Pamela Britton - The Rancher's Bride

Here Comes The Bride!

Rude with a bad attitude—that’s Ryan Clayborne, all right. From the moment she meets her new boss’s son, Jorie Peters vows to spend as little time as possible with the surly rancher. That she has to plan his wedding? Well, that’s just bad luck. The sparks shooting between them? Those are a Texas-size disaster.

The last thing Ryan needs is some big-city wedding coordinator stomping her high heels all over his ranch. He has bigger things on his mind—mainly a temporary marriage to a friend he doesn’t love. But one look at Jorie turns the cowboy’s life, and heart, upside down. Heated thoughts lead to cold feet, but Ryan’s still determined to do the honorable thing. Even if doing right has never felt—so wrong...

“I met your bride today.”

Ryan nearly winced, caught himself just in time and managed to croak out, “Oh, yeah?”

“She seems…sweet.”

He caught the pause, found himself meeting Jorie’s gaze despite his resolve. She’d put her hair up. It made her cheekbones look high and sexy, like a damn lingerie model.

“I take it you were expecting overbearing and ostentatious.”

To his surprise, she appeared to consider the question, her head tipping to the side.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Jorie admitted, her pretty blue eyes narrowing for a moment. “But she’s really nice.”

Everyone loved Laurel, including the man who’d gotten her pregnant—or so he claimed. He’d run out on her the moment he’d discovered she was pregnant.

“She’s a good girl.”

Something sparked in Jorie’s gaze, something that made him instantly regret his words. Damn it. She was too smart. He realized that was part of his attraction. Had she picked up on the one tiny detail about his wedding he didn’t want anyone to know? Had she somehow put it together that he didn’t love his bride?

The Rancher’s Bride

Pamela Britton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

With over a million books in print, Pamela Britton likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that changed thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR.

But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and RT Book Reviews. She’s won numerous awards, including the National Reader’s Choice Award and a nomination for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.

When not writing books, Pamela is a reporter for a local newspaper. She’s also a columnist for The American Quarter Horse Journal. The Rancher’s Bride is the author’s twenty-seventh title.

For Melissa, sister of my heart, fellow horsey-person extraordinaire, maker of the always divine venison Swiss steak (eat your heart out, Pioneer Woman), consumer of all things martini (with me).

I love you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Chapter One

The hot breath of Texas enveloped Jorie Peters like a steamy wet blanket.

“Ugh.” She grimaced, swiping at a brow already covered by sweat.

So this was Texas?

Her gaze swept over rolling hills and grass-covered pastures. It didn’t look a thing like she expected.

She inhaled a deep breath of resignation. The scent of fresh-cut grass made the humidity seem heavier. The building she’d parked in front of was filled to the brim with hay and at least four stories tall. Its dark shadow spread across the gravel road like a blob of ink. Three other outbuildings surrounded her. Farm buildings, she clarified—one to her right which held tractors and one to her left which housed equipment, and some kind of long one out in the distance behind the building where she’d parked. She turned, her heel grinding into the gravel as she spun in place, wondering where to go. There was nothing that looked like a horse barn in sight.

“You can’t park there.”

Her heart jumped out of her throat. She turned, trying to find the voice’s owner.

“I have another squeeze of hay coming in.”

The words echoed, so much so that she couldn’t determine where they came from.

“Up here.”

Oh. Up.

Her gaze drifted along the hundreds of hay bales. And there he was, at least twenty feet above her, a tall, lanky male wearing an off-white cowboy hat. Well, this was Texas after all, and so she should expect the hat. She was a long ways away from Atlanta. He wore chaps, too—kind of. They were too short for him, the leather flaps looking as if they belonged on a six-year-old and not a grown man. She watched as he began to hop down, navigating the uneven blocks like a billy goat, and when he stopped in front of her, all she could think was holy moly.

He looked like something out of a Hanes underwear commercial.

Boxers? Or briefs?

Dark, dark hair. Eyes the color of the Aegean Sea, the stormy kind of sea pirates sailed upon. Or maybe it was his dark good looks that made her think of pirates. He had rough stubble on his chin, and she had a feeling that by five o’clock he’d have quite a shadow on his jawline.

“You should park in front of the barn.” His tone was stern.

“That’s what I’m looking for.” She swiped hair that was quickly turning into a corkscrew of blond curls off her forehead. She’d drawn her hair back into a bun—more professional that way—but as always, several strands had escaped. She was probably a mess after her twelve-hour drive. No doubt she had as much dust on her as her compact car. “I was told there was an office upstairs and that I should see Odelia Clayborne.”

