The Wrangler's Bride

by Justine Davis

  Kate Fortune’s Journal Entry

  Heavens me! Thank goodness the family has discovered Tracey Ducet’s duplicity. I’ve known all along that she was a fake and a gold digger—since the real missing twin was a boy. I’m thrilled she was caught before she did the family serious harm. My biggest worry now is for Jake. I know he’s innocent, and it pains me to watch his suffering from the sidelines. I wish I could help him. I think it’s getting time to come out of hiding. My family needs me, and I can’t let them down.

  A LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR

  Dear Reader,

  It’s said that you pick your friends but you’re stuck with your family. I suppose all of us have thought that at one time or another—some of us more than others—because along with them comes all the chaos families are capable of creating. Unlike many whose own families aren’t the most functional, I’ve been fortunate enough to acquire a marvelous one through marriage. It’s a very large, semirowdy bunch, with a dynamic that is fascinating to watch, and a history that could match even the Fortune clan for drama, tragedy and triumph.

  Coming from a small family, I find large ones intriguing, if a bit intimidating. So I could relate to down-to-earth, only child Grant McClure’s situation, his rueful amusement and amazement at the dramatic family he found himself connected to by marriage. I was delighted to be able to do this story from his perspective, a look at the Fortunes through the eyes of a man who had never really felt like one of them, until an unexpected bequest taught him differently. Adding a heroine I could truly sympathize with, a burnt-out cop who has gone into retreat after the murder of her partner, and tossing in a clownish gentleman of a horse makes for an interesting brew.

  No matter what kind of family you have, I hope you’re finding the Fortunes interesting and that you’ll enjoy this chapter in their saga.

  JUSTINE DAVIS

  The Wrangler’s Bride

  To Paiute Mac—

  the original clown, and the kind of horse you never forget.

  JUSTINE DAVIS

  lives on Puget Sound in Washington. Her interests outside of writing are sailing, doing needlework, horseback riding and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.

  Justine says that years ago, during her career in law enforcement, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was, at the time, occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods of Washington State, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?”

  Meet the Fortunes—three generations of a family with a legacy of wealth, influence and power. As they unite to face an unknown enemy, shocking family secrets are revealed…and passionate new romances are ignited.

  GRANT MCCLURE: Down-to-earth rancher. He has no use for the opposite sex—especially city women who only want him for his good looks and money. But when he finally meets the woman of his dreams, will he accept that she cares for the real him?

  MEREDITH BRADY: Endangered police officer. She is the only witness to a crime, and she’s forced to seek a safe haven on Grant’s Wyoming ranch. Can she overcome her guilt-plagued conscience about her partner’s death and find happiness in Grant’s arms?

  JAKE FORTUNE: Business pressures and his demanding nature broke up his marriage to his devoted wife, Erica. But Jake has seen the error of his ways. Is a reconciliation with his estranged wife possible?

  BRANDON MALONE: Monica Malone’s adopted son. Following his mother’s death, the startling truth about his parentage is uncovered. And this discovery will have repercussions for the Fortune family….

  KRISTINA FORTUNE: Pampered princess. She is used to getting what she wants, especially from men who can’t resist her sexy charm. Is there any man immune to her beauty and brave enough to tame her willful spirit?

  * * *

  LIZ JONES—CELEBRITY GOSSIP

  Listen up, all you fellow gossips! The scandal couldn’t get any juicier! Jake Fortune is in jail. Tracey Ducet—the woman who claimed to be the missing Fortune heiress—is a fake. Brandon Malone is the real lost Fortune twin. And most shocking of all, Ben Fortune—Brandon’s biological father—was responsible for his own son’s kidnapping!

  It’s true what they say—life is stranger than fiction! This is the stuff that Hollywood movies are made of—or at least a good movie of the week. Maybe I should take up screenwriting and submit a script to Brandon, who’s trying to break into the big-budget film business. I wonder who will be cast in the leading roles? Do you suppose we could get Harrison Ford to play Jake? After all, he does have experience playing a fugitive!

  Watching the Fortunes is more entertaining than a soap opera. I, for one, am dying to see the season finale!

  * * *

  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

  Epilogue

  One

  Was she really that good, or was he just that much of a pushover?

  Grant McClure shook his head ruefully as he walked out to the main barn. It was probably a little of both; he’d always fallen in with Kristina Fortune’s maneuvers, even when he’d seen right through them. But his half sister was such a charmer, more full of high spirits than of any real maliciousness, it was hard to say no to her.

  So he hadn’t. And in the process he’d saddled himself with an unwanted guest for the foreseeable future. And at the worst possible time for him, and the ranch.

  With a smothered sigh, he leaned against the stall door as he listened to the ranch truck pulling away. Young Chipper Jenkins had been torn, excited about being trusted with the new truck, yet a bit disgruntled at being sent on such a non-cowboy errand to pick up some dude-type woman in town.

  “Hey!”

