Country Brides

by Debbie Macomber

  DEBBIE MACOMBER

  Country Brides

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Country Bride

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  One

  “Help! Fire!” Rorie Campbell cried as she leaped out of the small foreign car. Smoke billowed from beneath the hood, rising like a burnt offering to a disgruntled god. Rorie ran across the road, and a black and white cow ambled through the pasture toward her, stopping at the split-rail fence. Soulful brown eyes studied her, as if the cow wondered what all the commotion was about.

  “It’s not even my car,” Rorie said, pointing in the direction of the vehicle. “All of a sudden smoke started coming out.”

  The cow regarded her blankly, chewing its cud, then returned lazily to the shade of a huge oak tree.

  “I think it’s on fire. Dan’s going to kill me for this,” Rorie muttered as she watched the uninterested animal saunter away. “I don’t know what to do.” There was no water in sight and even if there had been, Rorie didn’t have any way of hauling it to the car. She was so desperate, she was talking to a cow—and she’d almost expected the creature to advise her.

  “Howdy.”

  Rorie whirled around to discover a man astride a chestnut stallion. Silhouetted against the warm afternoon sun, he looked like an apparition smiling down at her from the side of the hill opposite Dan’s car.

  “Hello.” Rorie’s faith in a benign destiny increased tenfold in that moment. “Boy, am I glad to see another human being.” She’d been on this road for the past two hours and hadn’t encountered another car in either direction.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Leather creaked as the man swung out of the saddle with an ease that bespoke years of experience.

  “I…I don’t know,” Rorie said, flapping her hands in frustration. “Everything was going just great when all of a sudden the car started smoking like crazy.”

  “That’s steam.”

  “Steam! You mean the car isn’t on fire?”

  The man flipped the reins over his horse’s head and walked toward the hood of the sports car. It was then that Rorie realized the man wasn’t a man at all, but a boy. Sixteen, or possibly a little older. Not that Rorie was particular. She was just grateful someone had stopped. “A friend of mine insisted I drive his MGB up to Seattle.” She sighed. “I should’ve known that if anything went wrong, I’d be at a total loss about what to do. I should’ve known…”

  The boy whipped a large blue-starred hankie from the hip pocket of his faded jeans and used it to protect his hand while he raised the hood of her car. The instant he did, a great white cloud of steam swirled up like mist from a graveyard in a horror movie.

  “I…thought I’d take the scenic route,” Rorie explained, frantically waving her hand in front of her face to dispel the vapor. “The man at the gas station a hundred miles back said this is beautiful country. He said I’d miss some of the best scenery in Oregon if I stuck to the freeway.” Rorie knew she was chattering, but she’d never experienced this type of situation before or felt quite so helpless.

  “It’s not only the best scenery in the state, it tops the whole country, if you ask me,” the boy murmured absently while he examined several black hoses beneath the raised hood.

  Rorie looked at her watch and moaned. If she wasn’t in Seattle before six, she’d lose her hotel reservation. This vacation wasn’t starting out well—not at all. And she’d had such high expectations for the next two weeks.

  “I think you’ve got a leak in your water pump,” the teenager stated, sounding as though he knew what he was talking about. “But it’s hard to tell with all that fancy stuff they got in these foreign cars. Clay can tell you for sure.”

  “Clay?”

  “My brother.”

  “Is he a mechanic?” Rorie’s hopes soared.

  “He’s done his share of working on cars, but he’s not a mechanic.”

  Rorie gnawed on her lower lip as her spirits plummeted again. Her first concern was getting to a phone. She’d make the necessary arrangements to have the car repaired and then call the hotel to ask if they’d hold her room. Depending on how close she was to the nearest town, Rorie figured it would take an hour for a tow truck to arrive and then another for it to get her car to a garage. Once there, the repairs shouldn’t take too long. Just how hard could it be to fix a water pump?

  “How far is it to a phone?”

  The young man grinned and pointed toward his horse. “Just over that ridge…”

  Rorie relaxed. At least that part wasn’t going to be much of a problem.

  “…about ten miles,” he finished.

  “Ten miles?” Rorie leaned her weight against the side of the car. This was the last time she’d ever take the scenic route and the last time she’d ever let Dan talk her into borrowing his car!

  “Don’t worry, you won’t have to walk. Venture can handle both of us. You don’t look like you weigh much.”

  “Venture?” Rorie was beginning to feel like an echo.

  “My horse.”

  Rorie’s gaze shifted to the stallion, who had lowered his head to sample the tall hillside grass. Now that she had a chance to study him, she realized what an extraordinarily large animal he was. Rorie hadn’t been on the back of a horse since she was a child. Somehow, the experience of riding a pony in a slow circle with a bunch of other six-year-olds didn’t lend her much confidence now.

