The Rancher's Runaway Princess

Lucy, on the other hand, was ushered through to the kitchen where she was now watching Mrs. Polcyk take some sort of pastry out of the oven. The room smelled of coffee grounds and cinnamon and fruit.

All of it filled her with such a sense of homesickness she thought she might cry. She missed afternoons like this. Tea in the drawing room was not quite the same as hot coffee and cookies in the kitchen.

“Your bags are in your room.”

Brody’s rich voice came from behind her, and she swallowed coffee and the tears that had gathered in her throat. She hadn’t realized that coming here would hurt her so much. Hadn’t realized that it would remind her of a place where she no longer belonged. And it was clear Brody took all that for granted. She wondered if he realized how lucky he was.

But she couldn’t say any of that, of course. She put the smile back in its place and spun on the stool to face him. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

He took a few long steps until he was at the stool next to her. He hardly had to move at all to perch on its seat and Lucy was reminded again how very tall he was. His voice was deep and full of teasing as he leaned forward, egging on Mrs. Polcyk. “If you tell me that’s cherry strudel, I’m yours forever, Mrs. P.”

She flapped a hand in his direction, but pulled a thick white mug out of a cupboard and poured him a cup of coffee.

Lucy felt his eyes on her and she refused to meet them again. If she did he’d see the tears that still glimmered there, and the last thing she needed was for him to see her vulnerable. And with him watching her so intently, there wasn’t an opportunity for her to wipe them away. She opened her eyes as wide as she could, willing the moisture to evaporate. She’d thought of this trip as a chance to escape. Instead, the grief she’d tamped down for the last months rose up, leaving her raw and breathless.

For a few minutes they sipped in silence. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, and she couldn’t come up with anything to talk about. Her personal life was strictly off-limits. For one, she would fall apart, and for another, he would treat her differently, and that was the last thing she wanted. Maybe it was jet lag, because she knew she should ask him about Prairie Rose and his breeding program and hundreds of other relevant questions. Instead her brain was riddled with personal questions. Why was he the only one here? Did he run this place completely on his own? How was Mrs. Polcyk related to him? But for her to ask him those questions would be opening herself up to ones of a similar nature, and she couldn’t have that.

Instead she stared into her coffee cup, fighting off memories and twisting her lips. It had to be fatigue, nothing else made sense. Certainly the feeling of resentment that was bubbling underneath all the other emotions didn’t add up. He was teasing and comfortable. And she knew he had no idea how he was taking his situation for granted. No one ever did until they’d lost and then they were left with regrets. She’d bet any money that Brody didn’t have regrets.

At least that made it easier for her to dislike him. Disliking him was vastly easier than liking. If she didn’t like him, she wouldn’t be tempted to reveal more than she should.

“Miss Farnsworth?”

She chanced a look up. He was looking at her over the rim of his cup, his eyes serious. “We’ve got plenty of time to talk business. If you’re tired, you don’t need to put up a good front. The jet lag alone has got to be killing you.”

He was giving her an excuse; being kind to a guest. And it would be a good opportunity for her to create more distance between them. She should take it. Yet the thought of facing an empty, unfamiliar room wasn’t that attractive. She’d spent enough time alone lately.

“You can start by calling me Lucy.” The staff in Marazur reluctantly called her Miss Farnsworth after she’d dressed them down for using her official title. She couldn’t abide the “ma’am” they’d come out with on her first day, either. Even “Miss Farnsworth” made her feel like a stranger; she was used to her stable mates calling, “Hey, Luce” down the corridor. But she hadn’t been able to convince the staff to call her Lucy. She didn’t want to be Miss anything or Princess anyone. She wanted to be Lucy. Maybe if Brody would call her by her name she wouldn’t feel like such a fraud.

“I like your house,” she offered, an attempt at civility. “It’s very…homey.”

Something dark flitted through his eyes even though his tone was teasing as he responded, “As the head of King Alexander’s stables, I expect you’re used to finer accommodations.”

