Pamela Britton - The Rancher's Bride

“Do you like it?” his mom asked, sliding up next to Jorie so she could get a glimpse of Jorie’s face. “My desk is right next to yours, and you’re next to Ryan.” She pointed toward his desk in the corner of the room. He had the most space, and a window. Actually, windows stretched across the front of the room, overlooking the parking area and the winding driveway that led to the ranch, pastures on both sides. “It took me forever to decorate, but I really think it works, don’t you?”

Though his mom was nearly sixty years old, she could still sound like a little kid again. This was one of those moments. The room was striking, beautiful, but you could hear how badly she wanted Jorie’s approval.

“Of course it looks great, Mom. You outdid yourself.”

It was the tone of voice she used, that pleading little-girl-done-good question that hung in the air. He was a sucker for it every time.

So, apparently, was Jorie. “Oh, Mrs. Clayborne…are you kidding? This is stunning.” To his surprise, although he had no idea why, the woman placed a comforting hand on his mother’s shoulder. “It’s truly beautiful. I love the view.”

His mom beamed with pride. Oddly, it made his own heart swell, although not for the world would he let his mom see that. The last thing he needed was his mother realizing how much he wanted to please her. No way.

“Why thank you, Jorie. And, please, don’t call me Mrs. Clayborne. It reminds me of Ryan’s dad and how everyone called me Mrs. Clayborne this and Mrs. Clayborne that when he first brought me home. It was like I was Lady Bird Johnson for goodness’ sake. Took me weeks to get used to it. I finally had to tell Mavis, our housekeeper, to stop.”

She waved a hand in front of her face. Ryan marveled. She so rarely spoke about his dad anymore. It was like a scab she was afraid to itch for fear of making it bleed again. He knew exactly how she felt. He still missed his dad, too, though he’d died twenty years ago, when he was ten.

“Anyway,” his mom was saying with a wave of her hand. “Come see the desk I picked out for you.”

And by picked, his mom meant picked. It might look like the other two desks in the office, but there were subtle differences. It was blond oak like the other two which had been bought at the same time, but this one was more feminine. Not as thick-looking as the other two, which wasn’t surprising since the mate to his desk had been bought for his dad back when the office had been behind the main house. Excuse him. The bridal suite now.

“It’s handmade,” said his mom. “A local craftsman made it just for you. Well, not you specifically, but for whoever I hired.”

And it’d cost them a fortune. Not that they had to worry about money, but that didn’t mean Ryan liked spending a bundle on something that would have been just fine if it’d been made from pressed wood. He doubted anyone his mom hired would be around for long, especially since his mom probably wouldn’t be planning weddings for very long.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

Ryan glanced at Jorie sharply, but she wasn’t mouthing empty platitudes. She genuinely admired the desk, her pale hand drifting over the surface, Ryan wondering what it’d feel like to have that same hand—

Whoa.

He blinked, looked away, his gaze caught on his own desk. “Mom,” he said. “I’m going to make Jorie a bowl of oatmeal. Why don’t you show her where all the important things are?”

“You don’t have to do that—”

But he was already moving off.

Putting some space between them.

What was it about the woman that made him want to ruffle her feathers? he thought, heading to the kitchenette in the left corner of the room. He wanted to tease her until she blushed, he admitted, grabbing a bowl from above the sink. He wasn’t that way with Laurel. Yet he hardly knew this woman.

He glanced back, his mom waving her hand toward the conference table, Ryan hearing her mention the name of the famous craftsman who’d made it. He hardly paid attention as he poured oatmeal into a bowl, then some milk he didn’t even remember grabbing from the mini-refrigerator below.

She was damn good-looking.

Yeah, so what? he asked himself, punching some buttons on the microwave. He’d seen plenty of good-looking women before. So what if she had thick, silky hair—the kind he liked best on a woman? And so what if her eyes were the same color as the forget-me-nots that grew wild in the pastures? Didn’t mean a thing.

The microwave binged. Ryan grabbed the bowl, gasped and almost dropped it.

“Damn it.”

He heard footsteps behind him. “Mmm. That smells good, doesn’t it?” he heard his mom say. “Looks like it’s not quite done, though. Stir it up a bit and put it on for another thirty seconds.”

As if Ryan couldn’t see that for himself.

“Why don’t you sit down while I grab the file for the first wedding I want you to work on,” he heard his mom say as he punched the buttons.

Ryan spun toward his mother.

“The Western wedding of the year.”

“Mom—”

“Now, now, honey, don’t be shy.”

He wasn’t being shy. He just didn’t want Jorie to know he was about to get married.

And that was the scariest thought of all.

* * *

“LEAVE HER BE until after she eats breakfast,” Jorie heard Ryan say.

The smell of oatmeal drove her crazy.

“Nonsense,” his mom answered, hooking an arm into hers and guiding her to a chair.

She was so grateful for that chair.

There had been times during her office tour when she thought she might pass out, but it was her own stupid fault, she thought, all but collapsing into the seat. If she hadn’t been so hardheaded and determined to prove to Odelia’s son that she was here to work, not sleep, she might have been in her new house, unpacking, maybe even still sleeping…and definitely eating. Yes, absolutely, positively, for sure eating.

