Forever A Hero

Kelly smiled, momentarily distracted from her own misgivings about the afternoon ahead by a pang of envy. If her marriage had worked out, she might’ve had children of her own by now. “That’s great,” she said, meaning it.

The little girl, wearing flip-flops on her tiny feet, gave her brother a tolerant look. “Where else would we be going in swimsuits?” she asked.

The woman placed a hand on her daughter’s blond head, smiled at Kelly and said, “She’s six, going on thirteen.”

The man laughed. “God help us,” he said.

Kelly made a mental note to reassess her ideas about the nonexistence of happy families in today’s warp-speed world, but that would have to wait. She needed to stay focused on her next goal—convincing Mace Carson she knew her stuff when it came to marketing fine wine.

They reached the lobby, and the doors opened.

She stepped out, turning to the picture-perfect family. The pool was another floor down. “Have fun swimming,” she told them.

“We will!” the boy cried as the doors closed again.

She was still looking back, smiling, when she collided with a hard and distinctly masculine body.

Mace immediately gripped her shoulders, steadying her.

He grinned when Kelly faced him, all too aware that she was blushing again.

“Oops,” she said. “Sorry.”

“I was about to say the same when you beat me to it,” Mace said, dropping his hands to his sides now that she was in no danger of ricocheting off all that man-muscle. “Except, maybe, for the ‘oops.’”

Perhaps it was the smile in Mace’s eyes, or his easy manner, or the prospect of an afternoon visiting the winery and walking through the vineyard, but Kelly felt a subtle shift. She finally relaxed, let go of the self-doubt she’d been feeling for nearly twenty-four hours.

In short, she was herself again. No less attracted to Mace Carson, admittedly, but herself, focused and positive and brimming with creative ideas.

“The truck’s out front,” Mace said, gesturing for her to precede him. “And, by the way, you look great in those jeans.”

She sent him a sidelong look as they headed in that direction. “I’ll be taking my own car,” she said. Yes, the doctor had advised her to wait a few days before driving, but she felt fine. “The last time I drove, I almost went over a cliff. I guess this is the automotive version of getting back on the horse after being thrown.”

“Makes sense,” Mace said. “Think you can keep it on the road between here and the ranch?”

Kelly laughed. “We’re about to find out,” she said.

Outside, under the huge portico in front of the hotel, Mace’s truck awaited. A blue compact was parked behind it, and Kelly supposed it was her rental car, since there were no other vehicles around.

Sure enough, one of the parking attendants, a pretty young girl about the same age as Cindy, who’d served their lunch, hurried forward.

“Ms. Wright?”

“That’s me,” Kelly said, pulling out the tip she’d tucked into her jeans pocket during the five-minute wait upstairs in her room. The girl smiled, walked over to the driver’s side of the blue car, Kelly following, and opened the door for her.

Kelly slipped behind the wheel, took a single deep breath and handed over the gratuity. “Thanks...” she said, squinting at the valet’s name tag, “Maggie.”

“Thank you,” Maggie replied, accepting the tip. About to close Kelly’s door, she turned her smile on Mace, who was standing beside his truck, an expectant grin on his sexy, unshaven face.

Maggie laughed. “You can open your own darned door, Mace Carson—sir.”

Mace shook his head, as if to lament the state of today’s youth.

Then he climbed into his late-model truck, with its extended cab and outsize tires. It was black—Kelly hadn’t noticed many details the night before—and would’ve looked fancy if it weren’t for the mud splatters left over from yesterday’s bad weather.

Maggie turned back to Kelly and smiled. “You have a nice day, Ms. Wright,” she said, shutting the car door.

Kelly’s palms were moist where she gripped the wheel and, for a moment, she was almost queasy as muscle-memory reminded her, in no uncertain terms, of the terrifying sensations she’d felt when she’d lost control of the other rental car on that slippery country road.

That was then, she reminded herself firmly, and this was now. The sky was clear and achingly blue, the sun was bright, the mountains majestic in the near distance.

Kelly kept her eyes on the road, following Mace’s lead. Her brief trepidation was gone, and good riddance. She was a California native, after all, and she’d lived in the LA area since college. If she could handle those infamous freeways, the 405 included, she could certainly manage the highways and byways around Mustang Creek, Wyoming.

