Once a Rancher (6 page)

“Eight years.” To his disappointment Grace tugged her skirt down a little. She raised her shoulders in a shrug as she said, “It was an interesting journey. I thought at one time, with the usual starry-eyed optimism, that a degree in criminal justice and a belief in right and wrong enabled a person to make a difference.”

“I'm guessing the optimist turned into a cynic?”

She considered that for a moment. “Actually, no. She's still around—the optimist, that is—but older and wiser. She learned about the world we live in, and about people in general, and not all of that was good. But the stars are still there, winking in the night sky.”

Slater laughed. “I see them, too, once in a while. I think you'll like Mick Branson, by the way. The friend we're meeting, that is. He's a major investor, as well as a good buddy of mine. Be warned that he could be the most self-possessed, understated person I've ever met. The sense of humor lurking there is so dry, it's easy to miss, and I've been tempted to ask him if he's ever lost his temper. I'm going to assume he has, but nobody could tell that by looking at him. Or talking to him...”

Grace's lips curved, and he couldn't tell if it was a grimace or a smile. “He sounds interesting. I think my assistant's talked to Mr. Branson on the phone. She seemed unclear about whether he was pleased by the arrangements or not. I'll be glad to meet him in person and get a clearer sense of the situation.”

“Good luck with that. Mick's more of a read-between-the-lines sort of person.” The resort was only maybe half a mile from the condo complex, and Slater pulled into a parking spot. “But he'll like you, I know that. Confident women are definitely his thing. Confident,
beautiful
women, it goes without saying, are even more his thing.”

Mick had better not like her too much, Slater thought—then felt like a fool.

“That's a well-done compliment,” Grace remarked.

“Just telling the truth.”

“Yet you invited me to meet him, anyway,” Grace said serenely as she unbuckled her seat belt. “Have I mentioned that confident men are
my
thing?”

“Not yet.” He got out and went around to open her door. “Must be convenient to have the office so close by.”

“Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't.” She accepted the change in subject as she stepped out. “I'm not like you, traveling all over. In fact, I never really leave the office.”

“Advantages to both.” For the first time he touched her, placing one hand lightly on the small of her back as they walked to the resort's main entrance. “This is your territory. I've been here before but never to the Diamond Trail Bar. You lead and I'll follow.”

“That's the way I like it.”

Her arch glance gave him pause. Flirtation? He couldn't come up with a swift response to the possible sexual innuendo, although he rarely found himself at a loss for words. Especially in
that
kind of situation. Slater accompanied her into the foyer, inwardly shaking his head, and wondered if he was making a wise move or just being an idiot.

He expected a vote would grant him the idiot award. Grace Emery was on the prickly side; obviously her life was complicated if she was raising her stepson, and his was complicated, too, between Daisy and his job.

But...nothing good in this world, his mother had often pointed out, came easy.

The Diamond Trail was on the side of the building facing the mountains, with big windows and raised walnut tables, a huge river-stone fireplace and an elegant bar, which stood near a small infinity fountain that matched the obsidian stone of the counter. When Grace walked in, the bartender waved, so she went over, murmured a greeting then rejoined Slater. “I don't drink when I'm at work. Will you be offended if I have water?”

“Nope, but as someone with a vested interest in a winery, please tell me you enjoy a glass now and then.”

“I love wine,” she said. “And I love the wines from Mountain Vineyards. Especially the pinot noir and the chardonnay. Your brother is very talented.”

“I'd like to think it runs in the family,” Slater said smoothly. “Talent, I mean. I'm not talkin' wine in my case. There's our table. Mick beat us here. As I said, I think you'll like him.”

She looked up at Slater, laughing again.

Mick stood when he spotted them, his dark eyes holding that glimmer of understated amusement. He was from New Mexico, and there was a Latin grace about him. Most likely a legacy of the old Dons, the aristocratic families who'd come over from Spain and settled in the Southwest four centuries ago. He somehow
looked
aristocratic and maybe it was a mistake to introduce him to Ms. Emery, but Slater had the feeling she liked
him
well enough that he was safe.

If he had to call it, he'd venture a guess that she liked down-home cowboys more than high-powered executives.

Or was that wishful thinking?

