The Rancher's Bride

Here Comes The Bride!

Rude with a bad attitude—that’s Ryan Clayborne, all right. From the moment she meets her new boss’s son, Jorie Peters vows to spend as little time as possible with the surly rancher. That she has to plan his wedding? Well, that’s just bad luck. The sparks shooting between them? Those are a Texas-size disaster.

The last thing Ryan needs is some big-city wedding coordinator stomping her high heels all over his ranch. He has bigger things on his mind—mainly a temporary marriage to a friend he doesn’t love. But one look at Jorie turns the cowboy’s life, and heart, upside down. Heated thoughts lead to cold feet, but Ryan’s still determined to do the honorable thing. Even if doing right has never felt—so wrong...

“I met your bride today.”

Ryan nearly winced, caught himself just in time and managed to croak out, “Oh, yeah?”

“She seems…sweet.”

He caught the pause, found himself meeting Jorie’s gaze despite his resolve. She’d put her hair up. It made her cheekbones look high and sexy, like a damn lingerie model.

“I take it you were expecting overbearing and ostentatious.”

To his surprise, she appeared to consider the question, her head tipping to the side.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Jorie admitted, her pretty blue eyes narrowing for a moment. “But she’s really nice.”

Everyone loved Laurel, including the man who’d gotten her pregnant—or so he claimed. He’d run out on her the moment he’d discovered she was pregnant.

“She’s a good girl.”

Something sparked in Jorie’s gaze, something that made him instantly regret his words. Damn it. She was too smart. He realized that was part of his attraction. Had she picked up on the one tiny detail about his wedding he didn’t want anyone to know? Had she somehow put it together that he didn’t love his bride?

The Rancher’s Bride

Pamela Britton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

With over a million books in print, Pamela Britton likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that changed thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR.

But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and RT Book Reviews. She’s won numerous awards, including the National Reader’s Choice Award and a nomination for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.

When not writing books, Pamela is a reporter for a local newspaper. She’s also a columnist for The American Quarter Horse Journal. The Rancher’s Bride is the author’s twenty-seventh title.

For Melissa, sister of my heart, fellow horsey-person extraordinaire, maker of the always divine venison Swiss steak (eat your heart out, Pioneer Woman), consumer of all things martini (with me).

I love you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Chapter One

The hot breath of Texas enveloped Jorie Peters like a steamy wet blanket.

“Ugh.” She grimaced, swiping at a brow already covered by sweat.

So this was Texas?

Her gaze swept over rolling hills and grass-covered pastures. It didn’t look a thing like she expected.

She inhaled a deep breath of resignation. The scent of fresh-cut grass made the humidity seem heavier. The building she’d parked in front of was filled to the brim with hay and at least four stories tall. Its dark shadow spread across the gravel road like a blob of ink. Three other outbuildings surrounded her. Farm buildings, she clarified—one to her right which held tractors and one to her left which housed equipment, and some kind of long one out in the distance behind the building where she’d parked. She turned, her heel grinding into the gravel as she spun in place, wondering where to go. There was nothing that looked like a horse barn in sight.

“You can’t park there.”

Her heart jumped out of her throat. She turned, trying to find the voice’s owner.

“I have another squeeze of hay coming in.”

The words echoed, so much so that she couldn’t determine where they came from.

“Up here.”

Oh. Up.

Her gaze drifted along the hundreds of hay bales. And there he was, at least twenty feet above her, a tall, lanky male wearing an off-white cowboy hat. Well, this was Texas after all, and so she should expect the hat. She was a long ways away from Atlanta. He wore chaps, too—kind of. They were too short for him, the leather flaps looking as if they belonged on a six-year-old and not a grown man. She watched as he began to hop down, navigating the uneven blocks like a billy goat, and when he stopped in front of her, all she could think was holy moly.

He looked like something out of a Hanes underwear commercial.

Boxers? Or briefs?

