The Wrangler's Bride

by Justine Davis

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means they’re probably the hind feet, and we’ve got a bigger problem than I can handle. Try and keep her calm, will you? She’s pretty tired, but she might kick me anyway for what I’m about to do.”

  Mercy saw him kneel behind the horse, and when she realized how he meant to check on the foal, literally by feel, she winced.

  “I certainly would,” she muttered under her breath as she dropped to her knees beside the mare’s head. Not sure what to do, she simply began to stroke the mare’s sweat-dampened neck, and to talk. She adopted the same tone she used with Joker, a crooning sort of teasing, saying whatever came to mind, but always in that same soothing voice.

  “Of course, he’s just a man, what does he know about it, right, honey? But he’s going to help you, really he is, and your baby, and everything will be just fine, sweetie, you just hang on…”

  It was taking forever. She couldn’t look at Grant, couldn’t bear to see what he was doing. The mare flailed once, and she heard him bite out a short curse, and wondered if one of the hooves had caught him. But he didn’t move away, and she just continued to pet and croon to the animal.

  At last she heard him let out a grunt of satisfaction. She gave the mare a final pat, and then looked up at him; he was wiping off his arm and looking rather pleased.

  “Okay, girl, it’s up to you now.”

  “What was it? It wasn’t backward?”

  “No. Just a foreleg bent back. Should be okay now—I think I got it in the right position.” He reached over and flipped the extra lantern off, then got up and did the same with the other. When she looked at him questioningly, he explained, “The foal won’t like that bright light.”

  Before he even finished the words, it had begun. The mare, as if revitalized by the realization that her pushing was no longer futile, gave several small grunts. A membrane-covered shape began to emerge. Mercy held her breath. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t tidy, but it was a miracle nevertheless. In what seemed like no time at all, the tiny creature—all legs, it seemed—was sprawled on the straw. The living image of its father, dramatic white blanket and all.

  Grant moved swiftly but without haste, to avoid startling either the weary mother or the equally weary newborn. With the remaining clean towels he had warmed with the lamp, he wiped down the foal, standing under the heat lamp’s glow. She watched as he gently, almost tenderly, handled the tiny horse, attending to the umbilical cord, then carefully lifting the foal and setting it down near the mare’s head. Exhausted as she was, the mare nuzzled her baby.

  “Take it easy, Mama,” Grant whispered. “She’s here, and okay, and you both need to rest. You had a tough time.”

  “Is it?” Mercy asked softly. “A she?” She hadn’t been close enough to tell in the faint light.

  Grant glanced at her and grinned. But his voice was equally soft as he told her, “It is. She’s going to be the prettiest filly in the county, with her mama’s conformation and her daddy’s coat.”

  She smiled back at him, feeling almost deliriously happy, and a little embarrassed at the fierceness of her response to this event, and the sight of the little horse, the new life that had not been here before. New life. The cycle continuing. Life and death and life…And she knew in that instant that she was going to be all right. That although she would never forget Nick, would never cease feeling his loss, she would go on. She would find joy and pleasure in life again, somehow, sometime. She might be as shaky as this newborn foal, but she would survive. As Nick would have wanted her to survive.

  A little dazed by this revelation, Mercy stayed silent, watching. She’d thought it was over, but she found she’d been vastly mistaken. There was, apparently, still much work to do. Grant swiftly and efficiently cleaned up the soiled bedding, disposed of the afterbirth, and in between gave the mare sips of lukewarm water. Then he tossed down a small amount of alfalfa hay for her. This took some time, and by the time he was done, the mare had gotten to her feet. He seemed to relax a little at this, but he kept moving, gently washing the mare’s udder in preparation for the foal’s first effort at nursing.

  At last he stepped outside the stall and closed the door, saying rest and quiet were the best things for mother and baby now. But he stayed, watching carefully from outside, and Mercy could see from his expression that he was still concerned for the animals, after the delayed birth. The minutes ticked by, until Mercy guessed at least an hour had passed since the foal had been born.

