Always a Cowboy (25 page)

“By now, he's on his way home,” Drake said.

“If you're away from home when I have our first baby,” Luce said, “I might have you horsewhipped when you get back.”

Drake laughed. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Good.”

“And if you don't stop doing what you're doing, that baby might come sooner than expected.”

Luce kissed him. “Promises, promises,” she murmured. “Are you just talking, or do you plan to put your money where your mouth is?”

“I definitely plan to put my mouth in a few places,” he answered. “Forget money.”

* * *

I
T
HAD
TAKEN
eight of them that morning, and a carefully orchestrated dance of experienced horsemen, not to mention a whole lot of luck, but they'd accomplished their mission.

They'd tracked down the stallion, finally, and cornered him, along with his band, in a canyon.

Cutting out Drake's mares wasn't easy, but with some fancy riding and even fancier roping, they'd gotten the job done.

The stallion was outraged, naturally, and he'd get the mares back if he got the chance.

It was Drake's job to make damn sure that didn't happen.

Two riders had kept the stallion and his following boxed in until the mares, some with foals, were well away.

Back home, he and the others put them in stalls, fed and watered them.

When Luce appeared, Drake pointed at one of the stalls. “Take a look,” he said.

Luce gave him an uncertain glance but went to peer over the top of the stall door. The look on her face made it all worthwhile. “Oh, Drake! He's beautiful!”

The colt was truly a fine-looking little horse. The spitting image of his sire, right down to the way he left his mother to come and stare up at Luce, nickering quietly.

“You said you wanted a horse of your own,” Drake told her. “You'll have to sweet-talk Red into starting him when that high-spirited colt gets old enough. The old man has a soft spot for you, so that should work out.”

“He's gorgeous.” She whispered the words, marveling.

So was she.

There was nothing ordinary about her, including the fact that she'd decided to study wild horses even though she'd been skittish about riding at first.

She was made for ranch life.

God, how he loved her. She'd spent her honeymoon in a tent and delighted in every minute of it. She'd jumped into a truck and driven country roads with a pregnant woman about to deliver in the backseat.

Oh, yes. She was his kind of woman.

“This horse is going to be magnificent when he grows up.”

“He'll have to be gelded,” Drake reminded her.

“You really surprised me this time,” she said, and her eyes were alight.

He was fairly sure he'd fallen for those eyes first. The minute she'd stormed at him through that meadow. He couldn't forget her tempting body, either...

But it wasn't only physical. Her adventurous spirit had moved him from the beginning and so had her innate kindness. He searched for the right answer and found honesty the only option. “It might have been,” he admitted. “Did it work?”

She smiled and rose on tiptoe to kiss him. “You'll find out tonight.”

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
ONCE A RANCHER
by Linda Lael Miller.

The Queen of Western Romance brings you a brand-new series featuring the captivating
Carsons of Mustang Creek
: strong, arresting men who embody the West and define what it means to be a rancher, a cowboy and a hero. Get ready to fall in love with:

Forever a Hero
Always a Cowboy
Once a Rancher

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“Linda Lael Miller creates vibrant characters and stories I defy you to forget.”
—#1
New York Times
bestselling author Debbie Macomber

The women of Bliss County are ready to meet the men of their dreams! Don't miss any of the titles in the charming
Brides of Bliss County
series:

Christmas in Mustang Creek
The Marriage Season
The Marriage Charm
The Marriage Pact

Get ready to be swept off your feet by
The Montana Creeds
, cowboys to the core, and the women who love them!

A Creed Country Christmas
Montana Creeds: Tyler
Montana Creeds: Dylan
Montana Creeds: Logan
A Creed in Stone Creek
Creed's Honor
The Creed Legacy

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“Linda Lael Miller delivers a powerful novel of love lost and love regained… The author does a great job of letting you into the heart of these characters.”
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Once a Rancher

by Linda Lael Miller

CHAPTER ONE

S
LATER
C
ARSON
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?