Книга - Once A Rancher

Once A Rancher
Linda Lael Miller


The Carsons of Mustang Creek: three men who embody the West and define what it means to be a rancher, a cowboy and a hero in this brand-new series from the queen of Western romance.Slater Carson, the oldest brother, might be a filmmaker by trade, but he’s still a cowboy at heart—and he knows the value of a hard day’s work under the hot Wyoming sun. So when he sees troubled teen Ryder heading down a dangerous path, he offers the boy a job on the ranch he shares with his two younger brothers. And since Ryder's guardian is the gorgeous new Mustang Creek resort manager, Grace Emery, Slater figures it can’t hurt to keep a closer eye on her as well…Grace Emery doesn’t have time for romance. Between settling in to her new job and caring for her ex-husband’s rebellious son, her attraction to larger-than-life Slater is a distraction she can’t afford. But when an unexpected threat emerges, she’ll discover just how far Slater will go to protect what matters most—and that love is always worth fighting for.







The Carsons of Mustang Creek: three men who embody the West and define what it means to be a rancher, a cowboy and a hero in this brand-new series from the queen of Western romance

SLATER CARSON might be a filmmaker by trade, but he’s still a cowboy at heart—and he knows the value of a hard day’s work under the hot Wyoming sun. So when he sees troubled teen Ryder heading down a dangerous path, he offers the boy a job on the ranch he shares with his two younger brothers. And since Ryder’s guardian is the gorgeous new Mustang Creek resort manager, Grace Emery, Slater figures it can’t hurt to keep a closer eye on her, as well…

GRACE EMERY doesn’t have time for romance. Between settling into her new job and caring for her ex-husband’s rebellious son, her attraction to larger-than-life Slater is a distraction she can’t afford. But when an unexpected threat emerges, she’ll discover just how far Slater will go to protect what matters most—and that love is always worth fighting for.


Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller (#ulink_9b5243c8-710e-5284-bbb6-e0bd7be084c1)

“Miller delights readers… The coming together of the two families was very well written and the characters are fraught with humor and sexual tension, which leads to a lovely HEA [happily ever after].”

—RT Book Reviews on The Marriage Season

“The Marriage Season is a wonderfully candid example of a contemporary western with the requisite ranch, horses, kids and dogs—wouldn’t be a Linda Lael Miller story without pets… The Brides of Bliss County novels do not have to be read in order but it would be a shame to miss some of the most endearing love stories that feature rugged, handsome cowboys.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Fans of Linda Lael Miller will fall in love with The Marriage Pact and without a doubt be waiting for the next installments… Her ranch-based westerns have always entertained and stayed with me long after reading them.”

—Idaho Statesman

“Miller has found a perfect niche with charming western romances and cowboys who will set readers’ hearts aflutter. Funny and heartwarming, The Marriage Pact will intrigue readers by the first few pages. Unforgettable characters with endless spunk and desire make this a must-read.”

—RT Book Reviews

“All three titles should appeal to readers who like their contemporary romances Western, slightly dangerous and graced with enlightened (more or less) bad-boy heroes.”

—Library Journal on the Montana Creeds series

“An engrossing, contemporary western romance… Miller’s masterful ability to create living, breathing characters never flags, even in the case of Echo’s dog, Avalon; combined with a taut story line and vivid prose, Miller’s romance won’t disappoint.”

—Publishers Weekly on McKettrick’s Pride (starred review)


Once a Rancher

Linda Lael Miller






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dear Reader (#ulink_f54aee9e-79de-5dc0-87d1-7b5d7f1f6090),

Welcome—or welcome back—to Bliss County in the great state of Wyoming, and to the town of Mustang Creek. This time you’ll be meeting the Carson brothers, their various family members—and the women who enter their lives.

The Carsons are a long-established ranching family in the county. Slater, whom you’ll get to know in this story, grew up ranching; now he’s a documentary filmmaker, specializing in the history of the Old West. Drake keeps the ranch running (his story will appear in Always a Cowboy) and Mace, the youngest brother, is in charge of the vineyard and winery, their mother’s pride and joy. (Mace’s story is the third in this series, Forever a Hero.)

Each of these men is about to encounter a woman who challenges him in one way or another. A woman who’s going to fall in love with him…and, of course, vice versa!

I think you’ll like and admire Grace Emery as much as I do—and as much as Slater does. Grace is a former Seattle cop, now manager of the year-round resort near Mustang Creek. She’s also her teenage stepson’s guardian, not the easiest situation to be dealing with. Grace is a woman who understands responsibility and isn’t afraid of it.

One thing she and I both have in common with Slater is an interest in American history, especially the history of the West. Another thing (and I’m sure this is a belief you share, too, dear reader!) is a strong sense of the importance of family. And—no surprise—I share the Carsons’ love of animals. I’ve also grown very fond of the cat Grace and her stepson adopt. And…I have a new cat of my own. Button is twenty years old, believe it or not, but looks (and acts) younger.

I hope you’ll enjoy this first installment of the Carsons’ saga. I’d love it if you joined me on my website, www.lindalaelmiller.com (http://www.lindalaelmiller.com), to tell me what you think of the Carsons, to share your own experiences, to learn about contests, upcoming releases and more.

Much love,







For Paula Eykelhof

with admiration, gratitude and love


Contents

Cover (#u7fbf40f3-f08c-5ffd-aa2c-553d6d23cffb)

Back Cover Text (#u6b8ac7cb-4e1b-55d9-8201-8a2dfd72d8b2)

Praise (#ue277e541-ad11-5243-a202-0afd0e7dcdca)

Title Page (#u02624d24-2865-52bc-a726-a2e100c34556)

Dear Reader (#u2d11d65d-a45f-5ada-adc1-e7ae9a7b86e2)

Dedication (#u24d6f17c-ce59-5a79-b2af-0620f64a7587)

CHAPTER ONE (#u2e757521-3076-5048-9bf3-e427686e3da1)

CHAPTER TWO (#u4cf9eeb9-4db1-5ce7-872f-41fa30f6d673)

CHAPTER THREE (#uc0962c86-dbd8-58dc-89f4-bd77cacaa390)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u259e3a27-98ec-5760-9cb5-0e51138c6683)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_82c94450-6ee9-5ecb-9ef2-0a7dafedb3bc)

SLATER CARSON WAS bone-tired, as he was after every film wrapped, but it was the best kind of fatigue—part pride and satisfaction in a job well done, part relief, part “bring it,” that anticipatory quiver in the pit of his stomach that would lead him to the next project, and the one after that.

This latest film had been set in a particularly remote area, emphasizing how the Homestead Act had impacted the development not only of the American West, but also the country as a whole. It had been his most ambitious effort to date. The sheer scope was truly epic, and as he watched the uncut footage on his computer monitor, he knew.

160 Acres was going to touch a nerve.

Yep. This one would definitely hit home with the viewers, new and old.

His previous effort, a miniseries on the Lincoln County War in New Mexico, had won prizes and garnered great reviews, and he’d sold the rights to one of the media giants for a shitload of money. Like Lincoln County, 160 Acres was good, solid work. The researchers, camera operators and other professionals he worked with were the top people in the business, as committed to the films as he was.

And that was saying something.

No doubt about it, the team had done a stellar job the last time around, but this—well, this was the best yet. A virtual work of art, if he did say so himself.

“Boss?”

Slater leaned back in his desk chair and clicked the pause button. “Hey, Nate.” He greeted his friend and personal assistant. “What do you need?”

Like Slater, Nate Wheaton had just gotten back from the film site, where he’d taken care of a thousand details, and it was a safe bet that the man was every bit as tired as he looked. Short, blond, energetic and not more than twenty years old, Nate was a dynamo; the production had come together almost seamlessly, in large part because of his talent, persistence and steel-trap brain.

“Um,” Nate murmured, visibly unplugging, shifting gears. He was moving into off-duty mode, and God knew he’d earned it. “There’s someone to see you.” He inclined his head in the direction of the outer office, rubbed the back of his neck and let out an exasperated sigh. “The lady insists she needs to talk to you and only you. I tried to get her to make an appointment, but she says it has to be now.”

Slater suppressed a sigh of his own. “It’s ten o’clock at night.”

“I’ve actually pointed that out,” Nate said, briefly consulting his phone. “It’s five after, to be exact.” Like Slater himself, Nate believed in exactness, which was at once a blessing and a curse. “She claims it can’t possibly wait until morning, whatever it is. But if I hadn’t been walking into the kitchen I wouldn’t have heard the knock.”

“How’d she even find me?” The crew had flown in late, driven out to the vineyard/ranch, and Slater had figured that no one, other than his family, knew he was in town. Or out of town. Whatever qualified as far as the ranch was concerned.

Nate looked glumly resigned. “I have no idea. She refused to say. I’m going to bed. If you need anything else, come and wake me, but bring a sledgehammer, because I’d probably sleep through anything less.” A pause, another sigh, deeper and wearier than the last. “That was quite the shoot.”

The understatement of the day.

Slater drew on the last dregs of his energy, shoved a hand through his hair and said, “Well, point her in this direction, if you don’t mind, and then get yourself some shut-eye.”

He supposed he sounded normal, but on the inside, he was drained. He’d given everything he had to 160, and then some, and there was no hope of charging his batteries. He’d blown through the last of his physical resources hours ago.

Resentment at the intrusion sent a tremor through his famous equanimity; he was used to dealing with problems on the job—ranging from pesky all the way to apocalyptic—but at home, damn it, he expected to be left alone. He needed rest, downtime, a chance to regroup, and the home place was where he did those things.

One of his younger brothers ran the Carson ranch, and the other managed the vineyard and winery. The arrangement worked out pretty well. Everyone had his own role to play, and the sprawling mansion was big enough, even for three competitive males to live in relative peace. Especially since he, Slater, was gone half the time, anyway.

“Will do.” Nate left the study, and a few minutes later the door opened.

Before Slater could make the mental leap from one moment to the next, a woman—quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—stormed across the threshold, dragging a teenage boy by the arm.

She was a redhead, with the kind of body that would resurrect a dead man, never mind a tired one.

And Slater had a fondness for redheads; he’d dated a lot of them over the years. This one was all sizzle, and her riot of coppery curls, bouncing around her straight, indignant shoulders, seemed to blaze in the dim light.

It took him a moment, but he finally recovered and clambered to his feet. “I’m Slater Carson. Can I help you?”

This visitor, whoever she was, had his full attention.

Fascinating.

The redhead poked the kid, who was taller than she was by at least six inches, and she did it none too gently. The boy flinched; he was lanky, clad in a Seahawks T-shirt, baggy jeans and half-laced shoes. He looked bewildered, ready to bolt.

“Start talking, buster,” the redhead ordered, glowering up at the kid. “And no excuses.” She shook her head. “I’m being nice here,” she said when the teenager didn’t speak. “Your father would kick you into the next county.”

Just his luck, Slater thought, with a strange, nostalgic detachment. She was married.

While he waited for the next development, he let his eyes trail over the goddess, over a sundress with thin straps on shapely shoulders, a midthigh skirt and silky pale skin. She was one of the rare Titian types who didn’t have freckles, although Slater wouldn’t be opposed to finding out if there might be a few tucked away out of sight. White sandals with a small heel finished off the ensemble, and all that glorious hair was loose and flowing down her back.