“Not at all. It’s not like I grew up in the palace.” That much was true. She hadn’t laid eyes on Marazur until a few short months ago. And arriving at the palace had been a shock. She’d grown up in a very modest middle-class neighborhood. She was used to worn furniture and chipped dishes, not antique settees and fine china. She was torn jeans and T-shirts; Marazur was linen and lace. “I had a typical middle-class upbringing, you might say. I’m just…ordinary,” she conceded.

“How did you get the job, anyway? You’re awfully young.”

“Too young?” She bristled, familiar with the refrain. It was easier to do battle on the age front than admit she was there because of Daddy.

“Obviously not. I get the feeling you know exactly what you’re doing.”

He didn’t make it sound like a compliment, but it was wrapped in politeness so it was hard to tell.

“I grew up around quarter horses, and I…” She paused, considered. She didn’t want him to know. He couldn’t know. There would be no more coffee breaks in the kitchen, and she’d missed them desperately. Even if southern Alberta was vastly different from Virginia, this kitchen held the same feel as the one she remembered, and she was hungry for those feelings again, no matter how bittersweet. Mrs. Polcyk refilled her cup, and the scent of the brew drew her back to the smell of strong coffee in the office at Trembling Oak; to the tin of cookies that had always seemed to make its way to the scarred wooden table. These were the feelings of home.

She didn’t want to be treated any differently. As long as he thought of her as Lucy, she could pretend she’d escaped, even for a little while. If he knew who she was, he wouldn’t take her seriously. And the truth was she needed him to believe in her competence. Needed him to know she was fully capable of doing this job.

“It was a case of knowing someone who knew someone, that was all.”

Brody’s jaw tightened. First she’d called his house “homey” as if she couldn’t come up with a better word. Then she’d all but admitted she’d got her job by knowing someone. Nepotism. He despised the word. It reminded him of someone else. Someone who’d once considered Prairie Rose Ranch a little too rustic for her taste. His fingers tightened around the handle of his cup.

Mrs. Polcyk put plates of warm strudel in front of them and bustled away to the refrigerator. Brody examined the square and told himself to forget it. It didn’t matter who or what Lucy Farnsworth was. She was not Lisa, and all that mattered was concluding their business. Being allied to the House of Navarro and King Alexander was what was important. It would mean great things for the ranch and the breeding program he’d worked so hard to improve since taking over.

Brody cut a corner off with his fork and popped the buttery pastry into his mouth. “Cherry. God bless her.” He sighed with appreciation.

Lucy smiled thinly, almost as if she were unaccustomed to it. What he really wanted to know was more about King Alexander and his plans. Allying himself to one of the greatest stables in Europe would be a huge coup. He’d be able to grow his breeding program the way he wanted, really put Prairie Rose on the map. He owed that to his father. He owed it to himself, and to Mrs. Polcyk.

“What’s it like? Working for someone so high profile?”

Lucy picked up her own fork to hide her surprise. Briefly she’d sensed Hamilton’s withdrawal and got the uneasy feeling he was somehow mad at her. Now he was asking questions. Prying veiled in small talk. If he really wanted to know about her, all he’d have to do was a bit of navigating online and he’d get the whole story. She would have to give him enough to keep him from doing that, and not enough to let the cat out of the bag.

She was in such a quandary that she took a second bite of strudel before answering, pressing the buttery layers with her tongue, letting them melt. She’d been around a lot of livestock men in her life, and conversation was usually not one of their finer points. She had to acknowledge that he was making an effort, and for the sake of amicability, she considered how to answer.

Working for King Alexander was stifling at times, knowing why she was there in the first place. Being told she belonged there, when she knew she didn’t. Yet it was glorious at others, like when she got to go riding through the fields without asking permission. Being able to hand pick her own mount, with no restrictions. That little slice of freedom was all that had kept her sane.

She couldn’t reveal any of that to Hamilton, not if she wanted him to respect her capabilities. Not if she wanted him to see her as more than Daddy’s girl flirting around with the horsies. She knew ranchers. Knew that was exactly what he’d think.

She squared her shoulders and forced a smile.

“His Highness has fine stables and the best in facilities and equipment. His tack room alone is half the size of your barn, all of it gleaming and smelling of rich leather. Navarro horses are in demand all over Europe, from riding horses for the privileged to show jumpers to racing stock. His staff is dedicated and knowledgeable. It’s a manager’s dream come true.”

