Читать книгу The Ryders: Jared, Royce and Stephanie - Barbara Dunlop - Страница 9

By the end of the day, the bruise on Melissa’s left butt cheek had settled to a dull ache.

While she swept the last of the straw from the stable floor, a late-model Bentley rumbled its way to the front of the farmhouse. The glossy black exterior might be dusty, but it was still one impressive automobile. And the chauffeur who jumped out of the driver’s seat was crisp in his uniform.

She moved into the oversize doorway, leaning on the end of the broom handle while she waited to see who would emerge from the backseat.

It was an older man, distinguished in a Savile Row suit. He was tall, with a head of thick silver hair. He nodded politely to the chauffeur, then headed up the stairs to the wraparound porch, where both Stephanie and Jared appeared to greet him and usher him inside.

The chauffeur shut the car door. He glanced curiously around the ranch yard before moving to open the trunk. Melissa peered at the house, but there was no way to guess what was going on inside. The man might be a friend, or perhaps he was a business associate.

Jared’s sister’s house seemed like an odd location for a business meeting. Unless, of course, somebody wanted to keep the meeting a secret.

Now that was an interesting possibility. Was there something clandestine in the works for Ryder International?

As the chauffeur had before her, Melissa glanced curiously around the yard. Several young riders were practicing jumps in the main ring, their grooms and trainers watching. A group of stable hands were loading hay into a pickup truck beside the biggest barn, and three cowboys were urging a small herd of horses across the river with a pair of border collies lending a hand. Nobody was paying the slightest bit of attention to the Bentley.

Then another vehicle appeared and pulled up to the house. This one was an SUV, larger but no less luxurious than the Bentley.

A thirtysomething man with dark glasses and curly dark hair stepped out of the driver’s seat. He looked Mediterranean, and he was definitely not a chauffeur. He wore loafers, well-cut blue jeans, an open white dress shirt and a dark jacket. He also offered a polite greeting to the Bentley driver before striding up the stairs of the porch.

Melissa’s journalistic curiosity all but ordered her to investigate. She leaned her broom up against the stable wall and started across the yard. She told herself she’d put in a good eight hours today. It was close to dinnertime, and the Bentley was at least vaguely in the direction of the cookhouse. She’d have a plausible excuse if anyone questioned her.

Ironically she’d been disappointed not to get a job down at the main ranch. The foreman there had all but sent her packing this morning when she’d told him she was a stranded traveler. Luckily Stephanie Ryder had been there at the time. The younger woman had taken pity on Melissa and offered her a job at the Ryder Equestrian Center. Melissa had been plotting ways to get back to the main ranch when Jared and his horse had wandered into the yard. Talk about good luck.

Now she was looking for more luck. She smiled brightly at the chauffeur, smudging her palms along the sides of her thighs, wishing she wasn’t covered in dust and sweat, and was wearing something other than blue jeans and a grime-streaked shirt. She wasn’t the greatest flirt in the world, but in the right party dress, she could usually hold a man’s attention.

“Very nice car,” she ventured in a friendly voice as she approached.

The man pushed the trunk closed and gazed critically at the Bentley. “I suppose dust is better than mud.”

She guessed he was about her own age, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. He was attractive, in a farmboyfresh kind of way, with blond hair, a straight nose and a narrow chin. He was clean-shaven, and his hair was neatly trimmed.

She slowed her steps, taking in the Montana license plate and committing the number to memory. “Did you have a long drive in?” she asked pleasantly.

“Couple of hours from Helena.”

Helena. Good. That was a start. “So you work in Helena?”

“Three years now.”

She stayed silent for a moment, hoping he’d elaborate on his job or the company. She scanned both his uniform and the car for a logo.

“Your first time at Ryder Ranch?” She tried another approach.

He nodded at that. “Heard about it, of course. Everybody in the state knows about the Ryders.”

“I’m from Indiana,” she supplied.

“Grew up south of Butte myself.” He gave the dust on the car another critical gaze. “There a hose around here someplace?”