The kid, probably around fourteen, cleared his throat. He stepped forward and laid one of the magnetic panels from the company’s production truck on the desk.

Slater, caught up in the unfolding drama, hadn’t noticed the sign until then.

Interesting.

“I’m sorry.” The boy gulped, clearly miserable and, at the same time, a little defiant. “I took this.” He looked sidelong at the woman beside him, visibly considered giving her some lip and just as visibly reconsidered. Smart kid. “I thought it was pretty cool,” he explained, all knees and elbows and youthful angst. Color climbed his neck and burned in his face. “I know it was wrong, okay? Stealing is stealing, and my stepmother’s ready to cuff me and haul me off to jail, so if that’s what you want, too, Mister, go for it.”

Stepmother?

Slater was still rather dazed, as though he’d stepped off a wild carnival ride before it was finished with its whole slew of loop-de-loops.

“His father and I are divorced.” She said it curtly, evidently reading Slater’s expression.

Well, Slater reflected, that was cause for encouragement. She did look young to be the kid’s mother. And now that he thought about it, the boy didn’t resemble her in the slightest, with his dark hair and eyes.

Finally catching up, he raised his brows, feeling a flicker of something he couldn’t quite identify, along with a flash of sympathy for the boy. He guessed the redhead was in her early thirties. While she seemed to be in charge of the situation, Slater suspected she might be in over her head. Clearly, the kid was a handful.

It was time, Slater decided, still distanced from himself, to speak up.

“I appreciate your bringing it back,” he managed, holding the boy’s gaze but well aware of the woman on the periphery of his vision. “These aren’t cheap.”

Some of the f-you drained out of the kid’s expression. “Like I said, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“You made a mistake,” Slater agreed quietly. “We’ve all done things we shouldn’t have, at some point in our lives. But you did what you could to make it right.” He paused. “Life’s all about the choices we make, son. Next time, try to do better.” He felt a grin lurking at one corner of his mouth. “I would’ve been really ticked off if I had to replace this.”

The boy looked confused. “Why? You’re rich.”

Slater had encountered that reasoning before—over the entire course of his life, actually. His family was wealthy, and had been for well over a century. They ran cattle, owned vast stretches of Wyoming grassland and now, thanks to his mother’s roots in the Napa Valley, there was the winery, with acres of vineyards to support the enterprise.

“Beside the point,” Slater said. He worked for a living, and he worked hard, but he felt no particular need to explain that to this kid or anybody else. “What’s your name?”

“Ryder,” the boy answered, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Where do you go to school, Ryder?”

“The same lame place everyone around here goes in the eighth grade. Mustang Creek Middle School.”

Slater lifted one hand. “I can do without the attitude,” he said.

Ryder recovered quickly. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Slater had never been married, but he understood children; he had a daughter, and he’d grown up with two kid brothers, born a year apart and still a riot looking for a place to happen, even in their thirties. He’d broken up more fights than a bouncer at Bad Billie’s Biker Bar and Burger Palace on a Saturday night.

“I went to the same school,” he said, mostly to keep the conversation going. He was in no hurry for the redhead to call it a night, especially since he didn’t know her name yet. “Not a bad deal. Does Mr. Perkins still teach shop?”

Ryder laughed. “Oh, yeah. We call him The Relic.”

Slater let the remark pass; it was flippant, but not mean-spirited. “You couldn’t meet a nicer guy, though. Right?”

The kid’s expression was suitably sheepish. “True,” he admitted.

The stepmother regarded Slater with some measure of approval, although she still seemed riled.

Slater looked back for the pure pleasure of it. She’d be a whole new experience, this one, and he’d never been afraid of a challenge.

She’d said she was divorced, which raised the question: What damn fool had let her get away?

As if she’d guessed what he was thinking—anybody with her looks had to be used to male attention—the redhead narrowed her eyes. Still, Slater thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in them. She’d calmed down considerably, but she wasn’t missing a trick.

He grinned slightly. “Cuffs?” he inquired mildly, remembering Ryder’s statement a few minutes earlier.

She didn’t smile, but that spark was still in her eyes. “That was a reference to my former career,” she replied, all business. “I’m an ex-cop.” She put out her hand, the motion almost abrupt, and finally introduced herself. “Grace Emery,” she said. “These days I run the Bliss River Resort and Spa.”

“Ah,” Slater said, apropos of nothing in particular. An ex-cop? Hot damn, she could handcuff him anytime. “You must be fairly new around here.” If she hadn’t been, he would’ve made her acquaintance before now, or at least heard about her.

Grace nodded. Full of piss-and-vinegar moments before, she looked tired now, and that did something to Slater, although he couldn’t have said exactly what that something was. “It’s a beautiful place,” she said. “Quite a change from Seattle.” She stopped, looking uncomfortable, maybe thinking she’d said too much.

Slater wanted to ask about the ex-husband, but the time obviously wasn’t right. He waited, sensing that she might say more, despite the misgivings she’d just revealed by clamming up.

Sure enough, she went on. “I’m afraid it’s been quite a change for Ryder, too.” Another pause. “His dad’s military, and he’s overseas. It’s been hard on him—Ryder, I mean.”

Slater sympathized. The kid’s father was out of the country, he’d moved from a big city in one state to a small town in another, and on top of that, he was fourteen, which was rough in and of itself. When Slater was that age, he’d grown eight inches in a single summer and simultaneously developed a consuming interest in girls, without having a clue what to say to them. Oh, yeah. He remembered awkward.

He realized Grace’s hand was still in his. He let go, albeit reluctantly.

Then, suddenly, he felt as tongue-tied as he ever had at fourteen. “My family’s been on this ranch for generations,” he heard himself say. “So I can’t say I know what it would be like having to start over someplace new.” Shut up, man. He couldn’t seem to follow his own advice. “I travel a lot, and I’m always glad to get back to Mustang Creek.”

Grace turned to Ryder, sighed, then looked back at Slater. “We’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Carson.”

Mr. Carson?

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, still flustered and still trying to shake it off. Ordinarily, he was the proverbial man of few words, but tonight, in the presence of this woman, he was a babbling idiot. “This place is like a maze. I took over my father’s office because of the view, but it’s clear at the back of the house and—”

Had the woman asked for any of this information?

No.

What the hell was the matter with him, anyway?

Grace didn’t comment. The boy was already on the move, and she simply followed, which shot holes in Slater’s theory about their ability to find their way to an exit without his guidance. He gave an internal shrug and trailed behind Grace, enjoying the gentle sway of her hips.

For some reason he wasn’t a damn bit tired anymore.

* * *

HAVING BEEN A police officer, Grace had plenty of experience dealing with men. In law enforcement, still a male-dominated field even though women were finally making inroads, overexposure to testosterone was inevitable. She’d come to terms with the effect her appearance had on the male gender, not out of vanity, but because she was practical to the bone.

She wouldn’t have described herself as beautiful; she got an instant update on her imperfections every time she consulted a mirror. She knew her mouth was a shade too wide. Her nose tilted up just a little, giving her an air of perkiness that was wholly unfounded, and she couldn’t have gotten a tan in the middle of a desert. Her eyes were an almost startling shade of blue—she’d been accused of wearing colored contacts—and she didn’t even want to discuss the hair. Just call her Carrot-Top.

It was ridiculously curly unless she wore it long, and the stuff could go clown-crazy if the humidity was high. Thankfully, Wyoming was drier than Seattle, so she didn’t have to fight it quite as much now. The color was impossible to change, although she’d tried highlights and different treatments, but nature won out every time, so now she let it go its own way.

Slater Carson hadn’t been turned off.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Grace wasn’t sure how she felt about her own reaction. Yes, she was jaded about men, but something was different this time. She was—okay, she could admit it—sort of flattered.

Recalling the slow, gliding assessment of those sexy blue eyes as they moved over her, she got a definite buzz. And Slater Carson wasn’t hard to look at, either, with all that dark, wavy hair, a day’s beard growing in and a lean, wiry build that said cowboy. He moved like one, too, with long, slow strides, and when he smiled at her as he held the back door open to a starry Wyoming night, there was an easy curve to his mouth, the hint of a grin, not in the least boyish, but confident, amused, knowing.

The message had been clear: he wouldn’t mind if they met again.

Well, Grace thought, Mustang Creek was a small town, where everybody seemed to know everybody else, so they were bound to run into each other at some point.

If he expected more than a polite nod and a “howdy,” though, he’d be disappointed.

Grace distrusted men like Slater—too good-looking, too privileged, too used to getting whatever and whoever they wanted. Yep, the illustrious Mr. Carson reminded her a little too much of her ex-husband, exuding confidence the way he did, certain of his success, of his place in the world.

No, thanks. Grace had been down that road before, and after all the excitement and the heady passion and the dazzle, she’d run smack into a dead end. In some ways, she was still reeling from the impact.

Feeling resolute, she got into her vehicle, which she’d parked in the well-lit driveway alongside the Carson mansion, and slammed her door, waiting for Ryder to stop dawdling and plunk himself down in the passenger seat.

This wasn’t how she’d planned to spend her evening. Her vision had included downloading a movie, munching popcorn, generally vegging out on the couch with her bare feet propped up, wearing shorty pajamas and face cream.

Grace had had a long day at the resort; she’d dealt with a faulty air-conditioning unit and repairmen who couldn’t seem to agree on what was wrong, a chronically late employee who was wonderful when he actually got there, by which time the rest of the staff was thoroughly and justifiably annoyed, plus guest complaints about the lap pool that ranged from too hot to too cool. Among other things.

Coming home to find Ryder about to nail a newly acquired and obviously expensive metal sign to one wall of his bedroom had immediately thrown her evening plans for a loop. Immediately suspicious, Grace had questioned the boy.

Never a good liar, he’d confessed.

Grace had figuratively grabbed the kid by one ear and dragged him to the Carson house.

Now he hauled open the door on his side and got in.

“I’m sorry,” Ryder said. He didn’t really sound sorry, and he didn’t look at her, but sat staring out the windshield instead. His tone was stubborn, and the set of his mouth underscored his attitude.

Grace sighed inwardly.

Ryder was a good kid, and Slater Carson had been right earlier, when he’d said everybody made bad decisions now and then. “You know better.”

“It just—”

She raised a hand to indicate she wanted him to stop. Now. “There’s no excuse I care to hear. You stole something and we returned it.”

Grace started the car, flipped on the headlights and turned around to head back down the driveway.

Ryder was quiet for a few minutes. They reached the county highway, which was practically deserted at that time of night, and, since both the ranch and the resort were well outside town, they didn’t pass many cars.

Eventually, Ryder said, “He liked you.”

Fourteen and he’d picked up on that, Grace reflected with rueful amusement, but he still couldn’t pick up his underwear.

He liked you.

There was liking a woman, and there was wanting to go to bed with her. Grace was not inclined to explain the difference to a fourteen-year-old.

So she said briskly, “He doesn’t know me.”

“He thought you were pretty.”

There were times when she wished Ryder would talk to her more, and times, like now, when she wished he wouldn’t. “I think it’s just possible that he’s prettier than I am.”

