“Are you going to repaint the outside in the spring when it’s warm enough?” she asked.
“Of course. The way the paint is peeling, it’s a wonder some of the boards aren’t rotted out,” Blake answered. “Thank goodness the lower half of the place is fieldstone.”
“What color?” Allie asked.
“The color of your eyes when the sun makes them sparkle.”
“Get serious, Blake Dawson!”
“Okay then. Light gray with white porch railings and trim work.” He wasn’t sure where the idea came from, maybe from that big two-story house painted gray with white trim he noticed as he drove through Throckmorton on his way to Dry Creek. “How do you see it?”
“That would be beautiful. How about a charcoal gray roof?” Allie asked.
Blake turned down the volume on the radio. “Sounds good to me.”
“Do you want to see samples? I could send pictures by phone.”
“Couldn’t you bring them by? We could decide together over a cup of coffee or a bowl of ice cream.” His voice went into its most seductive mode.
“Maybe you need to consult with your girlfriend?”
She was all business. Nothing was working. Holy smokin’ shit! Did the bad luck on this ranch turn his good luck with women upside down?
“That’s not necessary. Don’t have a girlfriend and don’t imagine my two partners give a damn what color the house is. Just pick out what you think would look good with light gray and bring it back with you. Do you need a check before you send your men after the supplies?”
“No, but I will want half this afternoon when we get there and the other half when the job is done, maybe by Friday evening, definitely by Saturday,” she answered.
“That sounds great.” Blake gave Shooter the thumbs-up sign.
“I’ll be over there by noon and we’ll get started removing those old white shingles and seeing how much damage control we need to do to the decking. Good-bye, Mr. Dawson,” Allie said stiffly.
He caught his smile in the rearview mirror. “Call me Blake. We are neighbors.”
“Thank you. You can call me Allie and is it convenient for me to drop by in an hour to do some measuring? You don’t have to be there. It’s all outside work,” Allie said.
“Whatever you need to do is fine and the back door is unlocked if you need to go inside the house.” Blake tucked the phone inside his denim jacket pocket and whistled through his teeth.
By noon there were two enormous piles of mesquite in the pasture ready to be cut up into firewood and/or burned. Blake felt like his butt had calluses on it from bouncing around in the dozer seat all morning. When he stepped down onto steady ground he did several stretches to get the kinks out of his back.
Shooter raced past him, put his nose to the ground, and flushed three rabbits before Blake could take two steps away from the machinery. Then the old dog was off and running, barking happily until the rabbits took refuge in a pile of dead mesquite and Shooter couldn’t figure out a way to get inside the tangled brush at them.
Blake caught up and scratched the old boy’s ears. “Don’t worry. They’ll have to come out sometime. Would you look at all that beautiful firewood? We’ll bring the chainsaw out here real soon and tear up their hiding places.”
The wind had gotten colder since he’d started work that morning. It was so cold that it burned his lungs when he took a breath so he pulled his coat collar up over his mouth and nose. Shooter backed his ears and took off for the house in a dead run. Blake did a fast trot right behind him, cleared the steps, and landed on the porch. He did not envy Allie and whoever she had working with her one bit. Working on a roof with that cold wind whipping around them would be a real task.
He hadn’t even hung up his coat, when someone knocked on the door. He turned around, opened the door, and there on the other side was a curvy brunette with streaks of blue in her shoulder-length hair. It looked like someone had cut it with a chainsaw. Maybe that’s what happened and it had terrified her so badly that it turned part of her hair blue.
“You must be Blake Dawson. I’m Mary Jo Clark and I brought over some chili and a chocolate pie to welcome you to Dry Creek,” she said in a gravelly voice that matched her skinny jeans and form-fitting sweater.
“Well, thank you, Mary Jo Clark. I was about to fix myself a sandwich but chili does sound so much better,” he drawled in his most seductive voice.
“If you’ll bring those big strong arms and help me carry it in from the van, I would appreciate it.” She batted her eyes at him like a seasoned bar bunny.
He followed her to the van and she raised the back hatch. “You carry that slow cooker, darlin’, and I’ll get this box. My phone number is right here.” She pointed to the end of the cardboard box and there it was, written in three-inch numbers. “If you need anything at all, honey, you just give me a call and I’ll be here in five minutes.”