Running Blind by Linda Howard

that he’d been a big saver back when things had been great. Those savings had come in handy over the years.
    His gaze went beyond the men to the mountains in thedistance. He wasn’t a sentimental sap, but this was home. He didn’t want to be anywhere else.
    Just about the time they finished repairing the fence, Zeke saw Spencer step out onto the bunkhouse porch. “Come and get it!” the kid yelled before ducking back inside.
    Zeke pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. After putting away their tools, everyone trooped toward the bunkhouse. As ranch accommodations went, the bunkhouse wasn’t too bad. Only five of the men actually lived there; two were married and had their own houses, and the foreman, Walt, who was both the oldest and had been with Zeke the longest, had his own very small private house beside the bunkhouse. The larger building had six small bedrooms and three full baths, as well as a sizable common area that was furnished with battered recliners and a big-screen TV, and a full, if not very modern, kitchen. The bunkhouse was solidly built, had a wood-burning stove to back up the heating system just in case, and essentially served its purpose. The long trestle table would comfortably fit all of them; sometimes Zeke ate with them, though most of the time he opted for a sandwich, eaten alone, while he slogged through paperwork.
    As soon as he stepped into the bunkhouse, his heart sank. It was oatmeal, all right, but then all he’d specified was that the food be “hot and fast.” Spencer had also added some cheese toast to the mix. The consistency of Spencer’s oatmeal aside, cheese toast wasn’t something Zeke would ever have picked to go with it. He felt like gagging. Judging from the expressions on the other men’s faces, he wasn’t the only one. Jesus. When he had time to do something about it, he seriously needed to look for a cook.
    But not a woman. After the last fiasco, never again would he hire a woman unless she met the triple criteriaof being at least middle-aged, married, and completely uninterested in horny cowboys. What he really wanted, now that he thought about it, was a male cook. Men could cook as well as women. Weren’t all the great chefs men? The fact of it was, nine dicks and one vagina together on one large slice of land just didn’t work, unless the woman was married to one of the men.
    With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, some of the men sat down to shovel in a bowl of the gluelike oatmeal. Others opted for the cheese toast. None of them ate both. Patrick mentioned, in an almost offhand way, that he’d had instant oatmeal before and it wasn’t too bad. Figuring the cheese would stick with him longer than the oatmeal, Zeke grabbed a couple slices of toast before the others beat him to it.
    Hell, he couldn’t fault Spencer. The kid hadn’t hired on to be a cook, didn’t want to be a cook, but did whatever Zeke asked of him. He did a marginally decent job in the kitchen, but he wanted to be a cowboy. God knew he’d never be a brain surgeon.
    “Where do you need me, boss?” Spencer asked eagerly, around the toast he’d stuffed in his own mouth. His gaze went to the window, scanning the land before him and the mountains in the distance with the same kind of reverence Zeke himself felt. It would be cruel and unusual to put him to housework full-time. “Won’t take but a minute to do the dishes.”
    “All hands in the hay fields,” Zeke answered briefly. Until the hay was in, everything else was on hold, including collecting semen from his prize bull, Santos. Selling bull semen had turned into a profitable business aspect of the Decker ranch, and no one was better with animals than Spencer. Whatever it was about him, he had a calming influence on them: horses, dogs, cattle—even bulls. When you were collecting semen from a two-thousand-pound bull, keeping him calm was important—or at leastas calm as could be expected, under the circumstances. Therefore