Once a Rancher (14 page)

“Like nagging without words.”

Grace bristled. “As if guys don't nag—you just do it in a different way.”

She had a point. He said to Ryder, “I figure the Seahawks and maybe Green Bay. Wisconsin is looking good so far.”

The kid was quick. “I don't know. Denver could do it.”

Grace surprised them both. “Oh, please! What about the Colts?” Then, defensively, when they were both quiet, she added, “Come on. I worked with men for years.”

It broke the tension.

But that tension returned tenfold when they pulled into the driveway. On the front doorstep sat a vase of dead flowers. Slater didn't get it until Grace said calmly, “Those came from the desk in my office. I wondered when they went missing a few days ago. Thought it could be housekeeping. I'm glad he didn't break the vase. It belonged to my aunt. Ryder, let's go check on Bonaparte.”

The kid about knocked the door off the truck trying to get out, but Slater had already spotted a pair of unwinking green eyes in the bushes. “Whoa, he's okay. He's right there beneath the window under the hedge.”

Grace looked immeasurably relieved and briefly rested her head against the back of the seat, watching as Ryder dashed up and knelt by the concealing bush, the cat coming out cautiously to greet him. Her voice quavered. “I value the vase, but if it came to cat or vase, the vase would lose. Ryder adores him.”

“This guy is trying to spook you,” Slater said between clenched teeth. “My buddy Spence and I can go have a little chat with him. What's his address?”

“I can't give it to you, Slater. I was his boss. That's disclosing personal information without a court order. There's no solid evidence he's committed a crime.”

She was right, but of course she'd know what she was talking about. When it came to the legal aspects of the situation, he had to bow to her expertise. But when it came to wanting to protect her, he didn't bow to anything except his own instincts. He wasn't unworldly, and quite frankly, studying the Old West provided him with a good source of information about how the world worked. Back when there was no law west of the Pecos, this wasn't a safe place to be. Women were vulnerable, and there were men who protected them, and men who tried to take advantage.

Fact of life. One that hadn't changed as much as it should have...

Second fact. Grace didn't need him rushing in on a white charger—Heck didn't qualify, anyway—but he was really bothered by the pettiness of this guy's actions. She wasn't quite as unconcerned as she seemed. “But you do feel threatened.”

“Uneasy.”

“Let me cut to the chase here, to use an old film expression. I'm not letting you stay here alone. There's safety in numbers.”

When she'd come to breakfast she'd resembled a college co-ed in her tan skirt and a yellow sweater that emphasized what he knew firsthand to be the world's shapeliest breasts. Mace had sure as hell noticed, and Slater had to suppress the urge to punch his brother in the nose over that appreciative stare. He didn't know when he'd developed this possessive streak a mile wide, but at the moment it was jostling for position with a protective streak about the same size. Grace was looking at him as if he'd lost his mind. “Did you just hear yourself? I don't think you have the power or the right to
let
me or
not let
me do anything.”

Maybe this was a good time to get out of the truck. He opened his door. “That came off as undiplomatic. What I meant was now I'll be worried 24/7, and I think you should be sensitive to my tender feelings. Stress is proven to be detrimental to a person's health.”

“Very funny, Carson.” He started to walk around to open her door, but she beat him to it, probably to prove a point. Her expression softened as she slid out of the truck and straightened her skirt. “But the sentiment is appreciated. Look how worried I was about Ryder. That's not going to go away until this is over. The vase is theft, but I suppose he could claim he returned it
if
I could ever prove he took it in the first place.”

“Don't you have security cameras?”

“Yes, and he knows where every single one is. There's a reason he's not in jail. He's a thief, but a pretty smart one.”

“Can you get a restraining order?” He watched Ryder and the cat with somber eyes. He didn't care what Grace had to say about it, if someone hurt that cat to hurt her and consequently Ryder, he wouldn't sit still for one second. Obviously, it had occurred to her that the possibility was there. Besides, cruelty to animals in any guise, for any screwed-up reason, was intolerable.