She had no idea. “I guess you meet interesting people in your job?” She struggled to keep the conversation focused on his employment.

“I do some.” He glanced around the ranch yard while a horse whinnied in the distance, and a tractor engine roared to life. Unfortunately he didn’t pick up the conversational thread.

But Melissa wasn’t giving up, not by a long shot. She moved in a step closer, tossing back her hair, hoping it looked disheveled, instead of unruly.

Her actions caught his attention, and he glanced at the ground.

She lowered her voice as she gave him her brightest smile. “I’m a little embarrassed,” she cooed. “But should I know the man you dropped off?”

The chauffeur looked back up. He didn’t answer. Instead, he swallowed hard, and his neck flushed beneath the collar of his uniform.

“I only ask,” she continued, tilting her head to one side, surprised it took so little to rattle him, “because I don’t want …”

He worked his jaw.

She paused, waiting for him, but he didn’t make a sound.

She suddenly realized his gaze wasn’t fixed on her. He was focused on a spot behind her left shoulder. Her scalp prickled.

Uh-oh. She twisted her head and came face-to-face with Jared Ryder.

It was clear he was annoyed. He was also taller than she’d realized, and intimidating, with that strong chin and those deep blue eyes. He wore a fitted, Western-cut shirt and snug blue jeans. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep, and his sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, revealing a deep tan and obvious muscle definition.

“Don’t want to what?” he asked Melissa, his tone a low rumbling challenge.

She didn’t have a quick answer for that, and his deep blue gaze flicked to the silent chauffeur. “There’s coffee in the cookhouse.” He gave the man a nod in the appropriate direction.

The chauffeur immediately took his cue and hustled away.

Jared’s tone turned to steel, the power of his irritation settling fully on Melissa. “I’d sure appreciate it if you could flirt on your own time.”

“I …” What could she tell him? That she wasn’t flirting? That, in fact, she was spying?

Better to go with flirting.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, offering no excuses.

He gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, followed by a long assessing gaze that made her glad she was only pretending to be his employee.

“I don’t know why Stephanie hired you,” he finally stated.

Melissa wasn’t sure how to answer that, or even if he expected an answer. The only thing she did know was that she was determined to take advantage of the opportunity to talk to him alone.

“You’re Stephanie’s brother?” she asked, pretending she hadn’t been poring over his press coverage on the Internet.

“She tells me you grew up around horses,” he countered, instead of answering the question.

“I did.” Melissa nodded. Technically it was true. She gestured to the northern paddocks. “You obviously grew up around a lot of them.”

“My qualifications aren’t at issue.”

“Stephanie seemed fine with mine.” Melissa valiantly battled the nerves bubbling in her stomach. “I saw the main house yesterday. The one your grandparents built. Were you born on the Ryder Ranch?”

A muscle ticked in his left cheek. “Since you’re obviously not busy with anything else, I need you to move my horse to the riverside pen. The one with the red gate.”

“Sure.” The brave word jumped out before she had a chance to censor it.

“Name’s Tango.” Jared pointed to a paddock on the other side of the driveway turnaround where a black horse pranced and bucked his way around the fence line. Its head was up, ears pointed, and it was tossing his mane proudly for the three horses in the neighboring pen.

Melissa’s bravado instantly evaporated.

“You can tack him up if you like,” Jared continued. “Or he’s fine bareback.”

Bareback? She swallowed. Not that a saddle would help.

“Melissa?”

Okay. New plan. Forget the interview, it was time for a quick exit.

“I … just …” she stammered. “I … uh … just remembered, I’m off shift.”

His brows twitched upward. “We have shifts?”

“I mean …” She blinked up at him. What? What? What the hell did she say?

She rubbed the bruise on her left butt cheek, making a show of wincing. “My fall. Earlier. I’m a little stiff and sore.”

“Too stiff to sit on a horse?” He clearly found the excuse preposterous.

“I’m also a little rusty.” She attempted to look contrite and embarrassed. “I haven’t ridden for a while.”

