Читать книгу The Rancher's Bride - Pamela Britton - Страница 11

Chapter Three

She must sleep like the dead, Ryan thought, shifting the quiche his mom had baked for Jorie and knocking on the front door yet again.

“Damn it, Mom,” he muttered, glancing in the general direction of where she lived. Why did she always have him do her dirty work? The last thing he needed was to play delivery boy.

He turned away, quiche still in hand, and headed for the steps, only to halt again. His mom would kill him if he didn’t do as asked.

“Shoot.”

A thin sliver of pink light outlined the small hill that blocked his view of his mom’s house. Dawn. It had just arrived, the sky still dark behind him. He had a million things to do today. Cows to gather. A meeting at nine. Errands to run. The last thing he needed to do was play nursemaid to his mother’s new employee.

“‘You go check on her in the morning,’” he mimicked. “‘Give her my quiche. Make sure she’s all right.’”

He glanced heavenward.

“Man, it’s a good thing I love you, Mom.”

He turned back to the door. To be fair, he hadn’t seen his mom’s new employee since dropping off her luggage, something he’d told his mother last night, and something that concerned him just a little bit. He thought about leaving the quiche on the porch, but one of the ranch dogs would no doubt find it, and he could just imagine what his mom would do if one of his dogs ate Jorie’s quiche.

“Crap.”

He knocked again, louder, and when nothing happened, leaned his ear against the door. Some kind of weird noise came back to him. TV? He stepped to the right, tried to peer through the window that looked into a tiny family room that stretched across the front of the house. Nothing.

“To hell with it.”

She’d been asleep for a long time. Time to get up and take this quiche off his hands.

He balanced the pie plate in one hand, the ring of keys he pulled from his pocket jingling as he sought to unlock the door.

This is a bad idea.

It’s what his mom would want him to do.

You’re breaking into her house.

It’s not her house, he told himself firmly, pushing the door open a crack.

Just set the damn quiche down and go.

But then he heard the noise again, a horrendous sound that put him instantly on alert. It was as dark as a haunted house inside, the sun not yet high enough to send even ambient light through the windows. He paused for a moment, listening…and there it went again.

Snoring.

He felt a gust of laughter, despite his ire. That’s what he’d heard?

Okay. She’s fine. Just leave the quiche on the side table.

Yet his curiosity got the better of him. These weren’t tiny little ladylike squeaks. These were rip-snorting, drapery-rustling, window-vibrating breaths, and he could only imagine how loud they must be if he could hear them all the way through the front door. Against his better judgment he found himself moving forward.

The ranch home was easy to navigate, the shape of it a simple square: kitchen at the back of the house to his left, bedroom across the hall from it and to the right, and the open area in the front where he stood.

His eyes had started to adjust, making him realize that it wasn’t quite so dark anymore. A pale pink glow slid through the window at the end of the hall allowing for light to dribble onto the hardwood floors. Ambient light also spilled in her bedroom windows, which was how he spied the snoring, sleeping goddess that lay sprawled amidst tumbled sheets like a magazine centerfold.

He almost dropped the pie plate.

Okay, so maybe not naked, but close enough in her mini white tank top and matching skimpy underwear. She lay on her side, a quilt made of red and pink squares wound between her legs and around her torso. Yesterday he’d wondered if she wore panty hose. Today he realized she was tan all over, her calves, her thighs, even the tiny sliver of skin he glimpsed between the triangle of her bikini underwear and the quilt. The blond hair he’d admired yesterday lay around her, mussed, yet no less beautiful in the morning light. She had the softest looking skin, her cheeks naturally tinted a pale pink, her lips thick and generous.

And then she gobbled down a gust of air, the sound she shot out causing Ryan to flinch. If he’d been a dog, he’d have tilted his head.

Good Lord.

How could something so gorgeous make a sound that was loud enough to wake the dead? The noise reverberated through the room, and even in the morning light he could see her frown—as if bothered by the fact that the noise disturbed her sleep.

He smiled. How did she not wake up?

But now that he’d solved the mystery it was time to get the hell out, he told himself, starting to back away. He’d forgotten the pie, however, and had to dash back to the kitchen to set it down. On the way out his foot hit something, a something that made a noise as it began to fall.

His mind registered that it was a broom and he tried to catch it, but it fell to the ground with a clatter.

Get out.

He shot toward the door as though a herd of rabid squirrels were on his heels. Behind him the snoring had abruptly stopped. Ryan moved even faster.

Almost there.

His hand hit the door.

She didn’t wake up earlier. She wouldn’t wake up now?

