The Rancher's Bride

Jorie forced her eyes open, shot him a glance. He was as muscular as a professional athlete.

“Do you play football?”

Stupid, stupid, ridiculous thing to ask. What was wrong with her?

He’d glanced over at her as if she had tentacles hanging from her ears.

“Huh?” He drove her car between the two farm buildings, his eyes quickly bouncing between her and the gravel road.

“Never mind,” she said. Darn it. Why did she always do that? A thought would pop into her head and, bam, out it came.

“Ah, no,” he said, having obviously figured out what she’d said. “I’ve never played football.”

Just pretend like you meant to ask the question, Jorie.

“Your mom seems nice,” she said next.

“She’s a pain in the butt.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m thinking about having her committed to an old folk’s home.”

“You are not.”

“I even called a couple places, but they wouldn’t take her just yet. I have to wait until her dementia gets a little more advanced.”

“Dementia?” Jorie asked, sitting up in her seat.

And then he smiled.

He was teasing her.

“Gotcha.”

“Why, you little—” She couldn’t think what to say, not without insulting him at least, and not as tired as she was.

“Little what?” he prompted.

Okay, so he wasn’t just good-looking. He was drop-dead gorgeous. And, apparently, he had a sense of humor.

“You’re not very nice.”

“Sorry. Thought I should try to break the ice.”

He drove her car down a gently sloping hillside, and Jorie was presented with a vista that took her breath away. A pasture lay spread out in front of her. To the right was an old barn, to her left another grove of trees, one with two homes nearby. The same creek she’d noticed earlier was here, too, tall oak trees surrounded yet another group of homes.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s lovely,” she said.

“That used to be the main homestead,” he explained. The tires crunched as he took a fork to the left. “The barn over to our right is what my mom lovingly calls the ‘wedding chapel.’”

She’d seen pictures of it on the internet, but Jorie made a mental note to suggest adding a photo page to Spring Hill Ranch’s website, one that would highlight the rustic charm of their venue. The rolling hills and stately trees were just stunning.

Seconds later he pulled to a stop in front of one of the homes, a charming single-story with wood windowpanes and a tiny front porch.

“You’ll be living in a home that used to belong to the ranch foreman, only that’s me these days, so I live in the main house right there.” He pointed to a home about four-hundred yards away. “The old main house. My mom lives in the big one over the hill.”

“You mean you’ll be living next door to me?”

He shut off the car. “Yup. And I’ll be giving you a ride to our office every day, too.”

Our office.

She’d completely forgotten about that.

Suddenly there didn’t seem to be enough air in the vehicle.

He’s turned off the car, you dork.

“Look,” he said, pulling her keys out. “I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but I feel I should tell you something.” He fiddled with her keys a second. “My mom,” he said. “She goes through these…phases. Over the years she’s tried a number of things.”

She saw him frown, and even in profile he was handsome. “Look, I know you just drove all the way out here from Georgia, but things might change, you know? My mom’s the best mom in the world, but she gets burrs up her butt from time to time. Like this wedding thing. I’d hate for you to have turned down a lucrative job in Georgia for something that might be temporary.”

Lucrative? In Georgia?

And temporary?

“Are you saying I’ve made a mistake?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “That’s not what I meant at all. I just think you should be prepared, you know, in case things don’t work out.”

He was telling her not to unpack her bags.

“I appreciate your concern,” she said, and she had no doubt he heard the frost in her voice. “But I’m a big girl, one who can take care of herself.”

“No, I think you’ve misunderstood—”

“I understand perfectly,” she contradicted, leaving the car before she said something else, something that really would get her fired from her job.

“Wait.” He got out of the car, too. “You’ll need this.”

He tossed her something. She caught it. A key, although where he’d gotten it from, she didn’t know.

“Thanks,” she said.

“I’ll leave your luggage on the porch.”

She nodded, turning toward her new home. Her hands shook in anger. How dare he try to ruin this for her? Didn’t he realize she had nowhere else to go? No job back in Georgia. No home. This was the end of the road for her.

