Here Comes The Bride!

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

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

“I met your bride today.”

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

“She seems…sweet.”

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s a good girl.”

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

The Rancher’s Bride

Pamela Britton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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

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

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

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

I love you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Chapter One

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

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

So this was Texas?

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

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

“You can’t park there.”

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

“I have another squeeze of hay coming in.”

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

“Up here.”

Oh. Up.

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

He looked like something out of a Hanes underwear commercial.

Boxers? Or briefs?

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

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

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

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

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

“I am,” she said in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good heavens, how did the driver see?

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

Her only possession.

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

Jerk.

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

How did he know who she was?

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

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

“Wow.”

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

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

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

Spring Hill Ranch was not what she expected.

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

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

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

“Hello?” she called out to the rider.

It wasn’t a cowboy.

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

“Jorie?” the woman called out in surprise.

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

“Mrs. Clayborne?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I was anxious to get here.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on. I’ll introduce you two.”

“I think he’s unloading hay.”

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

Pretty.

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

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

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

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

That was an understatement.

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

“Move your car.”

Yeah, she could see that.

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

“Good to know.”

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

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

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

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

“Um, yeah. Me, too.”

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

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

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

Jorie stumbled.

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

Chapter Two

Ryan heard them coming before he saw them.

“I guess you were right, boss.”

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

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

God help him.

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

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

Weddings.

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

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

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

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

“Shut up, Sam.”

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

Until she caught sight of him.

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

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

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

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

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

Laurel. His fiancée.

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

His future bride.

He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t move.

Stubborn, huh?

She glared.

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

“Go on,” his mother ordered.

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

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

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

Cut it out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nearly closed his eyes.

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

He didn’t like her.

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

“Buckle up,” was all he said.

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

No, he doesn’t.

He smells manly.

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

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.”

Her cheeks turned pink, her sexy mouth pressed together. It was exactly the reaction he’d been looking for. She didn’t smile at him flirtatiously. Didn’t seem to welcome his invitation to undress in front of him. Not, he quickly reassured himself, that he was looking for that. No, no. He’d just been curious. Obviously, she hadn’t come to Texas to snare herself a cowboy bachelor.

Disappointed?

Absolutely not.

“The day I undress in front of you is the day the Tooth Fairy does the Macarena on your nose.”

He found himself laughing despite himself.

“Maybe next time you’ll listen to me,” he said, heading off to feed.

“There won’t be a next time,” she shot back, and for some reason the words only made him smile all the more.

He kinda liked her spunk.

* * *

“STUPID, IMPOSSIBLE MAN,” Jorie grumbled, listening for Ryan’s footsteps outside as she quickly stripped out of her blouse. “‘Next time maybe you’ll listen to me,’” she mimicked, freezing for a moment when she heard a noise. It was just a horse snorting, though. Ryan was still busy feeding horses. She had no idea if he’d noticed her absence, and didn’t care. He’d figure out what she was doing soon enough, she thought, shaking the silk fabric.

How in the heck was she going to adhere to Odelia’s wishes to learn more about horses if she couldn’t even feed them without messing it up?

Bits of green hay rained down like confetti. She had the stuff down her bra, too. Leaning forward, she scooped the cups out.

“Yuck.”

A knock startled her.

“Go away,” she called out.

He’d probably come to gloat. Evil man.

He knocked again. Louder.

“I said—”

The door opened.

“Hey!” She jerked her blouse in front of her.

“Are you okay?” Odelia asked, the woman’s eyes filled with concern. “Ryan mentioned something about an accident.”

The breath gushed out of her. “I thought you were Ryan.”

“What happened?” Odelia slipped into the room, her eyes darting over Jorie quickly.

“I had hay down my shirt.”

Odelia’s face cleared, a hand lifting to her heart. “That’s it? I thought it was serious.”

“This is serious,” Jorie quickly contradicted. “I feel like I’ve rolled in a briar patch. I’ve got hay in places I didn’t know I could have hay in.”

