Pamela Britton - The Rancher's Bride

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.