“Welcome to Spring Hill Ranch,” he called out after her.

She turned on her heel, a descriptive word, one that wasn’t very flattering, hanging off the tip of her tongue.

“Thank you,” she said, lifting her chin up in challenge. “I plan on being here for a very, very long time.”

He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. Something that resembled admiration filled his eyes, but she must be imagining that.

“Good for you,” she thought she heard him say.

She held his gaze for another moment before turning away.

Jerk.

Chapter Three

She must sleep like the dead, Ryan thought, shifting the quiche his mom had baked for Jorie and knocking on the front door yet again.

“Damn it, Mom,” he muttered, glancing in the general direction of where she lived. Why did she always have him do her dirty work? The last thing he needed was to play delivery boy.

He turned away, quiche still in hand, and headed for the steps, only to halt again. His mom would kill him if he didn’t do as asked.

“Shoot.”

A thin sliver of pink light outlined the small hill that blocked his view of his mom’s house. Dawn. It had just arrived, the sky still dark behind him. He had a million things to do today. Cows to gather. A meeting at nine. Errands to run. The last thing he needed to do was play nursemaid to his mother’s new employee.

“‘You go check on her in the morning,’” he mimicked. “‘Give her my quiche. Make sure she’s all right.’”

He glanced heavenward.

“Man, it’s a good thing I love you, Mom.”

He turned back to the door. To be fair, he hadn’t seen his mom’s new employee since dropping off her luggage, something he’d told his mother last night, and something that concerned him just a little bit. He thought about leaving the quiche on the porch, but one of the ranch dogs would no doubt find it, and he could just imagine what his mom would do if one of his dogs ate Jorie’s quiche.

“Crap.”

He knocked again, louder, and when nothing happened, leaned his ear against the door. Some kind of weird noise came back to him. TV? He stepped to the right, tried to peer through the window that looked into a tiny family room that stretched across the front of the house. Nothing.

“To hell with it.”

She’d been asleep for a long time. Time to get up and take this quiche off his hands.

He balanced the pie plate in one hand, the ring of keys he pulled from his pocket jingling as he sought to unlock the door.

This is a bad idea.

It’s what his mom would want him to do.

You’re breaking into her house.

It’s not her house, he told himself firmly, pushing the door open a crack.

Just set the damn quiche down and go.

But then he heard the noise again, a horrendous sound that put him instantly on alert. It was as dark as a haunted house inside, the sun not yet high enough to send even ambient light through the windows. He paused for a moment, listening…and there it went again.

Snoring.

He felt a gust of laughter, despite his ire. That’s what he’d heard?

Okay. She’s fine. Just leave the quiche on the side table.

Yet his curiosity got the better of him. These weren’t tiny little ladylike squeaks. These were rip-snorting, drapery-rustling, window-vibrating breaths, and he could only imagine how loud they must be if he could hear them all the way through the front door. Against his better judgment he found himself moving forward.

The ranch home was easy to navigate, the shape of it a simple square: kitchen at the back of the house to his left, bedroom across the hall from it and to the right, and the open area in the front where he stood.

His eyes had started to adjust, making him realize that it wasn’t quite so dark anymore. A pale pink glow slid through the window at the end of the hall allowing for light to dribble onto the hardwood floors. Ambient light also spilled in her bedroom windows, which was how he spied the snoring, sleeping goddess that lay sprawled amidst tumbled sheets like a magazine centerfold.

He almost dropped the pie plate.

Okay, so maybe not naked, but close enough in her mini white tank top and matching skimpy underwear. She lay on her side, a quilt made of red and pink squares wound between her legs and around her torso. Yesterday he’d wondered if she wore panty hose. Today he realized she was tan all over, her calves, her thighs, even the tiny sliver of skin he glimpsed between the triangle of her bikini underwear and the quilt. The blond hair he’d admired yesterday lay around her, mussed, yet no less beautiful in the morning light. She had the softest looking skin, her cheeks naturally tinted a pale pink, her lips thick and generous.

And then she gobbled down a gust of air, the sound she shot out causing Ryan to flinch. If he’d been a dog, he’d have tilted his head.