“The problem with restraining orders is that until they're violated, they mean nothing more than telling the person to stay away from you. I'd still have to catch him, anyway. Yes, the scratch on my car and the flat tires are destruction of personal property, but as I've said more than once, I can't prove anything, and he hasn't overtly threatened me in any way.” She was right—about that and about the fact that he couldn't tell her what to do. He picked up the vase. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'll be glad when your ex-husband gets here. Let's go toss these flowers in the trash and I'll look around, just in case.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

H
E
INSISTED
ON
sleeping on her couch.

Men
.

Slater had gone back to the ranch and then appeared out of the blue just before dinner, carrying burgers from Bad Billy's, along with thigh-fattening onion rings, coleslaw and some brownies that practically made her faint with pleasure. He refused to take no for an answer about spending the night—knew without a word being said that her bedroom was out of the question because Ryder's room was directly across the hall. After a lingering kiss good-night, he settled on the sofa.

When Grace got up in the morning to tiptoe to the coffeemaker, Slater was in what seemed like a cramped position, his body too long for the sofa, one arm behind his head. And he was wrong, he did snore. It wasn't loud or obnoxious, just a gentle but audible respiration.

She found it cute. Go figure.

Oddly, she found it comforting as she brewed a cup of coffee with a hint of caramel flavoring and stirred in some milk. That was when her uninvited guest flopped over, made an inarticulate sound, then opened his eyes. “Is that coffee I smell?”

“Plain?” She suspected he was a just-black-coffee sort of man.

“Yes. Put something in it and I'll get downright cranky.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sat up.

“We can't have that,” Grace said drily, deliberately selecting the pink mug Ryder had given her for Mother's Day. It had little red hearts all over it and when she brewed Slater a cup—she loved her fancy coffeemaker—and went to hand it to him, she got her morning laugh from the look on his face. She said sweetly, “Black, just the way you like it.”

He eyed the cup dubiously. “I'm not sure a real man can drink out of this. I may have to go ride a bull later today or lasso a mountain lion or something like that to renew my masculinity card.”

He didn't have to worry about that. The delicate cup emphasized the sinewy strength of his hand, and although she'd been trying to tease him, the joke had backfired. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to yank that cup out of his hand, lead him into her bedroom and have a repeat performance of the other night at the vineyard. She murmured, “If you need someone to vouch for you about the male thing, I certainly can. That aside, since I assume all was quiet, you aren't planning to sleep on an uncomfortable couch every night until Hank gets here, are you? He's in Washington and he didn't give me a time frame, which isn't unusual for him. He could walk through that door two minutes from now, or he could arrive in a few weeks. Or not at all, which is always a possibility. If there's a new crisis of some kind and he's needed, he goes, whether he's on leave or not.”

“For Ryder's sake, I hope
that
doesn't happen. Do you mind, since I'm already here, if I take a look at the basement at the resort today? I'm getting positive feedback on the project. Once a proposal flies, things happen fast, so I might as well start and see what we have to work with from that angle.”

He'd just dodged her question.

She had to privately acknowledge that she liked him there, in her comfortable living room, sipping coffee from that very feminine pink mug. “Go ahead. I didn't investigate too far but—”

“Due to the scary spider,” he interjected, his mouth twitching. He seemed to be holding back a smile.

She ignored the interruption. “There are a lot of boxes down there, and they aren't properly labeled, unless you consider
miscellaneous
to be a helpful category. I opened a few of them here and there—”

“Until the scary spider scurried by.” He couldn't seem to resist. He grinned openly this time, looking rumpled and delicious in a white T-shirt and his faded jeans, bare feet on the floor.

“Hey, I know some self-defense moves that can drop a grown man in about two seconds, Carson. Just a word of warning.” Grace glanced at the clock and set down her cup. “Stop by my office and you can get the keys. Right now I have to go to work. I'd normally leave Ryder a note, but please remind him not to miss the bus, since I don't have a car to drive him to school if he does.”

“You aren't walking alone, Grace. Let me take you to work, and then I'll drive Ryder to school.” He shuddered in mock fear. “Don't make me face the wrath of Blythe Carson for not taking care of you.”

