The Rancher's Bride. Pamela Britton
In Georgia?
And temporary?
“Are you saying I’ve made a mistake?”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “That’s not what I meant at all. I just think you should be prepared, you know, in case things don’t work out.”
He was telling her not to unpack her bags.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, and she had no doubt he heard the frost in her voice. “But I’m a big girl, one who can take care of herself.”
“No, I think you’ve misunderstood—”
“I understand perfectly,” she contradicted, leaving the car before she said something else, something that really would get her fired from her job.
“Wait.” He got out of the car, too. “You’ll need this.”
He tossed her something. She caught it. A key, although where he’d gotten it from, she didn’t know.
“Thanks,” she said.
“I’ll leave your luggage on the porch.”
She nodded, turning toward her new home. Her hands shook in anger. How dare he try to ruin this for her? Didn’t he realize she had nowhere else to go? No job back in Georgia. No home. This was the end of the road for her.
“Welcome to Spring Hill Ranch,” he called out after her.
She turned on her heel, a descriptive word, one that wasn’t very flattering, hanging off the tip of her tongue.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her chin up in challenge. “I plan on being here for a very, very long time.”
He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. Something that resembled admiration filled his eyes, but she must be imagining that.
“Good for you,” she thought she heard him say.
She held his gaze for another moment before turning away.
Jerk.
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