Good Lord.

How could something so gorgeous make a sound that was loud enough to wake the dead? The noise reverberated through the room, and even in the morning light he could see her frown—as if bothered by the fact that the noise disturbed her sleep.

He smiled. How did she not wake up?

But now that he’d solved the mystery it was time to get the hell out, he told himself, starting to back away. He’d forgotten the pie, however, and had to dash back to the kitchen to set it down. On the way out his foot hit something, a something that made a noise as it began to fall.

His mind registered that it was a broom and he tried to catch it, but it fell to the ground with a clatter.

Get out.

He shot toward the door as though a herd of rabid squirrels were on his heels. Behind him the snoring had abruptly stopped. Ryan moved even faster.

Almost there.

His hand hit the door.

She didn’t wake up earlier. She wouldn’t wake up now?

He began to swing the door open.

“What the hell!”

* * *

JORIE CLUTCHED THE bedspread around her, using her elbow to keep everything in place as she blinked and then blinked again.

A man stood in her doorway.

“Who the hell—?”

The man turned back to face her, reluctantly it seemed.

Ryan Clayborne.

“I knocked,” he said, managing to sound both nervous and defensive at the same time.

“You let yourself in?” It was taking a moment for her brain to wake up. When she’d first woken up, she’d had to think for a moment where she was because prior to opening her eyes, she’d been having a dream about a man with dark hair—

Nope. Not going there.

“My mom. She was worried last night. Wanted me to check on you this morning.”

“So you just let yourself in?” she repeated.

“I heard a noise. And you’ve been asleep for hours.”

But then something he’d just said sank in. Morning? It wasn’t morning.

Was it?

She glanced out the window to his left, the parted drapes revealing a seashell-colored sky, one that could signal dusk…or dawn.

And then she heard it. A rooster. It crowed in the distance.

Morning.

She ran a hand through her hair. Her eyes felt gritty. And if she were honest, she felt a little woozy.

“I need to get dressed for work.”

“Does your throat hurt?”

Jorie froze. It took a moment for her sleep-numbed mind to absorb his words.

“I’ve never heard a woman snore like you do.” His brows drew together a bit. “Is it a genetic thing?”

“Go away,” she said, rubbing her eyes. She’d slept all night? And half an afternoon of the day before. Had she been that exhausted?

Apparently so.

“Maybe you should eat something. I left my mom’s quiche on the kitchen table.”

“No. I’m fine.” She was actually famished, she suddenly realized. “Thanks for waking me up. I’ll be dressed in just a minute, but don’t wait for me. I can walk to work.”

“Work?” Ryan frowned again. “You don’t have to work today. You’re not slated to start until Monday. It’s Friday. Eat your breakfast.”

He turned way.

“I’ll be at the office in fifteen minutes.”

He glanced back at her, his gaze sliding downward, only to pause for a moment. Color bloomed on her cheeks because she could feel cool air on her legs, knew the blanket covered little more than her upper thighs and torso.

“Eat your breakfast,” he repeated, that gaze of his doing something, a something that caused her whole body to react in a way that it really shouldn’t.

“My mom won’t be happy if you don’t.”

Something flickered, something heated and dark that turned his aqua-colored eyes a deep green.

He turned away again.

She felt the cover slip, and Jorie realized she’d been standing there, gawking… .

No, going gooey.

The door closed, bringing her back to earth. She blinked.

Not gooey, just famished. She hadn’t had any dinner the night before. No lunch, either. Maybe even not any breakfast.

Quiche.

She hitched the cover up, told herself she’d been imagining whatever she saw, and strode to the 1960s-style kitchen.

There it was, the quiche, sitting on the table in all its glory, a golden stream of light illuminating its flaky depths as if it was a gift from God.

Not really.

It just seemed that way because she was so damn hungry, and she wanted to scarf that quiche down more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life—her stomach actually growled at the thought.

“To hell with it.”

She would go to the office. She would eat the quiche later, at her desk.