She was back on the proverbial horse and ready to ride like the wind.

Ten minutes later, Kelly found herself in an alternate dimension, surrounded by open spaces and dazzled by breathtaking scenery. She took in the ranch house, which looked more like a midsize hotel, the stables Mace would probably describe as a “barn,” the rail fences and windswept pastures populated by cattle and a variety of horses.

She’d visited many vineyards in connection with her job, but this place was more than that.

She parked at the top of the long gravel driveway, alongside Mace’s truck. Shut off the rental car and climbed out.

Kelly was a city mouse; she liked shopping malls, upscale boutiques and trendy bars. She enjoyed attending corporate meetings, flying first class, staying in fine hotels, although, for all that, she wasn’t particularly status conscious. She was responsible; she had an impressive investment portfolio, owned her condo outright and paid the balances on her credit cards in full every month.

Her wardrobe was carefully coordinated and yes, expensive, and her handbags cost more than the car she’d driven in college—no knockoffs for this girl.

As the cliché had it, clothes didn’t make the woman, but there was something to that idea about dressing for success.

All of which meant she was out of her element on a cattle ranch.

And fascinated by the differences.

As she and Mace met up between their vehicles, she felt that same dizzying sensation, but instead of questioning the reaction, she simply enjoyed it.

Was Mace her type?

The men she’d dated, although there weren’t many of them, had been smooth and sophisticated, wearing tailored suits and driving sleek foreign cars, but Mace was off that grid. Sure, he was intelligent and articulate; he was also an enigma, wealthy in his own right, even without the wine operation, yet comfortable in jeans, boots and shirts that probably came from a modest Western store.

The man had nothing to prove to anyone, and he knew it.

While Kelly, her undeniable success notwithstanding, had to shift mental gears in every new place or unfamiliar situation, Mace seemed comfortable in his own skin, as that other old saying went. He was flexible, certainly—his innovative wines proved that—but deep down, he was as solid as the mountains of Wyoming.

He loved this land, this ranch; he’d said the place was in his blood, and being there, Kelly knew it hadn’t been an idle statement. Intuitively, she understood that Mace was one of those rare people who carried the essence of their home within themselves. They belonged, no matter where they happened to be.

It was an enviable quality.

“Ready for a look around?” Mace asked, bringing Kelly back from her meandering thoughts.

“Absolutely,” she said, landing in the present moment with a thump. “Where do we start?”

Mace grinned, shoved a hand through his hair. “With the winery, I guess,” he replied after a glance in the direction of the grand house. “Harry will kill me in my sleep if I don’t introduce you to her, but that can wait.”

“Harry is a ‘her’?”

He nodded. “She’s the family housekeeper, and the best cook this side of the Mississippi, though if you quote me to Stefano on that, I’ll have to deny everything.”

Kelly laughed. “If I happen to run into Stefano the Great, I’ll lie like crazy,” she promised.

“Oh, you’ll run into him, all right,” Mace said, feigning concern. “He’s likely to track you down and ask why you didn’t finish that lobster salad at lunch today.”

Amused, Kelly rested her hands on her hips. “If I remember correctly, you left plenty of food on your plate, mister. Won’t Stefano be after you for an explanation, as well?”

Mace sighed. “Yeah,” he said with humorous resignation. He was leading Kelly toward his truck as he spoke. “But I plan to put all the blame on you.”

Kelly laughed again and slugged Mace lightly in the arm. “And people say you’re a hero?”

Suddenly he stopped, and his expression turned serious. “I’m no hero, Kelly. Just a man.”

She didn’t argue, although she could’ve made an airtight case that he was a hero. As for being “just a man,” well, Mace Carson wasn’t just anything, but she respected his humility.

Knowing it would be all too easy to slip back into rescued-princess mode, Kelly decided it was time to change the subject. “Are we going far?” she asked, inclining her head toward the truck.

Mace’s face changed again; the grin returned. “The winery is that way,” he said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the pastures she’d admired on the drive in. “It’s about five miles from here, and there are ruts in the cattle trail we call a road that are deep enough to swallow your rental car.” He shrugged casually. “If you’d rather hike or ride a horse, we can do that.”

