about control, although her proximity was making it hard—in more ways than one—to ignore his libido's return.
She turned toward him, oblivious to the effect she had on him. "Well, at least we won't starve." She peered past Hank, dismay and something akin to panic flooding her features. "Connie was going to make apple crisp."
He glanced at the two buckets of peeled apples and felt compelled to reassure her. "Don't worry. No one's going to miss it."
"No. I can't let these apples go to waste," she said firmly, her lips thinning.
Hank frowned, wondering why she thought it was such a big deal. It wasn't like the end of the world if some apples had to be thrown out. He shrugged. "Let the men eat them that way, or cook them down to sauce. They won't care."
Olivia nibbled on her lower lip, and Hank imagined he was the one doing the nibbling. Turning away from Olivia before she saw the evidence of his arousal, he spotted one of the ranch vehicles barreling up the driveway. "Forget about the apples for now. The men are coming in for lunch."
She glanced over her shoulder, then back at Hank. Dread seized her pale features.
He frowned at her odd reaction. "Connie said the meal was ready. It just needs to be set out."
Olivia blinked and nodded rapidly. "That's right." She seemed to shrink into herself as the truck braked in front of the bunkhouse and the men climbed out. "The tables have to be set."
As Hank placed plates and silverware on the tables, Olivia pulled out the pans of lasagna from the two large ovens and cut them into generous pieces. Hank then carried the pans to the tables, and Olivia sliced the still-warm bread with an electric knife.
"The salad is in the refrigerator," Olivia called to him.
He nodded and set them down, too, then divvied up the plates of sliced bread. Just as the tubs of butter had been placed on the tables, the men flooded the dining hall. A few of them appeared surprised by Olivia's presence. Although she often helped Connie, she was never around when the men arrived to eat.
"Do you need any more help?" Hank asked Olivia.
She shook her head, but her face appeared pinched, and she took a step back. "Go ahead and eat. I'll just stay in the kitchen in case anyone needs anything."
Puzzled by her skittishness, he suddenly remembered that she'd been assaulted. The image of someone hurting Olivia sent scalding anger flowing through his veins. He clenched his jaw, fighting the irrational wave of protectiveness.
Hank nodded curtly to Olivia and joined the other men to eat lunch. The only place left was beside Mantle, and he sat down reluctantly.
The furtive man leaned across the table, his leer on Olivia as he spoke to Hank. "You gonna share or keep that sweet ass all to yourself?"
Mantle's crudeness made Hank want to shove the man's teeth down his throat. He managed to rein in the murderous impulse and said sotto voce, "The judge might take exception to your description of his daughter."
Mantle laughed, a thick braying sound. "When did you get to be a fucking choirboy?"
Hank forced his muscles to relax. "Look, I'm only trying to keep my nose clean and get out of prison."
"Then that's something we got in common." Mantle leaned even closer. "But that's the only thing we got in common. You keep out of my business, and I'll keep out of yours, then we both get what we want."
There was no doubt Mantle was threatening him again, but Hank knew better than to get into a pissing contest. Mantle might be a son of a bitch, but he was a smart son of a bitch. He'd turn things around so Hank would be the one returning to prison if anything erupted between them.
Hank glared at Mantle, who was helping himself to the lasagna. If he or anyone else tried to screw up Hank's bid for an early out, he'd do what he had to.
There was no way he was going back to prison.
To anxious to eat lunch, Olivia cleaned up the kitchen, then finished putting the groceries away. Her head whirled with the tasks ahead,
She turned toward him, oblivious to the effect she had on him. "Well, at least we won't starve." She peered past Hank, dismay and something akin to panic flooding her features. "Connie was going to make apple crisp."
He glanced at the two buckets of peeled apples and felt compelled to reassure her. "Don't worry. No one's going to miss it."
"No. I can't let these apples go to waste," she said firmly, her lips thinning.
Hank frowned, wondering why she thought it was such a big deal. It wasn't like the end of the world if some apples had to be thrown out. He shrugged. "Let the men eat them that way, or cook them down to sauce. They won't care."
Olivia nibbled on her lower lip, and Hank imagined he was the one doing the nibbling. Turning away from Olivia before she saw the evidence of his arousal, he spotted one of the ranch vehicles barreling up the driveway. "Forget about the apples for now. The men are coming in for lunch."
She glanced over her shoulder, then back at Hank. Dread seized her pale features.
He frowned at her odd reaction. "Connie said the meal was ready. It just needs to be set out."
Olivia blinked and nodded rapidly. "That's right." She seemed to shrink into herself as the truck braked in front of the bunkhouse and the men climbed out. "The tables have to be set."
As Hank placed plates and silverware on the tables, Olivia pulled out the pans of lasagna from the two large ovens and cut them into generous pieces. Hank then carried the pans to the tables, and Olivia sliced the still-warm bread with an electric knife.
"The salad is in the refrigerator," Olivia called to him.
He nodded and set them down, too, then divvied up the plates of sliced bread. Just as the tubs of butter had been placed on the tables, the men flooded the dining hall. A few of them appeared surprised by Olivia's presence. Although she often helped Connie, she was never around when the men arrived to eat.
"Do you need any more help?" Hank asked Olivia.
She shook her head, but her face appeared pinched, and she took a step back. "Go ahead and eat. I'll just stay in the kitchen in case anyone needs anything."
Puzzled by her skittishness, he suddenly remembered that she'd been assaulted. The image of someone hurting Olivia sent scalding anger flowing through his veins. He clenched his jaw, fighting the irrational wave of protectiveness.
Hank nodded curtly to Olivia and joined the other men to eat lunch. The only place left was beside Mantle, and he sat down reluctantly.
The furtive man leaned across the table, his leer on Olivia as he spoke to Hank. "You gonna share or keep that sweet ass all to yourself?"
Mantle's crudeness made Hank want to shove the man's teeth down his throat. He managed to rein in the murderous impulse and said sotto voce, "The judge might take exception to your description of his daughter."
Mantle laughed, a thick braying sound. "When did you get to be a fucking choirboy?"
Hank forced his muscles to relax. "Look, I'm only trying to keep my nose clean and get out of prison."
"Then that's something we got in common." Mantle leaned even closer. "But that's the only thing we got in common. You keep out of my business, and I'll keep out of yours, then we both get what we want."
There was no doubt Mantle was threatening him again, but Hank knew better than to get into a pissing contest. Mantle might be a son of a bitch, but he was a smart son of a bitch. He'd turn things around so Hank would be the one returning to prison if anything erupted between them.
Hank glared at Mantle, who was helping himself to the lasagna. If he or anyone else tried to screw up Hank's bid for an early out, he'd do what he had to.
There was no way he was going back to prison.
To anxious to eat lunch, Olivia cleaned up the kitchen, then finished putting the groceries away. Her head whirled with the tasks ahead,
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