The hand over her heart lifted to her mouth, Odelia’s mirth clearly visible. “I can’t believe that no-good piece of work otherwise known as my son actually let you feed.”

“I insisted,” Jorie admitted. “I know you want me to learn more about horses and so I thought this might be a simple introduction.”

“It might have been if you hadn’t been in your work clothes. Ridiculous man.”

Jorie was ever so tempted to let Ryan take the fall. She really was. “Actually,” she said, still holding the shirt in front of her. “He did warn me. Kind of.”

“Come here,” Odelia said, motioning with her finger for Jorie to approach.

Jorie didn’t move.

Her new boss tipped her head at her in warning, hands moving to her hips. “Now, now, don’t be modest,” she drawled.

Jorie was completely bemused by the woman’s own outfit. She wore a bright red Western shirt, one with beige piping across the front. There was no fringe today, but she had on the obligatory cowboy hat. Jeans encrusted with rhinestones completed the ensemble. It wouldn’t be so bad, except she’d somehow managed to match the red of her shirt to the red of her lipstick. Not that it looked bad. It was just…unexpected on someone her age.

“Come on,” she urged. “Give me your shirt. I’ve dealt with this problem before. You’re not the first guest who’s found themselves in this predicament.”

Jorie handed over the shirt.

“I’ll go outside and shake it out while you deal with the other problem. And don’t worry. I’ll guard the door against that wretched son of mine.”

But now that Odelia had arrived Jorie had to admit this was her own darn fault. If she hadn’t been so stubborn this would never have happened.

Odelia returned quickly and Jorie felt better already, thanks to her de-hay-manation process, as she’d privately dubbed it. “If I never go near a brick of hay again, it’ll be too soon,” she muttered.

“They’re called flakes, honey, and while I’m grateful that you took my words to heart, you really don’t have to feed the horses.”

Thank God for that.

“Come on,” Odelia added. “Let me show you to the office you’ll be sharing with my son.”

Oh, yeah. The office. She’d forgotten.

Odelia swung the door wide, something brown dashing inside and causing her to step back until she realized it was a dog. The fluffy brown mutt yapped at her and Odelia shushed it, but it was no use. Another dog entered, this one equally small, only it was brown-and-white. Then a third dog entered. This one huge and shaggy. A black-and-white one followed, but it paused in the doorway, nose lifted as if trying to catch her scent.

“Whoa,” Jorie said as the brown-and-white one jumped on her pants.

“Jackson, no,” Odelia said.

Jackson didn’t appear to hear very well. He kept bouncing up and down, the little brown one joining him now. The big brown dog shuffled up along side of her, thrust its head beneath her hand as if asking for a scratch. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the black-and-white dog, nose still lifted, nostrils quivering, its paws taking it ever closer to…

“My quiche,” she cried, darting for the pie plate still atop a shelf.

“Your quiche?” Odelia echoed, only to repeat the words, “your quiche,” and sounding horrified.

Jorie understood why a second later. With the accuracy of a laser-guided weapon, the dog darted.

“Brat, no!” Odelia lunged with a grace of someone in her twenties.

Brat—how appropriate, Jorie had time to think before she, too, made a mad dash for her breakfast.

Brat didn’t appear to care that his name had been called. Nor that the word no had followed that name. Jorie watched as the pie plate slid into the dog’s mouth with an ease that made her gasp.

“No,” Odelia ordered.

The dog, pie plate hanging out of its mouth, glanced at the two humans charging toward him and did what any smart canine would do. He bolted for the door. Jorie tried to catch his collar, but she was nearly knocked off her feet by the big dog who’d suddenly caught the scent of his buddy’s treasure. The two little dogs darted between her legs and Jorie almost fell to the ground. Odelia gave up the chase, turned, shot her a look of apology.