“But?”

She put down her fork slowly, met his eyes while pursing her lips in puzzlement. “What do you mean, ‘but’?”

“But what are you leaving out?”

“Nothing. It’s a great operation.”

“Then why aren’t you meeting my eyes when you tell me about it?”

“I beg your pardon?” She felt color rise in her cheeks and took a deliberate sip of her cooling coffee. She’d been deliberately vague, and now he was calling her on it. She never had been good at hiding her feelings. Her mother always said Lucy had no face for poker and that Lucy had come by it honestly, as she hadn’t had one, either. It had been years before Lucy understood what she’d really meant.

“You’re avoiding looking at me. My mother always said that was a sign of a liar.”

She bristled. An hour. She’d known him barely an hour and he was calling her a liar! The mug came down smartly on the countertop. He couldn’t know who she really was. And if he did, pretending he didn’t was downright rude. Mrs. Polcyk looked over, then calmly went back to cutting vegetables.

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Of course not. I’m just wondering what you’re not saying. This is my operation and my stock you’re looking at. I don’t get to travel to Marazur to check things out first. And when I get a sense that there’s more to a story, I want to know before I sign anything on a dotted line.”

She stood up from her stool. Dammit, even sitting he was slightly taller than she was. “You’re insinuating that I’m withholding something about the Navarro stables. I don’t appreciate that. The hotel is looking better and better. Navarro stables doesn’t need Prairie Rose Ranch, not as much as…” She looked around her and then back into his face, lifting her chin. “Not as much as you need Navarro. You aren’t the only stud operation in the world.”

The anger felt good, releasing. Even if she knew provoking him would be a tactical mistake.

His eyes glinted like dark shards. “Perhaps not. But I was under the impression King Alexander wanted the best.”

She met his gaze, admiring his confidence despite how annoying it was.

“And you’re the best, I suppose.”

“You wouldn’t have come all this way if I weren’t.”

Her lips thinned. He had her to rights there. She had come a long way, and it was all to do with Hamilton’s Ahab. That horse was the main reason she was here, as well as having the discretion to negotiate further stud fees and even add to Navarro with Prairie Rose stock.

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Don’t get all in a dander over it. You described the stables like a brochure would, that’s all. I’m just curious to know more. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

His implacable calm fueled her temper. Who was he to question the integrity of Navarro? She shoved her hands in her pockets to keep them from fidgeting. She knew she shouldn’t rise to the bait but with the exhaustion and surprising emotionalism, she seemed incapable of ignoring it. “All you need to know is that I’m here to do a job. A job I’m more than qualified to do. Nothing else is up for discussion.”

She spun to walk away, but his voice stopped her.

“Run away, then.”

Everything inside her froze.

Run away? Her breath caught at his casual tone. If only she could. If only she could run away from what her life had become. She was so sick of everyone telling her how wonderfully things had turned out in the end. It didn’t feel that way at all. Everything, everything she thought she’d known had been taken away with one conversation. Life had changed irrevocably, and right now all she could see was what she’d lost along the way.

Her job. Her home. Her mother.

Yes, she wished she could run away. But instead she was back to trying to prove herself and find something to anchor her again so she wouldn’t feel as if she were drifting in this endless sea of loss and grief. And that something was her job at the stables, and her task was clear: the breeding program here at Prairie Rose.

And that meant that in the present she had to somehow deal with Brody Hamilton.

She turned and looked at him, sitting there, his black eyes watching her keenly, waiting for a response. Waiting as if he could see through every wall she’d built around herself and knew what she was hiding on the inside.

And for one brief, irrational moment she did want to run. Not away, but into the circle of his arms. They looked like strong arms, arms a woman could get lost in and forget the rest of the world existed. For months now she’d been standing on her own and she was tired. Tired of feeling she had to apologize for not being happy. Tired of pretending, when all she wanted was life back the way she’d had it. Tired of knowing even the past she’d thought secure had been based on a lie. For a few moments she wondered what it would be like to rest her head on his strong shoulder and just be. To let someone carry the weight for a while.