  Startled, Grant grabbed at his dark brown Stetson, suddenly canted forward over his brow. He whirled as a nicker that could only be described as amused came from the big horse behind him.

  “Darn it, Joker, knock it…off.”

  He ended the exclamation rather sheepishly as he heard his own words in the context of what the big Appaloosa stallion had done—gleefully nudged the wide-brimmed hat down over Grant’s eyes until it hit the bridge of his nose.

  He glared at the horse. The stallion shook his head vigorously, his black forelock flopping over the white patch above one eye, the unusual marking that gave him a faintly clownish look, matching the unexpectedly playful personality that had given rise to his nickname of Joker. The horse snorted, and bobbed his head as if in pleased enthusiasm for the success of his prank.

  And Grant’s glare became a grin.

  “Darn you, you worthless nag,” he muttered.

  He didn’t mean it. The beautifully marked stallion was one of the most nearly flawless horses he’d ever seen. Perfect conformation, power, speed, endurance, he had it all—coupled with a heart as big as the Rockies, a personality that charmed, and the apparent ability to pass his quality on to his foals. The big Appy was any horseman’s dream.

  And a dream Grant McClure had never expected to come true in a million years.

  Thank you, Kate, he whispered to himself, not for the first time. I don’t know why you did it, but thanks.

  “Come on, you big clown,” he said, reaching up to ru
b his knuckles under the horse’s jaw in the way he’d learned early on the big animal loved. “Let’s get you some work before you go soft on me.”

  Joker snorted in agreement, and bobbed his head eagerly. Or so it seemed, Grant amended silently, wondering at his continuing tendency to anthropomorphize this animal, something he never did. Except maybe with Gambler, the quick, clever Australian shepherd who was as much a hand on the M Double C ranch as anyone else. But the big Appy seemed to invite the human comparisons, and after a year and a half of dealing with the horse, Grant had finally quit fighting the impulse.

  Nearly two hours later, as satisfied as any man could be with Joker’s willing, polished performance, he turned the horse out for a well-deserved romp in the big corral behind the main barn. It would make for a bigger cleanup job after the horse inevitably rolled in the dirt, but he’d earned the back-scratching pleasure, Grant thought. Besides, it was late November, and once they’d eaten the Thanksgiving turkey down to the bone, cold weather was generally here for good in the Wyoming high country; soon there’d be nothing but snow to roll in. It was a little surprising that they’d had few storms already, and far enough apart that the snow had time to melt in between.

  But it wouldn’t be long before the white stuff was here to stay, and lots of it. And then he and all the hands would be working to sheer exhaustion just to keep the stock alive through the Wyoming winter, and the last thing he needed was to have to nursemaid some big-city girl who—

  The sound of the ranch’s truck returning cut in on his thoughts.

  “Here goes,” he muttered to himself, slinging Joker’s bridle over his shoulder and reversing his steps to go greet his visitor; it had been rude enough not to go himself to pick her up, but he had—perhaps childishly—drawn the line at dancing to Kristina’s manipulating tune there.

  He saw Chipper first. Standing beside the driver’s door of the mud-spattered blue pickup, the young man was grinning widely, his face flushed, and looking utterly dazzled. Grant frowned. And then he saw the obvious reason for the young hand’s expression; the woman who had scrambled without help from the high truck’s passenger seat. Long blond hair, pulled back in a ponytail, bounced as she walked around the front of the truck. She was wearing jeans and a heavy sheepskin jacket, and was seemingly unbothered by the briskness of the air.

  She came to a halt when she spotted him, her eyes widening slightly. Grant knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself; he hadn’t expected this.

  She was small, at least from Grant’s six-foot viewpoint, and not just in height; from her pixieish face to a pair of very small feet encased in tan lace-up boots, every inch of her looked delicate, almost fragile. And the dark circles that shadowed her eyes only added to the overall air of fragility. She looked tired. More than tired, weary, a weariness that went far beyond the physical. Grant felt an odd tug somewhere deep inside; his father had looked like that in the painful days before his death five years ago.

  She was looking at him, that fatigue dimming eyes that should have been a vivid green into a flat dullness.

  “Hello, Grant.”

  Her voice was soft, husky, and held an undertone that matched what he’d seen in her eyes.

  “Hello, Mercy,” he said quietly.

  She smiled at the old nickname, but the smile didn’t reach those haunted eyes. “No one’s called me that since you quit coming home summers.”

  “Minneapolis was never my home. It was just where my mother was.”

  She glanced around, as if trying to take in the vastness of the wild landscape with eyes used to the steel-and-concrete towers of the city, not the granite-and-snow towers of the Rocky Mountains.

  “No, this was always home for you, wasn’t it?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Always.”

  His voice rang with a fervency he didn’t try to hide. He’d known from the time he was a child that this place was a deep, inseparable part of him, that its wild, elemental beauty called to something so intrinsic to him that he would never be able to—or want to—resist.

  “So this is what you always had to go back to. I think I understand now.”

