Blue Creek Bachelor

"Love is invincible facing danger and death.

Passion laughs at the terrors of hell.

The fire of love stops at nothing—it sweeps everything before it.

Flood waters can’t drown love, torrents of rain can’t put it out."

Song of Solomon 8:6-7 The Message

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Dedicated to the late Jean Drew, who founded Romance Writers of New Zealand in the 1990s, and brought a small group of us aspiring romance writers, of all ages, who didn't know each other, together. For the meetings at our homes over tea and coffee, where we could share our experiences of trying to get published, with all the disappointment and discouragement of the rejection letters, and yet, we kept at it. They were great days, Jean.

CHAPTER ONE

The wide open countryside and clear Oregon sky was like a glimpse of heaven but Jilly O’Connor still couldn't stop the squeeze of panic in her chest. A claustrophobic, overwhelming panic at the pressure riding on getting this job.

Not now. She turned her hatchback into the gateway of the Matheson ranch and jerked it to a stop.

Do not fall apart now.

Winding down the window, she sucked in the country air, taking it deep into her lungs. It was good to breathe in the fresh air instead of the musty chill from the air conditioner.  She looked ahead to the sprawling ranch house at the end of the drive and checked her watch. She had ten minutes to spare. She'd made good time driving out from Blue Creek.

Her gaze slipped to the picture of Joel taped to the dash, and the panic momentarily returned, tightening her chest harder. The photo had been taken at his birthday party last year when he'd turned seven, before his—before their—world had begun to spin out of control. Even now there were times she didn’t know it would ever come right...

Breathe, for Pete’s sake. Breathe. No one is going to hire a woman having a panic attack at a job interview.

She glanced at the photo again and thought of the coffee group, the book group, and the parent helper group. All the things she’d been and done in the old life when worrying about putting food on the table and paying rent had been other people’s problems.

Then she stuck the car in gear, released the handbrake, moved forward and remembered to breathe.

***

Clay Matheson swung open the front door to find a woman standing on the porch.

She smiled up at him and said, Good morning.

There was nothing remotely familiar about her.

Good morning, he said back. As an afterthought, he smiled, even though she screamed 'salesperson,' from her pressed navy suit and black satchel, to the neat hair brushing her shoulders.

Selling was the only thing she could possibly be doing here, all this way out from town. Unfortunately for her, he was in no mood to buy.

I’m sorry you had to make the trip out here but I'm not interested.

She increased an already determined grip on her satchel. You're not interested in what?

He massaged his temples as the day's list of chores began to pound on his mind. Whatever it is you’re here to sell.

Oh. Her face relaxed. I’m not selling.  She held out her hand. I’m Jilly. Jilly O'Connor.

The name was familiar. Vaguely. Even so, he wished she'd just turn and go but he took her hand and shook it. Her skin was warm and soft. An alien feeling these days. He let it go and said, Since we seem to be making introductions— unnecessary introductions, he thought— I’m Clay Matheson.

Relief flashed across her face. "So you are Mr Matheson. For a moment I thought you— She shook her head so firmly her hair shifted from side to side. Never mind. I wasn’t sure."

Curiosity made him relax his stance a fraction. You weren't sure about what?

I wasn’t sure who you were. It’s pretty clear you’re not expecting me even though I have an appointment.

He narrowed his gaze at her. You have an appointment?

Her eyes were lit for the briefest moment by something resembling panic but just as quickly, it vanished. Yes, I do. I’m here for the interview.

The interview, he said flatly.

Yes. The interview.

The interview. He mentally kicked himself. Of course. Of course she wasn't selling anything. Her car was a dented hatchback in need of a paint job, not the car of a professional looking to make a sale. How could he have forgotten she was coming out today?

And this is exactly the reason you need some help around the place.

He massaged his temples wearily. Look—Ms O'Connor—I'm sorry. It looks like I got the time wrong.

Or did I get it wrong? The calm in her voice didn’t match the unease in her eyes. Smoky blue eyes, he realized now. I’m sure you said 9.30 for my interview?

I probably did. He made a mental note to get his housekeeper to let today's scheduled appointments know he was running late. Look, now will be fine since you're here.

He hesitated as his gaze flicked discreetly over her. Except... She was nothing at all like he’d imagined. He’d pictured an older woman, a matronly woman more along the lines of his housekeeper, Flo. Not a much younger woman in her twenties.