There'd been no mention of the dinner invitation he'd received in his email that morning. Slater decided not to let that worry him. Yet.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Branson.” Grace shook Mick's hand and sat down. “I'm the resort manager. I know you've spoken to my assistant, Meg, on the phone. I hope everything's going smoothly.”

“So far, absolutely. Pretty place.” Branson sat down, as well.

“I'm glad you think so.”

Slater took a seat next to Grace. He wasn't implying any kind of personal relationship...well, maybe he was. There was no doubt that most men looked at Grace just as Slater did, with pure male appreciation. “Mustang Creek is off the beaten path, which makes it a great place to relax and do business without distractions.”

Mick looked out the window at the spectacular view of the Tetons, and then deliberately back at Grace. “I don't know. The gorgeous scenery is a little distracting.”

“Nice line,” Slater said drily. “I'm going out on a limb here and saying the lady's heard it before.”

Branson smiled his enigmatic smile. “You're probably right,” he conceded.

Grace laughed and shook her head at the two of them, but a small smile played on her mouth.

Mick turned to Slater. “So tell me, now that the project's wrapped, what direction do you want to take next?”

Slater was seriously contemplating that Wyoming angle, the one his brother had suggested. After a young man came to take their order, a beer for him and a bourbon on the rocks for Branson, then left again, he answered. “What would you think of a saga about the pioneers who settled this area? The locale is gorgeous, as you just pointed out, and there are quite a few people I know personally with family stories to tell. So far, most of the films have focused on historical events and they've had what I'd like to think is a sweeping view of American history. What about a focus on how a small Wyoming town was settled and how it survived, changed, modernized, and what it's like today?”

“You mean Mustang Creek.” Mick appeared thoughtful, rubbing his jaw. “That's an interesting idea. And certainly your family has a lot of history here. I like the personal angle. If you'll come up with a proposal and include a few visuals, I'll look at it and present it to my associates for consideration.” Mick, as it turned out, ran a sizeable investment firm, specializing in film and music.

That was all Slater could ask for. At present, the vision in his head was just a starting point, a scant outline of what the production might become, but this was how projects began. “Sounds good.”

“For someone like me who's relocated here, that would be very intriguing,” Grace chimed in as their drinks arrived. She took a sip of water. “You know, the resort was built about fifteen years ago, but before that there was an old hotel here, as I'm sure Slater remembers. The owner told me that although he'd thought about renovating, it actually made more sense from a business standpoint to tear it down and build a modern facility that would accommodate a spa. However, there are loads of boxes down in the basement with pictures of famous guests, the former hotel itself, antique skis, even the old bar, which would be a beauty if it was refinished. There are also clippings from newspapers as far away as Denver, Helena and, of course, Cheyenne. I just glanced at them, wondered why he hadn't donated them to the historical society, and got out of there as quickly as possible. They built this right on the same spot and even used the original foundation. Dark as a dungeon applies, believe me. It has lights, but the space is so big that you have to turn them on as you go. If any of that interests you, I'll ask my boss if you could check it out. I doubt he'd mind. As a matter of fact, he'd be thrilled about the publicity.” She drew a deep breath then shuddered dramatically. “Count me out of the exploration part, though. Last time I was down there, I came eyeball to eyeball with a spider I swear was as big as my hand. I went straight up and called an exterminator.”

Slater was fascinated by the research material she'd just described. He was also amused by what she'd revealed about this unexpected phobia. “Grace, you used to be a cop. I assume you carried a weapon and apprehended bad guys. A spider? Really?”

“Really,” she replied firmly. “I don't love snakes, mice or stinging insects, so I avoid them. My attitude is you stay away from me and I'll stay away from you. But spiders send a chill up my spine.”

Mick gazed at her, obviously enthralled. “You used to be a cop?”

Slater found the expression on his friend's face slightly irritating. It said,
Hey, you can put me in handcuffs anytime
.

“In another life,” she said. “Like I told Slater, I loved it in the beginning but the job can burn you out pretty quickly. When you work in law enforcement, just about everyone you come in contact with is unhappy, both the victims and the perpetrators. Here, I take care of minor glitches, but a lot of the people I interact with are on vacation and, therefore, in a good mood. I love to see smiling faces and hear that our guests had a wonderful time.”

“I can understand that.”