That made Ryder crack up. “At least he tried to be subtle. He didn’t, like, stare at your—”

He stopped abruptly, and Grace figured he’d be blushing right about now over what he’d almost said, so she cut the kid a break and kept her gaze on the road. “Mr. Carson was very polite,” she conceded. “How’s the science project coming along?”

Ryder jumped on the sudden change of subject, even if school wasn’t one of his favorites. “Okay, actually. Turns out my partner isn’t as geeky as he looks.” He was quiet for a moment, then he went on. “I was wondering if he might come over to our place and hang out sometime. That okay?”

Grace felt a rush of relief. She’d been waiting for Ryder to stop rebelling against the move to Mustang Creek and make some friends, hoping and praying he would.

She was in over her head with this parenting thing.

And she didn’t seem to be getting any better at it.

A few months back Grace’s former father-in-law had called her one day, out of the blue. Haltingly, he’d explained that with his wife so ill, they couldn’t handle their grandson on their own. They hated to ask, but since Hank was overseas and all, they didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

Hank, Grace’s ex and Ryder’s father, made a career of being unavailable, in her opinion, but of course she didn’t say that.

She’d had no idea what to say, under the circumstances. Ryder’s mother was remarried, with a whole new family, and for reasons Grace still didn’t understand, the woman had never shown much interest in her firstborn, anyway. When she and Hank were divorced, she’d handed Ryder over without a quibble, not even asking for visitation rights.

The woman couldn’t be bothered to send her son a birthday card, never mind calling to see how he was doing or firing off the occasional text to keep in touch.

The whole scenario made Grace furious on Ryder’s behalf, and it didn’t help that Hank was so emotionally distant, absolutely caught up in his military career.

In that respect, she and Ryder had been set adrift in the same boat, but Grace had had options, at least. She could divorce Hank—which she had—and move on. His son didn’t have that choice.

So she’d said yes, Ryder could stay with her until Hank’s current deployment ended, and here they were in Mustang Creek, Wyoming, stuck with each other, both of them struggling to adjust to major changes.

Grace brought herself back to the present. “I think it would be great if your friend came over sometime. I could order you guys a pizza, how’s that?”

Ryder nodded. “As long as it isn’t like the ones they have at the spa, with goat cheese and whatever those green things are. I tried to like the stuff, Grace, but no way.”

“Artichoke hearts,” she supplied helpfully. “How about plain old pepperoni?”

Ryder grinned. “That would be great,” he said.

“Okay, you’re on. I just need your word that you’ll stay out of trouble for five minutes.” She feigned a narrow glare. “I didn’t like facing Mr. Carson with what you’d done any more than you did, buddy.”

Ryder’s grin broadened. “Maybe not,” he agreed, “but I think he sorta enjoyed it.”


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_235146f2-5328-5a0c-86dc-18c51fa65536)

BEYOND THE TALL windows of the breakfast room off the ranch-house kitchen, the Tetons soared against a morning sky of heartbreaking blue. Slater sat in his usual place at the table, coffee mug in hand, silently marveling. He’d looked out on that same vista almost every morning of his life and never once taken it for granted.

He was a lucky man, and he knew it.

The sound of boot heels on the wide plank floor alerted him to company.

“Hey, Showbiz.” Slater’s youngest brother, Mace, meandered in from the next room, pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table and dropped into it, an easy grin surfacing. Of the three of them, Mace most resembled their dad, who’d been killed in a fall from a horse when Slater was twelve. Sometimes just the sight of his brother brought him a pang of grief.

“Hey, yourself,” Slater responded lazily. As nicknames went, he figured Showbiz was something he could live with; both Mace and Drake, his middle brother, used it often.

Mace reached for the carafe in the middle of the table and filled a waiting mug, adding a hefty splash of cream before closing his eyes, savoring that first sip and giving a blissful sigh. Next, he raised the lids on the metal serving dishes and helped himself to a heaping portion of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage and three slices of buttered toast. He’d consume all of that, and most likely repeat the whole process.

Slater, a devout aficionado of home cooking, was continually astonished by the sheer quantity of food Mace could put away.

Finished with his own meal but in no particular hurry to head elsewhere, or to pad the silent spaces with talk, Slater replenished his coffee. He sat there, gazing quietly out the window, soaking in the special ambience of a country morning, content to be who he was, where he was.

Which was home.

When he needed a few minutes to digest the staggering view, like he did right now, he reined in his attention, absorbing his immediate surroundings.

He much preferred this simple but elegant space to the much larger and fancier dining room on the far side of the kitchen; the polished oak table was sturdy, seating six people comfortably.

The room doubled as a sort of butler’s pantry, with two huge sideboards full of antique china and glassware. The liquor cabinet his great-grandfather had brought over from England towered against the inside wall, and the stained-glass panels in the doors gleamed with jewel-like colors. Even as a teenager, when he’d been tempted to raid the contents, figuring, as teenage boys sometimes do, that getting falling-down drunk would be a good move, he’d never actually carried out the plan. Prudently, his folks had kept the cabinet locked, and Slater hadn’t been able to summon up the courage to risk damaging a treasured heirloom.

No, he’d swiped beer from the refrigerator instead and settled for a mild buzz rather than a full-on booze blitz.

“Nice morning,” he said, watching as Mace did justice to the mountain of grub on his plate.

“Yep,” Mace agreed. He was auburn-haired like their mother, with clear blue eyes, and he had a talent with anything that grew. That knack had manifested itself early in his life. When he was ten, their mother had given him a garden plot, a hoe and several packets of seeds for his birthday. While most boys wanted a new bicycle, he’d busied himself with tackling the GP as Slater and Drake called it (translation: the Garden Project), and they’d eaten green beans with supper every night until they’d finally begged for an ear of corn or even some spinach.

Slater wasn’t a picky eater, but he wasn’t a big fan of spinach, either.

A few years ago their mother, Blythe, had revisited her roots in the wine country of Northern California and decided to plant vineyards and produce a brand of her own. Mace had been the natural choice to run the operation. If a plant had leaves, he could make it grow—and thrive—in just about any soil.

“When did you get back?” Mace asked, serving himself up a second breakfast, now that he’d wiped out the first. Slater wondered if his brother’s appetite would catch up with him one day, if Mace would pack a layer or two of fat over those lean muscles of his.

No sign of it so far.

“I got in last night,” Slater answered. He’d slept like the proverbial rock, although he vaguely recalled a series of dreams involving a certain feisty redhead. No surprise there. Grace Emery was the last person he’d seen before he’d stripped off his clothes, showered and fallen face-first into bed. Meeting a woman like that was bound to be a memorable experience, even for somebody half-dead with fatigue.

Mace nodded.

Slater, not usually given to idle chitchat, kept talking. “The production went well and we wrapped early, which almost never happens. Not by much, but early is still early.”

“Sweet.” Mace picked up a piece of toast. “Now you go into the cutting and editing thing, huh?”

“The director will handle most of that.”

“What comes next?”

He’d been thinking about that; on some level, he was always thinking about the next project. “I’ve been playing with the idea of doing a history of Wyoming—how it was settled and all that—but what it also is today. Too many people seem to believe the whole state is barren, except for a ski resort or two and a couple of million sheep. I figure it might be time to update the image a little.”

Mace nodded again, his expression thoughtful. “You could throw in some stuff about the ranch—you know, about Dad’s family and the railroad money his grandfather inherited and then used to establish the ranch. You might even include the estate in California Mom’s people founded.” He was warming to the idea, visibly picking up steam. Trust Mace to find a way to work the winery angle, never mind the logic of highlighting California history in a movie about Wyoming.

Slater smiled—and listened. His brother was on a roll, and some of his ideas were good.

“And what about this place?” Mace went on. “How many historic Wyoming ranch houses were specifically designed to look like something out of Gone with the Wind? There’s a story there, don’t forget.”

There was indeed a story. The mansion had been built, back in the day, to assuage the homesickness of their great-grandmother, a young Southern bride, far from home and yearning for the plantation of her childhood.

By now, Mace was so caught up in the impromptu brainstorming session that he waved his fork in enthusiasm. “I think it would make a great project. You could call it ‘The Carson Legacy: One Family’s Journey in the Great West.’”

Slater smiled again. “Okay, the Carson clan made its mark, I’ll grant you that. But there were a lot of other pioneers, too.”

Mace grinned back at him. “I wouldn’t mind seeing myself immortalized on film,” he said.

That was when Drake wandered in, yawning, probably not from lack of sleep but because he’d been out tending horses since the crack of dawn. “Now why, little brother,” he asked, “would anybody want to immortalize the likes of you?”

Drake was built like Slater and Mace—tall, lean and broad through the shoulders; unlike them, he had dark blond hair. He looked like a cowboy, could handle a horse like no one Slater had ever seen and was just plain born to be outdoors. He yawned again, swung a leg over his customary chair and sat, reaching for the coffee. He scowled at Mace and grunted to underscore his previous remark. “Why should you be immortalized? You’re not all that special, except in your own opinion.”

Mace tried not to seem affronted. “Look who’s talkin’,” he drawled.

Drake flashed that cowboy grin of his. “The voice of reason, that’s who,” he said affably. He nodded at his older brother. “Hey, Slate. Heard you were home. I would’ve said hello before now, but we’re moving a herd to the south pasture, so I’ve been at it for a while. Anyhow, it’s good to see you back.”

It was good to be back.

“Mace has been doing his damnedest to inspire me.” Slater drank the last of his coffee. “Says I ought to include our family’s history in the next documentary.”

“Oh, jeez.” Drake rolled his eyes and sipped from his mug. “Plenty of skeletons rattling around in these closets. If you’re planning on turning them loose, well, I’d appreciate it if you left my name out of the script.”

Mace raised his eyebrows, nudged Drake with a light jab of his elbow. “You could do a feature on our fascinating brother here,” he suggested drily. “Focusing on his love life. The title could be ‘Boring on the Range.’”

“Ha-ha.” Drake shot his younger brother a glare. “That’s a brilliant idea,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, I was up and around long before you finished getting your beauty sleep. Now, I’m thinking maybe you should go back to bed for a while. You obviously need some more shut-eye.”

Slater slid back his chair and stood, empty mug in hand. “You two need to drum up some new insults,” he said. “If I can change the subject—Mace, aren’t we supplying wines for the Bliss River Resort now? How’s that going?”

His brothers exchanged glances—and grins.

Mace said, “I was right! Big Brother did find a way to get her into the conversation. You owe me ten bucks.”

Drake made no move to pull out his wallet. “Damn,” he agreed, “that was fast, Slate. You have some special radar or something? ‘Beep, beep, pretty redhead within range. Sound the alarm. Man your battle stations.’”

Okay, so he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d thought in bringing their discussion around to Grace Emery.

Slater decided to brazen it out, anyway. “You mind telling me what you two loco cowboys are talking about? All I asked was how the deal with the resort was going.” God knew he couldn’t have asked Grace the night before, with her all worked up the way she’d been. He sat down again, grabbed a sausage link from what remained of Mace’s double breakfast and took a bite. Harriet Armstrong, the Carsons’ longtime cook and housekeeper, mixed the ingredients herself. Yet another reason there was no place like home.