He began to swing the door open.

“What the hell!”

* * *

JORIE CLUTCHED THE bedspread around her, using her elbow to keep everything in place as she blinked and then blinked again.

A man stood in her doorway.

“Who the hell—?”

The man turned back to face her, reluctantly it seemed.

Ryan Clayborne.

“I knocked,” he said, managing to sound both nervous and defensive at the same time.

“You let yourself in?” It was taking a moment for her brain to wake up. When she’d first woken up, she’d had to think for a moment where she was because prior to opening her eyes, she’d been having a dream about a man with dark hair—

Nope. Not going there.

“My mom. She was worried last night. Wanted me to check on you this morning.”

“So you just let yourself in?” she repeated.

“I heard a noise. And you’ve been asleep for hours.”

But then something he’d just said sank in. Morning? It wasn’t morning.

Was it?

She glanced out the window to his left, the parted drapes revealing a seashell-colored sky, one that could signal dusk…or dawn.

And then she heard it. A rooster. It crowed in the distance.

Morning.

She ran a hand through her hair. Her eyes felt gritty. And if she were honest, she felt a little woozy.

“I need to get dressed for work.”

“Does your throat hurt?”

Jorie froze. It took a moment for her sleep-numbed mind to absorb his words.

“I’ve never heard a woman snore like you do.” His brows drew together a bit. “Is it a genetic thing?”

“Go away,” she said, rubbing her eyes. She’d slept all night? And half an afternoon of the day before. Had she been that exhausted?

Apparently so.

“Maybe you should eat something. I left my mom’s quiche on the kitchen table.”

“No. I’m fine.” She was actually famished, she suddenly realized. “Thanks for waking me up. I’ll be dressed in just a minute, but don’t wait for me. I can walk to work.”

“Work?” Ryan frowned again. “You don’t have to work today. You’re not slated to start until Monday. It’s Friday. Eat your breakfast.”

He turned way.

“I’ll be at the office in fifteen minutes.”

He glanced back at her, his gaze sliding downward, only to pause for a moment. Color bloomed on her cheeks because she could feel cool air on her legs, knew the blanket covered little more than her upper thighs and torso.

“Eat your breakfast,” he repeated, that gaze of his doing something, a something that caused her whole body to react in a way that it really shouldn’t.

“My mom won’t be happy if you don’t.”

Something flickered, something heated and dark that turned his aqua-colored eyes a deep green.

He turned away again.

She felt the cover slip, and Jorie realized she’d been standing there, gawking… .

No, going gooey.

The door closed, bringing her back to earth. She blinked.

Not gooey, just famished. She hadn’t had any dinner the night before. No lunch, either. Maybe even not any breakfast.

Quiche.

She hitched the cover up, told herself she’d been imagining whatever she saw, and strode to the 1960s-style kitchen.

There it was, the quiche, sitting on the table in all its glory, a golden stream of light illuminating its flaky depths as if it was a gift from God.

Not really.

It just seemed that way because she was so damn hungry, and she wanted to scarf that quiche down more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life—her stomach actually growled at the thought.

“To hell with it.”

She would go to the office. She would eat the quiche later, at her desk.

She turned, thankful that she’d had the foresight to lay out her clothes the night before, because it suddenly became important to catch him before he left.

She washed up and dressed in record time, ran to the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room, checked her appearance to ensure the black slacks and off-white button-down blouse weren’t crooked, then ran to the door. She grabbed a brush along the way, all the while listening for the sound of his truck starting up. Nothing. He must have gone to his own house. She almost hurried past the quiche, but she ran back and grabbed the pastry. Maybe she’d eat on the way. No sense in passing out at his feet. She’d use her hands if she had to—

An engine roared to life.

“Wait!” she shouted.

She jammed a finger on the doorknob, cursed, almost dropped the quiche and burst out the front door so fast she left one of her heels behind.

“Damn it.”

She darted back to get it, couldn’t manage to get her foot in, gave up, kicked the other one off, scooped them both up, and somehow managed to balance her heels, her quiche and her brush the whole time she ran toward his still idling truck.

“Don’t go,” she called, her loose hair streaming out behind her.

She could see him sitting inside, and then she all but skidded to a stop.

The passenger door was open.

He wasn’t about to leave, he was waiting for her.

“Son of a—”

He’d known she’d race to catch up to him. Had somehow so anticipated her next move that he now sat in the driver’s seat, head leaned back against the headrest, hat tipped low over his closed eyes.

She slowly approached. When she drew near the open door he glanced over at her. “Took you long enough.”