  “You…you want me to ride double with you?” She was wearing a summer dress and mounting a horse might prove…interesting. She eyed the stallion, wondering how she could manage to climb into the saddle and still maintain her dignity.

  “You wearing a dress and all could make that difficult.” The boy rubbed the side of his jaw, frowning doubtfully.

  “I could wait here until someone else comes along,” she offered.

  He used his index finger to set his snap-brim hat further back on his head. “You might do that,” he drawled, “but it could be another day or so—if you’re lucky.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “I suppose I could head back to the house and grab the pickup,” he suggested.

  It sounded like a stroke of genius to Rorie. “Would you? Listen, I’d be more than happy to pay you for your time.”

  He gave her an odd look. “Why would you want to do that? I’m only doing the neighborly thing.”

  Rorie smiled at him. She’d lived in San Francisco most of her life. She loved everything about the City by the Bay, but she couldn’t have named the couple in the apartment next door had her life depended on it. People in the city kept to themselves.

  “By the way,” he said, wiping his hands with the bright blue handkerchief, “the name’s Skip. Skip Franklin.”

  Rorie eagerly shook his hand, overwhelmingly grateful that he’d happened along when he did. “Rorie Campbell.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Me too, Skip.”

  The teenager grin
ned. “Now you stay right here and I’ll be back before you know it.” He paused, apparently considering something else. “You’ll be all right by yourself, won’t you?”

  “Oh, sure, don’t worry about me.” She braced her feet wide apart and held up her hands in the classic karate position. “I can take care of myself. I’ve had three self-defence lessons.”

  Skip chuckled, ambled toward Venture and swung up into the saddle. Within minutes he’d disappeared over the ridge.

  Rorie watched him until he was out of sight, then walked over to the grassy hillside and sat down, arranging her dress carefully around her knees. The cow she’d been conversing with earlier glanced in her direction and Rorie felt obliged to explain. “He’s gone for help,” she called out. “Said it was the neighborly thing to do.”

  The animal mooed loudly.

  Rorie smiled. “I thought so, too.”

  An hour passed, and it seemed the longest of Rorie’s life. With the sun out in full force now, she felt as if she was wilting more by the minute. Just when she began to suspect that Skip Franklin had been a figment of her overwrought imagination, she heard a loud chugging sound. She leaped to her feet and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked down the road. It was Skip, sitting on a huge piece of farm equipment, heading straight toward her.

  Rorie gulped. Her gallant rescuer had come to get her on a tractor!

  Skip removed his hat and waved it. Even from this distance, she could see his grin.

  Rorie feebly returned the gesture, but her smile felt brittle. Of the two modes of transportation, she would have preferred the stallion. Good grief, there was only one seat on the tractor. Where exactly did Skip plan for her to sit? On the engine?

  Once he’d reached the car, he parked the tractor directly in front of it. “Clay said we should tow the car to our place instead of leaving it on the road. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Whatever he thinks is best.”

  “He’ll be along any minute,” Skip explained, jumping down from his perch. He used a hook and chain to connect the sports car to the tractor. “Clay had a couple of things he needed to do first.”

  Rorie nodded, grateful her options weren’t so limited after all.

  A few minutes later, she heard the sound of another vehicle. This time it was a late-model truck in critical need of a paint job. Rust showed through on the left front fender, which had been badly dented.

  “That’s Clay now,” Skip announced, nodding toward the winding road.

  Rorie busied herself brushing bits of grass from the skirt of her dress. When she’d finished, she looked up to see a tall muscular man sliding from the driver’s side of the pickup. He was dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, and his hat was pulled low over his forehead, shading his eyes. Rorie’s breath caught in her throat as she noticed his grace of movement—a thoroughly masculine grace. Something about Clay Franklin grabbed her imagination. He embodied everything she’d ever linked with the idea of an outdoorsman, a man’s man. She could imagine him taming a wilderness or forging an empire. In his clearly defined features she sensed a strength that reminded her of the land itself. The spellbinding quality of his steel-gray eyes drew her own and held them for a long moment. His nose had a slight curve, as though it had been broken once. He smiled, and a tingling sensation Rorie couldn’t explain skittered down her spine.

  His eyes still looked straight into hers and his hands rested on his lean hips. “Looks as if you’ve got yourself into a predicament here.” His voice was low, husky—and slightly amused.

  His words seemed to wrap themselves around Rorie’s throat, choking off any intelligent reply. Her lips parted, but to her embarrassment nothing came out.

  Clay smiled and the fine lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes crinkled appealingly.

  “Skip thinks it might be the water pump,” she said, pointing at the MGB. The words came out weak and rusty and Rorie felt even more foolish. She’d never had a man affect her this way. He wasn’t really even handsome. Not like Dan Rogers. No, Clay wasn’t the least bit like Dan, who was urbane and polished—and very proud of his little MGB.