Kelly let him know she hadn’t been on horseback since summer camp, when she was twelve, and though she worked out regularly at home, she wasn’t up for a five-mile walk. “You win,” she said. “Let’s take the truck.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d choose the horse,” he teased, opening the truck’s passenger door for her.

“It’s tempting,” Kelly said, and it was. “I’m a greenhorn, and I haven’t ridden in a long time, but I’d like to try again—eventually.”

“That can definitely be arranged,” Mace said, helping her into the truck.

Her seat belt fastened, Kelly looked down at her sneakers, then at Mace’s boots. She’d be needing a pair of those, she decided. Not the fancy showboat kind she could have found so easily in LA or the pricey boutiques at the resort, but the real deal.

They wouldn’t be hard to find in a place like Mustang Creek, where cowboy boots were practically part of the landscape.

“You seem to be feeling good,” Mace ventured, starting the truck and steering toward an open gate on the other side of the stable. An ancient, weathered man waited at one side, ready to close the gap after they drove through.

“Just like new,” Kelly confirmed. The truck jostled and jolted through the gate.

“That’s Red, by the way,” Mace said, raising a hand to the old man as they passed. “He’s been working for the Carson outfit for so long, he doesn’t recall when he signed on.”

Kelly watched in the rearview as Red closed and latched the gate behind them. “That’s loyalty,” she said. “But shouldn’t he have retired, say, thirty years ago?”

Mace chuckled. “Don’t let Red hear you say that,” he answered. “That old coot is still spry, and he knows more about cattle and the cowboy trade in general than any man alive.”

“He plans to die with his boots on?” Kelly asked. She might not be a cowgirl, but she’d seen her share of Western movies.

“That he does,” Mace replied, tossing her another of those devastating grins of his. “I’m impressed, Ms. Wright. I wouldn’t expect a city slicker to know the vernacular.”

Kelly smiled. “My dad and I are big John Wayne fans,” she said. “Mind if I roll down the window?” She wanted to feel the wind ruffling her hair.

“The Duke,” Mace said with reverence. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore.” He glanced at her, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. “And, no, I don’t mind if you open the window.”

The truck bumped overland, reminding Kelly of a mechanical bull she’d ridden once, somewhere in Texas. She’d gone to a cowboy bar with half a dozen business associates after an intense meeting, and she’d probably had a little too much to drink.

“You did say there was a road here somewhere?” she asked. The breeze coming in through the window smelled of sweet grass, wildflowers and, alas, manure.

“I said it was more of a cattle trail,” Mace corrected. “We haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“And this is the only way to reach the vineyards and the winery?”

He laughed. “I didn’t say that,” he replied.

Kelly gave him a mock glare. “There’s an actual road?” she demanded. “Besides the route we’re taking now?”

“Sure is,” Mace replied, clearly enjoying the exchange. “We have a retail shop and a tasting room, and we run tours a couple of times a week.”

“Not to mention trucks coming and going,” Kelly said wryly, as the one they were riding in bucked along over rough ground.

“This is a shortcut,” Mace told her.

Kelly rolled her eyes, trying hard not to laugh. “Or,” she said, “it’s a kind of initiation. Something along the lines of snipe hunting.”

“Never,” Mace lied. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“You just like doing things the hard way?”

“I do appreciate a challenge,” he admitted.

Suddenly catching on to the subtext, Kelly didn’t respond. She just held on tight and relished the soft breeze, thinking of pioneer women, traveling overland in covered wagons for months on end, fording creeks and rivers, rattling up and down mountainsides.

Eventually they bumped onto the aforementioned cattle trail, but it wasn’t much better than the rocky terrain they’d already covered.

Mace finally broke the silence. “You all right over there?” he asked, his voice subdued.

Kelly was moved by his concern, knowing he’d remembered her overnight stay in the hospital. “I’m just fine,” she told him with a smile. “Really.”

He seemed uncertain. “You were banged up—”

“No,” Kelly pointed out. “I was fine. You were the one who insisted I visit the ER.”

Mace remained thoughtful.

“Hey,” Kelly persisted, determined to keep the mood light. “This is nothing. I’ll have you know I once rode a mechanical bull.”

Mace turned her way, obviously confused. “What?”