She rose. “Speaking of which, I need to go see if there is a crisis like a broken ice machine or housekeeping forgot new towels for someone's room. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Branson. Oh, the drinks are on me.” She took a twenty from her purse and set it on the table.

Slater objected immediately. “I invited you. No way.”

“You'd be doing me a favor if you'd pay for the drinks in cash and save the receipt. Please don't get all gallant and pay for it yourself with a credit card. I'm conducting an internal investigation involving cash transactions.” Her voice was pleasant but there was a certain steely undertone. “Good night, gentlemen.”

They both watched her walk away. “I wouldn't mind her investigating me,” Mick murmured with a slight smile. “But not, shall we say, in a law enforcement capacity.”

Slater nodded. “Yeah, I'm not surprised. I wondered about introducing you two.” A pause. “I like her, Mick.”

Mick swirled the bourbon in his glass. “That came through loud and clear, my friend. I'm decent at reading people and I predict you have a shot.” His voice became businesslike again. “Her information about the hotel is a valuable contribution. I'm really starting to like this idea.”

CHAPTER FIVE

S
LATER
C
ARSON
WAS
trying to drive her crazy.

A few days after their impromptu meeting with his friend Mick, he'd called and asked if he could take Ryder to a college football game. Not one nearby, either. Oh, no. They were going to
fly
out to Laramie with a friend of his and would be back that night but maybe a little late. Private plane and an experienced pilot, he promised. His friend Tripp Galloway had once owned a charter company and had been given the tickets by a friend and former client. Coveted fifty yard line seats. Did she mind?

Not a bit. Grace really needed the break, and she figured Ryder did, too.

First, Ryder had gotten into trouble for fighting at school. Now she'd received an email from the principal concerning an incident in English class. Apparently he'd been rude to the teacher, making some inappropriate, smart-aleck comment during a grammar lecture about the conditional tense. (No doubt his new friends had guffawed in great approval.) So, in one way she absolutely
didn't
want to reward Ryder when he'd misbehaved; in another way she suspected he'd be safer at a distance.

From her.

School had just started and she already had notes? The kid needed to shape up now or he'd be struggling the entire semester, maybe the entire year.

She hoped the tight-lipped silence she maintained as she drove Ryder to the ranch conveyed what she wanted to say. She could've recorded a full box CD set just on the importance of turning in his homework. It would be easier if she didn't care and could shrug and point out that he wasn't even her son. But she
did
think of him as her son. And she
did
care.

A lot.

Too much, maybe.

No, she acknowledged, there was never too much caring when it came to a child. And Ryder was still a child, whether he'd agree with that or not. Yes, he was starting to look like a man and she'd gone ahead and bought him an electric razor, which he certainly didn't need yet, at least not every day, and she knew that somewhere in her future lurked the discussion they'd have to have about safe sex. Not that the school system didn't do a fairly good job with sex education—he'd come home snickering about it one afternoon—but the two of them needed to sit down, one-on-one. Hank would owe her for that, although, frankly, she wondered if Ryder would even be willing to listen to his father, should he suddenly put in an appearance and
act
like a father.

Understandably, Ryder was damned angry with
both
parents. His mother should be here for him now, not Grace. And, as for Hank, his unswerving loyalty to the army and to serving his country was admirable, but his son was paying a high price for that devotion. Just as
she
had, while she and Hank were married.

“I hope you realize the only reason I agreed to let you go on this trip is that although I'm disappointed in you right now, I'm not out to punish you. I need your word, Ryder, that you'll try harder in school.” She paused. “Wait. Let me rephrase that. I need your word that you'll try
at all
.”

For a long moment Ryder just stared out the passenger window without speaking. Grace was about to scream when he finally said in a defensive voice, “Grace, I suck at English. Even when I try I get really bad grades, so I quit trying. Why do it for nothing? I was flunking, anyway.”

“So that's why you were rude to the teacher? And that's why I heard from the principal?”

He didn't respond and had gone back to staring out the window.

She turned onto the country road toward the Carson ranch. Cattle grazed in the pasture, and the afternoon sun gave the scene an almost mystical glow. “This seems to be an ongoing discussion between the two of us. If something's wrong, don't you think you should mention it to me? I can't solve a problem if I don't know it exists in the first place.”

“It's
my
problem.” His expression had that sullen cast she disliked.