  She sighed. It was a tiny sound, more visible than audible. He’d thought, when Kristina told him Meredith Brady had become, of all things, a cop, that she must have grown a lot since that last summer, when she was a pesky, tenacious fourteen-year-old and the same height as his two-years-younger half sister. She hadn’t. If she’d gained more than an inch in the twelve years since, he’d be surprised. She couldn’t be more than fifteen-two, he thought, judging with an eye more used to calculating height on horses than on people. Especially women.

  “You’ve…changed,” he said. And it was true; he remembered her as a live-wire girl who had looked a great deal like his half sister, except for green eyes in place of Kristina’s pale blue, a girl with a lot of energy but not much stature. The stature hadn’t changed much, but the energy had; it seemed nowhere in evidence now.

  “Changed, but not grown, is that it?” she said, sounding rueful.

  “Well,” he said reasonably, “you haven’t. Much.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re the one who grew four inches in one summer.”

  Grant’s mouth quirked. That had been an awkward summer, when his fifteen-year-old body decided now was the time and shot him to his full six feet in a spurt that indeed seemed to happen in a three-month span. He’d been embarrassed at his sudden gawkiness and the clumsiness that ensued, and the fact that none of his clothes fit anymore, but even more embarrassed by the fascination the change seemed to hold for his half sister’s annoyingly omnipresent best friend.

  “Amazing I grew at all, with you glued to my heels, Meredith Cecelia.”

  She winced. “Ouch. Please, stick with just Meredith. Or Meri.”

  She gave him a sideways look. He read it easily, and laughed.

  “Or Mercy?” he suggested. “Or rather, ‘No Mercy’?”

  He’d been rather proud of his own cleverness in coining the name for her when they met that first summer so long ago, combining her first and middle names and his own irritation at her tenaciousness in following him around.

  “You always were annoyingly proud of coming up with that,” she said dryly.

  “It fit,” he pointed out. “You never would leave me alone. Every time I came to visit Mom, you were always hanging around. I’ll never forget that time you followed me to the ice rink and got stuck in the turn-stile.”

  “I was only twelve,” she explained with some dignity. “And I had a huge crush on you, after you saved me from those boys who were teasing me.”

  Grant blinked. He’d guessed she had a crush on him—it hadn’t been hard, with the quicksilver girl dogging virtually his every step each summer he came to visit—but he hadn’t realized it had started then. He remembered finding her that first summer, cornered by the two bigger boys, her chin up proudly, despite the tears welling from her eyes. He’d chased her tormentors away, then walked her home. She’d said nothing until they got to her house, and then only a quiet thank-you. But now that he thought about it, that was about the time she had become his ever-present shadow.

  “They were just a couple of bullies,” he said.

  “And you were my white knight,” she returned softly.

  Grant winced; he wasn’t hero material, not even for an impressionable child.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, as if in answer to his expression. She smiled widely—a better smile this time, one that almost brightened her eyes to the vivid green he remembered. “I got over it long ago. Once I grew up enough to realize I’d fallen for a pretty face without knowing a thing about the man behind it, I recovered quite nicely. Thank goodness.”

  “Oh.”

  It came out rather flatly, and Grant’s mouth quirked again. Was he feeling flattered that she’d admitted to that long-ago crush? Or miffed that she’d gotten over it so thoroughly? And seemed so cheerful about it? He nearly
laughed; hadn’t he had enough of women enamored purely of his looks? And more than enough of those who, when they found out there was a comfortable amount of money behind the McClure name, became even more enamored?

  At least Mercy had never been that kind of female; even at her adoring worst as a child, she’d never fawned on him. She’d been too much a tomboy for that, an unexpected trait in such a delicate-looking little pixie. A tiny dynamo with a blond ponytail, she’d merely followed him. Everywhere.

  She still had the ponytail. But the tomboy had grown up. And there was no denying that the gamine features that had once reminded him of a mischievous imp were now enchanting. Big eyes, turned-up nose, sassy chin…Meredith Brady had become a beautiful woman. A very beautiful woman. No wonder Chipper had looked dazed.

  Chipper. Who was standing there with wide eyes and wider ears, Grant thought wryly, listening to this entire exchange. And stealing shy but eager glances at Mercy, who seemed utterly unaware of the eighteen-year-old’s fascination.

  Which didn’t mean, Grant told himself sternly, that he had any excuse for standing here staring at her himself. And the fact that he had been alone for a long time wasn’t any justification for the sudden acceleration of his pulse, either. This was the bane of his teenage existence, after all. No Mercy, the pest. Just because she’d grown into a lovely adult didn’t mean a thing. Not a darn thing. But he did wonder if she ever let down that ponytail, and how the silky-looking hair would fall if she did.

  “Get on those salt blocks,” he instructed the young hand firmly. “I’ll show her up to the house.”

  Chipper looked crestfallen. “I was gonna carry her bags up for her—”

  “I can manage,” she said. “There’s not that much. I tend to travel light.”

  “But I—”