  Gambler, who had been sitting quietly out of the way, now came over and sat at their feet.

  “Good boy,” Grant murmured, reaching down to tickle the dog’s ears, but still never taking his eyes off the occupants of the stall.

  “More than that,” Mercy said, dropping down beside the shepherd and looking into the blue and brown eyes. “You were wonderful.”

  Gambler gave a low whine, as if mindful of the need for quiet. But it was unmistakably a welcoming sound, and Mercy risked a quick rub behind the dog’s ears. He allowed it, as if even he felt the specialness of the occasion.

  “Mercy.”

  She straightened at the sound of Grant’s voice, wondering at the pleased undertone. He wasn’t looking at her, he was staring into the stall. She looked. In time to see the foal, her tiny hooves spread far apart for balance, wobbling on her ungainly, spindly legs. But she was up.

  Then she went down in a heap. Mercy made a sound of dismay, but Grant put a hand on her arm in reassurance. And even as he did, the foal struggled up again, and this time managed to stay upright.

  “Good,” Grant said in satisfaction. “She was only tired after the birth. Nothing seems to be wrong. Now if she can just find breakfast…”

  It took the ungainly baby a few tries, but with some softly whickered encouragement from the mare, the foal found her way and was soon nursing hungrily. This last hurdle overcome, Mercy felt the tension flow out of Grant as if it were a tangible thing.

  She glanced at his face. He was smiling, a soft, pleased, quiet kind of smile. And something about it made her go quivery inside. Twelve years ago, Kristina had always teased her when she said she didn’t like Grant just because he was good-looking, that she liked what he was on the inside, as well as the outside. Her friend hadn’t believed it, but Mercy knew that it was this Grant, the Grant who really cared, that she had sensed was there even then.

  Mercy looked at them—mother, baby, man and dog. Grant glanced at her. Something in her expression made him stare. And then, blinking rapidly, she turned and ran out of the barn before the tears began to flow down her cheeks.

  Grant McClure, she thought, was an amazing man.

  And this was the most beautiful Christmas Eve she’d ever spent.

  Ten

  “Any of that brandy-laced fruit juice left?”

  The call came from the living room. She wasn’t really surprised; Grant should be tired, after the interruption to his sleep, but then, so should she, and she didn’t feel the slightest bit sleepy. Not after the small miracle of life they’d witnessed tonight.

  “I’m heating it up now,” she called, and added teasingly, “You weren’t kidding about long showers. I was afraid I was going to have to come see if you were still alive in there.”

  “I wish you had.”

  His voice was low, husky, heart-stoppingly suggestive—and very, very close. Mercy jumped, startled that once again he’d managed to get so close without her knowing. She was getting rusty; too relaxed, that was what it was. All her well-trained instincts were being lulled by this peaceful place—

  And then all thought fled as she turned around. He was barely two feet away, and clad only in a low-slung pair of jeans. A towel was slung around his neck, and his hair was still wet, slicked back from his face and making the rugged squareness of his jaw even more apparent. His bare feet explained the lack of warning footsteps. But nothing could explain the way her heart began to hammer at the sight of his bare chest and belly, the way her eye
s drank in the lean, solid muscles of his arms. Nothing except the explanation she was afraid to accept, that Grant McClure was now and always had been the only man ever to truly move her. In all the ways a woman wanted, needed, to be moved.

  And the idea that she’d somehow sensed that even at twelve was nothing less than frightening.

  I wish you had….

  His softly spoken, unmistakably sensual words echoed in her head, and the images they evoked took her breath away.

  As if he’d read her thoughts, as if he knew she’d just played back his words in her head, he stepped closer, cornering her against the counter, and added in an even softer, more provocative tone, “You could have joined me.”