He’d eaten in some fancy restaurants, but whatever Harriet put on the table would do just fine. She ran the house with the same kind of no-sweat finesse. He and his brothers referred to the housekeeper as “Harry,” because that was Blythe’s name for her. Harry was like a second mother to all of them, and she’d never had a problem calling bullshit when they tried to put anything over on her.

Mace apparently felt it was incumbent upon him to elaborate on the wager he’d made with Drake. “I bet that if you took one look at Grace Emery, you’d be getting acquainted right quick. You’d be all over that.” He shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me how you did it so fast. You arrived after supper last night and now it’s breakfast time. Every guy within a hundred miles of Mustang Creek suddenly feels the need for a spa visit, just so they can get a look at her, and you, brother, you somehow figured out how to get her to come to you.”

His assistant, Nathan, must have told one of them about Grace’s visit, Slater concluded with a degree of resignation. Fine. He wasn’t going to tell them why she’d stopped by; the business about the swiped sign was between him and Ryder. As far as he was concerned, the matter was settled. “What’s her story?” he asked.

Mace seemed to relish answering the question. “She’s divorced. The kid lives with her because her ex-husband is some sort of hotshot military type. He’s deployed at the moment.” He paused, then added, “From what I’ve heard, she’s doing a great job at the resort. The owner hired her personally.”

Not much news there. Grace had told him most of those details, along with the fact that she’d been a police officer at some point. As brief as their encounter had been, though, Slater could well imagine the memorably lovely Ms. Emery meeting any task head-on. Of course the transition from cop to hotel manager was quite a leap. Obviously, there was more to her story, and he wanted to hear it. “Interesting.”

One thing about his brothers—they weren’t inclined to poke their noses into other people’s business, and when he didn’t divulge Grace Emery’s reason for stopping by, they left it alone.

Mace said matter-of-factly, “To answer your other question, our wine arrangement with the resort seems to be going well. On another subject, I’ve been doing some research, and I’m getting some new info on what vines we ought to put in. As you know, Mom wants to expand the operation, take it national. Anyway, the clients at the resort select different wines than the ones the liquor stores order from us. The higher-end lines go over better with the spa guests—they want the full-bodied, well-balanced reds or big, oaky chardonnays, while on the retail level, the customers seem to prefer fruity, lighter varieties. We’re entering a few competitions this year to see if we can get more press.” He paused, but only long enough to take a breath. Once Mace got talking about the vineyards and the wines they produced, it was hard to shut him up. “The trick here is dealing with our weather and finding vines that can handle the winters and still produce the quality of fruit and yield we’re after. Right now we buy most of our grapes from other states. That’s not unusual, but I’d like to swing the pendulum our way.”

Slater enjoyed his younger brother’s passion for the wine business because he knew this venture was their mother’s dream as much as it was Mace’s. They were three very different people, he and Mace and Blythe, but he could identify with both of them, since filmmaking and running a successful vineyard were both artistic pursuits. Drake, however, couldn’t have been less interested, down to earth as he was—always active, always on the move. It was almost comical the way animals and kids gravitated toward him. Slater had seen his middle brother at many a picnic or cookout with a toddler on his lap and three dogs belonging to someone else at his feet. He’d be talking away with friends, evidently oblivious to the Doctor Dolittle phenomenon.

“I don’t know much of anything about making wine,” Slater admitted, addressing Mace, “but that sounds like a plan to me. I can grow mold on a piece of cheese in the fridge, and that’s about it. Speaking of wine and cheese, I need to throw a shindig for the investors. They deserve a celebration. I’m thinking the resort would be the perfect venue.”

Both his brothers laughed, and Drake reached into his pocket and pulled out a few bills. He selected one and handed it to Mace. “You win,” he said. “Here’s your ten bucks.”

* * *

GRACE PEERED AT her computer screen, blinked a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The booking had come in just as she was thinking about taking her lunch, and it was major. Slater Carson’s production company had reserved fifteen of the resort’s best rooms as well as the private dining room, and had requested gourmet menu suggestions and comprehensive spa privileges for its top executives and a number of investors.

The bill would amount to tens of thousands of dollars. Grace was new enough to the resort-management field to be impressed, although she supposed such expenditures were common in the corporate world.

Not that Slater struck her as the corporate type; she couldn’t really picture him wearing a suit, giving speeches in some boardroom. He’d looked like a denim and custom-made boots man to her, but then she’d met him only once, and under distinctly awkward circumstances at that. So maybe she’d missed something.

Still, Grace had good instincts where people were concerned; as a cop, she’d learned to depend on her gut.

She’d certainly noticed Slater’s easy air of command. He was clearly comfortable with himself, and he was assertive but not overbearing. Otherwise, he would’ve been a lot tougher on Ryder the night before.

It was a safe bet that Mr. Carson had a clear idea of what he wanted and seldom, if ever, hesitated to go after it.

She couldn’t help making a few comparisons—and there were undeniable similarities between Slater and Hank, her ex-husband. Both men were strong, single-minded and ambitious.

There were undeniable differences between them, too.

Hank, in fact, was not merely ambitious, he was driven, a trait that could seem sexy at first glance; power usually was sexy. She’d been drawn in quickly, despite the practicality that had served her so well on the force. Trouble was, she’d sadly miscalculated her place in the pecking order. On the list of Hank’s priorities, she came in last.

Even Ryder was low on the figurative totem pole. Hank’s career was number one, and both she and his son were basically distractions. Afterthoughts.

She’d been wounded by this realization, and she’d been cautious ever since. One major mistake was forgivable; two would constitute disaster.

Okay, so she didn’t know Slater well enough to write him off as a player, but she’d learned to be wary of his brand of charisma.

If he saw her as a conquest—she’d run into that attitude before and after Hank—he was riding for a fall that would bruise his masculine ego big-time.

Count me out.

She looked past her computer monitor, took in her surroundings. It was an old trick, a way of grounding herself in the real world when her mind wandered.

Grace loved her spacious second-floor office, overlooking the pool and the gardens. There was a small balcony, complete with a couple of ornate deck chairs and a small, glass-topped table.

Not that she had time to sit out there and enjoy it all.

This morning, though, she had the balcony doors open, and a cool, soft breeze wafted in, scented with a tinge of pine and the lush flowers crowding the gardens.

The resort was a terrific place to work, her salary was generous and so far, she’d gotten along beautifully with the guests as well as the staff. In short, she’d finally gotten her life unstuck, and no complications would be tolerated.

Specifically, the tall, dark-haired, good-looking cowboy sort of complication.

“Did you see that booking I forwarded?”

The question came from her assistant, Meg, who was standing in the doorway, smiling broadly. Meg was young, energetic and fresh out of hotel management school, but inexperienced. The resort owner, George Landers, was an old friend of Grace’s father’s. He had reliable instincts when it came to hiring key people. In time, Meg would develop the necessary air of confident authority required to run one of his resorts, but for now, she was still “wet behind the ears,” to quote George.

Grace herself had a degree in the hospitality field—which she’d obtained part-time while she was still a cop—but no real experience, and she wasn’t positive that confidence was her strongest suit, either, given some of the choices she’d made in the past. She was skilled at handling difficult situations, however, and the boss knew that because he knew her. She’d been trained to function under intense pressure, but in reality, she didn’t actually run the resort as much as she supervised the staff who ran it.

The exact instructions she’d received: Just make sure everybody’s doing what they’re supposed to do. I trust you to take care of whatever comes up.

Thank God somebody believed in her abilities.

Or maybe she’d just gotten lucky.

George Landers had gone to college with her father, and the two men had played golf together ever since, every Wednesday afternoon. When George learned that Grace might be looking for a change of scene, he’d punched her number into his cell phone, invited her to his office and offered her the job on the spot.

She’d jumped at the chance. No, she hadn’t realized Ryder was going to jump with her, but she could cope with that. After all, she was crazy about the kid.

“I was actually just looking at it,” she answered belatedly, smiling at Meg. “Very nice.”

“The Carson name carries considerable weight around here.” Meg, wearing the fitted jacket and skirt the company required, crossed the threshold and laid a set of invoices on the desk. “They’ve also recently opened a winery. That Ranch Hand Red on our wine list in the dining room is one of our best sellers.”

This was valuable information. “The Carsons own Mountain Vineyards? Hmm.” Grace tapped a few keys and their website popped up. The winery building itself was picturesque, a restored barn or bunkhouse, perhaps, rustic but sturdy, attractively weathered, with a shingle roof and tall windows. The mountains provided a staggering backdrop.

Oh, yes. The place was the epitome of Western charm. “I wonder if they’d consider doing tours and a few wine-tasting events for our guests,” Grace went on, musing aloud. “We could add that to some of our packages, since not everyone comes here to hike or ski. The spa is a big draw in its own right, and wine-tastings ought to fit the mood.”

“It won’t hurt to ask them,” Meg announced brightly. She was, as usual, brimming with enthusiasm. “It would be fabulous if we could get a few more gigs like this one, right? And this is such gorgeous country—ideal for a corporate getaway.”

Meg’s buoyant spirits might have been irritating, if they hadn’t been completely genuine. Grace had liked her from the moment she’d first walked through the elaborate glass doors downstairs.

Thoughtful, she tapped her pen against her desk blotter. “I wonder,” she murmured, “if Slater Carson would consider using the resort in one of his films. As I understand it, he’s only made historical documentaries so far, stuff about the Old West. Maybe he’d be interested in some kind of joint promotion.”

Meg sank into a chair, her eyes wide. “That’s a stretch,” she said honestly, “but like I said before, it can’t hurt to ask. I mean, what if it actually worked?” She paused, bit her lower lip. “Would you like me to draft a preliminary proposal?”

The idea was a stretch—but the good ones usually were. Nothing ventured...

Of course she’d eventually have to make the pitch in person, face-to-face with Slater. Still, it made sense to plant a seed, get him thinking about the possibilities. After all, Mustang Creek was his hometown; surely, he cared about the local economy.

“Do that,” she decided aloud. “And let him know we’d be willing to offer some leeway on the cost of the event he just booked and any other business he sends our way in the future. Mention the winery connection, too.”

“Consider it done,” Meg said. She was an attractive young woman, with shiny brown hair that fell gracefully around her shoulders, eyes the color of warm honey and a friendly smile. Secretly, Grace envied her assistant’s less dramatic coloring a little, her own being...well, a bit on the flashy side.

Inwardly, Grace sighed, reminding herself of her mother’s oft-given advice: Be yourself and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Then Grace was all business again. “I want the head chef in the kitchen for this event,” she said. “And whether he likes it or not, we’ll offer a simple menu—one seafood dish, one poultry, one beef, one pork and one elegant vegetarian option. No fancy ice sculptures, nothing with flames.” She grinned at Meg, who grinned back. “Stefano gets carried away sometimes, as you’ve probably noticed. I’ve tried to rein him in, but as he’s pointed out numerous times, I’m not a chef.”

“No,” Meg said, “but you are the boss.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Will there be anything else?”

Grace waited for a moment, then made the leap. “Invite him to dinner,” she said. “Next Thursday night, if he’s free.”