She slowed for a cattle guard. “It will be when you wind up flipping burgers for a living instead of going on to college because you failed English. How about a tutor? If someone can sit there with you and you can point out what you aren't getting about a subject, that person can help.”

She'd do it herself, but she had a feeling that would only cause more friction, and she was often gone in the late afternoon and early evening as it was.

“I'm not stupid. I just don't like English.”

“I don't remember calling you stupid, Ryder. I didn't, I wouldn't, and you're aware of that. Quite the opposite. I'm more frustrated because I
know
you're smart and could do better.”

At least that point wasn't argued. “Maybe,” he muttered, and it sounded like an apology.

Luckily, that was when they pulled into the ranch drive and drove under the large curved sign with the Carson emblem—a giant C and two racing mustangs—over the entrance. Grace carefully guided the car down the lane and changed the subject. “I hope you remembered to put on sunscreen.”

She probably deserved the look of disgust he gave her and she stifled a wry laugh. “What? Real men don't get sunburns, is that it?” she quipped, hoping to lighten the moment.

Slater was just coming out of the house with a small cooler and waved as they drove up. The only other time Grace had been there it was dark, so she studied the place as she parked and got out of the car. First of all, the house was huge. She could understand why all three Carson sons still lived on the ranch. With red brick walls and white pillars, the place would've been at home amid giant trees trailing Spanish moss instead of framed by the mountains, but it was certainly a beautiful old house. Steps led up to a wide veranda with a row of rockers on one side and an ornate glass-topped table with chairs on the other. Pots of brilliant blooming flowers gave a splash of color, obviously Mrs. Carson's touch. Grace couldn't quite picture the rancher, the winemaker or the film producer out there wielding a watering can.

“Right on time. That's great,” Slater said. “We're due at the airstrip in half an hour. Thanks for letting Ryder come along with us, Grace.”

“I appreciate your thinking of him.” She said it primly, and his response was a slow smile and a hint of laughter in those oh-so-blue eyes. The man was in full cowboy mode, with denim shirt, jeans and boots, hat in place.

Just then a young girl dashed out of the house, flew down the steps and grabbed Slater's hand. She wore pink jeans, a floral shirt and little plaid tennis shoes. Young, still in grade school, maybe nine or ten, Grace guessed. Her voice was excited. “Daddy, are we leaving
now
?”

Daddy?

“Yep, in about a minute. Daisy, this is Grace, and the tall one next to her is Ryder.”

Slater's daughter was the very image of him, with thick dark hair and long-lashed eyes the same vivid shade of blue. She smiled shyly. “Nice to meet you.”

Grace automatically smiled back, not sure why she felt so unnerved. Slater was in his midthirties, so it was hardly shocking that he might have a child. It was just that he'd never mentioned being married or (more likely) divorced—or that he had a daughter. Then again, she'd met him only a few times, three in total, and he was hardly obligated to relate his life story. “You, too, Daisy.”

Thankfully, Ryder was polite enough to say hi without prompting.

Slater correctly interpreted Ryder's expression. “Don't worry, the ladies aren't going to the game. Daisy and her mother are going out to eat and do a little shopping. Their interest in football is on a level with mine for malls and ice cream parlors.”

A woman came out of the door just then, fumbling in her purse. “Sorry, I left my cell in Daisy's room by accident when we were going through her clothes.”

Instantly, Grace sized her up. Stylishly cut dark hair that fell to her shoulders, hazel eyes, high cheekbones, willowy figure... She was strikingly attractive.

Slater said drily, “I've given up on you ever being punctual. That's why I pad arrival and departure time. Grace, this is Raine McCall. Raine, Grace Emery. I'll introduce you to Ryder when we join him in the truck. We all set?”

His ex or whatever she was smiled at Grace apologetically. “I'm afraid Slater's right. No matter how hard I try, I'm late for everything.” Raine fairly twinkled with uncomplicated friendliness. “Drake and Mace both told me you were a looker, and they sure weren't kidding. I'd kill to have your coloring.” She gestured at the truck. “If you want to come shopping with us, hop in.”

“I, er, can't.” Grace was taken completely off guard. “I have a dozen errands to run, but thanks for the invitation.”