Jorie felt her shoulders slump. She’d really been looking forward to that quiche.

“Was someone looking for this?”

They both turned. Ryan stood by the door, pie plate in hand, although half the quiche was already gone. He smirked.

“Wretched dog,” Odelia said.

When Jorie turned toward Odelia, the woman stared at her son, and it was clear she referred to her son, and not her miscreant canine.

Chapter Five

Ryan had to fight back laughter the whole way up the stairwell that led up to his office. He glanced back once, catching a glimpse of Jorie’s downtrodden face. It wasn’t funny, it really wasn’t, but he’d been the victim of that wretched pack of dogs so many times that it sort of was…only not to Jorie.

He clutched the black iron stair rail that kept people from falling to the barn aisle below. Behind him he could hear his mother bringing up the rear, her red boots clopping on the wooden steps. When he glanced back one more time, two steps from the top of the landing, it was in time to catch his mother’s glare…as if it was somehow his fault that her dogs had heisted Jorie’s quiche.

“I have some oatmeal in my desk,” he said, feeling guilty despite himself. He took the last step, pausing atop the parquet floor that made up the landing. The stairwell hugged the right side of the building, photos of some of their better-known ranch horses on the wall in between small, narrow windows that helped light the dark corner. “I can make you a quick bowl.”

“That’s okay,” he heard Jorie say.

He stopped in front of two massive oak doors that guarded the entrance to his office like wooden drawbridges. Black iron hinges that matched the stairwell pointed toward the door handles.

“I’m sure I can find something later,” she added.

He’d always thought the door was ostentatious, but his mom seemed to like it. Of course, the hinges squeaked horribly. He’d been meaning to fix that since forever. It didn’t seem to bother his mom. She’d been the one to design the office space beyond.

“Don’t you worry, dear,” his mom said, joining the two of them on the landing, her hand finding Jorie’s shoulder and patting it. “I’ve got plenty of food up at the house. I’ll bring you something down just as soon as I get you settled into the office.”

“If you bring her something, make sure you keep those dogs of yours locked up.”

Yeah, that was definitely a glare coming from his mom, although what he’d done wrong he had no idea. He’d insisted the dogs be locked in the tack room while they showed Jorie her new workspace, but that’d been a matter of self-defense. The last time Mom’s mutts had run amok in his office, they’d broken a lamp, ripped up a leather pillow and tried to eat a piece of furniture. The massive conference room table in the middle of the room beyond still bore Jackson’s teeth marks.

“Our desks are on the left. Yours is the one on the right,” Ryan told his mom’s new employee as he inserted a key into the lock and swung the door wide.

He stepped aside, watching as Jorie’s eyes widened when she caught sight of the office space beyond.

“Oh, wow.”

The words weren’t unexpected. Their guests frequently reacted that way—yes, even the seen-it-all oil executives that came to renegotiate oil rights every year. It’d taken his mom nearly a year to complete, having always considered herself something of an interior designer, and he had to admit, if there was one thing she was good at, it was making things look girlie. The office was like a cross between a Western saloon and a cattle baron’s boudoir. Cowhide couches that could have sat an elephant to his left, the conference table in the middle of the room, made out of pine lodge poles and a massive glass tabletop that reminded Ryan of a miniature ice skating rink. To their left were three desks, all in a row, each of them facing out, toward the door. Above them, massive ceiling fans spun lazily through the air, their black iron hardware matching the other fixtures in the room.

“Do you like it?” his mom asked, sliding up next to Jorie so she could get a glimpse of Jorie’s face. “My desk is right next to yours, and you’re next to Ryan.” She pointed toward his desk in the corner of the room. He had the most space, and a window. Actually, windows stretched across the front of the room, overlooking the parking area and the winding driveway that led to the ranch, pastures on both sides. “It took me forever to decorate, but I really think it works, don’t you?”

Though his mom was nearly sixty years old, she could still sound like a little kid again. This was one of those moments. The room was striking, beautiful, but you could hear how badly she wanted Jorie’s approval.