Meg looked mildly confused. “Who? Stefano?”

Grace shook her head. “Slater Carson,” she answered. “I’ll give him the proposal then. I’d call him myself, but I want this to be formal, just business.”

Meg gazed at her curiously, no doubt wondering if Grace knew the legendary filmmaker and if so, how. And too smart to ask.

“It’s a long story.” Grace waved a hand in casual dismissal, although, in truth, she didn’t feel casual, not where Slater was concerned.

Meg nodded and left the office, closing the door quietly behind her.

Once Grace was alone, she found her thoughts turning in another direction.

She was uneasy about Ryder; he’d crossed an alarming line, stealing from Slater Carson.

Okay, so it wasn’t armed robbery or drug trafficking, and she didn’t want to make too big a deal of it. Still, she’d seen too many kids head down the wrong trail in her last job, and the trouble often began with some small infraction.

Theft was theft.

Ryder was a decent kid with loads of potential, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep right on screwing up, because he was also a confused and lonely kid, and with his dad so far away and his mother permanently disinterested, he was especially vulnerable.

Well, Grace resolved for about the hundredth time since Ryder had moved in with her, if the boy was destined for a life of crime, it wasn’t going to happen on her watch.

Except that she had only so much influence over Ryder.

The hard truth was, Hank needed to man up, take responsibility for his son, give the kid some love and guidance. Yes, he provided financial support, but that was far from enough.

Ironically, though, if Ryder went downhill from here, Hank would blame her, not himself.

Did she care about Hank’s opinion? No.

But she did care, very much, about Ryder.

She smiled. The boy put on a convincing tough-guy act, but there was more to him, thank God. A lot more.

For instance, she knew he was secretly feeding a stray cat that had showed up on their patio a few days ago. She’d glimpsed the poor creature a couple of times, saw that it was thin, matted and skittish. When she’d tried to approach, the animal shot into the bushes and hid there, but Ryder had fared better. He’d set out pilfered lunch meat or a bowl of milk and then wait, crouching, almost motionless.

And the cat would come close enough to eat a few bites or lap up some of the milk.

That image of Ryder, that display of kindly patience, gave her hope.

Later, when she was officially off duty, she drove into town, visited the supermarket, planning to fix Ryder’s favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs. She added potatoes to her cart, then vegetables for a green salad, a stack of canned cat food, and some of the dry kind, too—along with a couple of ceramic bowls.

Back at the condo, which was part of the resort complex, she thought about how lucky she was to have this job. It was demanding, sure, but besides her salary, she had health insurance and a decent retirement plan, and she didn’t have to cover rent or mortgage payments.

Plus, nobody shot at her or yelled abuse simply because she wore a badge.

She paused in the parking lot to admire the place. The condo boasted three sizeable bedrooms, one of which she used as a home office, two bathrooms, a nice sleek kitchen and a Wyoming view that faced the scenic Bliss River. She’d decorated with a few antiques she’d inherited from her grandmother—an English case clock, a pewter pitcher she’d set on the mantel, a beautifully framed and very old charcoal drawing of horses standing in the snow, their manes ruffled by the wind. She’d also splurged and bought a new chocolate-brown couch, with scarlet velvet pillows for accent.

The low, square coffee table was new, too.

Feeling domestic, Grace carted in her briefcase, purse and one bag of groceries. Ryder abandoned the video game he’d been absorbed in and jumped to his feet.

“Need some help?” he asked, with a shy grin.

“Yes,” Grace answered, pleased. “There’s more in the car.”

Ryder rushed out the door, all legs and elbows, and when he returned, he was carrying the bag of cat kibble under one arm. The expression on his face made Grace double-glad she’d decided to cave on the adopt-a-pet question.

“What—” he began, looking down at the heavy bag clutched to his side.

Grace smiled, took the bags from his other hand and set them on the counter. Then she rummaged through them until she found the bowls. “I know what you’ve been up to, bud,” she said.

To his credit, Ryder didn’t try to dodge the issue. “He’s so hungry, Grace. Scared, too. There are things out there that could get him—”

Grace nearly choked up; she was so moved by the tenderness in Ryder’s young and so often sullen face, but she kept smiling. There are things out there that could get him.

Was that how Ryder felt, too? Alone in a big, dangerous world?

Probably.

Grace swallowed hard, forcing back the tears. “There are a few rules here,” she warned. “We’ll take the cat to the vet as soon as possible. He can’t come inside until he’s been checked out. He’ll need shots and neutering, and you’re going to have to do a few extra chores around here to pay me back. I’ll buy his food, but the rest is your responsibility, Ryder—and that includes cleaning the litter box. Do we have an agreement?”

Ryder’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “You mean it, Grace? We can keep him?”

She laughed, wanting to hug the boy, but sensing that the timing was off. So she gave him a light punch to the shoulder instead. “Did you hear anything I said just now?”

How many times had this child been promised something and then been disappointed?

“I heard,” Ryder said, very softly. “Thanks, Grace. I mean, really, thanks.”

“Make sure you’re picking up what I’m saying here,” she said with mock sternness. “This is your cat, not mine. He’ll be dependent on you, and that’s a big responsibility.” She softened her tone. “Take good care of this little guy, and you’ll have a faithful friend for the duration. Can I count on you, Ryder? Can he?”

Ryder’s voice was hoarse when he replied, and his eyes glistened slightly. “Yes,” he said, and then cleared his throat.

He was growing up, Grace thought suddenly.

Or just growing.

When had he gotten so tall? She needed to take him shopping for new clothes, and soon.

“All right, then,” she said, turning to unpack the other groceries so he wouldn’t see that her eyes were moist, too. “Go feed your cat.” A pause. This was the best conversation she and Ryder had had so far, and she didn’t want to let it go. She blinked and glanced back over her shoulder. “What’s his name, anyway? Has he got one yet?”

Ryder’s grin practically lit up the room. “Bonaparte.”

Definitely unexpected. Grace raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice. Any particular logic behind it?”

“Sure,” Ryder said, plunking down the bag of kibble and opening the top to scoop out the cat’s dinner. “Napoleon Bonaparte started from humble beginnings and became one of the greatest generals the world’s ever known. And he declared himself emperor.” He took the second bowl to the sink and filled it with water. “I think that’s pretty awesome.”

“And there’s a connection between the general and the cat because—”

Ryder headed for the patio doors, bowls in hand, sloshing water on the floor as he moved. “I guess I just liked the story,” he said. “Look at it this way, Grace. I’ve been paying attention in history class.” He used one elbow to open the glass slider. “I told you I was going to try harder, remember?”

Grace’s throat felt tight again. She nodded, watching as Ryder stepped out onto the patio, dropped to a crouch and set the bowls down. He turned his head to meet her eyes.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he reminded her cheerfully. “But now I’m actually starting to like it—a little.”

Grace chuckled.

That was progress, anyway.

“Bonaparte’s a great name,” she said.

She wasn’t sure if Ryder had heard her, not that it mattered. By then, the cat had come slinking across the flagstones on the patio, too scared to get close, but too starved to stay away.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_bc2ed46f-5a37-5f3d-ad4f-443753ee7d7c)

THE STALLION, CHARCOAL-GRAY with a black mane and tail, was the living definition of the word wild. He stood, majestic, almost a part of the early-morning sunlight blazing around him like an aura, while his harem of mares grazed nearby.

Despite the distance, the animal seemed to know he was being watched; Slater noted the creature’s raised head and direct gaze, the forward slant of his ears, the muscles in his powerful haunches as he readied himself for fight or flight.

Slater gave a low whistle of grudging admiration as he handed the binoculars back to his brother. “That,” he breathed, “is one hell of a horse.”

Drake’s response was a disdainful grunt. “He’s a bold son of a bitch, I’ll say that for him.” He lifted his hat long enough to shove a hand through his hair in a gesture of barely contained frustration. “I was planning on breeding at least one of those mares with that stud Tate Calder bought last year—the black one with the look of a Thoroughbred? I’ve even paid the damn fee.” The hat came off again, and Drake slapped it against one thigh to emphasize his point. With a slight motion of his head, he indicated the stallion, along with the band of prize mares, every one of them either bought and paid for by him, or bred and raised right there on the ranch. “Now, thanks to that thieving bastard out there, I’ll have to shit-can the whole idea.”

Slater suppressed a grin. There were times when it was fine to needle Drake, and times when a misplaced word could have the same general effect as tossing a lighted match into a stand of drought-yellowed grass.

And while Slater enjoyed a good brawl as much as the next man, he didn’t have the energy for that kind of drama. So he nodded slightly in the stallion’s direction and said, “He’s quite a specimen himself, that horse. Bound to sire some mighty respectable foals.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed, but he was calming down. He seemed to be fighting back a grin of his own, although Slater couldn’t be sure. “You think he’s going to bring those mares over to the barn, drop them all neat and tidy, so we can see that they get proper prenatal care? Hell, Showbiz, you’ve been on the road too long if that’s what you’re expecting. Either that, or you’ve been watching too many old Disney movies.”

Slater chuckled, took back the binoculars and scanned the horizon for the stallion and his four-legged admirers. Smiled to himself. The animal had lost interest in his observers by then, and who could blame him, with all those mares at his beck and call?

“You get in touch with the BLM?” Slater asked, lowering the binoculars. He hadn’t watched a Disney flick recently, and while he did spend more time away from home than he wanted to, he belonged to the place as much as Drake did. The ranch was his legacy, too, and his future, in all the ways that counted.

At the mention of the Bureau of Land Management, Drake finally cut loose with a chuckle of his own. “Yes, I called the BLM,” he replied, with terse good humor. “Let’s just say that between the wild donkeys and the mustangs, they’ve got their hands full. In other words, if we’ve lost a few fancy mares, well, in their considered opinion, that’s our problem.”

Slater raised one shoulder in a shrug. “I reckon it is our problem,” he said. “We could get some of the hands together, saddle up and ride out, see how many of those mares we can rope and lead home.”

Drake sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Priorities, brother. We’re missing some calves, too, so just about everybody’s out there trying to track ’em down. Not having much luck, since it hasn’t rained in a while. Whoever or whatever is rustling beef isn’t leaving any kind of trail.” He paused, looking genuinely worried now. “If I had to venture a guess, I’d say we’re dealing with wolves or a big cat. In which case I’ll have to dust off one of my rifles.”

Briefly, Slater rested his left hand on Drake’s shoulder. He knew his brother was feeling bleak. He loved animals, all animals, and he had a rancher’s respect for the natural order of things. To a hungry wolf pack or any other predator, a calf was food, plain and simple. He understood that. Still, it was his job to protect the herd.

“Need any help?” Slater asked quietly. He had about a dozen urgent phone calls to make, and there was paperwork, too, but he’d put it all aside if Drake said the word. He was a filmmaker by trade, but first, last and always, he was a Carson.

A rancher.

But Drake shook his head again. “We’ll take care of it,” he said. Then his mouth formed a tired grin. “You’ve got enough to do back at your office.” He paused, gestured, the motion of his hand taking in the mountains, the range, the broad and poignantly blue Wyoming sky. “This is my office,” he said, with a note of grim pride. “Not perfect when it’s dead cold in the winter and the wind is gusting at sixty miles an hour and hurling snow in your face like shrapnel, or when it’s so hot you feel the heat shimmer up from the ground and your shirt is stuck to your body. But hey, it suits me just like being Mr. Showbiz suits you.”

