Pamela Britton - The Rancher's Bride

“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.