He swiped some sweat off his forehead, the motion allowing a better glimpse of his eyes. They were piercing. Truly amazing.

“You Jorie Peters?” His gaze swept over her black business suit and what suddenly seemed like a silly choice of shoes—black pumps.

“I am,” she said in surprise.

“Barn’s over there.” He motioned with his chin, turning away as if about to climb the hay bales once more.

“You mean the big long building?” she called out after him.

He nodded, half turned. He smelled of hard work, the tangy scent of man catching a wayward breeze and drifting over to her. It reminded her that it’d been a long time since…well, just since.

“The really big building over there,” he explained. “It’s a covered arena. One with stalls inside and an office upstairs.”

Ah. That explained it. She’d been looking for her own idea of a horse stable. Red. Double doors. One with a white X painted on the front.

The sound of a tractor caught her attention. His, too. They both turned.

“Better move that car,” he ordered, pointing as if she needed help identifying her vehicle.

Jorie immediately saw why. A huge stack of hay was headed in their direction, one propelled by a tractor of some sort, the driver’s cab completely obscured by the grassy blocks.

Good heavens, how did the driver see?

“Thanks,” she shouted as she all but dove for her car. That was all she needed—a tractor to run over her Honda.

Her only possession.

She slid inside her vehicle, refusing to think about that. This was a new start. A new life. Her business in Georgia—Wedding Belles—was now defunct. A victim of the recession, just as she was herself. In her rearview mirror she caught a glimpse of the cowboy, the man watching her take off, hands on his hips.

Jerk.

No smiles. No words of welcome. Just “move your car.”

How did he know who she was?

Whatever. She had more important matters on her mind, like meeting her new boss.

Jorie steered her vehicle past one of the outbuildings, immediately spotting a house in the distance to her left that’d been blocked from her view, although calling it a house seemed like a misnomer. The place would have done Gone with the Wind proud. Three stories tall. Four white columns that sprouted up from a wraparound porch, and dark green shutters on either side of the windows…and there were a lot of windows. A porch swing hung between two of the columns. Rattan furniture was clustered near the corner of the rail. Behind the house a line of trees could be seen a few hundred yards away. Jorie wondered if there was a creek down there. It sure looked like it.

“Wow.”

The oaks were huge, their shiny foliage a darker green than the grassy hills that surrounded them. Behind the mansion was another house, smaller, but just as beautiful.

Was that the bridal suite, the one her new boss had told her about? The place where brides were pampered in the hours leading up to their weddings? Masseuse, manicurist, hair stylist—all brought in from the outside to make their day special. And not just brides, but the bridesmaids, too.

The road forked. She took the branch to her right.

Spring Hill Ranch was not what she expected.

For some reason she’d been thinking single-story buildings, white picket fences, maybe a rustic-looking barn. This place looked like a movie set. Sure, off in the distance were the white fences—she’d followed one down a long, sweeping driveway for what must have been at least a mile—but this place was a private sanctuary that took Jorie’s breath away. No wonder brides flocked to the location to get married. She could picture a carriage rolling down the hills to a wedding tent pitched beneath a grove of trees.

“Here we go,” she said as she pulled up in front of yet another strange-looking building. This one had a massive opening in the front. Inside she spotted a horse and a rider, the pair galloping around so fast it was a wonder the man’s hat didn’t fall off.

Her door creaked when she slammed it closed, something that’d been happening more and more of late. With over 100,000 miles on the odometer it was a wonder the car had made it to Texas.

“Hello?” she called out to the rider.

It wasn’t a cowboy.

It was a cowgirl—or maybe cow-woman was a better description. The rider had gray hair, the light blue shirt she wore clinging to a trim body that belied her age. She skidded to a stop, literally, her horse leaving twin tracks in the arena dust.

“Jorie?” the woman called out in surprise.

She was at least twenty feet from her, and yet her vision must have been sharp, especially since the arena was set back from the entrance. Jorie slipped inside the building through a massive opening. It was at least twenty degrees cooler inside.

“Mrs. Clayborne?”

Even though her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness inside, Jorie could see the woman’s teeth flash.

“Why, you are Jorie, aren’t you?” the woman said, her southern accent catching on vowels and elongating them.

She wore chaps, too, and they were as short as the ones worn by the man in the hay barn, only these had fringe and silver conchos up the side. Beneath the chocolate-brown leather she wore jeans, and tucked into those jeans was a fancy Western shirt complete with white fringe along the front that complemented the woman’s light eyes and gray hair.