Slater nodded an agreeable goodbye and walked back toward the house, thinking Drake had a good handle on his place in the world. His brother tackled life head-on and waded right in, got things done.

As for their youngest brother, Mace, he tended to operate by intuition.

Slater smiled when he went up the steps and found his mother watering the plants on the wide front porch. She glanced up and smiled. Blythe Carson was still slim and youthful at seventy, wearing jeans and a loose cotton blouse, and she’d caught back her thick hair in a clip as usual. She had a natural beauty that didn’t require embellishment, but she was like steel under that soft, feminine exterior. Maybe she’d been born resilient, maybe she’d developed the quality after giving birth to three unruly sons, losing the husband she’d loved early on and, finally, inheriting a ranching business she knew little or nothing about.

But if a challenge came her way, she pushed up her sleeves, both literally and figuratively, and dealt with it.

In fact, his mother’s unbendable spirit was a big part of the reason he’d become interested in making historical documentaries. Those stalwart pioneers had so many stories to tell, and she represented, to Slater, anyway, how women had handled the challenges and discomforts of settling the West. It was all about the journey in his films, where you started and where you ended up, and that same strength of character—what country people called “gumption.”

“What’s on your agenda today?” Blythe asked.

“Work,” he said. “I offered to lend Drake a hand out on the range, but he’s got it covered.”

“He’s always got it covered,” she said mildly. “Finds it hard to accept help—like a few other people I could name.”

She was, of course, referring to all three of her sons.

“Hmm. Wonder where we get that particular trait,” he said.

Blythe made a face at him.

He paused before opening the side door to enter the house. “Want to walk over to the winery with me later? You and Mace could give me the tour. I haven’t been over there since you added the new cellar.”

“I’d love that. Call my cell when you’re ready. Better yet, text me.” Not usually demonstrative, Blythe reached out and touched his cheek in a brief, tender gesture of affection. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

Call my cell. Better yet, text me. Slater smiled to himself, remembering how hard it had been to persuade his mother to get a mobile phone in the first place. Now she was adept at high-tech communication. “Sounds like a plan.”

He went into the house and through a foyer with a chandelier that should have been in a museum somewhere. The piece wasn’t original to the house, but went back much further, probably to the turn of the nineteenth century; according to family legend it came from a grand Southern hotel. A beautiful creation of flawless crystal, it seemed incongruous—and yet oddly natural—in a ranch house set among mountains and prairie.

By now such things were part of the landscape to Slater. His family was eclectic, to say the least.

He entered his office, formerly his father’s study. He was comfortable there, among the belongings of generations—polished bookcases and a vast collection of volumes, most of them having some flavor of the Old West. There were classics and plenty of nonfiction, a smattering of epic poetry and high-brow philosophy, but a generous sprinkling of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour, too.

Slater settled into the old leather chair and booted up his computer. As he’d expected, a slew of emails awaited him, the majority sent by various crew and staff members wrapping up last-minute details on location.

He took care of those first, and it was, as usual, a time-consuming task.

There was a message from the resort concerning the dinner and meeting he had booked that morning, confirming the date he’d chosen—still almost a month out—but it was the second email that really got his attention. He was invited, in a briskly businesslike way, to have dinner the following week with the resort manager—none other than Grace Emery herself—so they could discuss “possible joint endeavors and promotions.”

A slow grin spread across Slater’s face as he considered, just for a moment, a few possible joint endeavors he might be able to suggest.

I’ll be damned, he thought, smiling.

Recalling last night’s brief and testy exchange with her, he marveled at—okay, celebrated—the fact that the lovely Ms. Emery wanted to see him again. For any reason.

Grace had been furious at her stepson, yes, and she’d virtually forced the boy to apologize. But she’d also taken an apparently instant dislike to Slater. Now, all of a sudden, she wanted to talk business? Over dinner?

Since there was no one around to see, Slater punched the air with one fist and muttered, “Yes!”

Ideally, the meeting would be one-on-one. No assistants. No heads of this department or that.

Just Grace and him.

But life was rarely ideal.

Warning himself to rein it in, not to read too much into the unexpected invitation, Slater printed out the confirmation for the other event, his company gathering, filed it and sent the notice to his guests, indicating the time and place—one month from this coming Saturday.

That done, he carefully composed his RSVP to the second get-together.

Of course the email would go straight to Grace’s assistant, someone named Meg, but surely she’d see it, too. He rested his elbows on the desk, that smile still lingering on his mouth, although most of his triumph had subsided, turning into something more fragile, like hope.

He’d sensed, despite the bristling body language and snappy retorts of the night before, that the attraction between him and Grace hadn’t all been on his side.

But maybe he was wrong on that score. Maybe the invitation was exactly what it appeared to be—strictly business.

Slater paused, leaning back in his chair, reflecting. Going by what his brothers had told him about Grace, she’d already given plenty of eager cowboys the brush-off. She was, after all, a busy woman with a demanding job, plus dealing with a troubled teenage boy. While Ryder seemed like an intelligent kid, the smart ones were often the hardest to manage. Throw in a move from one state to another and a career change, and it was no great leap to figure out that romance might not be all that high on Grace Emery’s to-do list.

Come to think of it, getting involved wasn’t really on Slater’s agenda, either. He loved his work, enjoyed dating a wide variety of women, most of whom he met on location, spent as much quality time with his young daughter, Daisy, as possible, and helped his brothers with the ranch and the winery. He figured that was more than enough for one man. And he subscribed to the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it theory. Nope, he wasn’t looking to complicate matters.

Still, some of the best things in life were unplanned.

Like his daughter, Daisy, for instance.

Pensive now, Slater picked up his phone, scrolled down his contact list and hoped he’d catch up with Raine this time around. He’d left two messages already, but his ex-girlfriend, who happened to be the mother of his only child, kept eclectic hours, and her somewhat free-spirited lifestyle often made communication difficult. When she answered, she said with a little laugh, “Well, I guess trouble’s back in town.”

Slater smiled. He’d thought he’d loved Raine, back when they were together, and he knew she’d believed she loved him. And yet they’d always been more friends than lovers. Yes, the sex had been stellar, but they’d both been young and healthy, so it made sense that they’d enjoyed making love. They’d finally realized that they didn’t have what it took to get married and stay that way. “You guess?” he countered mildly, snapping out of his reflective mood. “I’ve sent you a couple of emails and called a few times. Some people would interpret those things as clues to my return.” He spoke in a relaxed tone, used to Raine and her legendary ability to focus on her work, when she chose, to the exclusion of everything and everybody around her—except for their young daughter. “Fortunately, Daisy bothered to get back to me, and we’ve been plotting against you. What are you doing for dinner tonight? I haven’t seen my daughter in two months, if you don’t count that flying visit so I could see her in the school play. And according to Mom, Daisy’s playing softball this summer, so I’ll want to be at as many of her games as I can.” A pause. “Obviously, I have some catching up to do in the father department.”

There was a lilt in Raine’s voice. Predictably, she’d let most of what Slater had said pass. “Dinner?” she echoed. She’d probably been thinking about some project she was working on. “I guess it depends on whether or not Harry’s doing the cooking. Our being available, I mean.”

“Harry is doing the cooking,” Slater confirmed, amused. He’d already worked out an arrangement with the housekeeper. “Unless you’d rather go to a restaurant.”

“And miss one of Harry’s incomparable meals? No way, José.”

He laughed outright, warmed by Raine’s friendship. Their relationship, long over in terms of romance, had been an interesting chapter in his life, an illustration of the old adage that opposites attract. Slater believed in roots, family, tradition, while Raine took a more whimsical approach, but they usually managed to agree on the basics.

Usually.

Slater felt a twinge, remembering. They’d already gone their separate ways, quite peaceably, and been apart for six months or so when Raine had come to see him after a lengthy visit with some New Mexico cousins. She’d been eight months pregnant when she turned up on his doorstep and, while the prospect of becoming a father had brought him up short, once the initial shock was past, he’d been delighted.

Raine was fiercely independent and when she’d discovered she was pregnant she’d never questioned, not for one second, that she wanted the baby. They hadn’t discussed parenthood during their time as a couple, except in the most hypothetical way. Yes, they both liked the idea of having a baby—later. Some vague, undefined later. Maybe that was why she hadn’t informed Slater when she found out, but he’d never once doubted that the child she carried was his.

He’d asked Raine to marry him.

She’d smiled and punched him in the shoulder and said, “Don’t be silly. It wouldn’t work, and we both know it.”

So there’d been no wedding.

And while Slater and Raine had never lived under the same roof, they’d become a sort of family, the three of them. Slater supported Daisy, spent as much time as he could with her, loved her as deeply as any father had ever loved a child. And Raine was equally committed to motherhood.

It was an innovative setup, no denying that, but Slater wouldn’t have changed anything, even if a do-over had been possible.

He’d fought it for a while, had wanted to take the traditional approach. In the end, he knew Raine had been right all along. Daisy was a happy, well-adjusted child. She got excellent grades in school, had numerous friends, was healthy in every way. She had a solid home—two of them, actually—and parents who loved her.

So far, so good.

“Slater?” Raine’s voice was like a friendly poke in the ribs. “Are you still there?”

“I’m still here,” he replied quietly.

“So what’s on the menu? For dinner, I mean? Not that I care, because everything Harry makes is delicious.”

Slater snapped out of his momentary distraction for the second time in two minutes. He grinned. “I have no idea what Harry’s planning to whip up, but she’s cooking it, not me. So are you going to be here or what?”

“We’ll be there,” Raine said. “Usual time?”

“Yeah. You know Harry and her schedules. This place runs like clockwork.”

“We’ll be prompt. The last time I was late, she claimed the dishwasher was broken and made me do up the whole works while she supervised. Remember?”

He did. “Served you right,” he said.

“Never any sympathy,” Raine accused him. “In fact, you laughed.”

Slater had to laugh again, recalling the incident. “I’ve warned you over and over, sugarplum. Punctuality’s important to Harry. Nobody holds up the program and gets away with it.”

“Well,” Raine said, “her one-of-a-kind garlic mashed potatoes are important to me, so let’s hope she’s serving up a batch of those. Daisy and I will be there at six sharp.”

When Slater ended the call, he texted his mother, which seemed ridiculous since they were in the same house, but such were the oddities of modern life.

Ready to go to the vineyard?

The response was almost instantaneous.

I can’t wait to show you the changes we’ve made. Meet you out front.

Slater stood, his thumbs working on the phone’s keyboard.

By the way, Raine and Daisy will be here for dinner tonight.

We’ll keep it short then. I’ll run into town for ice cream as soon as we’re done.

Walking, Slater keyed in a couple of smiley-face icons, followed by:

I was hoping for those lemon bars Harry bakes.

Already on the menu. But Daisy loves chocolate ice cream, and thanks to your brothers, we’re always out of the stuff.

Here’s a concept. Why don’t we discuss this in person?

Blythe immediately replied with an icon of her own, a smiley face sticking out its tongue.