Dark, dark hair. Eyes the color of the Aegean Sea, the stormy kind of sea pirates sailed upon. Or maybe it was his dark good looks that made her think of pirates. He had rough stubble on his chin, and she had a feeling that by five o’clock he’d have quite a shadow on his jawline.

“You should park in front of the barn.” His tone was stern.

“That’s what I’m looking for.” She swiped hair that was quickly turning into a corkscrew of blond curls off her forehead. She’d drawn her hair back into a bun—more professional that way—but as always, several strands had escaped. She was probably a mess after her twelve-hour drive. No doubt she had as much dust on her as her compact car. “I was told there was an office upstairs and that I should see Odelia Clayborne.”

He swiped some sweat off his forehead, the motion allowing a better glimpse of his eyes. They were piercing. Truly amazing.

“You Jorie Peters?” His gaze swept over her black business suit and what suddenly seemed like a silly choice of shoes—black pumps.

“I am,” she said in surprise.

“Barn’s over there.” He motioned with his chin, turning away as if about to climb the hay bales once more.

“You mean the big long building?” she called out after him.

He nodded, half turned. He smelled of hard work, the tangy scent of man catching a wayward breeze and drifting over to her. It reminded her that it’d been a long time since…well, just since.

“The really big building over there,” he explained. “It’s a covered arena. One with stalls inside and an office upstairs.”

Ah. That explained it. She’d been looking for her own idea of a horse stable. Red. Double doors. One with a white X painted on the front.

The sound of a tractor caught her attention. His, too. They both turned.

“Better move that car,” he ordered, pointing as if she needed help identifying her vehicle.

Jorie immediately saw why. A huge stack of hay was headed in their direction, one propelled by a tractor of some sort, the driver’s cab completely obscured by the grassy blocks.

Good heavens, how did the driver see?

“Thanks,” she shouted as she all but dove for her car. That was all she needed—a tractor to run over her Honda.

Her only possession.

She slid inside her vehicle, refusing to think about that. This was a new start. A new life. Her business in Georgia—Wedding Belles—was now defunct. A victim of the recession, just as she was herself. In her rearview mirror she caught a glimpse of the cowboy, the man watching her take off, hands on his hips.

Jerk.

No smiles. No words of welcome. Just “move your car.”

How did he know who she was?

Whatever. She had more important matters on her mind, like meeting her new boss.

Jorie steered her vehicle past one of the outbuildings, immediately spotting a house in the distance to her left that’d been blocked from her view, although calling it a house seemed like a misnomer. The place would have done Gone with the Wind proud. Three stories tall. Four white columns that sprouted up from a wraparound porch, and dark green shutters on either side of the windows…and there were a lot of windows. A porch swing hung between two of the columns. Rattan furniture was clustered near the corner of the rail. Behind the house a line of trees could be seen a few hundred yards away. Jorie wondered if there was a creek down there. It sure looked like it.

“Wow.”

The oaks were huge, their shiny foliage a darker green than the grassy hills that surrounded them. Behind the mansion was another house, smaller, but just as beautiful.

Was that the bridal suite, the one her new boss had told her about? The place where brides were pampered in the hours leading up to their weddings? Masseuse, manicurist, hair stylist—all brought in from the outside to make their day special. And not just brides, but the bridesmaids, too.

The road forked. She took the branch to her right.

Spring Hill Ranch was not what she expected.

For some reason she’d been thinking single-story buildings, white picket fences, maybe a rustic-looking barn. This place looked like a movie set. Sure, off in the distance were the white fences—she’d followed one down a long, sweeping driveway for what must have been at least a mile—but this place was a private sanctuary that took Jorie’s breath away. No wonder brides flocked to the location to get married. She could picture a carriage rolling down the hills to a wedding tent pitched beneath a grove of trees.