  She gasped. Her eyes widened, and she knew she was staring at him, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d never done such a thing, but somehow her imagination was supplying vivid—and erotic—visions of her slipping naked into the shower with Grant. Of how he would look, water streaming over the taut planes and hollows of his body, of how his skin, slick with wetness, would feel beneath her hands.

  As if the images had become tactile, as well as visual, her hands curled, her nails digging into her palms, to ease the sudden itch she felt, the sudden need to touch him. It was all she could do not to lift her hands and press them against his chest, the chest that was so very close, so close she could feel the heat of him reaching her in waves. She knew what he would feel like, heavy satin stretched over tensile muscles, and the knowledge only made it harder for her to keep from reaching to do it. But he’d pulled away from her before, and she didn’t know if she could deal with him doing it again.

  “And if you keep looking at me like that,” he said gruffly, “we’re going to be right back where we were last night.”

  Her breath caught. “But…”

  “Have you changed your mind?” he asked, a little abruptly.

  It would end, here and now, if she said yes. She knew that, knew it deep down in that part of her soul where she kept the few things left in her life that she trusted utterly. Her faith in her own courage had once been kept there, as well; she didn’t know where it was now. But no matter her loss of faith in herself, she had never lost faith in Grant’s honor; he would never, ever force himself on or seduce a hesitant woman. Even if he knew he could overcome her reservations with just one more searing, burning kiss.

  But if she said she’d changed her mind, it would be a lie. And a cowardly one, at that.

  “I… You’re the one who…stopped,” she reminded him, then wondered what on earth she was doing, provoking him, when she should be scurrying for the safety of her room. Although closing the door on the man wouldn’t close the door on the feelings he roused in her. No door, real or imagined, was strong enough or solid enough to do that.

  “I stopped last night because I thought it was for the wrong reasons. Because you needed to…throw life back in death’s face,” he said. “I didn’t want you to…regret it later.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Because now,” he said, in that same soft, husky voice that made her shiver, “I think you want to celebrate life.”

  He took that last half step, and she felt the press of his solid, strong body against hers. She shivered, which made no sense to her, since he was so impossibly, incredibly warm.

  “I saw your face in the barn, Mercy,” he sad. “You really felt the miracle, didn’t you? New life, replacing old, the circle unbroken…animals or people, it’s the same. It goes on. And you’ll go on. You realized that tonight, didn’t you?”

  She supposed she should startled by his perception, but she wasn’t. It didn’t seem at all odd to her that this man had seemingly read perfectly the revelation that had left her more than a little dazed.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice low and quiet. “I’ll never stop missing Nick, but I’ll go on. I owe him that much. I’ll go on. And it will be worth it.”

  “You’ll do more than go on, Mercy. You’ll be happy again. You’ll go back to your work, and you’ll find satisfaction in it again. You’ll heal, Mercy. There will always be the scar, but it will never, ever hurt you as much again.”

  “Celebrate life…” She whispered the words he’d said, as if they were a prayer. As, perhaps, they were.

  “Yes,” Grant said. “And that’s the best reason I can think of for this.”

  She knew in the instant before he moved that he was going to kiss her. And almost as quickly, her body reacted, as if it had known this man’s kisses for years. At the same time, she felt as if all the fantasizing she’d done as that infatuated child had been a poor prelude to the sizzling, powerful reality. Nothing in her life had ever prepared her for the feel of his mouth on hers, for the heat generated in her by his coaxing lips, for the powerful jolt that shot through her when his tongue swept past her parted lips and darted into her mouth, tasting, teasing, tempting.

  Nothing ever could have prepared her; she couldn’t be prepared for something she hadn’t known was possible. She’d thought herself more familiar than most with her own body and its reactions; she’d had to work it to peak physical condition, she’d pushed it to almost every limit there was, she’d put it under incredible stress, both physical and mental, and thought she’d learned her own limits.

  Until Grant McClure kissed her, and taught her that in this, there were no limits.

