Once a Rancher (8 page)

Drake frowned. “I've considered it. Fact is, that critter is hell and gone scarier than any mountain lion, but he gets even more aggressive if we move him. Got away last time we tried to bring him in, and all hell broke loose. We had a one-bull rodeo that day.” A slow grin replaced Drake's glum expression. “I reckon he's fundamentally opposed to change of any kind, and I confess, I admire him for the strength of his convictions.”

Slater was always impressed by how well Drake knew just about every animal on the place. He chuckled at his brother's choice of words. “Poor old feller,” he said. Then, with a shake of his head and a quick adjustment of his hat, he observed, “Only you would worry about the preferences of a half-ton bull.”

Drake's answer was wry. “Poor
me
, you mean. The day ol' Sherman went on a tear, all the hands were laughing as I left a trail of apples, like Hansel and Gretel leaving their bread crumbs, trying to coax that testy s.o.b. up the ramp and into the back of a cattle truck. Red about split a gut, watching.” Drake paused to resettle his own hat. “I kept hoping the old coot would laugh so hard he'd fall off his horse. Would've served him right.”

Slater tried not to show how much he was enjoying the tale. “Wish I'd been here,” he said.

Drake studied him then sobered again. “Not to change the subject, but how's the quest going?”

“What quest?”

“Grace Emery.”

Slater went for a noncommittal reply, leaning over to pat his horse's neck. “I don't know that she can be defined as a quest.”

“What is she, then? A nice lady you could invite over for a cup of tea? I was under the impression that you'd like to further your acquaintance with her through some conversation. Namely, pillow talk.”

“You know,” Slater retorted, “you're not half as funny as you think you are.” All of a sudden, he was losing it, he realized, and there was no call to be so touchy. He and Mace and Drake had always said what they thought. So he tried again. “I like Grace,” he said moderately. “I won't deny that. She isn't just beautiful, she's smart, not to mention generous, taking on her ex's son, raising him with no hands-on help from his dad, as far as I can tell.” His temper ratcheted down another notch or two. “And I appreciate you agreeing to let the boy do some work around the stables. When our dad died, we could take Mom's support for granted, and the support of Harry, Red and everyone else around us. Ryder doesn't have that. He can count on Grace, of course, but his own parents aren't even there for him. He probably figures he has to feel grateful for practically everything that anyone, including Grace, does for him. It isn't a bad life lesson to figure out that things don't always go smoothly, but that doesn't mean it's easy to learn, either.”

Drake was silent as he walked his horse around a hole in the trail they were riding. After a few minutes he said, “When Dad died, I remember lying in bed and thinking over and over—what are we going to do? I was scared half to death. It wasn't that I didn't trust Mom. It was just that without Dad—”

“You weren't the only one who felt that way,” Slater reminded his brother. He'd experienced the same sense of panic and insecurity—despite the love and support of all the people around him. “I thought Dad was indestructible, I guess. Superman in chaps and a Stetson. And I was wrong, of course—because none of us is immortal. Can you imagine what it must be like for Ryder, knowing his father is in some hostile, dangerous place?”

“No, I can't imagine.” Drake's profile was outlined by the rays of the setting sun.

“You being on board with hiring him is damned generous.”

“Please, Slate. Did you ever doubt I'd want to help the kid? Besides, it isn't as though the hands are falling all over themselves to muck out stalls. They'll be happy to show him the ropes, if only because it means they don't have to do the job themselves.” He mulled it over for a few hoof beats, the way he tended to do. “I'd get Red to break him in, but that old duffer might just talk the poor kid to death on day one.”

They both laughed.

“I think Ryder'll be a fairly quick study.” He hoped so, anyway. The boy was bright enough, but he didn't
have
to scoop and shovel and walk a mile from the bus when the wind was whipping up. He had a cushier option—going home to a comfortable condo on the grounds of a well-equipped resort, watching television, playing on the computer, goofing off.

“Damn it, look at the ridge up there.” Drake exhaled audibly as he pointed toward the tree line. “I swear that horse is gonna turn my hair white before my time.”

Slater followed the direction of his finger and drew in a quick breath. With the setting sun and the shadows moving in, the gray horse stood in stark contrast to his surroundings, almost ghostly in the fading light of day, and the mares and foals were nowhere to be seen.

The animal snorted in warning, gave a ringing whinny, shrill enough to raise gooseflesh, and then whirled on his hind legs and pounded off through the long grass.

“I do believe that stallion just told you to go to hell.” Slater had to tighten the reins on Heck, who clearly wanted to beat feet in the opposite direction.

“I saw it, all right,” Drake growled, yanking off his hat to slam it against one thigh in sheer annoyance. “And I got the message.”

