Читать книгу The Rancher's Bride - Pamela Britton - Страница 12

Chapter Four

She’d covered those damn sexy legs of hers with slacks.

She would look even better in jeans.

Stop thinking about her legs.

Ryan leaned forward, fixed his hat and put his truck in gear.

“You didn’t have to wait.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

He wasn’t entirely certain why he had waited. He hadn’t even been certain she’d really get dressed and head to the office. A lot of people would have taken the opportunity to take the day off, and yet somehow he’d known she wasn’t the type.

“Thank you.”

He glanced over at her again. She looked ready for church in her no-frills button-down blouse and slacks. Gorgeous without even trying. He liked that about her, liked how she looked with her hair loose. He’d liked the way she’d looked standing before him, too, shapely legs exposed to his view, that frickin’ bedspread wrapped around her body as if she was a countrified version of the Statue of Liberty.

Enough.

He rolled his window down, grateful for the fresh burst of morning air that quickly cooled his overheated cheeks.

Your cheeks aren’t the only part that’s hot.

“You going to eat that quiche or just stare at it?” he asked as he thrust his truck in reverse.

She did keep peeking glances at it, her tongue flicking out and licking her lower lip as if she was contemplating the idea of simply burying her face into the middle of it.

“I don’t have a fork,” she said with all the morose sadness of a little girl missing her Barbie doll.

“Use your hands,” he said, putting the gearshift into First and mashing down the pedal a little too hard. A couple seconds later they crested the small hill, Ryan glancing toward his mom’s house, the one he’d grown up in but had abandoned when he was old enough to want his independence and to bring a woman home. The lights were on in the kitchen, a sure sign she was up, no doubt plotting other ways to make his life hell.

“I can’t use my hands.”

And despite his sour mood, he found himself on the verge of a chuckle. It wasn’t funny, but the way she almost wailed the words sure did tickle his funny bone.

“Maybe you should have stayed at the house, had some breakfast.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked out the window, and Ryan admitted that she was the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen. Period.

And you’re engaged, buddy.

He stepped on the accelerator, racing by the hay barn and tractor shed perhaps a little too fast, but anxious to get to work quickly nonetheless. His tires lost purchase when he stopped in front of the wide opening. Ryan cut off the big diesel engine and jumped out before he could have another wayward thought.

Horses nickered. The sensor-light buzzed on. He heard her truck door open, thought about helping her out of the truck before chastising himself yet again. She wasn’t some kind of damn ranch guest. She was his mother’s latest implement of torture, one he’d have to babysit until his mom’s arrival.

“Stairway to the office is to the left.” He flicked the barn lights on, horses nickering again. “Go on up and make yourself at home. Eat some of that quiche.”

“Where are you going?”

“Feed the horses.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “You want to help?”

Her answer was nearly instantaneous. “No.”

Thank God.

“But I probably should.”

“What?” He blinked and turned back to her. She was still juggling the quiche and her heels, the cuff of her black slacks dragging on the ground. “What makes you say that?”

“Your mom told me I needed to get comfortable around horses, you know, in case I needed to lead a bride to the altar on a horse or something.”

She was serious. “You can save your horse lessons for later.”

It was the wrong thing to say, he could tell instantly. She was the type of woman that didn’t like to be told what to do, especially by a man. “I’d rather start now.”

“You can’t feed horses in that outfit.”

She glanced down as if surprised by his words. “Why not?”

“You’ll get hay all over yourself.”

She dropped her heels, slipped her feet in them and glanced back up at him with a smile. “Nonsense,” she said, holding the quiche out in front of her. “I’ve seen horses fed on TV. It doesn’t look very hard. The pitchfork does all the work.”

TV? Pitchfork?

He almost explained the truth of the matter, but her stubborn I-can-do-anything-you-can-do-better attitude really got on his nerves.

“You can set your quiche down in the tack room,” he said, figuring if she wanted an introduction to horses lesson, he’d damn-well-skippy give her one. “Follow me.”

Pitchfork. He nearly laughed. Not unless this was circa 1830.

He turned on the light when they reached the tack room, a spacious room at the end of the row of stalls, one that was filled with Western saddles and bridles and smelled of leather and saddle soap. A glance back revealed Jorie standing just outside, one shoe kicked off, left foot out behind her, the woman shaking it as though she was a cat who’d stepped in a pool of water. He almost laughed again. Barn aisle dirt had a way of seeping into heels, or so he’d been told.