He cocked his head, studying her all over again. “It’s like riding a bike.”

She was sure it was.

“Tack’s on the third stand. Don’t let him hold his breath when you cinch the saddle.”

As far as she was concerned, Tango could do any old thing he pleased. She wasn’t going to stop him from holding his breath. Quite frankly she’d rather chase lions around Lincoln Park.

“I really can’t—”

“We fire people who can’t get the job done,” Jared flatly warned her.

The threat stopped Melissa cold. If she got fired, she’d be thrown off the property. She could kiss the article and her promotion goodbye. And if Seth found out she’d been here, she could probably kiss her job at the Bizz goodbye, too.

“I hope you won’t,” she said in all sincerity.

Jared searched her expression for a long moment. His voice went low, and the space between them grew smaller. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I’ve been working really hard,” she told him without hesitation.

“Not at the moment,” he pointed out.

“It’s six o’clock.”

“We’re not nine to five on Ryder Ranch.”

“I’m prepared for that.”

He edged almost imperceptibly closer, revealing tiny laugh lines beside his eyes and a slight growth of beard along his tanned square jaw. “Are you?”

She ignored the tug of attraction to his rugged masculinity. “Yes.”

“You’ll pull your own weight?”

“I will.”

“You can’t depend on your looks around here.”

Melissa drew back in surprise.

“If I catch you batting those big green eyes—”

“I never—”

He leaned closer still and she shut her mouth. “You mess with my cowboys, and your pretty little butt will be off the property in a heartbeat.”

A rush of heat prickled her cheeks. “I have no intention of messing with your cowboys.”

A cloud rolled over the setting sun, and a chill dampened the charged air between them.

Jared’s nostrils flared, and his eyes darkened to indigo in the shifting light. He stared at her for a lengthening moment, then his head canted to one side.

How his kiss might feel bloomed unbidden in her mind. It would be light, then firm, then harder still as he pulled her body flush against his own. A flash of heat stirred her body as the wind gusted between them, forming tiny dust devils on the driveway and rustling the tall, summer grass.

The ranch hands still shouted to one another. Hooves still thudded against the packed dirt. And the diesel engines still rumbled in the distance.

“See that you don’t,” he finally murmured. “And move my damn horse.”

“Fine,” she ground out, quashing the stupid hormonal reaction. She’d move the damn horse or die trying.

Later that evening, in Stephanie’s dining room, Jared struggled to put Melissa out of his mind. His sister had obviously hired the woman out of pity. Then Jared had kept her on for the same reason. He wasn’t sure who’d made the bigger mistake.

“We’ve had thirty-five new requests for assistance this year,” said Otto Durand, moving a manila file to the top of his pile. Otto had been a board member of the Genevieve Memorial Fund for fifteen years. He was also the CEO of Rutledge Agricultural Equipment and a lifelong friend of Jared and Melissa’s parents.

“We do have the money,” Anthony Salvatore put in, flipping through a report. “Donations, they are up nearly twenty percent.” Anthony was a distant relative, the son of Jared’s mother’s cousin. The cousin had met and fallen in love with Carmine Salvatore on a college trip to Naples, and their only son had held a special place in Genevieve’s heart.

Stephanie replaced the empty bottle of merlot on the large oblong table as the housekeeper cleared away the last of the dinner dishes.

Although Royce was stuck in London until Saturday, the remaining four board members of the Genevieve Fund were empowered to make decisions on this year’s projects.

“I like the school in West Africa,” said Stephanie.

“Most of the kids in that region are from agricultural families.”

“Mom would like that,” Jared acknowledged, then caught Stephanie’s fleeting wince. This year in particular, he knew his sister felt a hole in her life where her mother should have been.

Along with their grandfather, he and Royce had struggled to keep their mother’s memory alive for her, showing videos, telling stories, displaying mementos. But there was a loneliness inside her that they couldn’t seem to fill. It had always manifested itself in hard work and a driving need to succeed. Jared only had to look at the row of equestrian jumping trophies along the mantelpiece to know how hard she pushed herself.