She lifted her chin. Is there something wrong?

You could say that.

Excuse me for saying, he said, but I was under the impression that the woman coming out today was a widow. Her low-pitched voice had sounded even huskier over the phone.

She gave a quick nod. I am widowed. My husband died a year ago.

Sheesh, Matheson. I’m sorry. Her world had gone up in smoke and he was being an ass questioning her. It’s just that you’re not as— he floundered for the right word "—mature as I figured you’d be."

I did put my age on my application.

He narrowed his gaze in the direction of the kitchen—and Flo. She’d been the one who’d sorted through the resumes, short-listed them, and given him a run-through of each applicant. She hadn’t mentioned how old any were, and he hadn’t thought to ask. He’d assumed she knew what he wanted—and did not want—and there were reasons he didn’t want ‘young’.

He glanced back at Jilly as she waited expectantly. He'd admit it, she intrigued him. She'd applied for a live-in job on a ranch that some might consider close to the boondocks. There had to be a heck of a reason for that.

He beckoned inside. Come on in and take a seat.

He showed her into the office, gestured to a chair and said, I apologize again about the mix-up. Look, I’m about to fix a glass of iced tea. Can I get you one?

She nodded, relieved. Thank you. I’d appreciate it.

She chose the chair in front of his father’s old walnut desk, crossed her legs, and set her satchel on her lap. Her back was stiff as a board.

For a moment he hesitated. It was a shame she’d come out all this way. Yes, he needed help in his office and he needed it bad, but he had an idea of the person he wanted, and he very much doubted that Jilly O'Connor was it.

He went through to the kitchen to find Flo leaning over the table, staring into the bottom of a Royal Doulton teacup. She glanced up with a look on her lined face. Not an innocent look, either. It was more fake innocent. Those dang tea leaves. He’d seen Flo and her friend, Gert Tremaine, take half a day analyzing the wretched leaves.

That one looks smart, Flo commented. Appears to be better than that other girl you hired. Who is she?

Clay took tumblers from the cupboard and filled them with iced tea from the fridge. Jilly O’Connor. She’s the widow.

Flo looked back at the teacup and let out a low whistle.

Clay set the pitcher down with exasperation. Don't get your hopes up because I'm pretty sure, she's not the one.

Flo frowned. How do you figure that?

He didn’t answer. No doubt Jilly was smart and capable, but the job was more than the office, much more. She needed to be able to handle both the ranch and his vet practice and even more, needed to be able to handle the whims of Flo and the ranch hands, John and Mitch; ranch hands who’d been here as long as he’d been born. If they chose to, they could make life difficult with their crotchety ways.

They had, after all, with the last girl. Even though it turned out she had designs on more than a pay check.

Flo took her apron from the back of the chair, tied it on and said, I’ll take the iced tea through to the office.

No, you don't. Clay put the pitcher back in the fridge and snagged the glasses with a grin. Resist the temptation to poke your nose in, Flo.

Flo raised her eyebrows. You wanted me to select the applicants and I did. In fact, I can remember Jilly O’Connor’s application. She got laid off from Clark's Furniture last month, and she has to leave her apartment because the landlord’s getting his elderly parents in there. I also happen to remember she is very qualified, and she used to work for an animal shelter so she doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty.

There’s qualified and there’s capable of doing what we need done on the ranch. Though the animal shelter work impressed him.

Flo emptied the tea leaves from her cup into a bin. She let the lid shut with a clang.

And by the way, he added, you didn't tell me she was young.

Flo didn’t blink. I gave you the resumes last week. You can read.

Except he hadn’t.

And now he had the wrong applicant in his office. He glanced at the wall clock and decided he’d spare her ten minutes. He made his way back to the office. He had a couple more applicants to check out later in the week, and with any luck they’d been raised around Blue Creek and knew something about ranch life. Resolve firmed in his gut.

As he reached the door, the lingering scent of Jilly O’Connor’s perfume greeted him, and for a moment, it startled him. It was in stark contrast to the ranch, to the men who lived and worked here. To the memory of his father who’d worked decades to build up this ranch, this business.

The scent was too pretty, too soft, and diversions like that had no place, especially when the last time anyone had worn perfume around here had been his ex-girlfriend, Stacey.

And maybe his mother, although he had no idea if she’d been a woman who sprayed perfume. He had few memories that went that far back.

Either way, he’d make this as painless as possible. For both of them. 