Her stomach yelled at her impatiently.

Instead she found herself sitting at a table as big as a bocce ball court hoping against hope that the same son she was determined to impress would bring her a damn bowl of oatmeal. And soon.

“I can’t wait to hear your ideas,” Odelia was saying.

“Mom—” her son said again, louder this time, as if the sound of the microwave might be drowning out his words.

Hurry up, oatmeal.

“Ryan’s been so quiet about it all, and his fiancée is so sweet she won’t say a word. She prefers to leave everything up to me instead. Says I’m the pro, but we all know I’m hardly that…”

Jorie blinked.

Fiancée?

“…you’re the expert,” Odelia was saying, “which is why I’m turning the whole thing over to you.”

Engaged.

“Mom, she hasn’t even had breakfast. Give her a moment, will you?”

Get it together, Jorie. It’s no big deal. So he’s engaged. What was so surprising about that?

Funny, he never mentioned it.

“When’s the wedding?” she heard herself ask.

But why would he mention it?

Odelia’s brow wrinkled beneath her hat. “That’s the kicker.”

Jorie’s heart began to race like the minute hand of a watch.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Odelia said, “especially since you just started…”

“Mom, really. She doesn’t have to work on my wedding.”

“End of next month,” Odelia blurted.

Six weeks? Was she kidding?

“I know that doesn’t give you a whole lot of time. If it’s any consolation, the kids just told me about it last week, but we can do it. We’ve already got the location. All we need are a few minor details ironed out.”

“Here.” A bowl of oatmeal was set in front of her, its steam wafting up and teasing her nose. She watched Ryan’s eyes dart over her face. They were filling with something like concern. Concern and something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “I put some brown sugar and milk on it. Hope that’s okay.”

Gone was the teasing smile. In its place was a look that appeared almost troubled.

Engaged.

Of course. He was a hardworking, attractive male who would one day inherit a huge ranch. Frankly, she was surprised someone hadn’t snapped him up years ago. Half the eligible females in the county must have set their caps at him over the years.

“Eat,” Odelia ordered, the woman’s kindly blue-green eyes filled with encouragement.

She felt rather than saw Ryan move back from the table. He hovered near her for a moment, almost as if he was waiting to see how she liked the oatmeal. The spoon she picked up felt cold in her hands. She took a bite and almost sighed in delight as the hot food filled her mouth.

“I’m going down to the maintenance barn. Gonna lay materials out for Sam,” she heard Ryan say. “So we can get started on replacing those boards.”

“Oh, perfect,” Odelia said. “Jorie can see where you’re going to get married.”

The spoon froze halfway between the bowl and her mouth, and though she’d only had a few mouthfuls, it didn’t taste as good as it had a moment before.

“She can do that tomorrow.”

When she met Ryan’s gaze, his concern for the way she was looking—because that’s what it’d been, she suddenly realized—had faded. He didn’t look happy. Odelia, however, appeared oblivious to his discontent.

“Hurry up and eat that oatmeal, dear,” she said. “Ryan’s going to give you a tour of the ranch.”

And for some strange reason, Jorie lost her appetite.

Chapter Six

She looked about as happy to be with him as he felt, Ryan thought, walking her toward the all-terrain vehicle that looked like a kid’s toy. It was a miniaturized truck, right down to the bed in the back and the enclosed cab in the front. Its bright green color nearly perfectly matched the grassy backdrop. Though the sun was higher now, it was still early morning, the grass a deep green.

“We’re not allowed to drive regular-sized vehicles down to the barn,” he said, hoping to break the ice by injecting a note of humor. “God forbid we gouge tracks into the virgin soil.”

“How long have you known your fiancée?”

“All my life.”

And he had. Laurel was like a sister, someone who always seemed to be underfoot…which seemed like an odd way to think of his fiancée, he admitted to himself. But she was his best friend, which was why he’d agreed—

He didn’t want to think about that.

She was nodding as she slid inside the golf-cart-sized cab. She still wore the same outfit, and even though her slacks were supposed to conceal the shape of her legs he could still imagine the tanned length of them beneath the black fabric.

Stop it.

He slammed the door closed with more force than necessary. Accident. That’s all it was. His hand found the crown of his Stetson and lifted it, his free hand scratching his forehead before cramming the hat back down on his head.

He was just a man in need of a little hanky-panky. Lord knows he wouldn’t get that from Laurel. Not now. Maybe not ever.

That’s the life you’re signing up for, bud. Better get used to it.

He rounded the vehicle to the driver’s side and reached for the door handle, causing his nails to bend back, a bolt of pain shooting up his fingers and into his arm. He jumped back and shook his hand to ease the stinging. “Son of a—”

“You okay?” he heard her ask.

No, he wanted to gasp. He was far from okay. Ever since she’d arrived he’d been on edge. Short-tempered. Maybe even rude. Ah, hell. All he knew was that he didn’t want to drive Miss Daisy around the ranch when what he really needed to do was get to work.