“Yes to the West Africa school.” Otto put a check mark on page three of his report. “And I think we can all agree on increasing the animal shelter contributions. Now, the South American clinic project?”

“I still think it’s too dangerous,” said Jared. He knew his brother, Royce, had advocated for the project after meeting a British university student who’d worked in the mountainous region. But there were too many unknowns, too many frightening stories coming out of the area.

“The rebel activity has been down in that area for six months now,” Anthony put in. “And we will use a contractor with experience in the area.”

“What about security?” Jared countered. It wasn’t the first time the Genevieve Fund had worked in an unstable part of the world, but the other projects had a multiagency, multinational presence, and security had been provided by experts.

“We will hire our own security,” said Anthony.

Jared wasn’t going to be easily convinced. “For the cost of private security, we could take on two other projects.”

“None that are as critical as this one,” said Anthony, warming up to the debate. The two of them settled into a familiar rhythm of point counterpoint, each trying to convince Stephanie and Otto of the merits of their respective positions.

Jared acknowledged it was a worthwhile project, while Anthony acknowledged the security circumstances were less than ideal. Still, on balance, Jared felt the situation was far too dangerous, and he made that clear in no uncertain terms.

Finally Anthony threw up his hands in frustration. “I am going for some air.”

Fine with Jared. It would give him a few minutes alone with Stephanie and Otto to solidify his case.

Stephanie stood to stretch, while Otto dropped his pen on the report in front of him, speaking before Jared had a chance. “Maybe we should go with Anthony and Royce on this one.”

“And if somebody gets kidnapped or killed?” It was a worst-case scenario, but it was also a realistic one.

“They have signed a ceasefire,” Otto said.

“Not worth the paper it’s printed on. It’s Sierra Benito, for goodness’ sake. The political situation could turn on a dime.” Jared’s gaze caught Anthony’s profile through the gauzy curtains.

“How many kidnappings last year?” asked Stephanie.

“Too many,” replied Jared.

“Nothing since December,” said Otto. “I don’t want to go against you on—”

“And I’m not looking for risk-free,” Jared stressed. “And I don’t mind spending the extra money on security. But do we really want to take Royce’s advice on what’s dangerous and what’s not?”

Neither Otto nor Stephanie had an answer for that.

In the sudden silence Jared caught another movement on the porch. But this time it wasn’t Anthony’s profile. It was.

“Excuse me for a moment.” He rose from his chair, ignoring their looks of surprise as he crossed to the front door.

“We still have the family home in Naples,” Anthony was saying to Melissa as Jared pushed open the screen door. “And I visit it as often as possible.” Anthony had planted his butt against the log railing of the porch, one arm bracing him on each side while Melissa stood in front of him.

“I’ve always wanted to see Italy.” She sighed. “The Colosseum, Vatican City, the Sistine Chapel.”

Jared scoffed. Pretty big dreams for a woman who couldn’t even make it to Seattle.

Anthony levered himself forward to standing, and Melissa didn’t back off.

“I would love to show you Venice,” he said in a voice that promised more than a tour of the Grand Canal.

Jared wasn’t sure who he should warn—Melissa that Anthony was a player, or Anthony that Melissa’s only life skill appeared to be flirting.

“I assume you moved my horse?” he said, instead, causing her to turn her head. Once again she looked both guilty and surprised to see him. And once again he was stabbed in the solar plexus with a shot of unwelcome attraction.

He determinedly shook it off.

“Melissa and I were discussing the treasures of Italy,” Anthony offered conversationally, but the set of his shoulders and the tightness around his mouth told Jared that he didn’t welcome the interruption.

Too bad.

“You’re supposed to be thinking about Sierra Benito,” Jared reminded him, moving through the beam of the porch light, transmitting his clear intention to join the conversation.

“Business can wait,” said Anthony.

Jared made a show of glancing at his watch. “It’s been a long meeting already.”