“Of course it looks great, Mom. You outdid yourself.”

It was the tone of voice she used, that pleading little-girl-done-good question that hung in the air. He was a sucker for it every time.

So, apparently, was Jorie. “Oh, Mrs. Clayborne…are you kidding? This is stunning.” To his surprise, although he had no idea why, the woman placed a comforting hand on his mother’s shoulder. “It’s truly beautiful. I love the view.”

His mom beamed with pride. Oddly, it made his own heart swell, although not for the world would he let his mom see that. The last thing he needed was his mother realizing how much he wanted to please her. No way.

“Why thank you, Jorie. And, please, don’t call me Mrs. Clayborne. It reminds me of Ryan’s dad and how everyone called me Mrs. Clayborne this and Mrs. Clayborne that when he first brought me home. It was like I was Lady Bird Johnson for goodness’ sake. Took me weeks to get used to it. I finally had to tell Mavis, our housekeeper, to stop.”

She waved a hand in front of her face. Ryan marveled. She so rarely spoke about his dad anymore. It was like a scab she was afraid to itch for fear of making it bleed again. He knew exactly how she felt. He still missed his dad, too, though he’d died twenty years ago, when he was ten.

“Anyway,” his mom was saying with a wave of her hand. “Come see the desk I picked out for you.”

And by picked, his mom meant picked. It might look like the other two desks in the office, but there were subtle differences. It was blond oak like the other two which had been bought at the same time, but this one was more feminine. Not as thick-looking as the other two, which wasn’t surprising since the mate to his desk had been bought for his dad back when the office had been behind the main house. Excuse him. The bridal suite now.

“It’s handmade,” said his mom. “A local craftsman made it just for you. Well, not you specifically, but for whoever I hired.”

And it’d cost them a fortune. Not that they had to worry about money, but that didn’t mean Ryan liked spending a bundle on something that would have been just fine if it’d been made from pressed wood. He doubted anyone his mom hired would be around for long, especially since his mom probably wouldn’t be planning weddings for very long.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

Ryan glanced at Jorie sharply, but she wasn’t mouthing empty platitudes. She genuinely admired the desk, her pale hand drifting over the surface, Ryan wondering what it’d feel like to have that same hand—

Whoa.

He blinked, looked away, his gaze caught on his own desk. “Mom,” he said. “I’m going to make Jorie a bowl of oatmeal. Why don’t you show her where all the important things are?”

“You don’t have to do that—”

But he was already moving off.

Putting some space between them.

What was it about the woman that made him want to ruffle her feathers? he thought, heading to the kitchenette in the left corner of the room. He wanted to tease her until she blushed, he admitted, grabbing a bowl from above the sink. He wasn’t that way with Laurel. Yet he hardly knew this woman.

He glanced back, his mom waving her hand toward the conference table, Ryan hearing her mention the name of the famous craftsman who’d made it. He hardly paid attention as he poured oatmeal into a bowl, then some milk he didn’t even remember grabbing from the mini-refrigerator below.

She was damn good-looking.

Yeah, so what? he asked himself, punching some buttons on the microwave. He’d seen plenty of good-looking women before. So what if she had thick, silky hair—the kind he liked best on a woman? And so what if her eyes were the same color as the forget-me-nots that grew wild in the pastures? Didn’t mean a thing.

The microwave binged. Ryan grabbed the bowl, gasped and almost dropped it.

“Damn it.”

He heard footsteps behind him. “Mmm. That smells good, doesn’t it?” he heard his mom say. “Looks like it’s not quite done, though. Stir it up a bit and put it on for another thirty seconds.”

As if Ryan couldn’t see that for himself.

“Why don’t you sit down while I grab the file for the first wedding I want you to work on,” he heard his mom say as he punched the buttons.

Ryan spun toward his mother.