She swallowed. This was ridiculous. She hardly knew him and what she did know she resented. It had to be exhaustion, it was the only reason that made sense to her. There was no other reason for her to feel drawn to Brody Hamilton. None at all.

Looking at him…he just knew where he belonged. He was solid and steady, and he fit in a way she never had.

That was reason enough to resist the urge to step into his arms. Reason enough to resent him for all he had and the fact that he probably didn’t even know it. The thought of stepping into his embrace was laughable.

This was a man who’d just questioned her integrity. She should be taking him down a peg. Instead she was bone tired of all of it. Her gaze dropped to his lips, and something intimate curled through her core. She mentally took a step backward.

“It’s hardly productive for us to argue,” she said, as icily as she could muster. “I believe you were right about the jet lag. I’m not myself. If you’ll excuse me…I’m sure by tomorrow I’ll be squared away and ready to get to work.”

His eyes revealed nothing.

“Of course.” The words were cold with empty manners.

“I’ll take you up, dear.” Mrs. Polcyk came around the corner with a gentle smile. Lucy turned her back on Brody again, forcing yet another smile for the kindly housekeeper. She could still sense his dark eyes on her, and they made her feel naked.

“You’ll be wanting a nice hot bath, and a good meal—dinner’s not far off.”

What Lucy wanted was to disappear for the rest of the night, but she couldn’t help but be comforted by the motherly insistence that somehow food would make everything right.

“That sounds wonderful.”

She followed Mrs. Polcyk to the stairs but turned back at the last moment, displaying some sense of good manners her mum had instilled in her.

“I’ll see you at dinner, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Yes’m.”

The housekeeper led her to the last room along the hall; a large bedroom with a window facing due west. “The bathroom is next door,” Lucy heard, though her gaze was caught by the view of the mountains hovering in the distance. She’d seen them on the highway coming south from Calgary, but since turning east at Larch Valley, they’d slid from view. Now from the second floor window they jutted, gray, dark teeth, up to the hazy blue sky.

“Can you always see the mountains from here?” Lucy spun toward Mrs. Polcyk, who was standing with her hand on the doorknob.

“Most clear days. Wait’ll you see the view from Wade’s Butte.”

“Wade’s Butte?” Lucy couldn’t recall seeing that on her map.

“Get Brody to take you out. It’s probably a couple of hours ride, just on the edge of the ranch land.”

“The name’s not familiar.”

“’Course not. You won’t find it on any map, though most from around here know it right enough. It just sort of got named that, after Brody’s granddad.”

Mrs. Polcyk aimed a bright smile. “You just go relax now, and put on your eatin’ legs. I made roast chicken tonight and there’s peach cobbler for dessert. Cally brought back two cases from BC last week.”

Lucy had no idea who Cally was and wasn’t quite sure what “BC” was, but peach cobbler sounded heavenly. “I’m looking forward to it,” she replied, with as much warmth as she could muster.

Mrs. Polcyk shut the door and left Lucy alone.

She looked around the room. It was different from any place she’d ever stayed. The floor looked like original hardwood, polished within an inch of its life, and the furniture gleamed from a fresh cleaning. The spread on the bed was homemade, a brilliant cacophony of bright colors and fabrics that made a patchwork pattern of flowers. Fresh flowers sat in a vase on the side table. Lucy went over and dipped her nose to sniff at a nasturtium. These weren’t purchased at any store. These had been cut from a garden, today. For her.

The deliberate welcome touched her, despite Brody’s gruff manner. He’d all but accused her of lying, but he’d been right. Perhaps that was what had annoyed her so much. It would be a cold day in hell before she would admit it.

She took out fresh clothing and wandered next door to the bathroom, delighted to find a small basket of little toiletries on the vanity next to a pile of fluffy towels. She put the plug in the tub and added some salts, breathing in the fragrant steam. Summertime or not, after a full day’s travel added in with the time difference, a hot bath sounded like luxury itself.

An hour later, refreshed and dressed with her damp curls framing her face, she made her way back downstairs to dinner.

Brody was in the kitchen. And he was mashing potatoes.