Slater groaned and dropped his smart—or smart-ass—phone into his shirt pocket.

This was going to be a good day, and an even better evening, spent with the women he loved—young, old and in-between.

Raine was still on his mind as he headed for the front of the house. The last time he’d seen her, her shining dark hair bounced around her shoulders, but considering how impulsive she was, she might’ve had it cut short or dyed it green in the interim. She had mischievous hazel eyes and an infectious laugh; it had been that laugh that had caught his attention in the first place, when they’d met at a party a little over a decade ago, the beginning of a six-month affair. A talented graphic artist, Raine also designed websites and had recently done a stunning one for the winery.

His thoughts shifted, once again, to Daisy. From the very beginning, she’d been a member of the Carson clan; they’d instantly embraced her. In fact, they completely spoiled her. There’d been the pony from Uncle Drake, the custom dollhouse from Uncle Mace, the fit-for-a-princess bedroom their mother had designed for the little girl’s frequent visits to the ranch. Slater had finally had to ask them, politely of course, to stop one-upping him all the time.

Yeah, that had worked. The Christmas he’d given Daisy a bicycle, she’d received two more—one from each of her uncles.

But these were small glitches to Slater. Early on, he’d been afraid Raine might decide to leave town, move somewhere far from Mustang Creek to pursue big-city work opportunities, taking Daisy with her. But that fear had been put to rest when he and Raine had signed a joint custody agreement.

He’d bought her a house in town, and she’d established herself as a valued member of the community.

Raine had also been the one to suggest that Daisy take the Carson name.

Slater stepped onto the side porch, really more of a veranda, and saw that his mother was waiting, chatting with one of the hands, who held the reins to two saddled horses. The older man’s eyes lit up in his weathered face, and when Slater got close enough, he received a hearty slap on the back as welcome. If he hadn’t been expecting it, he might have staggered under the blow.

“Slate, good to see you, son.” Red—named after the river—was a true tough-as-nails cowboy, the old-fashioned variety. He was like a human barometer, and Slater didn’t check the forecasts when he was home; he just asked Red, who would squint at the sky and give him an accurate prediction every time. Slater could swear the man had worn the same hat for the past thirty years, but maybe he just liked the style and actually bought a new one now and then.

“Good to be home,” he said, meaning it. “When I come back, I always wonder why I left to begin with.”

“I wonder the same dang thing.” Red patted the neck of one of the horses, a restive bay. “This here is Heckfire,” he told Slater. “I know you miss old Walter, but Drake and I thought you might like this young fella.”

The horse was a sleek beauty with a glossy coat, and he tossed his head against the rein. Slater sensed that it wasn’t so much rebellion as the fact that he wanted to get moving. All this yammering is boring. Let’s run.

There was no question that Slater missed his gelding, a horse that had been a gift from his father. But his four-legged friend had been nearly thirty years old, and when Slater had said goodbye on his last visit, he’d known it was for the final time.

He ran his hand down the length of the horse’s muscled neck and was rewarded with a nicker and an investigative sniff as Red handed over the reins. “He’s a showstopper. But... Heckfire?”

“We call him Heck. The name comes from Drake. Even as a colt, this critter was causing trouble, and we hadn’t named him yet and your brother said, ‘Heck, he’s full of fire.’” Red paused, cleared his throat then glanced at Blythe and blushed. “Well, he didn’t exactly say ‘heck,’” he clarified. “Anyhow, we, uh, adapted the name, and it stuck.”

Blythe rolled her eyes but said nothing. Red was an institution on the ranch; he’d worked for the family longer than Slater had been alive. A widower, the old man had never gotten over his long-dead wife. He still placed flowers on her grave every Sunday afternoon.

Slater merely waited, nodding once, because it was obvious Red had more to say. “You’ll have to teach this stubborn cayuse a few manners,” the old cowboy said, rubbing his grizzled chin and assessing the gelding solemnly.

“You know I like a challenge,” Slater said. “Once he and I come to an understanding, things will be fine.” With a sidelong glance at his mother, he threw in another observation. “Just like women.”

Sure enough, Blythe elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

Since he’d been prepared for her reaction, Slater barely flinched.

Red chuckled. “Now, there I’ll have to disagree with you, son. No man ever understood a woman. They’re a whole other species.”

Blythe cleared her throat and folded her arms. “Excuse me? I—a woman, as it happens—am standing here listening, or have you two bone-headed males forgotten that?”

“Mrs. Carson, ma’am.” Red touched the brim of his hat, still grinning irreverently, and politely held her horse while she mounted. Slater swung into his old familiar saddle, felt another pang at the loss of Walter, but was pleasantly surprised by the fluid smoothness of the bay’s gait as they cantered down the drive. The old cowhand was right; the horse ignored subtle commands like an irritable teenager, but basically behaved himself. Slater had been around horses since early childhood, and he knew a fine animal when he rode one. He applauded Drake on this particular choice.

They slowed once they reached the first row of vines, which to his admittedly inexpert eye seemed to be doing well. “Mace put in an irrigation system that cost a staggering amount of money,” his mother told him as they walked alongside their horses. “But you know, when it comes to anything with leaves and branches, I trust him. He’s made several trips to the Willamette Valley, visited your uncle in California for hands-on harvest demonstrations several years in a row, and he’s really getting a feel for it. He’s grafted some varieties with surprising success, and if he can produce just the right grape, we might be in a position to stop ordering most of our fruit, like we do now, and produce enough ourselves. Certainly the apple wine he made last year was a big seller on a commercial level, but he’s tried a bit of everything, including cranberry and peach. Plus different varieties of red, from merlot to zinfandel, and whites from chardonnay to Riesling. You name it. He loves experimenting.”

“I’m sure he’s having fun. He’s like a mad scientist,” Slater said. “I still remember when he was in college and he started making his own beer. His apartment looked—and smelled—as if he’d hijacked a still from the hills of Kentucky or something. I went there to visit him once, and he persuaded me, against my better judgment, to take a swig. The stuff tasted okay, but I don’t remember one damn thing about the rest of the night. As I recall, I slept upright in a chair, still fully clothed, and come morning, I had a crick in my neck you wouldn’t believe. I declined to repeat the experience. He thought it was funny.”

Blythe sent him a mischievous grin. “I’ve heard that story a time or two. I hate to be the one to break the news, but he still repeats it.”

“If he values his health, he’d better not do it in front of me.” Slater meant it. Adding insult to injury, he’d awakened with a vicious headache that memorable morning. Worse, he’d felt like seven kinds of fool.

“Ah, there’s nothing like having three boys.” Blythe’s tone was wry.

“Except having a little girl who’s getting to be not so little. Daisy’s ninth birthday is coming up. Any ideas?”

“Yep, but it’s every man for himself, Slater. Both of her uncles have asked me the same question. I didn’t help them, either.”

“I’m her father. That’s different.”

His mother gave him a pointed glance he recognized. Drake and Mace were equally familiar with the expression, no doubt. “Don’t you think it’s time you got married and had a few more children?” she asked. “For Daisy’s sake, of course.”


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_a2c556bf-6594-5d85-9c89-ddf70f162fe7)

NO PRESSURE.

At all.

Grace sipped her morning coffee, checked the time on the computer in her home office and felt as if she hadn’t seen the light of day except through a window all week. She needed to go for a long walk to clear her head.

Ryder was in trouble at school. It wasn’t a big deal, just some roughhousing during gym, but he’d been sidelined and suspended from PE class for a full week. The worst part was that he hadn’t told her about it. The coach had called.

This situation was troubling, to say the least, and she felt totally inadequate. Walking the fine line between being likable and being any kind of disciplinarian was proving to be a real challenge, but here she was, doggedly doing her best.

Maybe—maybe—Ryder was doing his best, too. It was one thing to be a single parent; it was another to be the single parent of a child who wasn’t your own. She loved Ryder. That wasn’t in question and never would be. But the boy clearly had issues, and little wonder, since he’d been neglected by both his parents for most of his young life. How had that problem, one she hadn’t created, wound up being hers to solve?

More frustrating still, Grace realized Ryder’s mother was never going to do anything to help, and Hank was off who knew where—no one was allowed to know—and it had become her dilemma. The worst part was that Ryder was a bright kid, so he was perfectly well aware that none of this was supposed to be up to her, a stepmother with no legal authority over him whatsoever. Naturally, he was resentful as hell. The poor kid needed somebody to be mad at, some way to vent all that adolescent emotion.

The whole mess just about broke Grace’s heart.

There was a scratching sound at the back door of the condo, and Grace left her office, crossed the small kitchen and looked out through the screen. The cat, perched primly on the welcome mat, peered in at her and meowed. Bonaparte, so recently rescued, was filling out nicely, now that he was getting regular meals and plenty of love.

He was completely black except for a white patch on his chest, had startling emerald eyes and had yet to allow Grace to pet him, although she’d seen Ryder sit down and coax the cat onto his lap numerous times. The roughness of Bonaparte’s fur was already smoothing out and he was friendlier, but she did wonder how they’d ever get him into a pet carrier so they could take him to the veterinary clinic for a checkup, neutering and shots.

Disregarding her own rules, she opened the screen door, fully expecting the little creature to run away. But when she stood back to allow him space, he timidly came inside, taking one careful step at a time as if he were asking do I really live here?

The sight gave Grace another twinge of pain, because it reminded her so much of Ryder. Wary, uncertain of his place in the world, grateful, even eager, for acceptance, but hesitant, too. Never quite knowing where he belonged, or with whom.

“I’ll leave you alone until you’re ready,” she told the cat in a gentle voice. “Ryder will be home soon.”

Then I have to yell at him, Grace thought miserably. Which I don’t want to do, but I have to file it in the folder labeled For Your Own Good.

Bonaparte investigated the baseboard and then sat down. His unwinking green eyes watched her every move.

The cat and Ryder really were kindred spirits.

No question the cat was malnourished and scrawnier than he should’ve been, but he was making progress. “If you were me,” Grace asked Bonaparte, in need of a sounding board, even if it had four feet and fur, “what would you do? Would you ground Ryder? Or will that only make everything worse?” She fingered a strand of her hair. “See this? Well, it’s true what they say about redheads. I’m notoriously outspoken. I get mad, and I get over it, but I do get mad.”

Her cell phone pinged, indicating a message. She glared at it, let out a measured breath and tried to decide if she wanted to look. A group of executives for a high-end Fortune 500 company was scheduled to stay the weekend, and some of the requests had been on the ridiculous side, but she knew it was part of the job. She’d apologized for not being able to supply a brand of scotch not available within a hundred miles of Bliss County. She’d hired a full-time bartender for the evening and was paying the kitchen staff overtime. She’d checked all the rooms herself and arranged the resort’s signature Welcome Baskets for each one. She couldn’t imagine what might go wrong, but considering how her day was going, anything was possible.

Ryder was late coming home from school. She hoped he didn’t have detention or something like that. It occurred to her that the text could be from him, so she snatched up her cell and saw with relief that it was.

I was talking to some guys and I missed the bus. Be there soon.