Slater shifted in the saddle, thinking how much he'd like to film that stallion. “Yeah,” he agreed with some admiration. “He told you that this is
his
territory and he'd be obliged if we'd make ourselves scarce. Permanently.”

Drake was still gazing up at the empty ridge. Glaring was more like it. “Yup, that came through loud and clear.”

“I have to admit I'm looking forward to seeing his foals,” Slater said.

Drake didn't disagree, just rested his hands on the saddle horn and continued to gaze broodingly at the place where the horse had been seconds before. “I don't mind telling you I was hoping he'd moved on by now. I can't have him kicking down our fences. It's enough of a job to keep them in good repair as it is, and I sure don't want him stealing any more of our mares.” He turned with a lifted brow and a small grin. And just like that, he changed the subject. “Hey, Slate,” he said cheerfully, “maybe that's the tactic you should take with your pretty redhead. Break down her door, toss her over your shoulder and carry her off.” He indicated the vanished stallion with a jab of one thumb. “Works for him.”

“That idea is
so
not politically correct,” Slater pointed out. “Besides, she'd probably shoot me.” He'd seen Grace mad several times now, and while he'd enjoyed watching, he knew she could handle herself better than a lot of men. “I think I'll try finesse before I get drastic. We have a dinner date coming up—it's business-related, unfortunately—but I'm hoping to parlay that into a drink at her condo afterward.” He remembered Ryder. “The hell of it is, we still wouldn't be alone.”

Yep, even that would be a challenge.

He lived at a big busy ranch, and she had a teenage roommate. He'd considered asking her out for dinner on a strictly nonbusiness date, but that wasn't as easy as it sounded, either. The resort probably had the best restaurant food in the area, unless you counted the killer burgers at Bad Billy's. But Grace worked at the former, and the latter was a little on the raucous side for a romantic dinner out.

Privacy would be ideal, but that might take some doing.

His brother turned his horse with a slight tug of the rein and just a tightening of his knees. “You'll figure it out. I haven't ever noticed you having any trouble with females. Come on, I've been itching to see how Heck does against Starburst in a flat race.”

The big bay must have understood because he whirled around so quickly that Slater, who was a more than competent horseman, was almost unseated. Then the gelding took off so fast Slater lost his hat.

But Drake lost the race.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
HAT
EVENING
, G
RACE
was running late.

This was the night of her business dinner with Slater. The way things had turned out, it was going to be just the two of them... Which made her feel excited but also nervous. Without the buffer of other people, there'd be nothing to keep them from acknowledging—or even acting on—their mutual attraction. Well, nothing except her stepson's presence, of course.

Luckily, all she had to do was put the chicken in the oven, set the table and change. She'd cheated and had the chef at the resort prepare his famous salad with arugula, feta and dried cranberries; the scallion vinaigrette was a house favorite, and all she had to do was toss everything together. The twice-baked potatoes were from her mother's recipe collection, and if she could just shed her business suit and put on something casual, run a brush through her hair—and relax, she'd be fine.

When the conference manager had called that morning with apologies because her daughter was ill, Grace had made an executive—and possibly idiotic—decision. She'd phoned Slater and informed him that they'd be having dinner at her condo instead. Alone.

He'd agreed immediately, which had been flattering, but now she had to pull herself and dinner together. That was when she saw a pair of—no doubt dirty—socks on the living room floor, thanks to her stepson. There was more cat hair on the couch, and she was afraid that if someone opened the door to the laundry room, clothes would come tumbling out of the basket. As Grace discovered when she picked up the socks and tried to toss them in, that wasn't a theory, it was physics.

Laundry cascaded out at her, avalanche-style.

Grace took a deep breath, calmed down and started a load of wash. While that was chugging away, she took a lint roller to the couch, clearing away cat hair, and when she'd finished
that
appealing task, she opened the cupboards to take out some plain, square plates—white but not pretentious—and set the table. She still had just enough time to change out of the linen suit she'd worn to work that day and into jeans and a sleeveless pink blouse. She brushed her teeth, and, as a finishing touch, applied lip gloss to her mouth.

Ryder was going to be a happy camper, since the kitchen staff all had a weakness for him and had sent along a tasty meal, which was a menu item he'd recently encountered when she'd brought home leftovers from her own lunch, old-fashioned beef and noodles. That was what she'd told him, but it was really Beef Stroganoff. Straight from the spa menu, with lean filet, organic mushrooms and Greek yogurt instead of sour cream, all ladled over handmade buckwheat noodles.

Realizing her feet were bare, she slid them into leather sandals.

She'd let Slater select the wine from the limited supply she kept on hand.

Was she sending him a message? Could be. It would be helpful if she knew exactly what that message was, but at the moment she didn't care.