  “From the sounds of it, Skip’s probably right.” Clay walked over to the car, which his brother had connected to the tractor. He twisted the same black hose Skip had earlier and shook his head. Next he checked to see that the bumper of Dan’s car was securely fastened to the chain. He nodded, lightly slapping his brother’s back in approval. “Nice work.”

  Skip beamed under his praise.

  “I assume you’re interested in finding a phone. There’s one at the house you’re welcome to use,” Clay said, looking at Rorie.

  “Thank you.” Her heart pounded in her ears and her stomach felt queasy. This reaction was so unusual for her. Normally she was a calm, levelheaded twenty-four-year-old, not a flighty teenager who didn’t know how to act when an attractive male happened to glance in her direction.

  Clay walked around to the passenger side of the pickup and held open the door. He waited for Rorie, then gave her his hand to help her climb inside. The simple action touched her; it had been a long time since anyone had shown her such unselfconscious courtesy.

  Then Clay walked to the driver’s side and hoisted himself in. He started the engine, which roared to life immediately, and shifted gears.

  “I apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused you,” Rorie said stiffly, after several moments of silence.

  “It’s no problem,” Clay murmured, concentrating on his driving, doing just the speed limit and not a fraction more.

  They’d been driving for about ten minutes when Clay turned off the road and through a huge log archway with ELK RUN lettered across the top. Lush green pastures flanked the private road, and several horses were grazing calmly in one of them. Rorie knew next to nothing about horse breeds, but whatever these were revealed a grace and beauty that was apparent even to her untrained eye.

  The next thing Rorie noticed was the large two-story house with a wide wraparound veranda on which a white wicker swing swayed gently. Budding rosebushes lined the meandering brick walkway.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said softly. Rorie would have expected something like this in the bluegrass hills of Kentucky, not on the back roads of Oregon.

  Clay made no comment.

  He drove past the house and around the back toward the largest stable Rorie had ever seen. The sprawling wood structure must have had room for thirty or more horses.

  “You raise horses?” she said.

  A smile moved through his eyes like distant light. “That’s one way of putting it. Elk Run is a stud farm.”

  “Quarter horses?”

  That was the only breed that came to mind.

  “No. American Saddlebreds.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them before.”

  “Probably not,” Clay said, not unkindly.

  He parked the truck, helped Rorie down and led her toward the back of the house.

  “Mary,” he called, holding the screen door for Rorie to precede him into the large country kitchen. She was met with the smell of cinnamon and apples. The delectable aroma came from a freshly baked pie, cooling on the counter. A black Labrador retriever slept on a braided rug. He raised his head and thumped his tail gently when Clay stepped over to him and bent down to scratch the dog’s ears. “This is Blue.”

  “Hi, Blue,” Rorie said, realizing the dog had probably been a childhood pet. He looked well advanced in years.

  “Mary doesn’t seem to be around.”

  “Mary’s your wife?”

  “Housekeeper,” Clay informed her. “I’m not married.”

  That small piece of information gladdened Rorie’s heart and she instantly felt foolish. Okay, so she was attracted to this man with eyes as gray as a San Francisco sky, but that didn’t change a thing. If her plans went according to schedule, she’d be in and out of his life within hours.

  “Mary’s probably upstairs,” Clay said when the housek
eeper didn’t answer. “There’s a phone on the wall.” He pointed to the other side of the kitchen.

  While Rorie retrieved her AT&T card from her eel-skin wallet, Clay crossed to the refrigerator and took out a brightly colored ceramic pitcher.

  “Iced tea?” he asked.

  “Please.” Her throat felt parched. She had to swallow several times before she could make her call.

  As she spoke on the phone, Clay took two tall glasses from a cupboard and half filled them with ice cubes. He poured in the tea, then added thin slices of lemon.

  Rorie finished her conversation and walked over to the table. Sitting opposite Clay, she reached for the drink he’d prepared. “That was my hotel in Seattle. They won’t be able to hold the room past six.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be space in another,” he said confidently.

  Rorie nodded, although she thought that was unlikely. She was on her way to a writers’ conference, one for which she’d paid a hefty fee, and she hated to miss one minute of it. Every hotel in the city was said to be filled.

  “I’ll call the garage in Nightingale for you,” Clay offered.

  “Is that close by?”

  “About five miles down the road.”

  Rorie was relieved. She’d never heard of Nightingale and was grateful to learn it had a garage. After all, the place was barely large enough to rate a mention on the road map.

  “Old Joe’s been working on cars most of his life. He’ll do a good job for you.”

  Rorie nodded again, not knowing how else to respond.

  Clay quickly strode to the phone, punched out the number and talked for a few minutes. He was frowning when he replaced the receiver. Rorie wanted to question him, but before she could, he grabbed an impossibly thin phone book and dialed a second number. His frown was deeper by the time he’d completed the call.