“Here we go,” she said as she pulled up in front of yet another strange-looking building. This one had a massive opening in the front. Inside she spotted a horse and a rider, the pair galloping around so fast it was a wonder the man’s hat didn’t fall off.

Her door creaked when she slammed it closed, something that’d been happening more and more of late. With over 100,000 miles on the odometer it was a wonder the car had made it to Texas.

“Hello?” she called out to the rider.

It wasn’t a cowboy.

It was a cowgirl—or maybe cow-woman was a better description. The rider had gray hair, the light blue shirt she wore clinging to a trim body that belied her age. She skidded to a stop, literally, her horse leaving twin tracks in the arena dust.

“Jorie?” the woman called out in surprise.

She was at least twenty feet from her, and yet her vision must have been sharp, especially since the arena was set back from the entrance. Jorie slipped inside the building through a massive opening. It was at least twenty degrees cooler inside.

“Mrs. Clayborne?”

Even though her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness inside, Jorie could see the woman’s teeth flash.

“Why, you are Jorie, aren’t you?” the woman said, her southern accent catching on vowels and elongating them.

She wore chaps, too, and they were as short as the ones worn by the man in the hay barn, only these had fringe and silver conchos up the side. Beneath the chocolate-brown leather she wore jeans, and tucked into those jeans was a fancy Western shirt complete with white fringe along the front that complemented the woman’s light eyes and gray hair.

“My goodness. I didn’t expect you for another day.” The woman jumped down from her brown horse as if she were twenty rather than the sixty Jorie judged her to be. A horse neighed, and Jorie spotted a row of fancy stalls on the other side of the piped fencing that encircled the arena.

She’d driven straight through. Barely stopping to use the rest room in Louisiana, Jorie was ashamed to admit that she hadn’t had the money to spend yet another night in a hotel.

“I was anxious to get here.”

The woman clucked, her horse’s neck stretching out as it reluctantly followed behind. The closer she came to Jorie, the more the tension in Jorie’s shoulders eased. The woman’s eyes were a balm to Jorie’s battered soul. They were kind, unlike that cowboy’s eyes.

“Well, I’m glad you made it, honey.” She patted the neck of her horse. “You must be exhausted.”

That was an understatement. She hadn’t had sleep in, well, in a while. She’d passed the point of being hungry, too. All she wanted was a bed.

“Why don’t I get Ryan to show you to your quarters?” She opened a gate, the metal catch clanking and echoing across the arena. The horse she led, an animal with a brown body and a black mane and tail, snorted. “He’s my son.” She flashed another smile.

And Jorie put it all together. Actually, she should have realized it the moment she looked into the woman’s eyes. They were the same color. Only it was hard to fathom the two of them being related. The woman in front of her had a generous smile and kind eyes, while her son had…well, suffice it to say the apple had fallen far from this tree.

“Come on. I’ll introduce you two.”

“I think he’s unloading hay.”

“Did you see him?” the woman asked, motioning Jorie to follow as they headed down a wide aisle along the front of the building and toward the row of stalls. Jorie noticed her hat then, fancy stitching embroidered into the brim. Some kind of floral design with rhinestone crystals in the middle.

Pretty.

“Actually, I think we’ve already met.”

The woman stopped, gray brows lifting nearly to the brim of her hat. “Oh?”

“He’s the one who told me where the barn was.”

“Ah,” the woman said, as though given the key to a great mystery, at least judging by the expression on her face. “And I’m sure he was his usual charming self.”

That was an understatement.

“Don’t mind him.” Her new boss smirked a bit as she shook her head. “He hates how my idea has taken off. Thinks it’s silly. Can’t stand sharing the ranch with a bunch of spoiled brides, as he calls them. Claims it’s a pain in the butt to be dealing with a steady stream of visitors.”

“Move your car.”

Yeah, she could see that.

“We have a wedding coming up and he always gets a little cranky beforehand.”

“Good to know.”