She was warming garlic bread in the oven when Slater pulled up. It had come from the bakery at the spa that afternoon, an artisan bread that would make her look as if she cooked like a genius, when in fact, though competent, she was no chef. If people were being robbed, she could jump in and sort things out, but if their hollandaise sauce curdled, they were on their own.

Ryder came through the back door in a whirl of earthy scents that hinted at horse and manure, and said without preamble, “I'm gonna shower.” He did kick off his running shoes and throw them out on the front porch. She suspected he was following Slater's instructions, and was grateful for that.

Slater himself followed at a more leisurely pace. “A domestic goddess at work, I see. Smells great. Can't say it hurts my feelings any that we're having dinner here. I like the resort, but I'm more jeans and boots than white shirts and ties.” He paused to look down at his feet, and his eyes were twinkling when he met hers again. “Don't worry, they're clean. Ryder did all the dirty work.”

Grace smiled, feeling ridiculously nervous. “How's he doing?” she asked.

“All in all, he's doing fine. He'll catch on once he gets used to the job. And it does take some getting used to, shoveling sh—manure, but Ryder's still enthusiastic and that's a good sign. As for his homework, I know he did it, and he and my mother sat down and talked it over.” He grinned. “I didn't comment. Seems to me, the fewer people who pester him about it, the better he's going to respond.”

Around Grace's place, homework discussions invariably ended in a sullen silence from Ryder and some muttering from her.

“Sounds good,” she said.

Slater walked over and set two bottles on the counter. “I'm bringing this as an offering from my brother, who wants us to try them. You and I are sort of a focus group. That doesn't mean he expects lavish reviews. It just means he needs unsuspecting fools who are willing to try his latest concoctions. He wanted to know the menu. I didn't know, so he sent a medium-bodied red and a dry white. I'm not sure what I'd pair with either one, probably baked beans out of a can if left to my own devices, so that's going to be up to you.”

This was where she could try to sound highbrow, but that wasn't her. “I marinated some chicken and there's a sauce everyone at the restaurant raves about. They made some for me, plus their signature salad. I'm out of baked beans, sorry about that, but my mother makes this cheesy potato dish that probably has a zillion calories, so that'll have to make up for it. As for how to pair the entrée with a wine... I say we crack them both and go sit on the back patio for our business meeting.”

Slater wore a soft gray cotton shirt tucked into his jeans, and his wavy dark hair was long enough to give him a bad-boy aspect, but there was no hint of a five-o'clock shadow this evening. The last time she'd seen him, he'd obviously put off shaving for a couple of days. He'd looked sexy, actually, but Slater would probably look sexy slathered in mud. He drawled, “If all business meetings were run by women as pretty as you, I'd be up for a lot more of them. I usually avoid meetings if I can. Corkscrew?”

After that unexpected lead-in, it took Grace a few seconds to make sense of his one-word inquiry. “Top drawer, to the right of the sink.”

Embarrassed, she headed outside with a small tray of appetizers and two wineglasses, the cat, Bonaparte, following hopefully behind. To his credit, he wasn't begging. Or maybe that was to
her
credit, since she'd pointed out to him in no-nonsense terms that sort of behavior was not going to be allowed. The feline listened better than Ryder ever did and had accepted her edict.

Grace sat in a chair near the glass-topped table and watched Slater deftly close the screen door with his elbow. He glanced at the creamy red pepper dip on the tray, a plate of veggies and delicate water crackers next to it. “White was a good choice, then?”

“At the moment a good choice will be whatever you put in my glass.”

“Long day?” He carefully poured her wine but certainly didn't miss it when she leaned back and crossed her legs. The man could multitask.

She nodded and murmured a thank-you when he handed her the glass. “I had to help set up the monthly luncheon for the local chapter of the Audubon Society today. Believe it or not, they bicker and argue loudly enough that the manager who usually handles it reserves the room farthest from the regular dining room. Apparently, certain species of hawks and western bluebirds inspire great—and, shall we say—rowdy—passion in a group of otherwise dignified people. I was in and out of there, just keeping an eye on the service, but let me tell you, when someone introduced the topic of pileated woodpeckers, the subject shifted to whether the ivory-billed variety still exists. Mayhem ensued.”

Slater laughed as he settled into a wicker chair and stretched his legs. “If memory serves, it was thought to be extinct for over half a century until about a decade ago, when someone supposedly spotted one—in a Louisiana swamp. Since I don't cruise swamps because I feel about alligators the way you do about spiders, I'm not likely to validate that sighting, but I am an amateur bird-watcher.”

She wouldn't have guessed he was afraid of anything. Then again, she sensed there was nothing simple—or predictable—about Slater Carson. “You do travel a lot, so I imagine you get to see quite a variety of landscapes. Are you still contemplating the film set around the settlement of Bliss County?”

