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out of her pocket and showed it to him. “It’s just for 911 calls, but it would do the job.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t. We’ll get you one. It’s essential here. I’ll tell Darby—he’ll arrange it for you.”
    â€œThanks,” she said, surprised. She should have been using her own phone, but she thought it might give her away. It was one of the very expensive models. The one she was carrying looked much more like something a poor cowgirl would own.
    â€œOh, we’re nice,” he told her with a straight face. “We have sterling characters, we never curse or complain, we’re always easy to get along with….” He stopped because she was muffling laughter.
    â€œJust because Cane can turn the air blue, and Mallory throws things is no reason to think we’re not easygoing,” he instructed.
    â€œYes, sir. I’ll remember that.”
    He laughed. “If you need anything, you call,” he said. “Keep your eyes open. The man who escaped was charged with killing a man in cold blood,” he added solemnly. “Joe Bascomb. He was with me in Iraq. But desperate men can do desperatethings. He might hurt a stranger, even a woman, if he thought she might turn him in to the law. He’s sworn he’ll never go back to jail.” His eyes were sad. “I never thought he’d run. I’m sure he didn’t mean to kill the other man, if in fact he did. But they’re bound and determined to catch him, and he’s determined not to be caught. So you watch your back.”
    â€œI’ll be more careful.”
    â€œPlease do. Good help is hard to find.” He tipped his hat, and rode away.
    Morie breathed a sigh of relief and got back on her horse.

CHAPTER THREE
    T HERE WAS SOME BIG SHINDIG planned for the following Friday, Morie heard. The housekeeper, Mavie Taylor, was vocal about the food the brothers wanted prepared for it.
    â€œI can’t make canapés,” she groaned, pushing back a graying strand of hair that had escaped its bun. She propped her hands on her thin hips and glowered. “How am I supposed to come up with things like that when all they ever want is steak and potatoes?”
    â€œListen, canapés are easy,” Morie said gently. “You can take a cocktail sausage and wrap it in bacon, secure it with a toothpick and bake it.” She gave the temperature setting and cooking time. “Then you can make little cucumber sandwiches cut into triangles, tea cakes, cheese straws…”
    â€œWait a minute.” She was writing frantically on a pad. “What else?”
    Morie glowed. It was the first time the acid-tongued housekeeper had ever said anything halfway pleasant to her. She named several othersmall, easily prepared snacks that would be recognizable to any social animal as a canapé.
    â€œHow do you know all this?” the woman asked finally, and suspiciously.
    â€œLast ranch I worked at, I had to help in the kitchen,” Morie said, and it was no lie. She often helped Shelby when company was coming.
    â€œThis is nice,” she replied. She tried to smile. It didn’t quite work. Those facial muscles didn’t get much exercise. “Thanks,” she added stiffly.
    Morie grinned. “You’re welcome.”
    Her small eyes narrowed. “Okay, what about table linen and stuff?”
    â€œDo you have a selection of those?”
    â€œI hope so.” The harassed woman sighed. “I only came to work here a couple of weeks before you did. I’ve never had to cook for a party and I don’t have a clue about place settings. I’m no high-society chef! I mean, look at me!” she exclaimed, indicating her sweatpants and T-shirt that read Give Chickens the Vote!
    Morie tried not to giggle. She’d never credited the Kirks’ venomous housekeeper with a sense of humor. Perhaps she’d misjudged the woman.
    â€œI cooked for a bunkhouse