“Some other time, then. I'd better hurry or Slater will strangle me.” With a wave Raine hurried toward the truck, the kids ahead of her. Moments later they were all aboard, and the rig's engine roared to life. Grace got back in her own car and followed the cheery little group down the driveway, feeling surprisingly unsettled. She wasn't interested in a relationship with anyone, much less another man who was gone most of the time, a man who reminded her more than slightly of her ex-husband. Not only that, Slater apparently came with baggage.

She had enough of her own.

So why did she care whether he had a child and a beautiful ex? (Assuming she
was
his ex, of course.)

That was a question she needed to ask herself over a glass of iced tea, once she'd gotten the oil changed in the car, gone to the dentist for a routine visit, went to the bank and dropped by the quilt shop she'd seen in town. She'd decided she wanted to treat herself and brighten up her bedroom, and a colorful quilt might be just the thing.

So she certainly hadn't lied about her full afternoon. She didn't get much time off, and when she did, she had to make it count.

After all that, she might sit down and read the “new” novel she'd picked up three months ago and then left sitting, unopened, on the coffee table. She'd actually had to dust it the other day.

With her luck, the story's hero would have memorable blue eyes, wavy dark hair and an unforgettable smile.

* * *

T
HEY
GOT
TO
the arena just in time for kick-off.

Slater could tell Ryder had enjoyed the ride in the sleek private plane, and he didn't blame him. Taking a charter was infinitely better than flying commercial airlines, and Wyoming's incomparable scenery made it even more of a treat. It was breezy that day, so the flight was hardly smooth, but they'd landed safely, and the car sent by Tripp's friend was there to take them to the field. Slater had called ahead to arrange a rental car for Raine and Daisy.

This was turning out to be a sweet deal; they had a luxury suite, with a clear view of the whole field. Even a teenager's normal feigned boredom with just about everything was set aside, for this afternoon, anyway. Ryder had talked to Daisy a little bit on the ride in from the airport, just short sentences, mostly in answer to her incessant questions, but he hadn't been unfriendly or condescending. Tripp had let the boy sit up in the cockpit for a while before landing, and when Ryder had returned to his seat, he'd been wearing a big grin.

It wasn't hard to guess that a fourteen-year-old boy who flew in a private plane to a college football game and then sat in a suite couldn't wait to tell his friends at school. Maybe Slater would get a nod for being a film producer and Tripp for being a pilot. Ryder seemed like a kid who might benefit from some personal attention, especially some adult male attention.

He'd have to ask about Ryder's mother sometime if he could ever get Grace alone for a private conversation. When he'd spoken to her assistant, Meg, she had made it pretty clear that the dinner invitation was to talk business concerning the resort. He'd resigned himself to the fact that the conference manager would join them because he was asked if he cared to bring his assistant along. He normally would, but Nate had flown home to Boulder to see his parents and get in some well-deserved time with his girlfriend. Slater hated to break it to him that he'd already come up with another project so soon, one he was excited about starting.

“Oh, man, that was close. It was nearly intercepted.” Ryder was practically bouncing in his seat but caught himself. He wasn't missing a play. “Were either of you guys on the football team in high school or college?”

Tripp nodded. “Both of us. We were ranch kids, so we also did rodeo. When you get to high school next year, you'll find Mustang Creek has a rodeo team. Between rodeo seasons, we played football. Basketball and baseball, too.”

That distracted Ryder's attention from the game for a moment. “You mean you rode bulls and broncs and that stuff? That's
way
cool.”

Slater said, “No bulls—those were too dangerous. But yes, we did some bronc riding, calf roping, steer-wrestling, that sort of thing. I went on the circuit two summers in a row right out of college, but several broken bones later, I decided I didn't like hobbling around on crutches or waking up in the morning and feeling like a truck had backed over me.”

“Never ridden a horse. Always wanted to, though.” Ryder sounded matter-of-fact.

Tripp and Slater looked at each other in consternation. To them, that was the equivalent of never riding a bike.

A roar from the stands brought their attention back to the action on the field. The teams were evenly matched, so it was an okay game in Slater's opinion, fast-paced and with some exciting plays. He could swear Ryder ate four hot dogs, but he and his brothers had certainly been a wrecking crew at the table in their teens, and they still managed to put it away like a pack of ravenous wolves, according to Harry. He texted Raine in the last few minutes of the final quarter so she could meet them at the airplane, and she replied with: