Kate Fortune’s Journal Entry

Heavens me! Thank goodness the family has discovered Tracey Ducet’s duplicity. I’ve known all along that she was a fake and a gold digger—since the real missing twin was a boy. I’m thrilled she was caught before she did the family serious harm. My biggest worry now is for Jake. I know he’s innocent, and it pains me to watch his suffering from the sidelines. I wish I could help him. I think it’s getting time to come out of hiding. My family needs me, and I can’t let them down.

A LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR

Dear Reader,

It’s said that you pick your friends but you’re stuck with your family. I suppose all of us have thought that at one time or another—some of us more than others—because along with them comes all the chaos families are capable of creating. Unlike many whose own families aren’t the most functional, I’ve been fortunate enough to acquire a marvelous one through marriage. It’s a very large, semirowdy bunch, with a dynamic that is fascinating to watch, and a history that could match even the Fortune clan for drama, tragedy and triumph.

Coming from a small family, I find large ones intriguing, if a bit intimidating. So I could relate to down-to-earth, only child Grant McClure’s situation, his rueful amusement and amazement at the dramatic family he found himself connected to by marriage. I was delighted to be able to do this story from his perspective, a look at the Fortunes through the eyes of a man who had never really felt like one of them, until an unexpected bequest taught him differently. Adding a heroine I could truly sympathize with, a burnt-out cop who has gone into retreat after the murder of her partner, and tossing in a clownish gentleman of a horse makes for an interesting brew.

No matter what kind of family you have, I hope you’re finding the Fortunes interesting and that you’ll enjoy this chapter in their saga.

The Wrangler’s Bride
Justine Davis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Paiute Mac—

the original clown, and the kind of horse you never forget.

JUSTINE DAVIS

lives on Puget Sound in Washington. Her interests outside of writing are sailing, doing needlework, horseback riding and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.

Justine says that years ago, during her career in law enforcement, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was, at the time, occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods of Washington State, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?”

Meet the Fortunes—three generations of a family with a legacy of wealth, influence and power. As they unite to face an unknown enemy, shocking family secrets are revealed…and passionate new romances are ignited.

GRANT MCCLURE: Down-to-earth rancher. He has no use for the opposite sex—especially city women who only want him for his good looks and money. But when he finally meets the woman of his dreams, will he accept that she cares for the real him?

MEREDITH BRADY: Endangered police officer. She is the only witness to a crime, and she’s forced to seek a safe haven on Grant’s Wyoming ranch. Can she overcome her guilt-plagued conscience about her partner’s death and find happiness in Grant’s arms?

JAKE FORTUNE: Business pressures and his demanding nature broke up his marriage to his devoted wife, Erica. But Jake has seen the error of his ways. Is a reconciliation with his estranged wife possible?

BRANDON MALONE: Monica Malone’s adopted son. Following his mother’s death, the startling truth about his parentage is uncovered. And this discovery will have repercussions for the Fortune family….

KRISTINA FORTUNE: Pampered princess. She is used to getting what she wants, especially from men who can’t resist her sexy charm. Is there any man immune to her beauty and brave enough to tame her willful spirit?

LIZ JONES—CELEBRITY GOSSIP

Listen up, all you fellow gossips! The scandal couldn’t get any juicier! Jake Fortune is in jail. Tracey Ducet—the woman who claimed to be the missing Fortune heiress—is a fake. Brandon Malone is the real lost Fortune twin. And most shocking of all, Ben Fortune—Brandon’s biological father—was responsible for his own son’s kidnapping!

It’s true what they say—life is stranger than fiction! This is the stuff that Hollywood movies are made of—or at least a good movie of the week. Maybe I should take up screenwriting and submit a script to Brandon, who’s trying to break into the big-budget film business. I wonder who will be cast in the leading roles? Do you suppose we could get Harrison Ford to play Jake? After all, he does have experience playing a fugitive!

Watching the Fortunes is more entertaining than a soap opera. I, for one, am dying to see the season finale!

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

Epilogue

One

Was she really that good, or was he just that much of a pushover?

Grant McClure shook his head ruefully as he walked out to the main barn. It was probably a little of both; he’d always fallen in with Kristina Fortune’s maneuvers, even when he’d seen right through them. But his half sister was such a charmer, more full of high spirits than of any real maliciousness, it was hard to say no to her.

So he hadn’t. And in the process he’d saddled himself with an unwanted guest for the foreseeable future. And at the worst possible time for him, and the ranch.

With a smothered sigh, he leaned against the stall door as he listened to the ranch truck pulling away. Young Chipper Jenkins had been torn, excited about being trusted with the new truck, yet a bit disgruntled at being sent on such a non-cowboy errand to pick up some dude-type woman in town.

“Hey!”

Startled, Grant grabbed at his dark brown Stetson, suddenly canted forward over his brow. He whirled as a nicker that could only be described as amused came from the big horse behind him.

“Darn it, Joker, knock it…off.”

He ended the exclamation rather sheepishly as he heard his own words in the context of what the big Appaloosa stallion had done—gleefully nudged the wide-brimmed hat down over Grant’s eyes until it hit the bridge of his nose.

He glared at the horse. The stallion shook his head vigorously, his black forelock flopping over the white patch above one eye, the unusual marking that gave him a faintly clownish look, matching the unexpectedly playful personality that had given rise to his nickname of Joker. The horse snorted, and bobbed his head as if in pleased enthusiasm for the success of his prank.

And Grant’s glare became a grin.

“Darn you, you worthless nag,” he muttered.

He didn’t mean it. The beautifully marked stallion was one of the most nearly flawless horses he’d ever seen. Perfect conformation, power, speed, endurance, he had it all—coupled with a heart as big as the Rockies, a personality that charmed, and the apparent ability to pass his quality on to his foals. The big Appy was any horseman’s dream.

And a dream Grant McClure had never expected to come true in a million years.

Thank you, Kate, he whispered to himself, not for the first time. I don’t know why you did it, but thanks.

“Come on, you big clown,” he said, reaching up to rub his knuckles under the horse’s jaw in the way he’d learned early on the big animal loved. “Let’s get you some work before you go soft on me.”

Joker snorted in agreement, and bobbed his head eagerly. Or so it seemed, Grant amended silently, wondering at his continuing tendency to anthropomorphize this animal, something he never did. Except maybe with Gambler, the quick, clever Australian shepherd who was as much a hand on the M Double C ranch as anyone else. But the big Appy seemed to invite the human comparisons, and after a year and a half of dealing with the horse, Grant had finally quit fighting the impulse.

Nearly two hours later, as satisfied as any man could be with Joker’s willing, polished performance, he turned the horse out for a well-deserved romp in the big corral behind the main barn. It would make for a bigger cleanup job after the horse inevitably rolled in the dirt, but he’d earned the back-scratching pleasure, Grant thought. Besides, it was late November, and once they’d eaten the Thanksgiving turkey down to the bone, cold weather was generally here for good in the Wyoming high country; soon there’d be nothing but snow to roll in. It was a little surprising that they’d had few storms already, and far enough apart that the snow had time to melt in between.

But it wouldn’t be long before the white stuff was here to stay, and lots of it. And then he and all the hands would be working to sheer exhaustion just to keep the stock alive through the Wyoming winter, and the last thing he needed was to have to nursemaid some big-city girl who—

The sound of the ranch’s truck returning cut in on his thoughts.

“Here goes,” he muttered to himself, slinging Joker’s bridle over his shoulder and reversing his steps to go greet his visitor; it had been rude enough not to go himself to pick her up, but he had—perhaps childishly—drawn the line at dancing to Kristina’s manipulating tune there.

He saw Chipper first. Standing beside the driver’s door of the mud-spattered blue pickup, the young man was grinning widely, his face flushed, and looking utterly dazzled. Grant frowned. And then he saw the obvious reason for the young hand’s expression; the woman who had scrambled without help from the high truck’s passenger seat. Long blond hair, pulled back in a ponytail, bounced as she walked around the front of the truck. She was wearing jeans and a heavy sheepskin jacket, and was seemingly unbothered by the briskness of the air.

She came to a halt when she spotted him, her eyes widening slightly. Grant knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself; he hadn’t expected this.

She was small, at least from Grant’s six-foot viewpoint, and not just in height; from her pixieish face to a pair of very small feet encased in tan lace-up boots, every inch of her looked delicate, almost fragile. And the dark circles that shadowed her eyes only added to the overall air of fragility. She looked tired. More than tired, weary, a weariness that went far beyond the physical. Grant felt an odd tug somewhere deep inside; his father had looked like that in the painful days before his death five years ago.

She was looking at him, that fatigue dimming eyes that should have been a vivid green into a flat dullness.

“Hello, Grant.”

Her voice was soft, husky, and held an undertone that matched what he’d seen in her eyes.

“Hello, Mercy,” he said quietly.

She smiled at the old nickname, but the smile didn’t reach those haunted eyes. “No one’s called me that since you quit coming home summers.”

“Minneapolis was never my home. It was just where my mother was.”

She glanced around, as if trying to take in the vastness of the wild landscape with eyes used to the steel-and-concrete towers of the city, not the granite-and-snow towers of the Rocky Mountains.

“No, this was always home for you, wasn’t it?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Always.”

His voice rang with a fervency he didn’t try to hide. He’d known from the time he was a child that this place was a deep, inseparable part of him, that its wild, elemental beauty called to something so intrinsic to him that he would never be able to—or want to—resist.

“So this is what you always had to go back to. I think I understand now.”

She sighed. It was a tiny sound, more visible than audible. He’d thought, when Kristina told him Meredith Brady had become, of all things, a cop, that she must have grown a lot since that last summer, when she was a pesky, tenacious fourteen-year-old and the same height as his two-years-younger half sister. She hadn’t. If she’d gained more than an inch in the twelve years since, he’d be surprised. She couldn’t be more than fifteen-two, he thought, judging with an eye more used to calculating height on horses than on people. Especially women.

“You’ve…changed,” he said. And it was true; he remembered her as a live-wire girl who had looked a great deal like his half sister, except for green eyes in place of Kristina’s pale blue, a girl with a lot of energy but not much stature. The stature hadn’t changed much, but the energy had; it seemed nowhere in evidence now.

“Changed, but not grown, is that it?” she said, sounding rueful.

“Well,” he said reasonably, “you haven’t. Much.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re the one who grew four inches in one summer.”

Grant’s mouth quirked. That had been an awkward summer, when his fifteen-year-old body decided now was the time and shot him to his full six feet in a spurt that indeed seemed to happen in a three-month span. He’d been embarrassed at his sudden gawkiness and the clumsiness that ensued, and the fact that none of his clothes fit anymore, but even more embarrassed by the fascination the change seemed to hold for his half sister’s annoyingly omnipresent best friend.

“Amazing I grew at all, with you glued to my heels, Meredith Cecelia.”

She winced. “Ouch. Please, stick with just Meredith. Or Meri.”

She gave him a sideways look. He read it easily, and laughed.

“Or Mercy?” he suggested. “Or rather, ‘No Mercy’?”

He’d been rather proud of his own cleverness in coining the name for her when they met that first summer so long ago, combining her first and middle names and his own irritation at her tenaciousness in following him around.

“You always were annoyingly proud of coming up with that,” she said dryly.

“It fit,” he pointed out. “You never would leave me alone. Every time I came to visit Mom, you were always hanging around. I’ll never forget that time you followed me to the ice rink and got stuck in the turn-stile.”

“I was only twelve,” she explained with some dignity. “And I had a huge crush on you, after you saved me from those boys who were teasing me.”

Grant blinked. He’d guessed she had a crush on him—it hadn’t been hard, with the quicksilver girl dogging virtually his every step each summer he came to visit—but he hadn’t realized it had started then. He remembered finding her that first summer, cornered by the two bigger boys, her chin up proudly, despite the tears welling from her eyes. He’d chased her tormentors away, then walked her home. She’d said nothing until they got to her house, and then only a quiet thank-you. But now that he thought about it, that was about the time she had become his ever-present shadow.

“They were just a couple of bullies,” he said.

“And you were my white knight,” she returned softly.

Grant winced; he wasn’t hero material, not even for an impressionable child.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, as if in answer to his expression. She smiled widely—a better smile this time, one that almost brightened her eyes to the vivid green he remembered. “I got over it long ago. Once I grew up enough to realize I’d fallen for a pretty face without knowing a thing about the man behind it, I recovered quite nicely. Thank goodness.”

“Oh.”

It came out rather flatly, and Grant’s mouth quirked again. Was he feeling flattered that she’d admitted to that long-ago crush? Or miffed that she’d gotten over it so thoroughly? And seemed so cheerful about it? He nearly laughed; hadn’t he had enough of women enamored purely of his looks? And more than enough of those who, when they found out there was a comfortable amount of money behind the McClure name, became even more enamored?

At least Mercy had never been that kind of female; even at her adoring worst as a child, she’d never fawned on him. She’d been too much a tomboy for that, an unexpected trait in such a delicate-looking little pixie. A tiny dynamo with a blond ponytail, she’d merely followed him. Everywhere.

She still had the ponytail. But the tomboy had grown up. And there was no denying that the gamine features that had once reminded him of a mischievous imp were now enchanting. Big eyes, turned-up nose, sassy chin…Meredith Brady had become a beautiful woman. A very beautiful woman. No wonder Chipper had looked dazed.

Chipper. Who was standing there with wide eyes and wider ears, Grant thought wryly, listening to this entire exchange. And stealing shy but eager glances at Mercy, who seemed utterly unaware of the eighteen-year-old’s fascination.

Which didn’t mean, Grant told himself sternly, that he had any excuse for standing here staring at her himself. And the fact that he had been alone for a long time wasn’t any justification for the sudden acceleration of his pulse, either. This was the bane of his teenage existence, after all. No Mercy, the pest. Just because she’d grown into a lovely adult didn’t mean a thing. Not a darn thing. But he did wonder if she ever let down that ponytail, and how the silky-looking hair would fall if she did.

“Get on those salt blocks,” he instructed the young hand firmly. “I’ll show her up to the house.”

Chipper looked crestfallen. “I was gonna carry her bags up for her—”

“I can manage,” she said. “There’s not that much. I tend to travel light.”

“But I—”

“I need those salt blocks set out,” Grant said. “Now.”

“Yes, sir,” Chipper said resignedly. Then he brightened, turning his freckled face back toward Mercy. “If you need someone to show you around—”

“I’ll keep you in mind,” she said, smiling at the boy.

An utterly charming smile, Grant thought. And utterly without heart. A practiced, surface smile, reflecting nothing of the woman behind it. Yet it didn’t seem to him a phony smile, not like those of some of the women he’d encountered in his infrequent forays into the society his mother was now a part of.

No, this wasn’t a smile to hide shallowness, it was more of a mask, to hide…what? Emptiness? Pain?

It came back to him in a rush then, what Kristina had said in her phone call to him last week. It had taken him a moment to connect the name that sounded familiar to the memory of his pesky blond shadow, so he’d missed the first part of what his half sister said. But her plea had been simple enough; Meredith needed someplace to go, a shelter, away from the city, for a while, after the death of her partner, Nick Corelli, who had been murdered in the line of duty.

“She and Nick were very close,” Kristina had said, in the most patently sincere part of her wheedling request. “She’s devastated. She needs to rest, she’s running herself ragged. Please, Grant. Just for a while. She needs someplace quiet, where people won’t talk about what happened all the time. Someplace to grieve, and to heal.”

That was it, he thought. Grief was what was living behind that careful smile. She must have loved the man a great deal. And here he was overheating absurdly, not only over his childhood nemesis, but over a woman grieving for a loved one. Mentally chastising himself, he reached for the two bags Chipper had set down beside the truck.

“I said I can get those,” she said.

“I’m sure you can, but I’ll do it. You’ve had a long trip.”

“I sat for most of it,” she pointed out. “I can carry my own bags.”

Grant dropped the bags, wondering if this was how this visit was going to go. His mother had been at great pains to teach him manners during the few months of the year he spent with her growing up. When he complained that women didn’t seem to want manners anymore, she’d quietly told him women and men most certainly did, they just didn’t want condescension along with them, and continued her lessons.

He crossed his arms across his chest. But before he could open his mouth, she forestalled him.

“It’s not a gender thing,” she said quickly, as if she’d read his thoughts. “I’m intruding here, I know that. You have a ranch to run, and you’re doing me a big enough favor just by letting me stay here. If there’s anything I can do to help out, just tell me. I don’t want to be treated like a guest, so I don’t want to start out that way.”

He looked at her quizzically. “Then just exactly how do you want to be treated?”

She smiled suddenly, the most genuine smile he’d seen from her yet. And it sent a snap of electricity arcing through him that startled him with its swiftness and power.

“Ignoring me would be fine.”

Despite the unexpected jolt, his mouth quirked with humor. “I doubt anyone ignores you successfully, Mercy,” he said dryly. “I tried every summer for years.”

She only lifted a delicately arched brow at his use of the childhood nickname again. “I know. And the harder you ignored me, the more determined I got.”

“I know.”

He had to look away from her; that smile was getting to him again. He cleared his throat. He’d warned Kristina, who had only been to the ranch in the summer, about all this, but she’d insisted that was exactly what her friend needed. But he didn’t know if she’d passed his warnings on.

“You’ll be pretty much stuck inside once the snow really sets in.”

“I brought lots of books,” she said.

“I don’t expect you to work. But I do expect you not to create any extra work for my men. Winter is our roughest season, and the hands will be hard-pressed enough just to keep things running around here.”

Mercy didn’t take offense. “I probably wouldn’t be much good to you anyway,” she answered easily. “I’ve never ridden a real horse, and I know next to nothing about cows. But I can take care of myself. You don’t need to look out for me.”

“Cattle,” he corrected mildly.

“Okay.” She shrugged, accepting that easily, as well. Clearly she had no problem admitting when she knew nothing about something. Grant wished there were more people like that; he’d seen too many who came to this part of the country thinking they were going to find adventure, never knowing or even thinking of the realities of the life they were taking on. His stepbrother Kyle had been one of those. But rancher Samantha Rawlings had quickly—and permanently—straightened him out, Grant thought with an inward grin. And he’d done fairly well, despite the fact that he’d never been able to settle down to any job in his life before.

But then, with the manipulative, vindictive Sheila Fortune for a mother, that was hardly any surprise, Grant thought, thankful yet again for his own mother’s warmth and genuine goodness. It was amazing that Sheila’s children had managed any semblance of lives of their own, and with Kyle, Michael and Jane all married now, Sheila must be frothing at having lost so much control over her children. He didn’t envy his stepsiblings at all. In fact, there were times when he even felt sorry for his stepfather, but he usually got over that in a hurry.

He forced himself back to the matter at hand, wondering why he was finding it so difficult to simply talk to this woman, why his thoughts were rambling in crazy directions.

“I won’t have time to look out for you, once the snow flies,” he warned. “And neither will anybody else. You’ll be on your own.”

Something dark and painful flickered in her eyes, and Grant regretted using those words.

“I’ll be fine,” she said briskly.

Her tone belied what he’d seen in her eyes, but he guessed she was only hiding it well. Or had a lot of practice at suppressing such emotions. She reached for one of the soft-sided navy cases.

“Split them?” she suggested.

“Fine,” he said, and took the other.

She lifted the bag easily, although Grant knew it wasn’t light. He shouldn’t be surprised, he told himself. As a cop—especially a female one—she probably had to be more than just strong and fit to hold her own. And apparently she did hold her own; Kristina had told him she’d been on the force five years, graduating the academy and turning twenty-one, the minimum age to be sworn in, on the same day. It was what she’d always wanted, Kristina had said, and once Meredith Cecelia Brady set her eyes on a goal, there was nothing and no one who could stop her.

The admiration in his somewhat spoiled half sister’s tone had been genuine, and that was rare enough that Grant had paid attention. And had agreed to her request. Sometimes Kristina could be worse than annoying; only the fact that she was as smart and charming as she was spoiled made her bearable. Someday, he thought, she was going to run into some man she couldn’t control, some man who had no patience with her spoiled-princess act, and the sparks were going to fly.

But Mercy had been her truest friend, kept through the years, and when she needed help, Kristina had been there. And she hadn’t hesitated to use her half brother to get what she wanted. And since it was one of those rare times when Kristina asked for something not for herself, Grant hadn’t been able to turn her down.

Mercy.

She’d told him what to call her, but he kept thinking of her as Mercy, reverting to the old childhood nickname. He wasn’t sure why. A reminder, perhaps, of who she was? A friend of Kristina’s, and a woman in mourning. He would do well to remember that, and if using that name would do the trick, then he’d use it. He hadn’t forgotten that unexpected jolt, or the sudden revving of his heartbeat; inappropriate as it was, it had happened, and if using that childhood name would keep a bit of distance between them, then that was yet another reason to do it. He had no time to deal with that kind of response. He was sure of that.

Just as he was sure it had simply been the result of going too long without feminine companionship; hell, he’d barely seen a woman for a month, and hadn’t been on a date in three times that long. No wonder his libido had kicked to life at the sight of the lovely woman Mercy had become. He was sure that was all it was.

He just wasn’t sure he knew the first thing about providing sanctuary for a heart as wounded as Mercy’s seemed to be. He knew about the pain of loss, he’d known about it for a long time, ever since his mother had left his father and the ranch, when he was three years old. And he’d had it pounded home again when his father died, a long, slow death that had been agony to watch, a strong, vital man wasting away, with his last breath regretting that he’d lost the only woman he’d ever really loved to the city life he hated.

He’d found nothing to ease the pain he felt then. So how could he ever hope to provide it for someone else? He wouldn’t even know where to begin. Kristina had said Mercy wanted only a place to hide, to heal, to find peace. While, in time, he had found these things himself in the wild reaches of this Wyoming country, he had little hope that a city girl like Mercy would find the same kind of relief. Especially since she was dealing with such a brutal, unexpected death. The death of someone who, judging from that look in her eyes, she had loved very much.

He wasn’t sure there was any relief for that kind of pain.

Two

She might not see that white knight anymore when she looked at Grant McClure, Mercy thought, but he was certainly no less imposing or handsome or rugged than he had seemed to her all those years ago. Working on a ranch did wonderful things for the male physique, things that all the gym-bound men she knew in Minneapolis could only dream about.

And she liked the slight appearance of lines around his eyes, eyes that were clearly used to gazing over long distances, eyes that were even more vividly blue than she’d remembered against his tanned skin. His sandy brown hair was shorter than the long locks he’d worn as a teenager, now barely brushing his collar, but it looked good on him.

He looked good, period, she thought, proud of how coolly she could acknowledge the fact, with none of the flutter that used to seize her as a child every time she looked at him.

Well, almost none.

She stuffed a sweater into a drawer, closed it, then straightened to look around the room. Grant had told her Kristina used it on the rare occasions when she visited the ranch—“before the isolation and lack of parties gets to her and she hotfoots it back to the city.” But it seemed obvious that her friend had left little imprint on the place.

Or perhaps Grant had returned it to normal when she wasn’t there; the plain, utilitarian furnishings were hardly Kristina Fortune’s style. But Mercy felt comfortable with the large four-poster bed, the plain oak dresser and small desk, and the severely tailored curtains that still managed to be cheerful in a bright blue-and-white check. A comfortable-looking armchair, upholstered in the same bright blue and sitting next to a large window, completed the simple furnishings.

She walked over to the bed and lifted the small stack of long-sleeved T-shirts she’d brought. Layers, she’d thought as she packed. Kristina had had some choicely descriptive words for winters on her half brother’s ranch, even though she’d never weathered one herself. Mercy had smiled at the thought of anyone from Minneapolis finding someplace else colder, but had packed accordingly.

And wasn’t it just amazing, she thought as she put the shirts in another drawer, how quickly she’d slipped back into accepting that old nickname? At first, back then, she’d hated it, but she’d grown to like it when she realized that Grant was the only one who called her that, as if it were something special and private between them.

And now, she thought as she shut the drawer, it was obvious that he still thought of her as that child he’d teased. Which was just fine with her.

She turned back toward the last thing on the bed, the two silk nightgowns she’d brought. She might have to wear jeans and long johns and wool socks during the day, but at night she preferred the smoothness of silk. It was one of her few indulgences, so she refused to feel guilty or foolish about it.

She had just tucked them neatly into the last drawer and pushed it closed when an odd scrabbling sound turned her around.

“Well, hello,” she said, smiling at the knee-high dog with the mottled gray-and-black coat who sat politely just outside her door. He looked at her steadily, with a gaze that was rather disconcerting, since one of his eyes was brown and one a pale blue. She walked over and crouched before the animal. Something in his demeanor prevented her making any presumptuous overtures, such as patting his head; he didn’t seem the type of dog who would welcome instant familiarity.

“Come to check out the intruder, have you?” she asked.

The dog cocked his head, and looked at her so assessingly she nearly laughed.

“I’d recommend you leave him alone. He’s not the cuddly type.”

She looked up quickly, amazed at how quietly Grant had moved down the hall. She’d barely heard him before he spoke, and she was rarely taken by surprise like that.

“I can see that,” she said. “I’ve dealt with a dog or two in my time. I recognize the look-but-don’t-touch signals.”

“He’s a working dog, not a pet. He’s not looking for friends.”

For an instant, Mercy wondered if there was more to his words than simply a warning about the dog. Then she decided she was looking for things that weren’t there.

“Then far be it for me to trespass,” she said, standing up. The dog continued to look at her, somewhat quizzically now. “But should he change his mind, I trust you won’t have a problem if I don’t reject him?”

“Not likely,” Grant said shortly, leaving Mercy wondering if he was referring to the dog or himself. She smothered a sigh; she didn’t remember him being so prickly.

“Does he have a name?” she asked. “Or is he simply ‘Dog’?”

To her amazement, Grant flushed. “Er…well, he was just Dog for a while. Until he showed us who he was.”

Mercy smiled; what a wonderful way to think of it. “So what name did he earn?”

He seemed relieved, as if he’d expected her to find his answer silly. “Gambler.”

Mercy glanced at the dog, who sat motionless in the same spot she’d first seen him in. “Really? Why?”

Grant smiled then. “He’s a lazy slug when he’s not working. But when he is…he does the work of five hands. And he won’t let anything get in his way. You tell him to move cattle, he moves them. Over, under, around, he’s everywhere, and they keep moving, as if he were a field marshal ordering his troops. I’ve seen him move a small herd a quarter of a mile without ever touching the ground.”

Mercy blinked. “What?”

“He walks on ’em. Jumps. Steer to steer, cow to cow, whatever. Gambles his life on his own sure-footedness. He never stops moving. And neither do they.”

She looked back at the dock-tailed animal, who couldn’t weigh more than forty pounds, if that. “I can see why he has that patrician air, then. He’s earned it.”

“Yes, he has.”

He sounded pleased. And for some reason that made her unable to meet his gaze. She looked at the dog instead, until Grant spoke.

“I thought you might like to look around the place. Get oriented.”

She looked at him then, and wondered why she hadn’t been able to before; there was nothing intimidating about him now. At least, nothing more than his size and muscle, and she was used to that. And she’d handled bigger men than him in her five years on the force.

“I’d like that. And that way I won’t have to bother anyone later.” She gave him a sideways look. She wasn’t sure how much Kristina had told him, and she didn’t want to go into any more details than necessary. “And I promise this will only be for a while. As soon as…they call me, I’ll be on the next plane out, and out of your way.”

He looked at her for a moment. “I…didn’t mean to give you the impression you would be a bother.”

“Of course I will,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t live here, don’t know about life on a ranch, I can’t help but be somewhat of a bother. But I’ll try my best to keep it to a minimum.”

He raised one sandy brow. “You have changed.”

She laughed, realizing as she did so that it was the first time since Nick had died that she’d really, genuinely laughed. She quashed the instant welling of pain that seemed to always be there, ready to swamp her any time she let her guard down and thought of the man who had been so much more to her than just a partner.

“You mean I never used to care if I was a nuisance or not?” she managed to say lightly.

He smiled, as if her laugh had pleased him. “Something like that.”

“Only around you,” she said. “And probably only because it bugged you so much.”

His smiled turned wry. “I had a sneaking suspicion even back then that that was why you did it.”

“If you had really ignored me, I probably would have just gone away.”

“Now she tells me,” Grant said with mock sarcasm.

This time, they both laughed, and Mercy felt a slight lessening of the steady ache she felt as if she’d been carrying forever, although she knew it had been only since the grim night Nick had died in her arms, five weeks ago.

She grabbed up her shearling jacket and tugged it on as they walked down the stairs to the main part of the house. It was a story and a half, in a rambling floor plan which seemed bigger than it probably was, because of the steep pitch of the roof, which was designed for heavy snows. The three bedrooms were tucked up in that well-insulated roof area, to take advantage of the warm air generated by the wood stoves Grant had told her he preferred to rely on.

“We’ve got propane heat,” he’d said as they passed the big storage tank, “but I try not to use it if we don’t have to. Cooking and hot water takes enough.”

“Hot water?” she’d said teasingly. “Kristina told me this was roughing it.”

He’d given her a long look, as if gauging whether she was serious; she’d realized then that he must really think she was a pampered city girl. She hadn’t tried to tell him he was wrong; that wasn’t the kind of thing you proved with talk. She’d just keep out of his way and take care of herself.

“I like long showers,” he’d said, rather shortly, and Mercy had been disconcerted enough at the unexpected images his words caused to be unable to answer. She’d thought herself long past thinking about Grant McClure that way, but there was no denying that the thought of him standing naked in a steamy shower did strange things to her heart rate.

“Everybody keeps an eye on the fire in here during the winter,” he said now, gesturing toward the sizable wood stove that sat on a brick slab in a corner lined with the same brick. “It’s easier to keep the place above freezing than it is to get it warmed up from freezing.”

She shook off the lingering effects of the unwelcome and surprisingly erotic memory. “I’ll bet it is,” she said, noting the sizable stack of wood against the inside wall. “Where’s the woodpile?”

He nodded toward a closed door a few feet from the stove. “There’s a lean-to outside that door. We try to keep enough dry inside to get through a week. If we’re lucky, that’s the longest whiteout blizzard we have.”

She nodded. If he was expecting shock from her at the idea of such weather, he was going to be disappointed. Yes, she lived in the city, but that city was Minneapolis, and she was no stranger to harsh weather. Although as she looked up at the Rockies on the ride out here from Clear Springs, she’d felt a tiny shiver up her spine that made her think that perhaps those mountains had a thing or two to teach anyone about real weather.

“Chipper seems like a nice kid,” she said as she followed Grant out the front door.

“He is just that,” Grant said. “Nice, but a kid. He just signed on full-time after he graduated high school.”

Was there a warning somewhere in those words, Mercy wondered? Or was she again reading things that weren’t there into Grant’s words? She’d hardly been able to miss the boy’s reaction to her, the way he’d blushed and stammered the whole ride back to the ranch. But what did Grant think she was going to do, toy with the affections of an innocent kid? Suddenly the irony of it hit her, and she smiled wryly.

“Lord, did I look at you like that? All cow-eyed and red-faced?”

Grant stopped his long strides and looked at her sharply. Then, slowly, a smile curved his mouth. A smile that hadn’t lost any potency in the past twelve years.

“Sometimes,” he admitted.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was flattering, even when it was embarrassing.”

“I never meant to embarrass you. I promise,” she added solemnly, “it’ll never happen again.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Too bad. Now I might appreciate it more.”

He turned on his heel and walked on before she could respond to that. So Grant McClure still had a wicked sense of humor, she thought. Because he had been joking. He had to have been.

She trotted a few steps to catch up with him. He didn’t slow to accommodate her shorter strides, but she was used to that, and just walked faster to keep up. It helped keep her in shape, she reasoned, which was a good thing, no matter how annoying it might be.

“So Chipper just started working here?”

“Year-round, yes. He worked summers before, and used to come out on weekends, with his mother.”

His mother? Mercy thought. “Oh?” was all she said.

“Rita does some cooking for us.”

Rita. An image of a dark, flashing-eyed brunette passed thorough her mind, and she couldn’t stop herself doing the math. Chipper was eighteen; if his mother had married young, she could be as young as thirty-six now. Only six years older than Grant. Hardly a prohibitive difference.

She hoped Chipper’s father was big and burly and cranky, then chastised herself for the thought. What did it matter to her, anyway?

“She only cooks on weekends?” she said brightly.

“Yes, but she cooks up a storm. Enough for the whole week, and we freeze it. And she taught a couple of us enough to get through the winter when we run out of her stuff.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” she said.

“The cooking in advance, or teaching us to cook?”

“Both,” she said with a laugh. “I’m not much of a cook myself, as Kristina can tell you.”

“She already did. Right after she informed me of how politically incorrect it would be of me to assume that because you’re female, you would cook.”

“Well,” Mercy said in exaggerated relief, “I’m glad that’s out of the way.”

“I’m sure her warning saved me from a horrible fate.”

“Assuredly,” Mercy agreed in mock seriousness. “But I do a fine job washing dishes. Perhaps that talent might be of some use?”

“Take it up with the guys. They usually draw straws.”

“They? Not you?”

He grinned. “There are some perks to being the boss.”

She was still smiling back at him, and marveling at this unexpected lightheartedness that seemed to have overtaken her, when a trumpeting neigh snapped her head around. She turned to stare at the animal who stood in the large corral beside the biggest of the two barns she could see.

The phrase that popped into her head was flash and fire, because this animal certainly seemed to have both. He was spectacularly marked. His head, neck and forequarters—she thought that was the right term on a horse—were a glistening black. From the shoulders, or whatever they were—she knew that wasn’t right—back over his rump and halfway down his legs, he was a pristine white with scattered dark oval spots that ranged from speckles to almost four inches across.

Something tugged at the edges of her memory. When she was so infatuated with the teenage Grant McClure, and with all the industriousness of a young girl in the throes of her first crush, she’d determined to learn all about the things Grant was so enamored of and she knew nothing about. So she’d read, endlessly, it had seemed, about horses. And although she’d never gotten close to a real one before, beyond driving past some in a pasture somewhere, a lot of that had stuck in her mind. Not the word for shoulders, but a picture of a horse marked like this one, although brown and white, instead of black.

“An…Appaloosa?” she asked, trying the word out tentatively as she walked toward the fence.

“Yes,” Grant said, sounding surprised. “He’s an Appy.”

“I saw a picture of one once,” she said, keeping it vague; never would she have admitted the lengths the child she’d been had gone to to learn about what he cared about. “Only it was brown and white.”

“They come in all colors. And some are all white, with the spots. Leopard Appies, they call them. I’ve got a leopard mare who’s in foal to him,” he said, nodding toward the big horse.

She came to a halt, staring at the animal who towered over her. But she wasn’t afraid of him, especially when he cocked his head to look at her with every evidence of interest.

“He’s…beautiful.” The horse snorted as if he’d understood, tilting his big head as if preening. Mercy laughed.

“He’s a direct descendent of Chief of Four Mile, a premier Appaloosa stud in Texas thirty, forty years ago. But don’t let the fancy lineage fool you. He’s a clown,” Grant said dryly.

“I can see that,” she agreed. “And that spot over his eye makes him look like one.”

It was true, she thought, that odd-looking white patch over one eye gave the horse a slightly off-center look that was comical despite his size and obvious power.

“Careful,” Grant said as she leaned on the top rail of the fence. “He may look and act like a clown, but he’s a stallion, and they can be unpredictable.”

She backed up a half step. “You mean like biting and kicking? He does that?”

“Well…no. At least he hasn’t yet.”

“Oh. So you haven’t had him very long?”

“A little over a year and a half.”

She blinked. “He hasn’t kicked or bitten anyone in all that time, but you’re still worried?”

Grant looked a little sheepish. “I’m not worried, I’m…baffled. I’ve never known a stallion who didn’t have at least one bad habit.”

“And he doesn’t?”

“Not unless you count knocking my hat off every time I get close enough,” he said wryly.

Mercy chuckled, and the sound was quickly echoed by a soft whicker from the big horse. It was as if he’d had enough of being ignored. She glanced at Grant, who lifted a shoulder in a half shrug.

“You’ll be okay. He really does have excellent manners. Just don’t make sudden moves that might startle him. Or touch him before he invites it.”

He didn’t explain, so Mercy assumed it would be clear to her if and when that happened. She took back the half step she’d surrendered at Grant’s warning. The horse stretched his nose over the fence toward her, nostrils flaring as he sniffed. She let him. His breath stirred her hair, and then, amazingly, she felt the soft touch of his velvety muzzle as he snuffled her ponytail.

The horse whickered again. He nudged the side of her head with his nose, then drew back, as if expectant. He repeated the action after a moment when she didn’t move, and Mercy felt like a not-too-intelligent creature the big Appy was trying to train. Was this the invitation Grant had meant?

She glanced at him; he was watching intently, but his expression was unreadable, and he gave her no clue. Was he testing her somehow, for some reason of his own? And if she failed, would she be banished to the house for the duration of her stay?

You, she told herself, are paranoid.

And with a smile she reached up very slowly, very carefully, and patted the sleek black neck. The whicker came again, only this time Mercy would have sworn it held a note of pleasure—whether at her touch or at the fact that she’d finally figured it out, she wasn’t sure.

“Does he have a name?” she asked, marveling at the muscle and heat and glossiness of the animal.

“I call him Joker.”

She chuckled as she looked over her shoulder at Grant; she was almost getting used to laughing again. “I can see why,” she said. “But is that really his name? You said you call him Joker.”

“His registered name is Fortune’s Fire.”

Mercy’s eyes widened. “Fortune? As in the Fortunes?”

He nodded. “Kate left him to me.”

“Kristina’s grandmother? Who died in that plane crash?”

He nodded again. An odd expression came over his face as Mercy watched, one of bemusement, even bewilderment.

“He’s worth…more than this whole place, probably, when it comes down to it,” Grant said. “And I have no idea why she did it.”

That was the reason for that expression, she thought. He truly didn’t know why Kate Fortune had left him this beautiful animal. It wasn’t the animal himself that had him bemused, it was the fact that he owned it. She turned to look at him steadily.

“Well, your mother married her son, right?” she said. “So you were her son Nate’s stepson. Her grandson, in a way.”

“I suppose.” He sounded as puzzled as he looked. “But I wasn’t really anything to her. I’m not a Fortune. I never have been. Not that they haven’t been…nice enough, and I know Mom’s been married to Nate for twenty-five years, but…I just don’t fit in that family.”

“Kate obviously thought you did, if she left you such a valuable animal.”

He shook his head. “I still don’t get it. She left that ranch to my stepbrother Kyle, and Joker should have gone with it. If Kyle had known more about stock, I’m sure he would have fought it. He should have.”

“Since he didn’t know, maybe he didn’t care.”

“I tried to tell him how much the horse was worth, that there was no reason for Kate to leave him to me—”

“You tried to give back what Kate wanted you to have, because you didn’t think you should have it?”

Mercy felt an odd tightness in her chest as she remembered Grant at seventeen, lamenting rather than celebrating his victory in a high school swim meet, because the opposing team’s champion had been ill and unable to compete. It meant nothing, he said, if you didn’t do your best against the best. She’d thought him noble then; apparently he’d never lost that uncompromising honesty.

“I’ve spent a year and a half trying to figure it out. If his offspring are half the horse he is, he could make this ranch rich. But why? I’ve seen a lot of Nate, but I’d only met Kate a few times.”

“I’d say you made an impression.”

He shifted his booted feet, as if he were uncomfortable. Then he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Jeans worn in a way city men paid a bundle for, Mercy thought, but for all that expense, they still didn’t manage to look the way Grant did in them. But then, few men would.

“Maybe,” he said doubtfully.

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I’m not a Fortune,” he repeated, rather adamantly, Mercy thought. “My mother may have married one, but I don’t know how to deal with that kind of life. I don’t know how my mother puts up with it.”

“Neither do I,” Mercy said frankly. “Sometimes I look at Kristina and envy her, with all that wealth and position, but most of the time I’m just grateful it’s not me.”

Grant’s eyes widened slightly. Then he smiled, a wide, companionable smile that she remembered from the days when he’d actually unbent to talk to the twelve-year-old pest who had become his shadow. Even when he was exasperated with her, he’d never been mean or cruel. But she doubted Barbara Fortune would have tolerated such behavior in her son; Kristina’s and Grant’s mother was the warmest, kindest woman Mercy had ever met. She made Sheila, Nate’s first wife, look like exactly what she was, a grasping, manipulative woman who resented losing the status being a Fortune wife had given her.

“So am I,” Grant agreed fervently. “The Fortunes may be as close to royalty as this country gets, but I wouldn’t want their problems. I always figured they were a living example of why the Minnesota state bird is the common loon.”

Mercy blinked, then laughed. Grant’s wry commonsense outlook, which he’d had even as a teenager, was exactly what she needed, she thought.

“That much money does strange things to people,” she said.

“And the people around them.”

Mercy remembered the night Kristina, devastated by the death of her grandmother, had poured out the long, convoluted and dramatic history of her family.

“Yes,” she said, quietly now. “It must have hurt Kate Fortune terribly when her baby was kidnapped.”

Grant’s expression turned solemn. “My mother told me Kate never believed the baby was dead. She never gave up, because they never found a body.”

Mercy shivered. “How awful. But Kristina says her aunt Rebecca is just as stubborn. She’s convinced the crash that killed Kate was no accident, even after all this time.”

Grant’s mouth twisted wryly. “That’s what I mean. When you’re part of that kind of family, that kind of thinking comes naturally.”

“I suppose it has to. Things always seem to happen to the Fortunes. Look at the Monica Malone case—”

Mercy broke off suddenly, realizing she’d been about to mention what might be a painful subject; Grant might say he wasn’t a Fortune, but still…

“You mean Jake?” he asked, meeting her gaze levelly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s all over the front pages. Why shouldn’t you?”

“Because he’s related to you. Sort of.”

Grant shrugged. “Jake may be my uncle by marriage, but that doesn’t mean I have any illusions about him. I’ve always thought he had a side he didn’t show much. He rules the Fortune clan, but sometimes I don’t think they really…see him.”

“I find him rather intimidatingly aristocratic,” Mercy said honestly. “Maybe you see him more clearly because you’re a step removed.”

He looked at her consideringly. “You’re a cop—what do you think?”

“I don’t know enough about the case to form an opinion. And the lid is on this one, tight. Not even many rumors flying. Money can buy silence, it seems.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Did Jake being charged surprise you?”

“Judging from the evidence they found? No. But even so, I find it hard to believe.”

“That’s only natural. No one wants to believe that about someone you know, or are related to, no matter how distantly.”

“I don’t know,” Grant said wryly. “Somehow it seems to be just the kind of thing to happen in the Fortune family. Those are troubled waters.”

Mercy couldn’t argue with that. But she had to agree that it was hard to believe that handsome, well-bred, cool, calm Jake Fortune was guilty of the spectacular murder of a Hollywood icon.

But she knew better than most that troubled waters could hide a multitude of sins.

Three

“Hey!”

It came out as a yelp, and Grant couldn’t help laughing as Joker again tugged Mercy’s tidy ponytail into complete disarray. She backed away and gave the big Appy a disgusted look.

“I’ve got to stop using that apple shampoo,” Mercy muttered, tugging at her pale blond hair.

“It’s more than that,” he said, still chuckling. “I feed him the real thing, and I sure don’t get this kind of reaction.”

It was nothing less than the truth; in the week she’d been here, Mercy had become the focus of the horse’s world. He neighed loudly whenever she came into sight, sulked grumpily if she didn’t pay him enough attention, and complained noisily if she paid too much attention to any other horse.

“I’m just somebody new,” she said. “Whose hair happens to smell like his favorite snack.”

“Not just somebody new, something. Not many women come here, and those that do tend to stay away from him.”

“Ah,” Mercy said, smiling again. “So he likes the ladies, is that it?”

“It’s part of his job. He is a stallion, after all,” Grant pointed out, wondering if she would be embarrassed by the earthy explanation.

Mercy’s smile became a grin, and Grant realized she wasn’t easily embarrassed now, any more than she had been twelve years ago.

“I suppose it is,” she said easily. “Maybe you should get him a lady of his own.”

“He has a string of them, every breeding season,” Grant said dryly.

“A job most males would envy,” she said.

He raised a brow at her; had there been a note of sourness in her voice? Almost of accusation? He’d never been one to accept universal guilt for the wrongs done by the entire male population, considerable though they might be, and he wasn’t going to start now.

“Maybe,” he said. “But the rest might feel sorry for him for being a sucker for a city girl.”

Her brows furrowed, and he saw the same expression cross her face that he imagined had just crossed his own, as if she were wondering if he was accusing her of something. He hadn’t meant to; he was long past his old anger at city women and the games they played.

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Let’s just say city girls belong in the city.”

Her brows rose. “I see. And your mother? Does she belong there, too?”

He grimaced at her painfully accurate thrust. Mercy had never been one to back down from a confrontation, and he should have guessed that wouldn’t have changed. Especially since she was now a cop.

“She feels she belongs with Nate. Wherever that might be. But she’s happy, and that’s all that matters.”

“But you’d rather she was happy back here.”

Grant let out a short breath, sorry he’d ever started this. “What I’d rather doesn’t matter, either. Even though she was born here in Wyoming, she felt…too isolated here. There were no other women on the ranch, the closest neighbor is miles away, and Clear Springs even farther.”

“I can understand that,” Mercy said, all the challenge vanishing from her voice. “Your mother is a very outgoing, gregarious woman, she likes people, and it would be hard for her to feel so alone.”

“Yes.”

“Still, it must have been awfully painful for her to leave you here while she moved to Minneapolis. I know how much she loves you. Family is everything to her.”

“She didn’t leave me. I chose to stay here.”

She gave him an odd look that he couldn’t quite interpret. “I know. She told me that even at four years old you were a stubborn cowboy.”

He drew back a little, and his brows lowered. “My mother told you that?”

“She said when she married Nate she asked if you wanted to come live with them. Your answer was to kick Nate in the shin and run away.”

Grant felt himself flush. “My mother talks too much.”

“Are you upset because she said it, or because she said it to me?”

“Both,” he muttered. But a sudden thought made his eyes narrow as he looked at her. “Just when did this conversation take place?”

“Oh, right before Christmas, as I recall. I remember helping Kristina with that marvelous tree.”

Christmas? Almost a year ago? What had Mercy been doing discussing him with his mother then? And then another thought hit him. He’d been with his family at Christmas last year, and Mercy hadn’t even been mentioned, he knew that, or he wouldn’t have been so surprised when Kristina called about her. And if she’d been around, he was sure his mother would have mentioned it; she felt it was her duty to try and make Grant feel part of the family, which included telling him about everyone’s doings, and that would have included Kristina’s closest friend, if she’d been there.

“I was at mom’s the whole holiday week last year, and you weren’t around,” he said.

She’d been off with her now deceased partner and lover, no doubt, Grant thought suddenly, wishing he hadn’t said anything. But she didn’t react with pain or shock or grief, she merely grinned at him.

“I meant Christmas twelve years ago, Grant.”

He blinked. “Oh.” Then he scowled at her. “You set me up for that.”

“Yep,” she agreed blandly. “And you bit.”

She turned back to Joker. She patted his neck, then rubbed gently at his velvety nose, and the stallion nickered softly and let out a gusty sigh of unmistakable pleasure. And Grant had to laugh once more.

He’d wondered how she managed to be a cop, as small and delicate and fragile as she seemed. But he was beginning to see that her sense of humor, her wit and her quick intelligence probably went a long way toward making up for whatever she lacked in size, muscle and brawn. She might not be able to physically intimidate, but he had a feeling the person who tried to outwit her or outthink her would quickly learn a sad lesson, and probably wind up outwitted himself.

“Yes, you big lunk,” she said to the horse, in a soft tone that proved she wasn’t at all immune to the big Appy’s whimsical charm, “you are a beauty. But you know that, don’t you? Pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?”

Joker snorted, and stretched his neck out for more of her rubbing caresses. Grant watched her small, slender hands stroke the glossy black hide, and felt an odd tightening low in his belly.

“You could make even a city girl like me want to learn to ride, couldn’t you?”

Grant looked at her sharply, wondering if her use of his mocking term was meant for him. But she didn’t look at him, merely continued her stroking of the blissfully happy horse’s heavily muscled neck.

For the first time in his life, Grant McClure found himself envying a horse. And he didn’t like the realization one bit.

“Thanks for fixing that bridle for me, Chipper.”

The young hand looked at him, startled. “I didn’t, Mr. McClure. I didn’t have time to get to it, by the time we found that stray colt and I got that fence repaired.”

The colt, one of the first of Joker’s get that had been born on the M Double C, had gotten out of a small corral on the far side of the brood-mare barn when a top rail gave way and he jumped the remaining two. Not an inconsiderable feat for a yearling. Maybe they had a competitive jumper on their hands, he thought with an inward grin; he’d like to see the stir a flashily colored Appy would make on the Grand Prix circuit.

But what Chipper had said made his forehead crease. “Then when did you sort out that mess in the tack room?”

“Er…I didn’t get to that, either. Charlie and I got back so late, really, and I was checking on that leopard mare, you know she’s been acting odd—”

Grant held up a hand. “Easy. I wasn’t criticizing. I didn’t expect you to round up that colt and get back much before dark. But if you didn’t clean it up, who did?”

“Probably the same elf who brought in all that wood yesterday, when it was supposed to be my turn.”

