Once a Rancher (5 page)

“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

N
O
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.

* * *

H
E
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?”