Gunpowder Tea (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) by Margaret Brownley

but she didn’t miss the hand touching the brim of his hat. The simple gesture madeher heart flutter. Never had she known an outlaw so brazen or cocky, or a man who exuded such charm. Like a woman sending her man to war, she returned his salute with a wave. The expression in his eyes was hidden, but not the flash of white teeth. She returned his smile. She couldn’t help herself.
    He turned his horse toward the rising sun and galloped off, leaving her bereft and more than a little shaken. Her papa once said that a person had only one important decision to make in life and that was whether or not to follow the Lord; everything else was secondary. Branch had chosen crime and that put them on opposite sides no matter how much she might wish otherwise.
    Sighing, she waited until the horsemen were out of sight before leaving the house and walking to the empty bunkhouse. Her heart could flutter all it wanted, but she had a job to do and she’d best not forget it.
    The smell of saddle leather, alcohol, adobe, and sweat greeted her as she opened the bunkhouse door. The building was divided into two rooms. One room was for sleeping and the other, judging by the large wooden table, was mainly for eating.
    There wasn’t much in the large room except a stack of old newspapers and some dime novels, including Miss Hattie’s Dilemma by the local author. The book made her laugh; who said men didn’t read love stories?
    A stuffed steer head hung over the stone fireplace. The skin of a rattlesnake draped from the mantel and saddle blankets were scattered about the floor for rugs.
    The second room was furnished with bunk beds. According to Able, only the single men lived here. Married men like Ruckus had their own places. Able, of course, slept in the ranch house in the room next to the kitchen.
    Knapsacks hung haphazardly from the backs of chairs or hooks on the wall. She stood in the middle of the room considering each bunk in turn. It was always the details that tripped a person and today it was the bedroll. Only one was rolled military-style and had been placed at the bottom of the bed. No cowpuncher worth his salt would leave such a tidy space. But a military man would.
    “Got you, Branch!”
    A thorough check of Branch’s mattress, bedroll, and knapsack revealed nothing remotely useful or even personal. No photographs, no letters, no notes, no paper—but lots of pens. The man hoarded pens like a dog hoarded bones.
    A quick search of the knapsacks belonging to the other ranch hands revealed nothing of any interest. A couple held photographs of pretty young women. Chips of wood on the floor marked Wishbone’s bed. She never saw the man when he wasn’t whittling.
    After rummaging through each man’s belongings, she stood in the center of the room. Hands on her waist, she turned slowly, regarding each man’s space one by one. Had she missed something?
    “Kin I help you?”
    Startled, Annie spun around. Wishbone stood in the doorway staring at her from beneath a ten-gallon hat. His knees were so far apart a cow could walk between them and turn around. His knife and ever-present piece of wood was in hand. He greeted her with a nod of his head and then resumed whittling, chips of wood falling to his feet.
    Trained to have an explanation handy for just such an occasion, she quickly explained her presence. “Miss Walker is in need of a new housekeeper and asked me to check to see how much work was needed.”
    Wishbone’s steer-horn mustache twitched. “No housekeeper ever set foot in here,” he said with a worried glance around.
    She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I can believe that.”
    He slid his knife down the length of his wood. “I’ve worked my share of ranches and I ain’t never known a housekeeper to step foot in the ranch hands’ livin’ quarters.”
    She forced a smile. “I reckon there’s a first for everything.”
    His brows slanted downward. “I don’t think the boys will cotton to someone rearranging their