She turned, thankful that she’d had the foresight to lay out her clothes the night before, because it suddenly became important to catch him before he left.

She washed up and dressed in record time, ran to the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room, checked her appearance to ensure the black slacks and off-white button-down blouse weren’t crooked, then ran to the door. She grabbed a brush along the way, all the while listening for the sound of his truck starting up. Nothing. He must have gone to his own house. She almost hurried past the quiche, but she ran back and grabbed the pastry. Maybe she’d eat on the way. No sense in passing out at his feet. She’d use her hands if she had to—

An engine roared to life.

“Wait!” she shouted.

She jammed a finger on the doorknob, cursed, almost dropped the quiche and burst out the front door so fast she left one of her heels behind.

“Damn it.”

She darted back to get it, couldn’t manage to get her foot in, gave up, kicked the other one off, scooped them both up, and somehow managed to balance her heels, her quiche and her brush the whole time she ran toward his still idling truck.

“Don’t go,” she called, her loose hair streaming out behind her.

She could see him sitting inside, and then she all but skidded to a stop.

The passenger door was open.

He wasn’t about to leave, he was waiting for her.

“Son of a—”

He’d known she’d race to catch up to him. Had somehow so anticipated her next move that he now sat in the driver’s seat, head leaned back against the headrest, hat tipped low over his closed eyes.

She slowly approached. When she drew near the open door he glanced over at her. “Took you long enough.”

Chapter Four

She’d covered those damn sexy legs of hers with slacks.

She would look even better in jeans.

Stop thinking about her legs.

Ryan leaned forward, fixed his hat and put his truck in gear.

“You didn’t have to wait.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

He wasn’t entirely certain why he had waited. He hadn’t even been certain she’d really get dressed and head to the office. A lot of people would have taken the opportunity to take the day off, and yet somehow he’d known she wasn’t the type.

“Thank you.”

He glanced over at her again. She looked ready for church in her no-frills button-down blouse and slacks. Gorgeous without even trying. He liked that about her, liked how she looked with her hair loose. He’d liked the way she’d looked standing before him, too, shapely legs exposed to his view, that frickin’ bedspread wrapped around her body as if she was a countrified version of the Statue of Liberty.

Enough.

He rolled his window down, grateful for the fresh burst of morning air that quickly cooled his overheated cheeks.

Your cheeks aren’t the only part that’s hot.

“You going to eat that quiche or just stare at it?” he asked as he thrust his truck in reverse.

She did keep peeking glances at it, her tongue flicking out and licking her lower lip as if she was contemplating the idea of simply burying her face into the middle of it.

“I don’t have a fork,” she said with all the morose sadness of a little girl missing her Barbie doll.

“Use your hands,” he said, putting the gearshift into First and mashing down the pedal a little too hard. A couple seconds later they crested the small hill, Ryan glancing toward his mom’s house, the one he’d grown up in but had abandoned when he was old enough to want his independence and to bring a woman home. The lights were on in the kitchen, a sure sign she was up, no doubt plotting other ways to make his life hell.

“I can’t use my hands.”

And despite his sour mood, he found himself on the verge of a chuckle. It wasn’t funny, but the way she almost wailed the words sure did tickle his funny bone.

“Maybe you should have stayed at the house, had some breakfast.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked out the window, and Ryan admitted that she was the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen. Period.

And you’re engaged, buddy.

He stepped on the accelerator, racing by the hay barn and tractor shed perhaps a little too fast, but anxious to get to work quickly nonetheless. His tires lost purchase when he stopped in front of the wide opening. Ryan cut off the big diesel engine and jumped out before he could have another wayward thought.

Horses nickered. The sensor-light buzzed on. He heard her truck door open, thought about helping her out of the truck before chastising himself yet again. She wasn’t some kind of damn ranch guest. She was his mother’s latest implement of torture, one he’d have to babysit until his mom’s arrival.

“Stairway to the office is to the left.” He flicked the barn lights on, horses nickering again. “Go on up and make yourself at home. Eat some of that quiche.”

“Where are you going?”

“Feed the horses.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “You want to help?”