“Give me five minutes. I will be right in.”

But Jared had absolutely no intention of leaving.

Melissa glanced back and forth between the two men. Her expression hadn’t changed, but the interest in her eyes was obvious.

“Since Melissa’s here—” Jared angled his body toward her “—maybe she has something to contribute. What do you think? Is Sierra Benito too dangerous for a humanitarian project?”

Anthony jumped in. “I am sure Melissa doesn’t want to discuss—”

“Do you mean right in Suri City?” she asked. “Or up in the mountains?”

Her answer surprised him. Most people had never heard of Sierra Benito, never mind its capital city.

“A little village called Tappee,” he told her.

Her head shook almost imperceptibly, but the small motion emphasized the bounce to her silky blond hair. “Horrible conditions up there. The villagers live in abject poverty.”

Anthony chuckled and swung an arm around her shoulders. “I welcome you to the debate, Senorita Melissa.”

Jared steeled himself against the urge to rip her out of Anthony’s arms. It was a ridiculous reaction. The half hug was a friendly gesture, nothing more.

“Do you have any idea what the gold miners do to the villagers?” Melissa asked. She didn’t react to Anthony’s hug—didn’t lean in, didn’t shrug him off, either.

“Do you have any idea what the rebels do to the gold miners?” Jared asked around the clamor of emotion inside his head.

What the hell was the matter with him?

What did he care if Anthony hugged Melissa?

She shook her head in disgust. “I can’t believe you’re going to exploit them.”

Jared jerked back at the accusation. “Exploit who?”

“The villagers.”

“I’m not going to exploit the villagers.” Jared’s gaze caught on Anthony’s hand and held.

Melissa was wearing a white cotton shirt. It was thin fabric, hardly a barrier between Anthony’s fingertips and her shoulder. Why didn’t she shrug him off?

She scoffed. “Right. You’ll subcontract the exploitation to Madre Gold to Tomesko Mining.”

“That’s a leap in logic,” he pointed out.

“There’s no other reason to go to Tappee.”

“We are building a medical clinic,” Anthony put in.

“Not necessarily,” Jared countered with a warning glare.

Melissa glanced from one to the other with surprise and more than a little curiosity.

“How do you know anything about Tappee?” he couldn’t help but probe, watching her closely for signs of … he wasn’t even sure what.

“I read the Chicago Daily,” she answered with a blink, and her green eyes went back to neutral. “There was a story last year about a mining engineer who was kidnapped by rebels.”

“The company paid a million dollars.” Jared took the story to its conclusion. “And they killed the guy, anyway.”

“That was more than a year ago,” said Anthony. “And we are not going there to mine.”

“You think they care?” asked Jared. “Do you honestly believe they won’t take any Westerner hostage?”

“I believe they do care,” said Melissa.

“Yeah?” Jared challenged. “Is that conclusion based on your vast travel experience with the American national bus system?”

“Do not be rude,” Anthony cut in, anger clear in his tone.

Well, Jared was angry, too. He’d had about enough of the argument, and he’d had about enough of watching Anthony maul Melissa. He grabbed his Stetson hat from a peg on the wall and crammed it on his head.

“I’m going to walk Melissa back to her cottage,” he announced, linking her arm and moving her firmly out of Anthony’s grasp.

“What in the hell.” Anthony began.

“You need to get back to the meeting,” Jared ordered over his shoulder, propelling Melissa toward the stairs. It took her a second to get her feet sorted out under her, but he made sure she didn’t stumble.

He could feel Anthony watching them as they crossed the darkened yard toward the driveway lights. Jared knew he was going to get an earful back in the house, but he didn’t care. He could give just as good as he got.

He marched her forward at a brisk pace. He didn’t know which cottage Melissa had been assigned, but single women were usually on the river side of the arena, so he took a chance and turned right.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t about walking me back to my cabin?” asked Melissa.

Jared gritted his teeth, struggling to bring his emotions back under control. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not here to earn money for a bus ticket?”