“The Western wedding of the year.”

“Mom—”

“Now, now, honey, don’t be shy.”

He wasn’t being shy. He just didn’t want Jorie to know he was about to get married.

And that was the scariest thought of all.

* * *

“LEAVE HER BE until after she eats breakfast,” Jorie heard Ryan say.

The smell of oatmeal drove her crazy.

“Nonsense,” his mom answered, hooking an arm into hers and guiding her to a chair.

She was so grateful for that chair.

There had been times during her office tour when she thought she might pass out, but it was her own stupid fault, she thought, all but collapsing into the seat. If she hadn’t been so hardheaded and determined to prove to Odelia’s son that she was here to work, not sleep, she might have been in her new house, unpacking, maybe even still sleeping…and definitely eating. Yes, absolutely, positively, for sure eating.

Her stomach yelled at her impatiently.

Instead she found herself sitting at a table as big as a bocce ball court hoping against hope that the same son she was determined to impress would bring her a damn bowl of oatmeal. And soon.

“I can’t wait to hear your ideas,” Odelia was saying.

“Mom—” her son said again, louder this time, as if the sound of the microwave might be drowning out his words.

Hurry up, oatmeal.

“Ryan’s been so quiet about it all, and his fiancée is so sweet she won’t say a word. She prefers to leave everything up to me instead. Says I’m the pro, but we all know I’m hardly that…”

Jorie blinked.

Fiancée?

“…you’re the expert,” Odelia was saying, “which is why I’m turning the whole thing over to you.”

Engaged.

“Mom, she hasn’t even had breakfast. Give her a moment, will you?”

Get it together, Jorie. It’s no big deal. So he’s engaged. What was so surprising about that?

Funny, he never mentioned it.

“When’s the wedding?” she heard herself ask.

But why would he mention it?

Odelia’s brow wrinkled beneath her hat. “That’s the kicker.”

Jorie’s heart began to race like the minute hand of a watch.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Odelia said, “especially since you just started…”

“Mom, really. She doesn’t have to work on my wedding.”

“End of next month,” Odelia blurted.

Six weeks? Was she kidding?

“I know that doesn’t give you a whole lot of time. If it’s any consolation, the kids just told me about it last week, but we can do it. We’ve already got the location. All we need are a few minor details ironed out.”

“Here.” A bowl of oatmeal was set in front of her, its steam wafting up and teasing her nose. She watched Ryan’s eyes dart over her face. They were filling with something like concern. Concern and something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “I put some brown sugar and milk on it. Hope that’s okay.”

Gone was the teasing smile. In its place was a look that appeared almost troubled.

Engaged.

Of course. He was a hardworking, attractive male who would one day inherit a huge ranch. Frankly, she was surprised someone hadn’t snapped him up years ago. Half the eligible females in the county must have set their caps at him over the years.

“Eat,” Odelia ordered, the woman’s kindly blue-green eyes filled with encouragement.

She felt rather than saw Ryan move back from the table. He hovered near her for a moment, almost as if he was waiting to see how she liked the oatmeal. The spoon she picked up felt cold in her hands. She took a bite and almost sighed in delight as the hot food filled her mouth.

“I’m going down to the maintenance barn. Gonna lay materials out for Sam,” she heard Ryan say. “So we can get started on replacing those boards.”

“Oh, perfect,” Odelia said. “Jorie can see where you’re going to get married.”

The spoon froze halfway between the bowl and her mouth, and though she’d only had a few mouthfuls, it didn’t taste as good as it had a moment before.

“She can do that tomorrow.”

When she met Ryan’s gaze, his concern for the way she was looking—because that’s what it’d been, she suddenly realized—had faded. He didn’t look happy. Odelia, however, appeared oblivious to his discontent.

“Hurry up and eat that oatmeal, dear,” she said. “Ryan’s going to give you a tour of the ranch.”

And for some strange reason, Jorie lost her appetite.

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