“Calls it the ‘invasion of Normandy.’” The woman looked heavenward in mock dismay. “Come on.” Jorie felt something nudge her shoulder, and she eyed the horse warily. She wasn’t a big fan of the animals, not that she’d had a whole lot of interaction with them in Georgia.

“We’ll take your car up there. That way you can park it out in front of your new apartment,” Odelia said. “Let me put Chex away.”

Her own apartment. A place to live. A monthly salary. Financial security. It was why she’d driven hundreds of miles to go to work for a woman she’d never met, all in the hope of taking Odelia’s little “hobby” to the next level. The reason she would suck it up and make nice to her new boss’s son, even though she suspected she and this Ryan guy would never get along.

“I’m so glad you’ve met him,” Odelia was saying.

“Um, yeah. Me, too.”

“The two of you needed to make each other’s acquaintance.”

As long as she got to keep her distance from here on out, they’d get along just fine.

“Especially since the two of you will be sharing an office.”

Jorie stumbled.

Odelia must have seen her surprise. “Oh, don’t worry.” She gave Jorie a wide smile. “His bark is worse than his bite.”

Chapter Two

Ryan heard them coming before he saw them.

“I guess you were right, boss.”

Ryan glanced at Sam, who leaned against the cab of the squeeze he’d been driving, a smirk on his face. Sam had worked for them since he was fourteen years old, and he knew Ryan’s mother about as well as he knew his own, which meant he knew Odelia’s latest hobby drove Ryan nuts.

“Damn,” Ryan muttered. He’d been hoping for at least a day of peace and quiet. He still had to drag the arena, disc the back pasture and fix a whole host of other little things that were the bane of his existence. Then there were his mom’s little wedding guest fixes. Oil the hinges on the gate so they didn’t squeak. Fix a broken sash in the “bridal cottage.” Dump a load of gravel in one of the potholes so wedding guests wouldn’t “bounce.”

God help him.

Sam must have read the expression on his face because he chuckled. “I guess she’s pretty serious about this little venture of hers, huh?” Sam was three-quarters Cherokee, but he didn’t need a sixth sense to know Ryan’s mom had gone insane.

Ten years ago it’d been floral arrangements. Ryan would bet she’d created memorial bouquets for half the county’s deceased. From there she’d moved on to stained glass. That hadn’t lasted too long, something about being too clumsy, thank God. Antiques had been next. He’d gotten to the point that he refused to go anywhere with her. To this day he couldn’t drive past an estate sale without cringing. Now it was weddings.

Weddings.

He wished to the good Lord above that he knew who’d put such a stupid idea in his mother’s head. If he ever found out, he’d drag the person behind a horse. For six months he’d been putting up with uptight brides, cranky mamas and wedding guests who’d never been on a real working ranch. But the most shocking thing of all, the thing that really had him twisted up in knots, was that the damn business had taken off. They were completely booked for the rest of the year. And now she’d gone and hired some kind of big-time coordinator. From Georgia.

“We just need to hang in there a little longer,” he said. “My mom will get over her obsession.”

And that fancy little wedding coordinator could go back to Georgia and his life would return to normal.

“That’s what you said three months ago.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

His friend glanced over at him sharply, laughed, but whatever else he’d been about to say was cut off by the arrival of the same blue compact car as before, only this time his mother was in the passenger seat. On the other side of the windshield he could see her mouth going a hundred miles an hour, typical of his mom. The woman driving was nodding and smiling.

Until she caught sight of him.

The smile dropped from her face like a brick. Okay. So maybe he’d been a little hard on her earlier. No. Not hard. Unwelcoming. But, damn it, this whole wedding thing was BS.

“You didn’t tell me she was smokin’ hot.”

Ryan didn’t need to ask who Sam was talking about. “Doesn’t matter what she looks like.”

It was true, though. His mom’s new wedding coordinator was pretty. She had hair so blond he would have sworn it was from a bottle except he’d looked for the telltale signs: the dark roots, the fake streaks of blond, the black eyebrows. He’d spotted none of those things which meant it might be real. She had the blue eyes to go along with it, too.

