Pamela Britton - The Rancher's Bride

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.