Grant looked over his shoulder at Walt Masters, a wiry, grizzled older man who had been at the M Double C for decades, who had seen it grow from the small place it had been when Grant’s father, Hank McClure, started it to the sprawling, relatively successful spread it was now. He’d been the one to suggest adding blooded performance horses to the ranch’s production, citing the tenuous prices for beef in a changing market these days. Grant had been doubtful, then had warmed to the idea, and now the horses were his favorite part of the operation, and, with the addition of Joker, on their way to being the most profitable.

“Not to mention,” Walt went on, “refilling the wood box in the bunkhouse for us poor, mistreated cowboys.”

Grant snorted and took a swipe at Walt with his hat. “Mistreated, hell,” he said. “You name me one other ranch in the state where the bunkhouse has a pool table and a hot tub for your aching back, you old coot.”

The man grinned. “Your pa’s probably still twirlin’ in his grave over that tub.”

Grant smiled. “Probably, Walt. Probably.”

He was proud that he was able to say it without wavering. It had taken him a long time to get to the point of accepting his father’s too-early death as a topic of conversation. For a long time, he hadn’t been able to talk about it at all. But now he took Walt’s gentle, affectionate joking in stride, knowing the old man had loved Hank McClure like a brother.

But that didn’t mean he cared to dwell on it, and he excused himself and left the barn.

Probably the same elf who brought in all that wood…

Who was, no doubt, the same elf who had mysteriously repaired the rip in the living room curtains, with neat, tidy stitches that were far beyond his own needlework talents, which began and ended with sewing on buttons.

He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. The air carried the feel of snow, and he guessed it wouldn’t be much longer—a week, maybe two—before Wyoming donned its winter coat once more.

He took two steps into the house and then stopped dead. He sniffed, knowing he should recognize the aroma permeating the air, but unable to quite pin it down. Then it hit him; it wasn’t one but two distinct smells; the oddly sweet odor of gun-cleaning fluid and, impossibly…bread. Baking bread. His stomach leaped to attention, and told him about it with a fervent growl.

The bread smell made him curious—and hungry—but the gun-cleaning smell made him wary. He headed in that direction first, into the wood-paneled den where his father’s collection of weapons was kept, along with his own shotgun and two hunting rifles. The characteristic smell became stronger, although his stomach seemed to prefer concentrating on the appetizing sent of the bread.

He found Mercy in the den, with his Remington .306 laid out on the table beside the gun cabinet. He’d planned to clean it tonight, after using it yesterday to take down the injured deer he’d tracked high into the back country, putting the animal, which had somehow broken a leg, out of its misery. He hadn’t really had the time to spare, but neither had he been able to stand the thought of the big-eyed doe struggling along in pain before she inevitably fell victim to some predator a step up on the food chain. He rarely interfered with nature’s plan, but something about the way the frightened, agonized deer looked at him had stirred him to help.

He paused in the doorway, watching as Mercy cleaned the weapon with swift, practiced movements. It brought home to him as nothing had yet that this was a woman familiar with weapons, though more often the kind used mostly to control the worst of the world’s predators, the two-legged kind. And again the incongruity of it struck him; he tried to picture her dealing with some big, brawny, rowdy drunk. Or some recalcitrant thief or burglar. And the only way he could reconcile it was to think of how she had charmed Joker, and figure she probably did her job the same way, using wit and charm and intelligence, rather than brute strength or force.

She finished, and began to put away the cleaning kit. Grant stepped into the room.

“Want to check it?”

She didn’t look at him as she spoke, and he realized she’d known he was there all along.

“No,” he said. “It’s obvious you know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you.” She gestured toward the rack on the wall beside the cabinet. “It goes there, I presume?”

“Yes.”

She made no move to pick up the weapon. “That’s up to you, then. I couldn’t reach it without climbing all over your couch.”

He’d never thought about how high that rack was before. His father had been even taller than he was, his mother five-seven, so he’d never even thought about it. And this simple realization made him marvel yet again that she had managed to do what she had.

He was putting the Remington back on the rack when his stomach reminded him noisily of the other smell saturating the air. A little embarrassed, he finished racking the rifle, then glanced at her. She was grinning.

“It does have that effect, doesn’t it?”

“I thought you didn’t cook.”

“I don’t. But I can bake up a storm. I hope you don’t mind me invading your kitchen.”

“Not,” he said fervently, “when the results smell like that. I’m going to have a riot on my hands if that smell gets out.”

“I made three loaves. I hope that’s enough for everybody.”

“When did you have time, between all your other little jobs?”

She didn’t deny his words, only shrugged. “I had all day.”

“I thought you came here to…recuperate.”

That shadow he’d seen before darkened her expression for a moment. But she said only “I can’t just sit around. I feel better if I’m doing something.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Keeping busy was the only thing that had gotten him through the days after his father died. And he’d done it well, kept so busy that he dropped into an exhausted sleep at night. That hadn’t stopped the dreams, but on the better days, he hadn’t remembered most of them by morning. And eventually they had faded, leaving behind only a lingering sadness, and gradually allowing the good memories to return.

He wondered when Mercy would be able to face Corelli’s death without that shadow darkening her eyes.

A couple of nights later, when he found himself with that rarest of things, time on his hands, when he found himself actually considering sitting down with a book, he had to admit that it was because of Mercy, because of all the myriad things she had seen needed doing and had done, the tiny little tasks that he always had to put off until after a full day of ranch work, the things that ate up his evenings until he had no time left for one of the few great pleasures in his life.

He let out a long sigh of satisfaction as he lowered himself into his father’s leather recliner and put the footrest up. For a few minutes he just sat there, book in hand, savoring the prospect of peacefully reading for a couple of hours. His eyes drifted closed, and he wondered where Mercy was. She’d been out flirting with Joker when he rode in, but he hadn’t seen her since. Nor had she been in the house after he finished his shower; an even lengthier than usual affair after he’d rescued that calf from a mud hole on the south flats. He’d wound up even muddier than the bawling creature, and the mud had dried to a skin-pulling crust by the time he got back to the house.

He opened his eyes suddenly, aware that something had changed. The room was dark, and he thought groggily that the light over the chair had burned out. Then he realized he was swathed in something, and it took him a moment to realize it was the blanket from the back of the couch. He freed one arm and reached out to try the lamp. It came on cooperatively, lighting the chairside table, and his book, neatly closed and sitting beside the lamp.

And the clock on the desk across the room said 3:00 a.m.

Walt? he wondered. No, the old man might have turned out the light, might even, in a fit of helpfulness, have put away his book, but tucking a blanket around him was hardly old Walt’s style. And it was unlikely he’d have come back to the house after retiring to the warmth and comfort of the bunkhouse, anyway.

He knew who had probably done it, he just didn’t want to admit that Mercy had found him sound asleep and tucked him in like a kid. Didn’t want to admit he found it oddly comforting.

He didn’t want to admit how much he’d come to like having her around in such a short time.

“She’s a tough little thing,” Walt said. “Stronger’n she looks, too.”

Grant didn’t have to ask; even if Walt’s words hadn’t made it obvious, there was only one “she” on the ranch. Mercy was everything Walt had said, and more.

“She wasn’t too happy with me when I tried to help her with that hay bale,” Chipper put in rather morosely.

“Did she need help?” Walt asked. Grant had the feeling he already knew the answer.

“Well…no,” Chipper admitted, looking sheepish. “She slung that thing on the wagon like she’d been doin’ it forever. She is awful strong.”

“Learns fast, too,” Walt put in. “I had to check on that leopard mare this morning. She’s making me nervous with all that pacing around, even though she’s not due to foal for another six weeks.”

“Me, too,” Grant said; the pregnant mare they called simply Lady was one of their most valuable, and she was in foal to Joker. Their first get had been the colt who had escaped the other day, and Grant had hopes this foal might turn out as well. “But what does that have to do with our…visitor?”

“By the time I was done, that girl had all the stalls on this side of the barn shoveled out.”

Grant stared at him. “She was mucking out stalls?”

“And doin’ a fine job of it, too.”

Fixing tack. Stacking wood. Cleaning the tack room. Cleaning his rifle. Baking bread. And now slinging hay bales and cleaning stalls.

She needs to rest, she’s running herself ragged.

Kristina’s words echoed in his head. If this was what Mercy considered resting, he didn’t want to know what she thought was work. And what she’d been doing wasn’t just work, it was labor, simple, hard, physical labor, requiring a strength and endurance he never would have guessed she had, from her appearance.

Which should teach him something, he supposed. But he still felt a niggling sense of guilt, as if somehow he’d made her feel she had to earn her keep here, because of his warnings about this being the worst time of year for them here at the ranch. It was true that, while calving time was hectic, and the roundup and branding season was busy, winter was dangerous, to man and beast. But maybe he’d sounded a little harsh to her.