“Good thing Laurel’s so sweet, else she might be jealous.”

Laurel. His fiancée.

“She’ll probably welcome her with open arms,” he heard himself say before shoving off to greet his mother. He didn’t like thinking about Laurel.

His future bride.

He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his brow.

“My, my, my,” his mother marveled as she got out of the car. “You finished putting all that hay up in record time.” She glanced back at the driver. “Come on out, Jorie. You need to meet Sam.”

She was wearing one of her Annie Oakley outfits again. Lord help him. She’d never dressed like that before, but lately she’d been wearing the fringed shirts and fancy Western hats as if they lived in some kind of theme park—and maybe they did. His mom had told him time and time again that city people loved their ranch because of the ambience. That must be why she’d been channeling the ghost of Westerns past.

“Not quite,” Ryan said. “We’ve still got one more load to go.”

“Well, that can wait.” She hooked an arm through her new employee’s. “Jorie, this is Sam.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” The two shook hands, Sam going so far as to tip his hat.

Ryan smirked. Leave it to Sam to try and charm a woman he’d just met.

“And this is my son, Ryan, whom I think you already met. Ryan, Jorie here is exhausted. Why don’t you hop in her car and drive her down to her quarters. She has luggage she needs unloaded, too.”

He didn’t shake her hand, just nodded, not that she noticed.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” the blonde interjected. As he had earlier, he noticed the black suit she wore accentuated the shape of her body, something he definitely shouldn’t be aware of given that he was engaged. “I can unload my own suitcase.”

“Nonsense,” his mother said with a pat to the woman’s arm. “You need your rest. I hate to say it, dear, but you look plumb wore out.”

His mother was right. Though she had a flawless complexion, she appeared pale, her pretty blue eyes glazed by a sheen of fatigue.

“Come on,” he said, taking pity on the woman against his better judgment. He motioned her toward her car.

She didn’t move.

Stubborn, huh?

She glared.

Ooo. And she had claws. This might be fun, after all.

“Go on,” his mother ordered.

She met Ryan’s gaze again, her blue eyes narrowing.

“You heard my mother,” he said. “Go on.”

Clearly, she wanted to argue. Just as clearly, she wanted to please. She turned, reluctance personified. Ryan almost smiled, but he was too busy noticing her legs. He couldn’t tell if she wore panty hose or not, but she sure had some tan legs…and shapely.

Cut it out.

“I can drive,” he heard her say as he headed to the driver’s side

“I won’t hear of any such thing,” his mom answered for him. “Ryan will drive you. Sam, why don’t you go get that last squeeze of hay. I’ll guide it in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mom.” Ryan stripped his gloves off and tucked them in his back pocket before opening the passenger-side door. “I’ll finish up just as soon as I drive Ms. Peters here to her new quarters.”

The woman had reluctantly slid into the seat, the door closing with a heavy thud.

“You’re a good son.” His mother came around the side of the car, reached up and patted his cheek—just before kissing him—as if he were seven years old and not thirty.

But despite the irritation he felt at being treated like a child, he couldn’t deny one thing: he loved his mom. She might be a pain in his rear, but she was the only family he had.

He opened the driver’s side door, the smell of perfume or floral shampoo instantly enveloping him.

He nearly closed his eyes.

Now, the woman in the car? She was going to be a pain in his rear, too, he could tell.

He didn’t like her.

Jorie leaned back in the passenger seat and closed her eyes, so exhausted she felt as if she could go to sleep right then and there. Except she couldn’t. Not with him in the car.

“Buckle up,” was all he said.

Cool currents from the car’s air conditioner wafted across Jorie’s face as he put the car in gear, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the smell of him. He stank.

No, he doesn’t.

He smells manly.

Be nice to him, Jorie. He’s your boss’s son.