Once a Rancher (2 page)

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

* * *

H
AVING
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

B
EYOND
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.