The number was unfamiliar. The school had cracked down on students bringing cell phones. If a kid was caught with one, it was confiscated and a parent could come and pick it up from the office. If a kid was caught twice, it wasn’t returned. Grace understood the policy; it would be difficult to teach anyone anything if all your students were playing on their phones during class. But at times like this, it would be nice not to be frantic with worry.

Be there soon? Some parent must be giving him a ride, because the resort and condo complex was a fair way outside Mustang Creek. As it was, the bus dropped him off at the end of the drive and Ryder had to walk a good three quarters of a mile to get home. Most of the condos were rentals for hikers in the summer and skiers in the winter, so he was the only kid his age who lived there full-time.

Grace yanked open the door when she heard the car pull up, so she could profusely thank the parent, whoever it was, before she got Ryder inside and ripped into him for fighting at school.

Not a car but a truck. Moreover, it had a familiar sign on the side. As Ryder opened the passenger door and hopped out, the driver emerged, too, the sun shining on his dark hair. Vivid blue eyes, those striking features—straight nose and sensual mouth... Slater Carson. He was dressed differently than when she’d seen him last, more businesslike in a tailored shirt and dress slacks, but he still wore cowboy boots, and his slow smile matched his stride as he came around the truck. “I found something I thought you might want back. Picked it up along the side of the road.”

She gave Ryder the look. “Thank you, Mr. Carson. I’ll admit,” she added for Ryder’s benefit, “to being worried half out of my mind. Ryder, go feed your cat, and if you have homework, don’t even think about video games or watching TV. And clean your room, too.”

Ryder obviously had some sense of self-preservation there, because he didn’t argue, just bolted through the door.

Slater Carson chuckled. “Guilt. Good strategy. My mother always used that one on me. Actually, she still does. Hey, the kid missed the bus. It happens.”

“The kid,” Grace informed him in a tight voice, “got into a fight at school and was suspended from his gym class but didn’t mention it to me, and now he’s so busy goofing off with some of the guys that he misses the bus. To tell you the truth, I’m a little annoyed with him right now.”

“I can see that.” Slater’s eyes were amused but sympathetic. “So did he, judging by the way he hightailed it inside. He’s probably already hauling out the vacuum cleaner. Oh, and my name is Slater. Mr. Carson is reserved for my bank manager.”

“And you can call me Grace,” she said with a little more composure. “I really do appreciate you bringing Ryder home, Mr. Car—I mean Slater.”

“No problem.”

She should do something. Why was she tongue-tied? That never happened to her. “Can I offer you a glass of iced tea?”

Okay, kind of lame as Ryder would put it, but better than nothing.

“I’m actually headed to the resort for drinks with a friend who’s there for a small conference this weekend. That’s why I spotted Ryder hoofing it along the road.”

His friend must be one of the executives—or an important investor. She guessed she’d find out soon enough.

She gave him a straightforward look. “I take it that we owe you for a good chunk of our corporate business. I noticed a number of the guests are from California. I assume that has to do with your connections in film and finance.”

He didn’t confirm or deny. “This area is off the beaten path. It’s hard to relax in the middle of traffic and everything else that comes with a big city. Care to join my friend and me?”

Grace was more than a little unprepared for the invitation. True, she had to go back to the resort now that she’d located her errant stepson, although there was a conversation they still needed to have, but she hadn’t expected to have a drink with Slater Carson—at least not tonight.

On the one hand, it was good public relations.

On the other hand...it might be dangerous for private relations.

* * *

HE WAS TAKING a gamble.

When Slater had recognized Ryder Emery trudging along the side of the road, head down, he’d pulled over and offered him a ride. The young man—almost man—had seemed very relieved. Slater understood that Ryder’s situation was a difficult one; Ryder lived with his stepmother, he was going to a new school, leading a new life. But he also needed to grasp a few realities, most of which involved the fact that he was both unlucky and very lucky. Slater didn’t know anything about the kid’s parents except that his dad was military and they weren’t here, but Grace was, and that, as far as he could tell, was extremely lucky.

Slater, Drake and Mace had lost their father way too early. Not lucky. But they’d been left with their mother and Harry, Red, and a few other people who’d eased their pain, so that was very lucky. He was waiting for Daisy to ask him why he and Raine had never gotten married. He was going to tell her the truth. That they liked each other but weren’t a good match, and not making the mistake in the first place was better than a divorce. Remaining friends seemed a great solution and they both loved her.

Oversimplified, perhaps, but true.

Slater had seen the relief in Grace’s eyes when she realized the boy was safe, so affection wasn’t the problem. She’d been worried, that was all. Like any parent would.

“Listen, Grace, whether he could have prevented it or not, I don’t think Ryder meant to miss the bus deliberately.”

She hadn’t responded to his invitation yet. He watched her and couldn’t deny that she looked just as beautiful as when he’d first seen her, and just as hopping mad. This afternoon she wore some kind of lacy sleeveless top and a navy skirt, and both complemented her vivid coloring. “Are you always going to take his side?” she snapped.

Always? The word had obviously startled her as much as it had him. She stopped and visibly steadied herself. “Sorry. I meant, this is the second time he’s really messed up in the last few days. You’re being very understanding, when I’m mad as hell because he can be so thoughtless. Part of me wants to ground the kid until he’s eighteen, and another part wants to ask him how he feels, but I know he won’t answer that. Anyway, yes to the drink. Thank you. If I stay here, I’ll probably end up chewing Ryder out—again.” She paused. “Let me get my purse. Okay if I drive with you? I can walk back later.”

She turned in a swirl of long red-gold hair and outrage and stalked into the house. Nice long legs and firm backside. He liked the view. Slater also agreed that the irate redhead and the truculent teenager should probably be apart for a little while before they had their next conversation. Ryder had seemed tense in the car, and Slater had left him alone. First of all, it certainly wasn’t his business, and second, he remembered how he’d dealt with life at that age. A knee-jerk reaction to criticism had been his default setting back then. In the end, after thinking it over, he’d usually decided that maybe his parents weren’t complete idiots after all.

Now, as a parent himself, he was well aware that his opinions might be scorned first and reluctantly respected later.

Grace reappeared with a black leather bag over her shoulder and a more relaxed demeanor. “He apologized,” she said as Slater opened the passenger door. “That’s something. All I told him was that I was going back to work. He apologized on his own.”

“You just won the lottery of boyhood maturity markers.” He closed the door and went around the truck, sliding into the driver’s seat. “There’s an unwritten rule in the land of teenage boys that you don’t ever apologize for anything until you’re willing to admit you were wrong. I think I was about thirty when I crossed that line.”

What was it with him and how a woman laughed? The sound of her laugh was...well, it might be a cliché, but musical was the word that came to mind. Her response made him grin, and his groin tightened. Or maybe it was the way she crossed those sexy legs. Or the way her breasts were nicely outlined by her blouse when she leaned forward.

It had been a long time since he’d felt as interested in a woman as he was in this one.

Maybe long enough to qualify as never.

That thought set him back.

It was only lust, he reminded himself as he backed out of the driveway. He barely knew her so the attraction was mainly physical. But fate did seem to be tossing him in her path. Or perhaps it was the reverse. She was no less aware of him...

He wondered about her life as a police officer and could only imagine some of the remarks she’d heard, since law enforcement didn’t usually deal with the finest society had to offer. He asked conversationally, “So, how long were you a cop?”

“Eight years.” To his disappointment Grace tugged her skirt down a little. She raised her shoulders in a shrug as she said, “It was an interesting journey. I thought at one time, with the usual starry-eyed optimism, that a degree in criminal justice and a belief in right and wrong enabled a person to make a difference.”

“I’m guessing the optimist turned into a cynic?”

She considered that for a moment. “Actually, no. She’s still around—the optimist, that is—but older and wiser. She learned about the world we live in, and about people in general, and not all of that was good. But the stars are still there, winking in the night sky.”

Slater laughed. “I see them, too, once in a while. I think you’ll like Mick Branson, by the way. The friend we’re meeting, that is. He’s a major investor, as well as a good buddy of mine. Be warned that he could be the most self-possessed, understated person I’ve ever met. The sense of humor lurking there is so dry, it’s easy to miss, and I’ve been tempted to ask him if he’s ever lost his temper. I’m going to assume he has, but nobody could tell that by looking at him. Or talking to him...”

Grace’s lips curved, and he couldn’t tell if it was a grimace or a smile. “He sounds interesting. I think my assistant’s talked to Mr. Branson on the phone. She seemed unclear about whether he was pleased by the arrangements or not. I’ll be glad to meet him in person and get a clearer sense of the situation.”

“Good luck with that. Mick’s more of a read-between-the-lines sort of person.” The resort was only maybe half a mile from the condo complex, and Slater pulled into a parking spot. “But he’ll like you, I know that. Confident women are definitely his thing. Confident, beautiful women, it goes without saying, are even more his thing.”

Mick had better not like her too much, Slater thought—then felt like a fool.

“That’s a well-done compliment,” Grace remarked.

“Just telling the truth.”

“Yet you invited me to meet him, anyway,” Grace said serenely as she unbuckled her seat belt. “Have I mentioned that confident men are my thing?”

“Not yet.” He got out and went around to open her door. “Must be convenient to have the office so close by.”

“Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t.” She accepted the change in subject as she stepped out. “I’m not like you, traveling all over. In fact, I never really leave the office.”

“Advantages to both.” For the first time he touched her, placing one hand lightly on the small of her back as they walked to the resort’s main entrance. “This is your territory. I’ve been here before but never to the Diamond Trail Bar. You lead and I’ll follow.”

“That’s the way I like it.”

Her arch glance gave him pause. Flirtation? He couldn’t come up with a swift response to the possible sexual innuendo, although he rarely found himself at a loss for words. Especially in that kind of situation. Slater accompanied her into the foyer, inwardly shaking his head, and wondered if he was making a wise move or just being an idiot.

He expected a vote would grant him the idiot award. Grace Emery was on the prickly side; obviously her life was complicated if she was raising her stepson, and his was complicated, too, between Daisy and his job.

But...nothing good in this world, his mother had often pointed out, came easy.

The Diamond Trail was on the side of the building facing the mountains, with big windows and raised walnut tables, a huge river-stone fireplace and an elegant bar, which stood near a small infinity fountain that matched the obsidian stone of the counter. When Grace walked in, the bartender waved, so she went over, murmured a greeting then rejoined Slater. “I don’t drink when I’m at work. Will you be offended if I have water?”

“Nope, but as someone with a vested interest in a winery, please tell me you enjoy a glass now and then.”

“I love wine,” she said. “And I love the wines from Mountain Vineyards. Especially the pinot noir and the chardonnay. Your brother is very talented.”

“I’d like to think it runs in the family,” Slater said smoothly. “Talent, I mean. I’m not talkin’ wine in my case. There’s our table. Mick beat us here. As I said, I think you’ll like him.”

She looked up at Slater, laughing again.

Mick stood when he spotted them, his dark eyes holding that glimmer of understated amusement. He was from New Mexico, and there was a Latin grace about him. Most likely a legacy of the old Dons, the aristocratic families who’d come over from Spain and settled in the Southwest four centuries ago. He somehow looked aristocratic and maybe it was a mistake to introduce him to Ms. Emery, but Slater had the feeling she liked him well enough that he was safe.





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