“Just about every waking moment right now,” he admitted, studying his wineglass and taking a tentative sip. “Hey, that's pretty good. I don't like anything too sweet, but this has a nice balance. Mace said he used chardonnay grapes and left it unoaked.” Grace sampled the wine and he was right; it tasted light and crisp but still had character. “It gets my vote, for what that's worth. I'll recommend it to our buyer for the list at the resort.”

“My brother's taken on this winemaking thing full speed ahead. When you meet him, you'll see that for yourself. Mace has a degree in horticulture, and his choice of career didn't surprise any of us. Drake thought about becoming a veterinarian, but he was already starting to run the ranch, so he opted to go for ecology. Not surprising, either. He's all about the balance of nature, which is an interesting path sometimes, considering what he does.”

“You all sound very different.”

“We are. No doubt about that.” He raised his glass. “What about you? Siblings?”

Dusk was lowering, sending a few slanting shadows onto the small patio. “One older brother. He lives in Dallas. He's an accountant. We keep in touch by phone and email, and see each other at Christmas. He has two little girls and I really like his wife. Our parents live in Seattle.” Grace was finally starting to relax, and she was a little surprised to realize she'd been so tightly wound. Doing the jobs of two people, getting ready for this dinner, hoping Ryder was going to handle his job at the ranch, worrying about his schoolwork...

She should probably take a minute or two every day to inhale deeply...

Like now, having a nice glass of wine with an intriguing man, her feet in airy sandals, the evening beautiful and quiet. Perfect.

Until Bonaparte decided to jump up and curl himself on her lap with a small rusty purr, twitching his tail before he shut his eyes for a nap. Incredible, considering he hadn't allowed Grace to so much as pet him before this sudden display of affection.

Maybe it was the wine and her stressful day fading away, but Grace just said what she'd wanted to say ever since the day she'd dropped Ryder off at the ranch to fly to the football game. “Tell me about Raine.”

* * *

W
HAT
ABOUT
R
AINE
?

Cautiously, Slater asked, “What do you want to know?”

“Are you married, divorced, separated?”

Married?
Was that what she thought? Time to set the record straight.

Maybe it was a testament to growing up in a small town that Slater assumed Grace knew what had happened between him and Raine, since it was hardly confidential information. He needed a second because he was caught off guard, but then shook his head. “None of the above. We dated for a few months, about twelve years ago.” His smile was wry. “Well, obviously more than dated. I was off on location for most of her pregnancy and she was away visiting relatives, so I had no idea I was about to have a daughter. I only found out about a month before Daisy was born. It was...an interesting moment in my life. The good part is that Raine and I agree it would never have worked if we'd gone the traditional route. As it is, we get along fine and my family loves her, and our daughter is spoiled but seems well-adjusted to me.”

“I wondered.” Grace's expression was hard to read, but her words sounded like an admission. The dying sunlight caught her shining hair. “Raine seemed nice, and she struck me as an interesting person.”

“She's the quintessential artist,” Slater explained, “unconventional and someone who definitely goes her own way. That's Raine. She's a terrific mother and a fine friend.” He tried to decide if he should be blunt. Why not? he decided. “You said you wondered because of my obvious interest in you? I would never do that if I was married or even involved.” He watched her, speaking gently. “Just so we have that straight.”

“I didn't think you would,” she said, looking him in the eye, “and neither would I since we're getting everything
straight
.”

He grinned, enjoying the view of her shapely feet in those strappy sandals. “Are we going to butt heads over how ethical we both are?”

She smiled, just a glimmer that also reached her eyes. “Maybe. I have to warn you I'm easy to stir up.”

Uh,
yeah
, he thought. “That sounds promising.” He held his glass halfway to his mouth, studying her over the rim.

If there was one thing Grace couldn't seem to do with any consistency, it was control that blush of hers. He found it endearing, especially since she was so self-assured and businesslike otherwise. She shot back, “I didn't mean it
that
way.”

“More's the pity.” Slater shifted downward in his chair in a relaxed sprawl. “Shall we get on with the business portion of the evening? You want to feature Bliss River Resort and Spa in the credits at the end of the next film, correct? With maybe some footage of the original hotel. This would be in exchange for reasonable rates on accommodations for the crew when we're filming near Mustang Creek.”

Grace looked flustered for a moment but quickly recovered her composure. “That's about right, yes. I talked to the owner and he also requested that if you use some of the artifacts from the old hotel, including the historic photographs, you mention the resort's current name. Nothing big. Maybe just an acknowledgment that the original building's been replaced with a modern resort and spa. You could show a picture of the previous structure and then flash the new one. If we have a deal, you can help yourself to anything you want.”