, one by one, the other men finished dessert. The hands had taken to carrying their dirty dishes into the kitchen after a meal, which saved Carla a lot of running back and forth. There was usually some more good-humored joking as the hands grabbed a final cup of coffee before going to the bunkhouse for a night of cards, TV, VCR movies or a few rounds on the battered old pool table.

Ten rolled up his sleeves and began scraping dishes. While he did it, he kept an eye on the men who came and went from the kitchen. Especially Jones. The hands sensed their ramrod’s displeasure. No one lingered tonight. They carried in dishes, grabbed a cup of coffee, and vanished.

Carla waited until everyone had left before she turned to Ten and said neutrally, "The way you’re snarling, not one of those hands is going to so much as say good-night to me from now on."

Ten smiled slowly. "The men understand. They can go so far and no farther."

"Fine," Carla said, irritated by the feeling of being protected beyond any reasonable need. "But what would happen if I wanted to get to know one of the men better?"

For an instant there was silence. Then, "Do you?"