Christine Rimmer - The Rancher's Christmas Princess

Larry’s wire-rimmed glasses had slid down his nose. He eased them back up. “Well, a woman of quality. An aristocrat. And she’s our guest. We’ve had two calls from reporters, asking if she’s staying here. She’s asked us to say she has no comment and doesn’t wish to be disturbed. We want to respect her privacy.”

Pres, who in recent years hadn’t found a whole lot to laugh about in life, suddenly realized he was suppressing a chuckle. “She good lookin’, this princess?”

“Uh. Well. Very attractive. Of course. Ahem. Yes.”

“Larry, I believe you are smitten. You better watch out. Someone will tell RaeNell.”

“Oh, now, Preston. It’s nothing like that.” Larry blinked several times in succession. “No, not at all.”

“Just tell me where I can find her. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

Larry pressed his thin lips together. “You don’t even know how to talk to a princess.”

“Suppose you clue me in, Larry?”

“Ahem. Don’t sit in her presence unless she invites you to. Call her ‘Your Highness’ the first time you address her. After that, call her ‘ma’am.’”

“She told you all this?”

Larry sniffed. “Of course not. I looked it up. On Wikipedia.”

“Well, all right. So where do I find her?”

Larry gave in at last. “Oh, have it your way. Breakfast. She’s at breakfast.” He threw out a pale, skinny hand in the general direction of the Sweet Stop Diner across the street.

“Thanks, Larry. You have a fine day.”

* * *

Belle saw him coming. He was tall and ruggedly handsome. He marched right up to the booth where she sat alone, removed his cowboy hat and addressed her politely. “Your Highness, I’m Preston McCade. I heard you’ve been looking for me.”

Her bodyguard, Marcus, who stood near the diner’s front door, watched her for a sign that he should intervene. Belle met Marcus’s waiting eyes and gave a quick shake of her head. Then she granted the large rancher a cool, pleasant smile. “Yes, I have been hoping to meet you, Mr. McCade.” She indicated the empty seat across from her. “Please, join me.”

Everyone in the diner was watching them. Belle could feel their breath-held regard. It was so quiet that a person could have heard a feather whisper its way to the floor as the rancher shrugged out of his sheepskin jacket and hung it up on the hook beside the booth along with his hat. Beneath the jacket, he wore a plain cotton shirt that was the same pale, cool blue as his eyes. His jeans were worn and his rawhide Western boots looked lived-in.

Blue eyes, she thought. A lovely light blue just like Ben’s....

“The usual, Pres?” the waitress called out from over behind the long counter.

“Sounds good, Selma.” He slid into the booth.

The waitress stuck an order on the metal wheel in the window to the kitchen. Then she picked up a coffeepot and sauntered over to the booth. Preston McCade turned his mug up and she filled it. She topped off Belle’s cup, too.

The rancher sipped and set down the mug. By then the waitress had left them. “Planning on being in town long, ma’am?”

“Please.” She spoke softly. “Call me Belle. My visit here is...open-ended.”

They regarded each other. His gaze was level and steady. He had strong, broad shoulders and a square jaw with a nice, manly cleft in it. She could see how Anne might have found him attractive. Any woman would.

And not only was he attractive, but there was also something steady about him. Something thoughtful and dignified and reserved. Her instinctive response was that he would be someone a person could depend on. She felt that it wouldn’t be difficult at all to come to like him, to respect him. She was glad for that. She’d been worried about what she would do if she didn’t like him.

She’d been worried about a lot of things. She was still worried, if the truth were known, just tied up in knots over this whole situation.

And her heart ached. For her lost friend. For sweet little Ben...

Oh, dear Lord. How could she do this? How could Anne have asked this of her? She shouldn’t have to do this....

“You okay, ma’am—I mean, Belle?” McCade spoke low, with what really did sound like honest concern. He was leaning toward her a little.

Suddenly, she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. She looked down at his hands bracketing the heavy coffee mug. They were strong hands, big hands. Capable. Calloused. Hardworking hands.

Was his life...difficult? Harsh? How harsh?

So very many things she needed to know. Too many, really. Obligation dragged on her like chains.

She composed her expression and then made herself raise her head again. “Yes, I’m all right. Thank you.” She glanced out the window. “It’s snowing again.”

He nodded. “You’d best not make your visit too open-ended. Stick around another week or so, you won’t be getting out of Montana until the spring thaw.”

“I think I shall have to take my chances as far as the weather goes, Mr. McCade.”

“Preston.”

She felt a smile blooming. Almost. “Preston.”

He nodded at her nearly full plate. “Eat. Your food will get cold.”

She wasn’t hungry. Not anymore. At the sight of him striding so purposefully toward her, her appetite had fled. Still, she picked up her fork again.

* * *

Pres sipped his coffee and tried not to stare at the princess across from him.

She was good-looking, all right. With all that shiny brown hair and those fine, almond-shaped whiskey-colored eyes. Her skin had a glow to it. He bet it was soft as velvet to a man’s touch. And she was classy, too. Polite. Soft-voiced. No wonder Larry had a crush on her.

His food came—a thick steak, four eggs, home fries, toast and a generous slice of hot apple pie on the side. He tucked into the meal, thinking that he liked the direct, no-nonsense way she’d met his gaze. She seemed kind of serious, though. Kind of sad. Like something was weighing on her mind.

Then again, he was pretty damn serious himself as a rule. After all, life was tough. Then you died.

“Have you lived here in Montana all your life, Preston?”

“Except for four years of college in Utah. I live at the family ranch. The McCade Ranch. It’s a ways out of town. We breed and train horses. Quarter horses, mostly, for ranch work.”

“The quarter horse. That most American of breeds. Great sprinters. So agile. Perfectly suited to work on a ranch.”

His opinion of her went up another notch. “You know horses.”

“My father was raised on a ranch,” she said. “In Texas. Near San Antonio. I have a cousin, Luke, who lives on that ranch now. Luke raises quarter horses, too, as a matter of fact.”

“Your father’s American, then?”

“He took Montedoran citizenship when he married my mother. But yes, he was born here in America. I’ve ridden since I was small. We all have, my brothers and sisters and me. My sister Alice is the true horsewoman of the family, though. Do you raise cattle also?”

“We do run cattle, yes. A small herd. But we’re mostly a horse operation. I’m in partnership with my dad and the ranch has been in the family for four generations. I’m pretty proud of our breeding program. Our horses are steady-natured, good for ranch work. They also perform well in rodeos across a range of events. We have two fine thoroughbreds standing at stud.” Whoa. He’d said a mouthful. As a rule, he wasn’t a man to fall all over himself bragging about his operation. He concentrated on his food again.

She asked, “Any brothers or sisters?”

“Just me and the old man.”

She leaned in a little. “You smiled. Because of your father?”

He shrugged. “You’d have to meet him. My father considers himself a charmer.”