Lucy stopped at the bottom of the stairs, watching the scene without being noticed. His hat was off, his dark hair lying in fine whorls around his skull, his dark T-shirt clinging to his wide shoulders with each push of the masher. Behind him Mrs. Polcyk wielded a set of electric beaters, whipping cream in a clear, cold bowl. Lucy’s mouth went dry at the sight of his muscles flexing as he lifted the huge jug of milk and dumped some into the pot, scooped up some butter on a spoon and stirred it all together with a sure hand.

She really had been without a date too long. Because the sight of big Brody Hamilton whipping potatoes was doing things to her insides that she hadn’t felt in a very long time. He was tempting. So physically powerful that her body betrayed her, and when he smiled at Mrs. Polcyk, a dimple popped in his left cheek.

Oh, my.

He reached over Mrs. Polcyk’s head for a serving bowl and muttered something; Lucy nearly laughed out loud as he then skillfully dodged an errant female elbow that came flying his way.

She’d had time to think while in the bath and she knew that Brody had been right. She had been deliberately hiding something and it was natural he’d be suspicious. There was no way for him to know that she’d rather have her old life back than be ensconced at some cold stone palace in Europe. She’d also realized she needed to volunteer information about the stables and not herself. It was all a matter of slanting the focus to put him at ease.

She’d made a promise, and she wouldn’t go back on it. Even if it was the last thing she’d wanted.

Brody put the bowl on the table and turned, spying her standing by the stairway. His happy, unguarded look faded as he saw her, and she wondered why it was he disliked her so much already. “Dinner’s on,” he said blandly.

Mrs. Polcyk took a platter of chicken to the table, followed by vegetables and a boat of golden gravy. “Please sit down, Lucy,” she invited.

Lucy took the chair at the end; for some reason it seemed like the vacant spot. Brody took the other end while the housekeeper perched herself in the middle.

Mrs. Polcyk dipped her grayed head and to Lucy’s surprise began a prayer in a language she didn’t understand.

When it was over Lucy lifted her head and met Brody’s eyes. Something warm passed between them, something that spoke of a unity and recognition even though they were strangers from different lives.

And Lucy knew she had to back away from it as fast as she could. Nothing good could come of it. She couldn’t get close to Brody Hamilton.

She couldn’t allow herself to get close to anyone.

CHAPTER THREE

BRODY woke to moonlight tracing a pale line along his bedroom wall. He rolled to his back, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his face.

He’d been dreaming of her. Dreaming of her corkscrew hair falling over his hands the moment before he pressed his mouth to her defiant lips.

He raised up on to his elbows, shaking his head a bit in the dark. He wasn’t a man prone to dreams, especially about women he’d just met. But something about Lucy pushed his buttons. She was stubborn and abrasive, and damned smart if he were any judge at all. Carrying a chip on her shoulder the size of Marazur.

Yet there was something behind it. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was in the way she’d looked at him just before dinner tonight; the way their eyes had met after Mrs. P.’s saying of grace. She could be as icy as she pleased, but there was something about her that called to him.

And he would ignore that call. Her life was vastly different from his, and there was no way he’d forget it. Once burned…Well, that had been enough for him.

It was crazy, thinking about her this way. It was ridiculous to even admit to himself that he felt a physical attraction to her. It’d come plain out of nowhere and had hit him square in the gut. He’d disputed it to himself earlier but there was no arguing with the dream.

He rose from the bed and moved to the open window. Cool, crisp air fluttered over his skin. The hot, dry breezes of July nights were gone; in their place were the cold, clear nights of August, chill and full of stars. The air rushed in through the screen and he let it clear his head.

Then he saw the light.

The windows at the front end of the barn gleamed in the inky blackness. And he was positive he’d turned everything out before going to bed.

He pulled on his jeans in brisk, quiet movements. He carried his boots in his hands and crept down the stairs, checking his watch as he went. The luminescent hands gleamed at the two and the four—two-twenty. When he got to the door he saw Mrs. P.’ s jacket hung precisely beside his denim one. He snagged the latter, shoved his arms in the sleeves and slid out the door into the brisk night air.