She gave an exaggerated sigh even as a smile formed on her lips. “I said—”

“I heard what you said,” Mace answered, and the expression on his face was priceless, part amusement, part skepticism. “I’m not sure I believe you, though.”

Kelly tried to look offended. “I can prove it,” she said. “I have video.” Maybe two seconds’ worth, but she had ridden the robot bull.

Mace tilted his head to one side, as if confounded, though the gleam in his eyes told another story. “Okay,” he allowed. “Mind telling me what that has to do with spending the night in a hospital?”

“I’m trying to make a point here,” Kelly informed him loftily.

“Which is?”

“Which is, I might be a city girl, but I’m tough.”

“Did I say you weren’t?”

“Not directly,” Kelly replied airily, folding her arms. “But you wanted to see my reaction to a rocky ride across the open range.” She paused for effect. “How’d I do, cowboy?”

Mace gave a husky shout of laughter. “You did all right,” he said as the roof of a long building came into view. “For a greenhorn.”

“Don’t forget the mechanical bull,” she said, pretending to be miffed.

From his expression, Kelly guessed he was enjoying the image.

“Did you stay on for the full eight seconds?” he asked.

She frowned. “Huh?”

“That’s rodeo-speak,” Mace told her. “During the bull-riding event—in which, by the way, they use real bulls—the main objective is to stay on the critter’s back until the buzzer sounds. In eight seconds.”

“Oh,” Kelly said.

“How many seconds?”

Kelly bit her lip, murmured her reply.

Mace leaned in her direction. “I didn’t quite hear that,” he said.

“Three, I think,” Kelly answered, throwing in an extra second for the sake of her dignity.

Mace’s whistle sounded like an exclamation—a rude one.

“What?” Kelly nudged him, feeling a little indignant, although she teetered on the verge of laughter.

Mace flashed her another grin. “I’m impressed, that’s what. Three seconds isn’t a bad ride, even on a motorized barrel with a hide and a couple of horns glued on for effect.”

Just then, they crested a hill, and the vineyard came into view, acres and acres of it, set in tidy rows. The winery occupied the long building she’d glimpsed before, standing on a low rise, overlooking the crop.

Kelly spotted a paved drive, winding its way up from a dirt road and opening onto a spacious parking lot, empty at the moment except for a vintage roadster out front and a truck backed up to a loading dock in the rear.

“Is that car—” she began.

“An MG?” Mace finished for her. “Yep, ’54, all original parts.” He pulled up beside the gleaming green roadster and shut off the truck’s engine. “It belongs to my mother. My grandfather gave it to her a few years ago, and she recently had it restored.”

Mace got out of the truck, came around to her side and opened the door. She climbed down on her own because she wanted to prove she was able-bodied, her recent brush with disaster and brief hospitalization notwithstanding.

Mace didn’t comment; he simply shut the truck door behind her and headed for the main entrance. The double doors were made of thick glass, and a closed sign dangled in one of them.

Mace punched a series of numbers into a pad on the outside wall, and the locks gave way with an audible buzz.

He pushed one of the doors open and held it for Kelly.

Inside, the silence was complete.

“Where is everybody?” she asked, stepping past Mace into a reception area furnished with comfy chairs and sofas. The art on the walls was quality stuff, with a distinctly Western theme, and the floors were wide-planked hardwood, held in place by pegs instead of nails.

“We just shipped a major order. I gave everybody except the field crew a few days off.”

“Generous of you,” Kelly commented, feeling slightly disconcerted. Mountain Winery was a small venture in comparison to other wineries. If her company couldn’t count on a steady supply of the product, Dina and the board of directors would lose interest in an alliance, fast.

Before Mace could respond, a beautiful woman, around sixty, appeared in a nearby doorway. She was fit, and she wore jeans, a tank top, boots, along with a knowing smile. “My son is definitely generous,” she said affectionately. “But he’s also a hardheaded businessman. Once harvest rolls around, the whole outfit will be working overtime.”

“Mrs. Carson?” Kelly asked, extending a hand as she approached.

The woman’s grip was firm as they shook hands. “Blythe,” she corrected. “You must be Kelly Wright. May I call you Kelly?”

