Once a Rancher (3 page)

“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.”

* * *

G
RACE
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.