She wanted to protest that she didn't
need
anyone to take care of her. Hank certainly hadn't—when they'd gotten married she'd taken care of
his
life, not the other way around. Considering her words, she responded carefully. “I'm having a hard time figuring out how to react to your approach. You're high-handed, no doubt about that, cowboy. Let's put it this way—if I need your help, I promise to ask for it. Do we have a deal? In the meantime, I'm walking to work. I'm not scared of David Reinhart. But I'd appreciate it if you'd drive Ryder to school and make sure Bonaparte's inside before you head over to the resort.”

He nodded. “A compromise. Okay, done. Can we have lunch? Since I'll be there and all.”

“I'm only going to have a salad after that huge dinner last night,” she replied, reaching for her purse with a smile. “But there's a balcony off my office, so if I'm free, we can sit out there. At least it's private. Say hi to the spiders for me.”

She walked to the resort in a good mood, but that was tossed out the window as soon as she saw Meg with an anxious look on her face, waiting in her office.

“What?” she asked, feeling her shoulders sag, instantly regretting that she hadn't given her assistant a friendlier greeting. “I meant hello, hi, how are you? But I'm guessing you have something to tell me that I don't want to hear, so forgive me for not being more cordial. What's going on?”

“Someone hacked into our system and compromised your email. I changed the password a few minutes ago.”

Grace wanted to scream, but that would be counterproductive, so she smiled grimly instead. “What did he do?” She was one hundred percent convinced that the damage had been done by one person with a vendetta. One person named David Reinhart.

Meg handed her a sheaf of printouts, her expression very somber although she was usually so upbeat. “Sent out a load of emails canceling reservations, saying the resort was in financial trouble and being closed.”

Grace swore, and just managed not to slam the door as anger surged through her. “I'm getting ticked off,” she muttered. “Fat lot of good Slater did sleeping on my couch last night, even though his heart was in the right place.”

“Slater Carson slept on your couch last night?” Meg looked girlishly intrigued despite her unhappiness. “Are you
kidding
?”

Oops, shouldn't have said that. Oh, well.

Grace went around to her desk, knowing that she needed to involve the owner. This was getting more serious. “He was worried about me. It was nice of him. He and Ryder have hit it off in a father/son sort of way. Oh, he'll be here later to look at some of the old hotel memorabilia in the basement. If anyone asks, he has my permission. Now, let me see if I can unravel this mess.”

Most of her morning later, she'd waded through the worst of it, spent time on the phone with their technical support team and talked briefly with George Landers about the problem. He blithely thanked her for letting him know and said he was sure she could take care of the situation. Unfortunately, the IT people couldn't work out who'd hacked into the resort computer system. This guy was good, they told her—which, of course, she already knew—but they planned to keep on trying.

Meanwhile, Slater had arrived and waved at her from the office door. Meg, looking dreamy-eyed, had handed over the basement keys.

Grace was in the middle of contacting the guests whose reservations had been canceled when someone said, “I hope shrimp salad is okay. The chef said it's what you usually order.”

At the sound of that smooth drawl, Grace looked up, still preoccupied, still inwardly fuming, to see Slater stroll into her office, holding two of the fancy bags from the spa restaurant. A glance at the computer screen told her it was well past noon.

She definitely needed a break. She clicked off the screen. “That's great. Thanks.”

“You're still not going to talk to Spence Hogan about this?”

Meg evidently had a big mouth, or maybe it was just that she was obviously starstruck by the handsome Mr. Carson, aka Showbiz.

Grace didn't blame her. Even with a smudge on his cheek from all those dusty boxes, he was male cover-model material. “I might,” she admitted. “But he's going to tell me what I've told you already. That without proof there's nothing he can do except talk to David, warn him that he's a suspect in a series of minor incidents. Although this morning didn't feel all that minor to me. I had other things to do besides putting out his malicious fires.”

He walked away from her, out toward the little balcony. His stride was deceptively leisurely, but his shoulders were tense. “I wish you'd let me handle it, Grace. I know you won't, so why don't we just have a civil lunch.”