“Here.” He held his hand out. “I’ll set your quiche down right there.”

It should be safe from the flash mob otherwise known as Mom’s Mutts on the grooming shelf to his right, he thought, dreading the arrival of the gaggle of ranch dogs. People were forever dropping their unwanted pets out in the country, and for some reason they always seemed to gravitate toward the Spring Hill Ranch. They settled in as if the place was some kind of canine retirement home.

“I’ll start at one end and you can start on the other.” He guided her to the feed room located next to the tack room. It was double the size of their tack room, double the height, too, with bales of hay stacked to the ceiling. This was horse hay, though, which meant the sweet smell of alfalfa filled the room. “They each get one flake.”

“Flake?” She looked perplexed standing there in her designer pants.

“Yup.” He went to the closest bale, pulled out his pocket knife, slit the baling twine. It came apart with a pop and a twang, the hay still warm on the inside. They’d just loaded it into the feed room yesterday. “It should be as wide as this.” He slipped the knife back in his pocket, held up his hands, and touched his two thumbs together so she could observe the space between them.

“What about the pitchfork?” She glanced around as if looking for one.

He didn’t want his lips to twitch with a smile, but they did. “Nobody uses pitchforks to feed horses anymore.” He grabbed one of the soft, green flakes. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. He supposed some old-timers might still use them, but not here where everything was state-of-the-art.

He brushed by her, pausing for a moment near the door to watch. She approached the bale as if it was a complicated puzzle, reached down, picked up a flake, and then did exactly as he’d thought she’d do as she straightened. She held the thing up to her chest like a giant library book, gasping as stalks of alfalfa slipped right down that fancy shirt of hers.

“Ack.”

She dropped the flake of hay, brushing at the front of her shirt as if ants had crawled down her bra.

“You might want to watch that,” he said, balancing his own flake in the palm of one hand, à la pizza delivery boy. “If it gets down your shirt, you’ll have to take that shirt off.”

“Excuse me?” Her head popped up, pretty blue eyes wide.

“That’s the only way you’ll get it out of your clothes.” He smiled, though he knew he should leave her alone. He just couldn’t resist messing with her. “Once it’s down your shirt, it’ll keep poking at you all day.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yup.” He lifted a second wedge of hay he held while still balancing the first. “If you need a place to strip, you can do it right there.” He winked. “I promise not to watch.”

Her cheeks turned pink, her sexy mouth pressed together. It was exactly the reaction he’d been looking for. She didn’t smile at him flirtatiously. Didn’t seem to welcome his invitation to undress in front of him. Not, he quickly reassured himself, that he was looking for that. No, no. He’d just been curious. Obviously, she hadn’t come to Texas to snare herself a cowboy bachelor.

Disappointed?

Absolutely not.

“The day I undress in front of you is the day the Tooth Fairy does the Macarena on your nose.”

He found himself laughing despite himself.

“Maybe next time you’ll listen to me,” he said, heading off to feed.

“There won’t be a next time,” she shot back, and for some reason the words only made him smile all the more.

He kinda liked her spunk.

* * *

“STUPID, IMPOSSIBLE MAN,” Jorie grumbled, listening for Ryan’s footsteps outside as she quickly stripped out of her blouse. “‘Next time maybe you’ll listen to me,’” she mimicked, freezing for a moment when she heard a noise. It was just a horse snorting, though. Ryan was still busy feeding horses. She had no idea if he’d noticed her absence, and didn’t care. He’d figure out what she was doing soon enough, she thought, shaking the silk fabric.

How in the heck was she going to adhere to Odelia’s wishes to learn more about horses if she couldn’t even feed them without messing it up?

Bits of green hay rained down like confetti. She had the stuff down her bra, too. Leaning forward, she scooped the cups out.

“Yuck.”

A knock startled her.

“Go away,” she called out.

He’d probably come to gloat. Evil man.

He knocked again. Louder.

“I said—”

The door opened.

“Hey!” She jerked her blouse in front of her.

“Are you okay?” Odelia asked, the woman’s eyes filled with concern. “Ryan mentioned something about an accident.”

The breath gushed out of her. “I thought you were Ryan.”

“What happened?” Odelia slipped into the room, her eyes darting over Jorie quickly.

“I had hay down my shirt.”