  With a growling sound, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against his bare chest. Her breath left her in a rush at the feel of it, at the solid wall of flesh, at the sleek heat of his skin. She lifted her hands, helplessly, needing to touch him more than she’d ever needed anything in her life. Her fingers slid over the hot satin of his skin, tingled at the roughness of the scattering of hair over his chest.

  She brushed over his nipples and heard him suck in a quick breath in the same instant. Her own nipples hardened in reaction as an image of him doing the same to her flashed through her mind.

  Grant deepened the kiss, probing, tasting, and when he withdrew she followed willingly, eagerly, searching the depths of his mouth just as he had hers. She felt a shudder ripple through him as her tongue stroked his, and an echoing convulsion swept her as his hands slid down to her hips and urged her even closer.

  Although he made no effort to hide it, it was a moment before she realized the significance of the pressure she was feeling against her belly. Tentatively, barely realizing what she was doing, she shifted her body, pressing against that masculine hardness. Grant stiffened, and his hands clutched at her waist as a throttled groan broke from him. The sound gave her an odd sort of thrill; she’d never thought much about this kind of power before, perhaps because she’d always been so focused on the purely physical power necessary to do her job. Or perhaps because she’d never really wielded this kind of power before, the kind of feminine power that brought a strong man to this kind of desperation.

  Grant broke the kiss, and for a moment stood staring down at her, a wildness in his eyes that electrified her, because she knew it was for her.

  “Grant,” she whispered.

  “Tell me,” he said hoarsely, his breathing coming in harsh gulps. “Because if we’re going to stop…it has to be now.”

  One last, tiny reservation nagged at her. “I’m still a city girl, Grant. And you don’t like them much.”

  “I know. And I know you’ll go back. But city girl or not, you’re a diamond, Mercy. Pure and clear and flawless.”

  She was hardly that, but this didn’t seem the moment to correct him.

  “A man doesn’t often get a chance to hold a diamond like that,” he said. “But when he does…nothing else matters.”

  He kissed her again, deeply, thoroughly, until her skin tingled and her every sense soared. She was so lost in the new sensations that she was only vaguely aware of it when he lifted her in his arms, noticing that he was carrying her only when he turned sideways to get through the kitchen doorway.

  “Grant?”

  He looked for an instant
as if he feared she’d changed her mind, and as if he were considering kissing her again before she could say so. But after a moment he merely said, “What?”

  “I…I’m not…on anything. Pills, I mean.”

  It took a moment for it to register. Then his mouth quirked. “I’ve got something.” She blinked, and Grant smiled wryly. “When Rita asked me to make sure Chipper knew about condoms, I never figured I’d be using the visual aids.”

  Mercy giggled. And looked startled at the sound of it; she was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a giggling kind of woman. Grant looked as surprised as she felt, but then he grinned at her, and bent to kiss her again. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the only thing she could think of to say was “Hurry.”

  Heat blazed in Grant’s eyes at the word, or at the urgency in her tone—she supposed it didn’t matter which. As long as he did as she asked. And he did; despite carrying her, he took the stairs two at a time.

  And then stopped dead, in front of the door to the room she’d been using.

  “Your place or mine?”

  Mercy shifted a little, leaning back in his arms to look up at him quizzically. “Does it…matter?”

  “It seems to,” he answered, a little sheepishly. “I’ve never…done this here.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I haven’t done it at all for…longer than I can remember right now.”

  “Neither have I,” she whispered as pleasure at his words flooded through her.

  I’ve never done this here. A simple thing, yet it made her feel incredibly special. And truly wanted, beyond the urgent physical need that was possessing both of them. Foolish, perhaps, but she couldn’t deny it.

  “Yours,” she said abruptly.

  Grant took in a deep breath; she felt the rise of his broad chest. His eyes closed for a moment, and he swallowed tightly. Then he opened them and, looking down at her, nodded once, almost sharply. But what she saw in his face belied the silence of his reaction.