***

Jilly heard a woman’s voice and wondered if there was a future Mrs Matheson on the ranch. There’d been speculation in town about who Clay was dating. It had been untenable in the minds of the women she'd got to know that a man this good-looking could remain a bachelor, especially in a town with a high female to male ratio. And he was good looking, with his lean hips, broad shoulders, and those brown-to-black eyes on a face that shrieked ‘poster boy’ for ranchers. He was also smart, a qualified vet who ran a successful ranch in an economic climate which had seen several ranches go under. She'd learnt he was rarely seen in town, and when he was, it was for business. Pleasure and Clay Matheson, apparently, did not go hand in hand. If she got the job, her work would be cut out for her. If.

She studied the office. Bookshelves lined one wall, cabinets and storage cupboards another. Disorganized stacks of files jostled for space with ranching and business periodicals. It seemed chaotic, yet also spoke of stability.

Stability was good.

The floor creaked and Clay strode back with two glasses of tea. 

I want to apologize again about the mix up. He handed her a tumbler, set his glass on the desk, seemed to remember he had a stack of coasters and moved his glass onto one of them.

He settled into his chair with surprizing grace for such a tall man, and checked his watch.

He frowned, reached for a pen, then looked across at her.

She smiled; he didn't smile back. Her optimism sank another notch.

As I said in the advertisement, he began, I need an assistant here in the office. The workload has gotten crazy these past months and I've had to face facts: I need help with the business side. I had someone last year but it didn’t work out, and neither did me trying to do it without help.

From the sudden tension in his eyes, the admission clearly didn't sit well with him. He took a long swallow of the iced-tea. My housekeeper, Flo, has been doing double duty for a while, but another hand around here will ease everyone’s workload. I also employ two full-time ranch-hands, a couple of part-timers, and casuals for the seasonal work.

She’d heard talk of his tight-knit staff. Thinking about it now, there’d been a word of warning about it.

He went on, A lot of the daily chores I want done by the assistant are basic. Organizing appointments, paying bills, the wages, ordering supplies, dealing with the paperwork. He shot a weary glance at a stack of it. Which despite so much being online, seems to keep getting bigger. Your general office stuff. I’ll get my hands in the manure—so to speak. His dark eyes flashed, and his mouth began to widen into a grin. When it comes to knocking out emails, I could be here all day.

He pulled a folder out from the pile, a bright orange post-it stuck on the cover. Her resume. I took over the ranch when my father passed away, a few years back now. He lived and breathed the business all his life.

Jilly noted he spoke about his father matter-of-factly, that it was in the past enough he’d come to terms with his grief. He didn’t mention his mother. Or a wife.

He passed over a paper with wages, hours, terms of employment and the tenancy agreement. She skimmed over the details, and he leant back in his chair.

She felt his scrutiny and along with it, his doubts.

He said, It's your turn to tell me why you think you’re right for this job.

She clasped her hands together tightly.

Sell yourself, Jilly. She began, I was business support at Clark’s Furniture so I’ve had hands-on experience with daily business practices. She almost winced, it sounded so formal, so rehearsed.

Business support, huh. That sounds fancy.

It means I ran reception, dealt with the clients, assisted with the payroll and with purchasing. There was a lot of variety in the job.

He tapped his pen on her resume. You were at Clark’s Furniture for— He frowned as he looked down. Just the past few months. I heard something about them laying off staff. You weren't there long.

I only moved to Blue Creek last year.

Clay leaned back further in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. Things are pretty tough in town at the moment for a lot of folk. He paused, his gaze squarely on her. Have you ever worked on a ranch, Ms O’Connor? His voice had softened, almost in sympathy.

Because he knew the answer.

No, she admitted. I haven’t. Actually, this is my first time on a ranch.

He brought his hands back down to the desk. I'll be honest with you. I assumed anyone applying for this job would have some idea of how a ranch runs. It’s a different life out here from the town, and it’s not all square dancing and Bambi.

You have deer? she blurted.

He closed his eyes a second. This is a ranch, Ms O’Connor. We have a lot of wildlife.

Jilly felt her face grow hotter, and he sent her a curious glance before he looked back down at the papers. You took accounting at college, he noted. His eyebrows rose. But you didn’t graduate?

No. I was a few papers short.

Why didn’t you stay on and finish?

I— How did she explain that, without sounding like the naive, misguided young wife she'd been. She said, I got married.