Her answer was nearly instantaneous. “No.”

Thank God.

“But I probably should.”

“What?” He blinked and turned back to her. She was still juggling the quiche and her heels, the cuff of her black slacks dragging on the ground. “What makes you say that?”

“Your mom told me I needed to get comfortable around horses, you know, in case I needed to lead a bride to the altar on a horse or something.”

She was serious. “You can save your horse lessons for later.”

It was the wrong thing to say, he could tell instantly. She was the type of woman that didn’t like to be told what to do, especially by a man. “I’d rather start now.”

“You can’t feed horses in that outfit.”

She glanced down as if surprised by his words. “Why not?”

“You’ll get hay all over yourself.”

She dropped her heels, slipped her feet in them and glanced back up at him with a smile. “Nonsense,” she said, holding the quiche out in front of her. “I’ve seen horses fed on TV. It doesn’t look very hard. The pitchfork does all the work.”

TV? Pitchfork?

He almost explained the truth of the matter, but her stubborn I-can-do-anything-you-can-do-better attitude really got on his nerves.

“You can set your quiche down in the tack room,” he said, figuring if she wanted an introduction to horses lesson, he’d damn-well-skippy give her one. “Follow me.”

Pitchfork. He nearly laughed. Not unless this was circa 1830.

He turned on the light when they reached the tack room, a spacious room at the end of the row of stalls, one that was filled with Western saddles and bridles and smelled of leather and saddle soap. A glance back revealed Jorie standing just outside, one shoe kicked off, left foot out behind her, the woman shaking it as though she was a cat who’d stepped in a pool of water. He almost laughed again. Barn aisle dirt had a way of seeping into heels, or so he’d been told.

“Here.” He held his hand out. “I’ll set your quiche down right there.”

It should be safe from the flash mob otherwise known as Mom’s Mutts on the grooming shelf to his right, he thought, dreading the arrival of the gaggle of ranch dogs. People were forever dropping their unwanted pets out in the country, and for some reason they always seemed to gravitate toward the Spring Hill Ranch. They settled in as if the place was some kind of canine retirement home.

“I’ll start at one end and you can start on the other.” He guided her to the feed room located next to the tack room. It was double the size of their tack room, double the height, too, with bales of hay stacked to the ceiling. This was horse hay, though, which meant the sweet smell of alfalfa filled the room. “They each get one flake.”

“Flake?” She looked perplexed standing there in her designer pants.

“Yup.” He went to the closest bale, pulled out his pocket knife, slit the baling twine. It came apart with a pop and a twang, the hay still warm on the inside. They’d just loaded it into the feed room yesterday. “It should be as wide as this.” He slipped the knife back in his pocket, held up his hands, and touched his two thumbs together so she could observe the space between them.

“What about the pitchfork?” She glanced around as if looking for one.

He didn’t want his lips to twitch with a smile, but they did. “Nobody uses pitchforks to feed horses anymore.” He grabbed one of the soft, green flakes. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. He supposed some old-timers might still use them, but not here where everything was state-of-the-art.

He brushed by her, pausing for a moment near the door to watch. She approached the bale as if it was a complicated puzzle, reached down, picked up a flake, and then did exactly as he’d thought she’d do as she straightened. She held the thing up to her chest like a giant library book, gasping as stalks of alfalfa slipped right down that fancy shirt of hers.

“Ack.”

She dropped the flake of hay, brushing at the front of her shirt as if ants had crawled down her bra.

“You might want to watch that,” he said, balancing his own flake in the palm of one hand, à la pizza delivery boy. “If it gets down your shirt, you’ll have to take that shirt off.”

“Excuse me?” Her head popped up, pretty blue eyes wide.

“That’s the only way you’ll get it out of your clothes.” He smiled, though he knew he should leave her alone. He just couldn’t resist messing with her. “Once it’s down your shirt, it’ll keep poking at you all day.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yup.” He lifted a second wedge of hay he held while still balancing the first. “If you need a place to strip, you can do it right there.” He winked. “I promise not to watch.”