* * *

H
E
WAS
BURNING
UP
, he was so furious, but she didn't want him to intervene. So the overwhelming need to rescue Grace had to be tucked away into a file labeled
Never Going to Happen
.

It was possible that her fresh-faced, sweet young assistant could be persuaded to give up the man's address, but that might get Meg in trouble with her fiery boss. He'd looked David Reinhart up online; all he'd been able to dig up was a postal box. That wasn't surprising for a thief and a coward, and as far as Slater was concerned, provided further proof that Reinhart might just quit playing his games and do something truly harmful. In any case, the man
wanted
to make it difficult to track him down.

The weather had grown cooler and Grace slipped on a dark blue cardigan, the light breeze teasing her hair. The balcony was only big enough to hold a café table and two chairs, a single potted plant in the corner. Small though it was, the mountain view couldn't be any more beautiful. He could tell that she appreciated this private corner, a place to escape, to refresh and recharge, since she worked such long hours. He did, too, whenever a project got rolling, so a life together would be challenging from a logistical standpoint.

Whoa, there! Slow down.

“This looks delicious,” she said as she opened the fancy box and unwrapped her silverware. “I think half the time I forget to eat lunch at all. So, tell me about the basement. Any skeletons in those crates? Bags of gold nuggets? How about a Hemingway manuscript in his own handwriting? He stayed at the hotel once, you know.”

Slater had opted for a Creole concoction with spicy chicken sausage and some sort of exotic rice, which tasted spectacular. He swallowed another bite and shook his head. “Didn't know that, but it'll be a good detail for the film. Makes sense given his Idaho connection. No, nothing like that in those boxes, but there's a wealth of history down there. I'm going to need my team to start sorting through, decide what we're going to use and catalog it. I tend to work out how the film's going to flow before I involve the director and the writers.”

She'd given him access to a windfall of historical facts and artifacts. That was going to make all the difference, bring even more authenticity to his film.

She nodded, taking a sip of iced tea, her eyes reflective. “I suspect that when you're finished, the Bliss County Historical Society is going to faint dead away when we hand over those pictures and they realize you're making this film. My advice is to keep the project to yourself as long as possible. I haven't met her, but I'm told there's quite a formidable force on their board, a woman whose name is Lettie Arbuckle Calder.”

Slater held his napkin to his mouth, choking back a laugh. “Oh,
I've
met her. I've known her since I was a kid. She and my mother are good friends. She's a force of nature, all right. The way a tsunami is.”

Across the table, Grace speared a shrimp. “I always forget how far your family goes back in this area.”

“We've been around for a while.”

She pointed her fork at him, remembered there was a shrimp dangling from the tines, and set it back down. “Your family history is so tied to this county and to Mustang Creek. The hotel has a fascinating history, I agree, but the Carson legacy is equally compelling... Showbiz.”

It was impossible not to laugh. “I knew better than to introduce you to my brothers. First they flirt with you, and then share stupid family nicknames. Documentaries are hardly the blockbusters of the film world. I do them because they showcase an era I value, an era I don't want to be lost.”

“You're a dreamer.”

That set him aback. “No, I'm a realist. I don't romanticize guns and dust and horses pounding off into the sunset. I
am
guilty of supporting people who choose to defend themselves and stand on their own two feet, epic heroes and ordinary people alike. So what the heck are you going to do about Reinhart?”

“Are you calling me ordinary?”

He rested his arms on the little table. “Anything but, so don't make that mistake again. Extraordinary would be my assessment. Just answer my question, okay?”

She studied her plate. “I need to decide how to handle David. If you don't mind, I'll take your friend's number and talk to him personally. In confidence. If Spence Hogan can help me make a decision, that would be good. If it was just me, that would be one thing, but this could affect a lot of other people, too. Ryder, Bonaparte, the hotel staff, not to mention the owner... The list goes on.”

“Bonaparte is a person?” He was immensely relieved that she was willing to be reasonable. He had every faith Spence could fix the problem.