turning her belly into a churning vat of acid.
As a lawyer, she'd juggled cases ranging from shoplifting to theft to assault and murder. Yet she'd never felt as overwhelmed and inadequate as she did now. Preparing a brief seemed like child's play compared to preparing a meal for twenty men.
She comforted herself with the knowledge it would only be for two, maybe three days. Until her father found someone else to take the job. Someone infinitely more qualified than one burned-out ADA.
The murmur of men's voices rose, and chairs were pushed back. Footsteps faded as they left the dining hall, and Olivia breathed a sigh of relief.
Buck appeared in the kitchen's doorway, his hat in his hand. "Where's Connie?"
"Her mother is in the hospital," Olivia replied. "She had to leave right away."
"If you want, I can get one of the men to do the cookin' until the boss can hire someone."
Olivia considered it but knew her father was already shorthanded for this time of the year. Besides, a part of her had enough of hiding out. "No, that's all right. I can do it."
He appeared relieved. "If you need any help, let me know, and I'll get one of the men to give you a hand."
"Hank Elliott was in here unloading supplies, so he helped me set the tables."
"If you want, I'll have him stay and help you clear off the tables then."
Grateful, Olivia nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
With one last respectful nod, Buck walked away. She saw him stop by Hank and speak to him. Hank's gaze shifted to her, and she turned away to fill the sink with warm, soapy water. Just as she turned off the faucet, Hank brought in a stack of dirty dishes.
"Where to you want these?" he asked.
"Set them on the counter."
From her peripheral vision, she saw his sun-darkened hands set the pile on the counter. His short, blunt fingernails were amazingly clean, devoid of the typical ground-in dirt. However, tiny scars on his knuckles told Olivia he'd participated in a fistfight or two, and she shivered at the evidence of his violent side. But then, maybe he'd been defending himself, and she couldn't fault him for that.
While she rinsed the dishes, then placed them in the industrial-size dishwasher, Hank made several trips with dirty pans and plates.
"Do you need anything else, Ms. Kincaid?" he asked with a molasses drawl that sent a shiver of desire up her spine.
Olivia cleared her throat. "No."
Hank's boot heels echoed dully on the wood floor, leaving silence in his wake. And an odd hollowness in Olivia's chest.
The remainder of the afternoon flew by as Olivia attempted to fill Connie's shoes. Pasty mixtures of flour and water dotted the countertops, but chicken and dumplings simmered happily on the stove. She'd taken Hank's suggestion and made applesauce, which added a zest of cinnamon to the air amid the stomach-growling scent of chicken.
Once the dishwasher was done, Olivia set the table with the now-clean plates and silverware in preparation for dinner. She made fresh coffee in the large restaurant-style coffeepot. Her stomach growled at the mouthwatering smells.
At six o'clock, a knock on the door startled her. She opened the door a crack, and when she saw it was Hank, she swung it wide open.
"Do you need some help?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you," Olivia said, pleased that he'd returned.
Hank simply nodded and came inside. Olivia's nose twitched from the smell of soap that wafted in his wake. He'd obviously washed up before coming over to offer his help, but the soap couldn't cover the scent of leather and masculinity that was distinctly him.
"Are you doing all right?" Hank asked when he came back for another hot kettle of chicken and dumplings.
She brushed back a strand of damp hair from her forehead and offered him a tired smile. "I don't know how Connie does it day after day."
He shrugged. "She's used to it. You've been recovering."
Olivia stiffened at the reminder. "For too damned long."
Hank regarded her silently. "The men will be coming in pretty
As a lawyer, she'd juggled cases ranging from shoplifting to theft to assault and murder. Yet she'd never felt as overwhelmed and inadequate as she did now. Preparing a brief seemed like child's play compared to preparing a meal for twenty men.
She comforted herself with the knowledge it would only be for two, maybe three days. Until her father found someone else to take the job. Someone infinitely more qualified than one burned-out ADA.
The murmur of men's voices rose, and chairs were pushed back. Footsteps faded as they left the dining hall, and Olivia breathed a sigh of relief.
Buck appeared in the kitchen's doorway, his hat in his hand. "Where's Connie?"
"Her mother is in the hospital," Olivia replied. "She had to leave right away."
"If you want, I can get one of the men to do the cookin' until the boss can hire someone."
Olivia considered it but knew her father was already shorthanded for this time of the year. Besides, a part of her had enough of hiding out. "No, that's all right. I can do it."
He appeared relieved. "If you need any help, let me know, and I'll get one of the men to give you a hand."
"Hank Elliott was in here unloading supplies, so he helped me set the tables."
"If you want, I'll have him stay and help you clear off the tables then."
Grateful, Olivia nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
With one last respectful nod, Buck walked away. She saw him stop by Hank and speak to him. Hank's gaze shifted to her, and she turned away to fill the sink with warm, soapy water. Just as she turned off the faucet, Hank brought in a stack of dirty dishes.
"Where to you want these?" he asked.
"Set them on the counter."
From her peripheral vision, she saw his sun-darkened hands set the pile on the counter. His short, blunt fingernails were amazingly clean, devoid of the typical ground-in dirt. However, tiny scars on his knuckles told Olivia he'd participated in a fistfight or two, and she shivered at the evidence of his violent side. But then, maybe he'd been defending himself, and she couldn't fault him for that.
While she rinsed the dishes, then placed them in the industrial-size dishwasher, Hank made several trips with dirty pans and plates.
"Do you need anything else, Ms. Kincaid?" he asked with a molasses drawl that sent a shiver of desire up her spine.
Olivia cleared her throat. "No."
Hank's boot heels echoed dully on the wood floor, leaving silence in his wake. And an odd hollowness in Olivia's chest.
The remainder of the afternoon flew by as Olivia attempted to fill Connie's shoes. Pasty mixtures of flour and water dotted the countertops, but chicken and dumplings simmered happily on the stove. She'd taken Hank's suggestion and made applesauce, which added a zest of cinnamon to the air amid the stomach-growling scent of chicken.
Once the dishwasher was done, Olivia set the table with the now-clean plates and silverware in preparation for dinner. She made fresh coffee in the large restaurant-style coffeepot. Her stomach growled at the mouthwatering smells.
At six o'clock, a knock on the door startled her. She opened the door a crack, and when she saw it was Hank, she swung it wide open.
"Do you need some help?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you," Olivia said, pleased that he'd returned.
Hank simply nodded and came inside. Olivia's nose twitched from the smell of soap that wafted in his wake. He'd obviously washed up before coming over to offer his help, but the soap couldn't cover the scent of leather and masculinity that was distinctly him.
"Are you doing all right?" Hank asked when he came back for another hot kettle of chicken and dumplings.
She brushed back a strand of damp hair from her forehead and offered him a tired smile. "I don't know how Connie does it day after day."
He shrugged. "She's used to it. You've been recovering."
Olivia stiffened at the reminder. "For too damned long."
Hank regarded her silently. "The men will be coming in pretty
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