Odelia’s face cleared, a hand lifting to her heart. “That’s it? I thought it was serious.”

“This is serious,” Jorie quickly contradicted. “I feel like I’ve rolled in a briar patch. I’ve got hay in places I didn’t know I could have hay in.”

The hand over her heart lifted to her mouth, Odelia’s mirth clearly visible. “I can’t believe that no-good piece of work otherwise known as my son actually let you feed.”

“I insisted,” Jorie admitted. “I know you want me to learn more about horses and so I thought this might be a simple introduction.”

“It might have been if you hadn’t been in your work clothes. Ridiculous man.”

Jorie was ever so tempted to let Ryan take the fall. She really was. “Actually,” she said, still holding the shirt in front of her. “He did warn me. Kind of.”

“Come here,” Odelia said, motioning with her finger for Jorie to approach.

Jorie didn’t move.

Her new boss tipped her head at her in warning, hands moving to her hips. “Now, now, don’t be modest,” she drawled.

Jorie was completely bemused by the woman’s own outfit. She wore a bright red Western shirt, one with beige piping across the front. There was no fringe today, but she had on the obligatory cowboy hat. Jeans encrusted with rhinestones completed the ensemble. It wouldn’t be so bad, except she’d somehow managed to match the red of her shirt to the red of her lipstick. Not that it looked bad. It was just…unexpected on someone her age.

“Come on,” she urged. “Give me your shirt. I’ve dealt with this problem before. You’re not the first guest who’s found themselves in this predicament.”

Jorie handed over the shirt.

“I’ll go outside and shake it out while you deal with the other problem. And don’t worry. I’ll guard the door against that wretched son of mine.”

But now that Odelia had arrived Jorie had to admit this was her own darn fault. If she hadn’t been so stubborn this would never have happened.

Odelia returned quickly and Jorie felt better already, thanks to her de-hay-manation process, as she’d privately dubbed it. “If I never go near a brick of hay again, it’ll be too soon,” she muttered.

“They’re called flakes, honey, and while I’m grateful that you took my words to heart, you really don’t have to feed the horses.”

Thank God for that.

“Come on,” Odelia added. “Let me show you to the office you’ll be sharing with my son.”

Oh, yeah. The office. She’d forgotten.

Odelia swung the door wide, something brown dashing inside and causing her to step back until she realized it was a dog. The fluffy brown mutt yapped at her and Odelia shushed it, but it was no use. Another dog entered, this one equally small, only it was brown-and-white. Then a third dog entered. This one huge and shaggy. A black-and-white one followed, but it paused in the doorway, nose lifted as if trying to catch her scent.

“Whoa,” Jorie said as the brown-and-white one jumped on her pants.

“Jackson, no,” Odelia said.

Jackson didn’t appear to hear very well. He kept bouncing up and down, the little brown one joining him now. The big brown dog shuffled up along side of her, thrust its head beneath her hand as if asking for a scratch. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the black-and-white dog, nose still lifted, nostrils quivering, its paws taking it ever closer to…

“My quiche,” she cried, darting for the pie plate still atop a shelf.

“Your quiche?” Odelia echoed, only to repeat the words, “your quiche,” and sounding horrified.

Jorie understood why a second later. With the accuracy of a laser-guided weapon, the dog darted.

“Brat, no!” Odelia lunged with a grace of someone in her twenties.

Brat—how appropriate, Jorie had time to think before she, too, made a mad dash for her breakfast.

Brat didn’t appear to care that his name had been called. Nor that the word no had followed that name. Jorie watched as the pie plate slid into the dog’s mouth with an ease that made her gasp.

“No,” Odelia ordered.

The dog, pie plate hanging out of its mouth, glanced at the two humans charging toward him and did what any smart canine would do. He bolted for the door. Jorie tried to catch his collar, but she was nearly knocked off her feet by the big dog who’d suddenly caught the scent of his buddy’s treasure. The two little dogs darted between her legs and Jorie almost fell to the ground. Odelia gave up the chase, turned, shot her a look of apology.

Jorie felt her shoulders slump. She’d really been looking forward to that quiche.

“Was someone looking for this?”

They both turned. Ryan stood by the door, pie plate in hand, although half the quiche was already gone. He smirked.

“Wretched dog,” Odelia said.

When Jorie turned toward Odelia, the woman stared at her son, and it was clear she referred to her son, and not her miscreant canine.