“Um, sure,” Kelly said. She’d read up on Blythe Carson before she left LA, a routine part of her preparations, but there was precious little information about her online, and the few pictures she’d seen fell far short of the reality. It was hard to believe this woman was the mother of three grown sons and the legal owner of a ranch valued at many millions of dollars.

Blythe smiled. “Well, Kelly, are you feeling better? According to Mace, you’ve had a rough time since you arrived in Wyoming.”

Kelly looked back over one shoulder, meeting Mace’s eyes, then turned to face his mother again. “I had a close call,” she said, “but I was lucky. Your son came along just in time.”

Mace said nothing. There it was again, that reticence. Did the man even have an ego?

“None the worse for wear, then?” Blythe asked. Her voice was like music, though it had a husky quality, too. Considering her beauty, her charm, her kindness—considering everything about her—it seemed incredible that she hadn’t remarried after her first husband’s death.

Blythe must have loved Mace’s father very much.

“None the worse for wear,” Kelly confirmed.

Blythe looked past Kelly to Mace. “I’m out of here,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

“See you at home,” Mace said.

“If you know what’s good for you,” Blythe went on, “you’ll invite Kelly to stay for supper. Harry’s counting on it. She’s been cooking most of the day.”

“I guess that depends on Kelly’s plans for the evening,” Mace told her, his tone so noncommittal that Kelly didn’t know whether he wanted her to accept or refuse.

Her plans, such as they were, included room service, a bubble bath and reading in bed.

Compared to a family dinner, the prospect seemed not merely dull, but lonely, too.

Blythe didn’t press for a decision. She simply told Kelly she’d enjoyed meeting her, gathered her belongings and left the winery. Outside, the MG purred to life.

Kelly turned back to Mace. According to her extensive research prior to the trip, Mace was the sole owner of Mountain Winery, but as she’d learned from experience, the internet wasn’t always reliable when it came to cold hard facts. If Blythe was a partner in the business, that would complicate negotiations—and Mace had used the word “we” several times in reference to the enterprise.

Mace seemed to be reading Kelly’s mind. “Mom helps out when she can. Since her father’s a vintner, she knows a lot about winemaking.” He paused. “I’d like her to be present at one of our meetings. Maybe the day after tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Kelly had come to Wyoming to talk business, but at that moment, she was strangely reluctant to do so. She’d liked the easy banter, enjoyed feeling like a friend instead of a glorified sales rep with a bullet-point agenda.

She immediately bristled at the thought. A glorified sales rep? Where had that come from?

“Come on,” Mace said. “I’ll show you where the magic happens.”

As he spoke, he put out a hand, and Kelly took it. His fingers and palm were callused; here was a man who did hard physical labor, despite his net worth—which had to be considerable.

Mace gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, then led her through the same doorway Blythe had come through minutes before, into a long corridor. There were offices on both sides, Kelly noticed, a total of four.

Three of the doors were closed, but the last stood ajar, revealing a desk, a couple of computers and stacks of file folders and printouts piled everywhere.

Mace caught Kelly sneaking a peek and grinned. “It looks like the aftermath of the Johnstown Flood in there,” he said, “but I know where everything is.”

Kelly hoped the low lighting in the corridor hid her blush of embarrassment. She wasn’t a snoop, she wanted to insist, but she bit her lip to hold back the declaration. “That,” she retorted, “is what they all say.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “it’s true.”

They moved on to another set of doors and, once again, Mace held one open, gesturing for Kelly to go inside.

The room was massive, the walls lined with gleaming equipment and, in contrast, row upon row of wooden barrels. The space was climate controlled, and the machinery gave a low, continuous hum.

The loading bay was visible from where they stood, and two men were working there, stowing the last few crates of wine in the truck Kelly had seen earlier.

“Hey, boss,” one of the men called with a wave.

“Hey back at you,” Mace responded.

The second man closed the doors on the back of the truck, slid a metal bolt into place. “Gotta get on the road,” he said. “Nice to see you again, Mace.”

Mace nodded cordially and the man jumped to the ground, climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the truck. The other man rolled down the door of the loading bay and walked toward Mace and Kelly, rubbing his hands down his blue-jeaned thighs as he did.

“Who’s the pretty lady?” he asked good-naturedly.