Barbara Dunlop - In Bed With The Wrangler

As soon as the thoughts formed in her mind, she realized she was being unfair. She’d sent a text saying she was fine, and she had expected them to believe her. She wanted Hargrove to carry on with his life.

“The Governor was there,” her mother defended.

“I’m glad he went to the dinner,” said Amber.

“Where are you? I’ll send a car.”

“I’m not coming back yet.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t Dad tell you?”

“That nonsense about not marrying Hargrove? That’s crazy talk, darling. He wowed them last night.”

“He didn’t wow me.” As soon as the words slipped out, Amber clamped her lips shut.

“You weren’t there.” Her mother either missed or ignored the double entendre.

“I wanted to let you know I’m fine.” Amber got back on point.

“Where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. We need to get you-”

“Not yet.”

“Amber-”

“I’ll call again soon.” Amber didn’t know how long it took to trace a cell phone call, but she suspected she should hurry and hang up.

“What do you expect me to tell your father?”

“Tell him not to worry. I love you both, and I’ll call again. Bye, Mom.” She quickly disconnected.

A slightly plump, fiftyish woman, who Amber had earlier learned was Sasha, was pulling a large pan of lasagna from the stainless steel oven when Amber entered the kitchen. Stephanie was tossing a salad in a carved wooden bowl on the breakfast bar, while Royce transferred warm rolls into a linen-napkin-lined basket.

For the second time, she was struck by his domesticity. The men she knew didn’t help out in the kitchen. Come to think of it, the women she knew didn’t, either. And though Amber herself had taken French cooking lessons at her private school, the lessons had centered more on choosing a caterer than hands-on cooking.

“There’s a wine cooler around the corner.” Stephanie was looking to Amber as she indicated the direction with a toss of her auburn head. “Italian wines are on the third tier, left-hand side.”

Royce didn’t turn as Amber made her way to a small alcove between the kitchen and the back entryway. The cooler was set in a stone wall, reds in one glass-fronted compartment, whites in the other.

“See if there’s a Redigaffi.” Royce’s voice was so close behind her that it gave her a start.

She took a bracing breath and opened the glass door, turning a couple of bottles on the third shelf so that she could see their labels.

“How’d the call go?” he asked.

“Fine.”

There was a silence.

“That’s it?” he asked. “Fine?”

“I talked to my mother. She wants me to come home.” Amber found the right bottle of wine and slid it out of the holder, straightening and turning to discover Royce was closer than she’d expected. She pushed the glass door closed behind her.

“And?” he asked.

“And what?” She reflexively clutched the bottle.

“Are you going home?”

Though they’d agreed she’d merely be a houseguest, the question seemed loaded with meaning as his eyes thoroughly searched her expression.

“Not yet,” she answered.

“Good.”

She felt the need to clarify. “It doesn’t mean-”

“I meant it’s good because you don’t love Hargrove, so it would be stupid to go back.”

She gave him a short nod.

“Not that the other’s gone away,” he clarified.

Amber didn’t know how to respond to that.

His gaze moved to the bottle. “Did you find one?”

She raised it, and he lifted it from her hands.

“Perfect,” he said.

“Move your butts,” called Stephanie from the kitchen, and Amber suddenly realized that her world had contracted to the tiny alcove, Royce and her wayward longings.

She gave herself a mental shake, while he took a step back and gestured for her to lead the way into the kitchen.

Stephanie was setting wineglasses at three places at the breakfast bar, while Sasha had disappeared. The Ryder family was a curious mix of informality and luxury. The glasses were fine, blown crystal. The wine was from an exquisite vineyard that Amber recognized. But they were hopping up on high chairs at the breakfast bar to a plain, white casserole pan of simple, beef lasagna.

“Did you talk to your mom?” asked Stephanie as she took the end seat.

Amber took the one around the corner, and Royce settled next to her. He was both too close and too far away. She could almost detect the heat of his body, felt the change in air currents while he moved, and she was overcome with a potent desire to touch him. Of course, touching him was out of the question.

“I talked to her,” she told Stephanie.

“What did she say?”

“She wants me to come home and, well, reconcile with Hargrove, of course.”

“And?” Stephanie pressed. “What did you tell her?”

“That I wasn’t ready.” Amber found herself deliberately not looking in Royce’s direction as she spoke.

“Good for you,” said Stephanie with a vigorous nod. “We girls, we have to stick to our guns. There are too many people in our lives trying to interfere with our decisions.” She cast a pointed gaze at her brother.

“Give it a rest,” Royce growled at his sister, twisting the corkscrew into the top of the wine. “You’re not getting a million dollars.”

“You’re such a hard-ass.”

“And you’re a spoiled brat.”

“You are spending an awful lot for vet supplies and lumber,” Amber put in. “Those are the bills I found stacked up on the office desk.”

Stephanie blinked at her. “Oh.”

Royce popped the cork and reached for Amber’s wineglass. “Amber has some questions about the accounts. Who does McQuestin deal with at head office?”

“I think he talks to Norma Braddock sometimes.”

Royce handed the wine bottle to his sister then whisked his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll go straight to Barry.”

“I’d watch out for him,” Stephanie advised, forehead wrinkling.

Royce rolled his eyes at the warning.

Amber decided to stay quiet.

“Barry?” said Royce, while Stephanie handed the salad bowl to Amber.

Amber served herself some of the freshest-looking lettuce and tomatoes she’d ever seen.

“Royce, here.”

Then she leaned toward Stephanie and whispered, “From your garden?”

Stephanie nodded, whispering in return. “You’ll want to get out of here before canning season.”

Amber grinned at the dire intonation.

“Sorry to bother you this late,” Royce continued. “We’ve hired someone on to take care of the office while Jared and McQuestin are away.” He gave Amber a wink, and something fluttered in her chest. She quickly picked up her wineglass to cover.

“She has some questions about the bank account. There have been a number of unpaid bills lately.” He paused for a moment. “Why don’t I let you talk to her directly?”

Amber hadn’t expected that. She quickly swallowed and set down the glass. Good thing her questions were straightforward. She tucked her hair out of the way behind her ears, accepting the phone from Royce, ignoring the tingle when his fingers brushed hers.

“Hello?” she opened.

“Who am I speaking to?” asked Barry from the other end of the line.

“This is Amber, I’m-”

“And you’re an employee at Ryder Ranch?” he asked directly.

She paused. “Uh, yes. That’s right.”

“Administrator? Bookkeeper?” There was an unexpected edge to the man’s tone.

“Something like that.” She gave Royce a confused look, and his eyes narrowed, crinkling slightly at the corners.

“Do you have a pen?” Barry asked, voice going even sharper.