“—goin’ to do, son?”

Grant blinked at Walt. “What did you say? I…was thinking.”

Walt clucked at him mockingly. “Been doin’ a lot o’that lately, boy. Too much thinking ain’t good for a man, you know.”

“Right,” Grant muttered, and turned on his heel and strode out of the barn without another word.

He found Mercy in the house, adding a small log to the fire in the stove. She’d apparently gotten into the habit of replacing what they burned every day, something he had always meant to do but had been unable to, with all the demands on his time; the inside stack hadn’t diminished at all since she’d been here.

“You don’t have to do all this, you know.”

When Mercy straightened and gave him a puzzled look, he knew it had came out rather abruptly, not at all how he’d meant to say it.

“Keep the fire going? It’s strictly selfish. I hate it when my teeth chatter indoors.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She closed the tempered-glass door of the stove, dusted her hands off on her jeans—jeans that hugged her hips and backside delightfully; it didn’t seem right that such a little thing had such luscious curves—and turned to face him straight on. A trait he was coming to expect from her. And to suspect was how she faced most things in life.

Except, perhaps, the death of Nick Corelli.

“What did you mean, then?”

“I told you I don’t expect you to work.”

“And I told you I need to keep busy.”

“Fine. Keep busy. What you’ve been doing is a big help. But you don’t have to lug hay bales or clean out stalls.”

“I know I don’t have to.”

“That’s hard, dirty work. Leave it to the guys whose job it is.”

She gave him a calculating look. “Oh. But I suppose baking bread and sewing is all right?”

He’d known when he started this that somehow he was going to end up in trouble.

“I didn’t mean that. At least not like that.”

“Then just how did you mean it? You think I can’t do that kind of work?”

“That would be pretty silly of me, wouldn’t it, when you’ve already proven you can?” he said, trying to be reasonable.

“Then why are you telling me to stop?”

He let out a compressed breath. “I’m not. But you’re supposed to be here to rest, not work yourself to death.”

“Did you ever stop to think,” she said, her voice tight, “that maybe that’s the only way I can rest?”

“Yes,” he said honestly. “Because I’ve been there. But I’m used to this kind of work. You’re not. And even though you’re a heck of a lot tougher than you look, you could still get hurt.”

She seemed taken aback at his first words, but by the time he finished, that rebellious look was back in her eyes.

“All this macho protective stuff might have been appealing when I was twelve and thought the sun rose and set on you,” she snapped, “but I’m not a child anymore, Grant. I don’t need protecting.”

Grant drew back slightly, both startled and amused by her vehemence. No, it wasn’t a child who was standing toe-to-toe with him, facing him down. It was a woman, and a fierce, passionate one, at that.

Unfortunate choice of words, he thought as his body surged in response to thoughts brought on just by thinking the word passionate in conjunction with Mercy. Would this ardent intensity carry over into other aspects in her personality? Did she exhibit the same fire and passion in other places, other ways?

If so, he thought wryly as he tried to quell the heat that was suddenly billowing through him, Nick Corelli had been a very lucky man.

And realizing he’d just called a man who had been shot to death on a dirty city street lucky was just the absurdity he needed to rein in his own unexpected and unwanted reaction to this woman he’d spent so much time trying not to think about lately.

“Okay,” he said, keeping his voice light with an effort. “I’m just afraid Kristina’s going to have my head if she finds out I’ve been working you so hard.”

She accepted the change gracefully. “So that’s it—you’re afraid of your little sister.”

“Any man in his right mind would be afraid of Kristina.”

“You’re right.” Mercy smiled, then sighed. “I always wanted to be like her.”

Grant’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“You know, glamorous, charming, bubbly. All the things I’m not.”

“You’ll do just fine as you are,” he said gruffly. “The last thing the world needs is another pampered charmer like Kristina. You’re solid, steady, and not a bit spoiled.”

“Oh, thank you,” Mercy said, her mouth twisting wryly. “Just what a girl wants to hear.”

She left him standing there gaping after her as she turned and trotted up the stairs.

Women, Grant thought, wondering what the hell he’d said wrong now.

He should, he mused rather sourly, leave the females to Joker.

Four

Mercy stretched, then retreated into the warmth of her curled-up shape when her toes found nothing but cold sheets. She opened her eyes to dim gray light, and sleepily wondered what time it was. A few minutes passed before she decided she cared enough to look at the bedside clock; she hadn’t been sleeping well for a long time, and was hesitant to end last night’s relatively peaceful rest.

When she saw the clock read past 8:00 a.m., she came awake in a rush; she hadn’t slept this late in months. She sat up, rubbing her arms against the room’s chill, realizing now that the fire had probably died down to embers, if Grant had been up and out before dawn, as usual. She’d have to hurry downstairs and stoke it before it died out altogether.

She yawned as she scrambled into her jeans and a heavy dark green sweater, then pulled on the sheepskin boots that were the only thing she’d ever found that kept her feet warm no matter what. And yawned again. No wonder the man fell asleep in his chair, she thought. She hadn’t been at all surprised when she found him there that night.

What had surprised her was the book she found resting across his broad chest. Somehow she hadn’t expected the rugged cowboy who ramrodded this big ranch to be prone to reading Shakespeare. But there was no doubt he’d been doing just that—the collected tragedies, to be exact. She’d glanced at the shelves behind the sleeping man, and seen more Shakespeare, Molière and a few more classics tucked in among a selection of much more recent technothrillers, reminding her that Grant had been torn between majoring in literature and studying engineering, despite his never-wavering determination to return to the ranch.

Then she realized she shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d known perfectly well that Grant had graduated college with honors; Kristina had told her so, proud of her big brother’s success. She remembered when he’d left for college that last summer when she was fourteen. She’d wept, certain her white knight was leaving forever and she’d never see him again. And then she’d started high school herself, and by the following summer she’d been far too sophisticated to spend her time mooning over a childhood crush.

But that hadn’t stopped her that night from simply standing beside the worn leather chair, watching Grant McClure sleep. The mouth that was so mobile, as quick to smile as it was to frown or quirk in wry amusement, had looked warm and relaxed, and the sandy brown semicircles of his lashes had looked thick and soft against his tanned cheeks. Free for the moment of the responsibility of keeping this ranch going, he had looked much as he had when she last saw him, eighteen and off to conquer the world.

And her world hadn’t ended, as she’d feared it would. No, she’d left her childhood passion far behind. No longer was her singular goal in life to snag Grant McClure’s attention. And the fact that when he joked that he might appreciate her attention now her heart had taken a sudden leap, and a burst of heat had shot through her, was something she would just as soon ignore. It reminded her far too much of the infatuated child she’d been.

She yawned again, and stretched as she went down the stairs. Still sleepy-eyed, she stirred the coals in the stove until they were glowing brightly, then added three small, dry pieces of kindling. They caught quickly, and she added two larger pieces of wood. When they were burning, too, she shut the stove door. She stood there for a few minutes, until the heat began to radiate again, warming her hands at the rekindled fire.

Somewhat absently, still pondering the near miracle of her almost restful night’s sleep, she wandered over to the front window and lifted the curtain she’d mended last week. And blinked.

Snow. Everything was covered with it. As if all color had been wiped from the earth’s palette, revealing a spotless canvas.

She’d always welcomed the first snow back in the city. The pristine white cloak seemed to mask, even if only for a while, the ugliness she too often encountered in her work. She knew it was only a facade, that all the ugliness was still there, but it lightened the load just a little to pretend for a short time that the world was as clean and bright as it looked after that first snow. But here the landscape itself had its own clean, stark beauty, and the coating of snow softened it all to a gentle loveliness.

She went for her heavy shearling coat and pulled it on, then trotted to the door. The moment she stepped outside, she took in a long, deep breath of crisp air that seemed so clean she could almost taste the purity of it. She found herself smiling, and her smile widened as she stepped off the porch into the pure white and heard it crunch under her feet.

She grinned widely to herself.

And then she stopped dead, marveling. She’d been doubtful when Kristina suggested this; going to a quiet place with nothing to do but think hadn’t seemed to her a wise thing to do. Even though she’d thought seeing Grant after all these years, and seeing how her childhood hero had turned out, might be an interesting distraction, she hadn’t thought it would be enough to get her mind off Nick. And the fact that more than anything, she knew, she should be back home, hunting down the men who had killed him.

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