The Wrangler's Bride. Justine Davis
looked up quickly, amazed at how quietly Grant had moved down the hall. She’d barely heard him before he spoke, and she was rarely taken by surprise like that.
“I can see that,” she said. “I’ve dealt with a dog or two in my time. I recognize the look-but-don’t-touch signals.”
“He’s a working dog, not a pet. He’s not looking for friends.”
For an instant, Mercy wondered if there was more to his words than simply a warning about the dog. Then she decided she was looking for things that weren’t there.
“Then far be it for me to trespass,” she said, standing up. The dog continued to look at her, somewhat quizzically now. “But should he change his mind, I trust you won’t have a problem if I don’t reject him?”
“Not likely,” Grant said shortly, leaving Mercy wondering if he was referring to the dog or himself. She smothered a sigh; she didn’t remember him being so prickly.
“Does he have a name?” she asked. “Or is he simply ‘Dog’?”
To her amazement, Grant flushed. “Er…well, he was just Dog for a while. Until he showed us who he was.”
Mercy smiled; what a wonderful way to think of it. “So what name did he earn?”
He seemed relieved, as if he’d expected her to find his answer silly. “Gambler.”
Mercy glanced at the dog, who sat motionless in the same spot she’d first seen him in. “Really? Why?”
Grant smiled then. “He’s a lazy slug when he’s not working. But when he is…he does the work of five hands. And he won’t let anything get in his way. You tell him to move cattle, he moves them. Over, under, around, he’s everywhere, and they keep moving, as if he were a field marshal ordering his troops. I’ve seen him move a small herd a quarter of a mile without ever touching the ground.”
Mercy blinked. “What?”
“He walks on ’em. Jumps. Steer to steer, cow to cow, whatever. Gambles his life on his own sure-footedness. He never stops moving. And neither do they.”
She looked back at the dock-tailed animal, who couldn’t weigh more than forty pounds, if that. “I can see why he has that patrician air, then. He’s earned it.”
“Yes, he has.”
He sounded pleased. And for some reason that made her unable to meet his gaze. She looked at the dog instead, until Grant spoke.
“I thought you might like to look around the place. Get oriented.”
She looked at him then, and wondered why she hadn’t been able to before; there was nothing intimidating about him now. At least, nothing more than his size and muscle, and she was used to that. And she’d handled bigger men than him in her five years on the force.
“I’d like that. And that way I won’t have to bother anyone later.” She gave him a sideways look. She wasn’t sure how much Kristina had told him, and she didn’t want to go into any more details than necessary. “And I promise this will only be for a while. As soon as…they call me, I’ll be on the next plane out, and out of your way.”
He looked at her for a moment. “I…didn’t mean to give you the impression you would be a bother.”
“Of course I will,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t live here, don’t know about life on a ranch, I can’t help but be somewhat of a bother. But I’ll try my best to keep it to a minimum.”
He raised one sandy brow. “You have changed.”
She laughed, realizing as she did so that it was the first time since Nick had died that she’d really, genuinely laughed. She quashed the instant welling of pain that seemed to always be there, ready to swamp her any time she let her guard down and thought of the man who had been so much more to her than just a partner.
“You mean I never used to care if I was a nuisance or not?” she managed to say lightly.
He smiled, as if her laugh had pleased him. “Something like that.”
“Only around you,” she said. “And probably only because it bugged you so much.”
His smiled turned wry. “I had a sneaking suspicion even back then that that was why you did it.”
“If you had really ignored me, I probably would have just gone away.”
“Now she tells me,” Grant said with mock sarcasm.
This time, they both laughed, and Mercy felt a slight lessening of the steady ache she felt as if she’d been carrying forever, although she knew it had been only since the grim night Nick had died in her arms, five weeks ago.
She grabbed up her shearling jacket and tugged it on as they walked down the stairs to the main part of the house. It was a story and a half, in a rambling floor plan which seemed bigger than it probably was, because of the steep pitch of the roof, which was designed for heavy snows. The three bedrooms were tucked up in that well-insulated roof area, to take advantage of the warm air generated by the wood stoves Grant had told her he preferred to rely on.
“We’ve got propane heat,” he’d said as they passed the big storage tank, “but I try not to use it if we don’t have to. Cooking and hot water takes enough.”
“Hot water?” she’d said teasingly. “Kristina told me this was roughing it.”
He’d given her a long look, as if gauging whether she was serious; she’d realized then that he must really think she was a pampered city girl. She hadn’t tried to tell him he was wrong; that wasn’t the kind of thing you proved with talk. She’d just keep out of his way and take care of herself.
“I like long showers,” he’d said, rather shortly, and Mercy had been disconcerted enough at the unexpected images his words caused to be unable to answer. She’d thought herself long past thinking about Grant McClure that way, but there was no denying that the thought of him standing naked in a steamy shower did strange things to her heart rate.
“Everybody keeps an eye on the fire in here during the winter,” he said now, gesturing toward the sizable wood stove that sat on a brick slab in a corner lined with the same brick. “It’s easier to keep the place above freezing than it is to get it warmed up from freezing.”
She shook off the lingering effects of the unwelcome and surprisingly erotic memory. “I’ll bet it is,” she said, noting the sizable stack of wood against the inside wall. “Where’s the woodpile?”
He nodded toward a closed door a few feet from the stove. “There’s a lean-to outside that door. We try to keep enough dry inside to get through a week. If we’re lucky, that’s the longest whiteout blizzard we have.”
She nodded. If he was expecting shock from her at the idea of such weather, he was going to be disappointed. Yes, she lived in the city, but that city was Minneapolis, and she was no stranger to harsh weather. Although as she looked up at the Rockies on the ride out here from Clear Springs, she’d felt a tiny shiver up her spine that made her think that perhaps those mountains had a thing or two to teach anyone about real weather.
“Chipper seems like a nice kid,” she said as she followed Grant out the front door.
“He is just that,” Grant said. “Nice, but a kid. He just signed on full-time after he graduated high school.”
Was there a warning somewhere in those words, Mercy wondered? Or was she again reading things that weren’t there into Grant’s words? She’d hardly been able to miss the boy’s reaction to her, the way he’d blushed and stammered the whole ride back to the ranch. But what did Grant think she was going to do, toy with the affections of an innocent kid? Suddenly the irony of it hit her, and she smiled wryly.
“Lord, did I look at you like that? All cow-eyed and red-faced?”
Grant stopped