Ryder looked up from the remains of his cookie, crumpling the package. “Well, yeah.”
“Horses are critters you have to learn about from the ground up. It so happens that my brother’s been grousing about being short a stable hand. It would be grunt work like cleaning tack and mucking out stalls, just warning you, but if you want a job for a few hours after school, we could arrange to go out riding afterward. I usually try to take at least a short evening ride. Of course Grace has to agree first.”
“She might not. She’s mad at me.” Ryder lowered his eyes. “I’m getting a really bad grade in English this term. I tried to tell her, I’m no good at it.”
Raine, who’d been listening to the conversation, piped up. “Hey, Slate, maybe you could ask your mother to take a look at Ryder’s homework for an hour or so before he starts working. She’s far more patient with Daisy than I am when it comes to that sort of thing. Right, Daze?”
Daisy yawned. “Right,” she agreed. “I was having trouble with spelling, and she helped me understand better.”
It was the first Slater had heard of any spelling problems. Was that because he’d been away so much? A pang of guilt struck him, but he powered through it and nodded at Raine. Her idea was probably a good one, since Blythe had been a teacher at one time, and she’d sure seen him and his brothers through their share of homework-related trauma. Math had been Slater’s personal nemesis, but his mom had finally managed to get the basic concepts across to him, and he’d gotten much better grades after that.
“I’ll talk to my mother and Grace,” he told Ryder, “but only if you’re truly interested.”
Ryder’s response was, if not enthusiastic, certainly positive.
CHAPTER SIX
GRACE WAS USED to nasty situations, thanks to her years wearing the badge, but she still hated firing people. The department managers usually handled hiring and firing in their own divisions; theft was a different matter since she, as general manager, had the final say over whether or not to pursue criminal charges.
The particularly vindictive attitude of the employee being let go didn’t help her stay levelheaded about her decision.
David Reinhart, normally so affable that he bordered on obsequious, slammed his name tag and apron down on her desk with a force that nearly toppled the vase of fresh flowers she’d purchased at the supermarket. “You red-haired bitch,” Reinhart spat furiously. “I do a great job! The customers love me!”
“You are chronically late. Pam has given you two formal warnings already, and our policy is three strikes, and you’re out,” she said, keeping her tone even. “I agree—the guests love you. But I’m letting you go, just the same.”
“So I run a little behind every once in a while.” His voice was thick with anger, his fists clenched at his sides. Grace wondered idly if she’d need her well-honed self-defense skills before the interview was over. “I work my ass off when I’m here!”
“Your inability to show up on time aside, you’ve been adjusting transactions at the end of almost every shift,” she said, getting to the bigger and more substantial issue. “How you got the manager’s code, I’m not sure. You’re only taking cash, which in this day and age is not the preferred method of payment, fortunately, but more of it changes hands in the bar than in the dining room, and you must’ve figured that out early on. You got careless.” She waited to let her words sink in, then went calmly on. “Pam mentioned to me that it was a relief not to be making so many cash drops. That was a red flag, and I started having her track how many transactions she actually logged in every night, and guess what? That number didn’t match up with the cash on hand. Every single time it was off, you were working.”
“I work five friggin’ nights a week.” Reinhart’s manner was still aggressive, but he was beginning to look a lot less sure of himself. He loosened his tie with a nervous jerk of one hand. “And I have news for you. Pam can’t handle her workload and besides that, she’s just plain stupid. She forgot to do what you asked. It’s that damn simple. I say, prove it.”
It was true that the older woman got flustered now and then when it was busy, which was the main reason Grace wasn’t pressing charges against David Reinhart. All that had to happen to get him off the hook in court was for Pam to admit that she’d forgotten the task even once.
She wasn’t through. “A few customers have called to say their credit card numbers might’ve been used without their authorization. The purchases are all at the spa, but they’re expensive things you could—and I’m sure you do—sell online. You underestimate the few people who meticulously check their bills.” She took a shaky breath. “All of this really reflects poorly on the resort. I could fire you for the tardiness alone, so I don’t have to prove the theft unless you push me. If you’re foolish enough to do that, you can bet I’ll pin you to a wall with steel spikes. Shall I go on, Mr. Reinhart, or are you going to do the smart thing and walk out of here while you can?”
It was a shame, really. Reinhart was tall, young, nice-looking, personable, and he was right, the patrons liked his facile charm. But she’d met criminals like him before, and although the previous manager—who’d since retired—had hired him, Grace became suspicious. As a result she did a thorough background check and had to conclude that he’d faked his references. This wasn’t his first rodeo. The long string of jobs he’d abruptly left triggered her curiosity. She also discovered that he’d been expelled from college, which didn’t prove he’d steal, but wasn’t exactly a character endorsement, either.
“The tough cop.” His eyes held a certain glint she didn’t like but had seen countless times. It said she was too feminine, too soft, to defend herself.
If that was what he thought, he was dead wrong.
For a long moment, they glared at each other.
And then someone knocked on the door.
Reinhart lifted his hand from the desk with an unpleasant smile. “I guess I was leaving, anyway.”
When he wrenched the door open, Slater Carson was standing on the other side.
Slater watched as the young man rudely brushed past him. When he turned back to Grace, he asked, “Is this a bad time?”
Grace shook her head. “Pretty good timing, actually. Our business was concluded, but I have a feeling the interview wouldn’t have been over without a few more threats, and I was about to be called worse than a red-haired bitch.”
Slater’s blue eyes suddenly took on a dangerous gleam. “Wish I’d been around for that. I’ll be right back.” He swung around.
“Carson, stop!” Grace rose, touched but exasperated, and used her best cop voice. “In your tracks. I mean it. I used to be the person who was called to break up fights between big strong men, remember? It’s handled. Now, I assume you stopped by for a reason?” She waited, willing him to listen to her. “Ryder seems to have had a wonderful time at the game. Please tell me he behaved himself.”
Slater stopped, turned around. Reluctantly.
She wondered if he’d come by, intending to give her another restless night’s sleep. She’d had an unbelievably erotic dream the other night, and even though Slater was dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt that emphasized his wide shoulders, thanks to the dream, she had no difficulty imagining what the relentlessly sexy Mr. Carson looked like naked.
Good. Too damn good.
She really hoped she wasn’t blushing. With her fair complexion it was always noticeable.
“Ryder did fine. And I’m glad he had a good time. We all did.”
So, Ryder hadn’t acted out; that was a relief, anyway.
Just then the phone on her desk lit up—the front desk was calling. “Excuse me for a moment. I have to take this.” She indicated a chair. “Please, sit down.”
Slater sat, but not in one of the comfortable plush chairs in front of her desk. Instead, he hitched himself onto the edge of the desk itself; the motion was smooth, and it brought him way too close. Grace handled the small problem conveyed over the phone (concer
ning a staff scheduling issue), and fought the urge to scoot her chair back to put some distance between them. She rolled the chair away an inch or so, hoping he wouldn’t notice how jumpy she was.
He did. She knew that from the hint of amusement lifting the corner of his mouth. Slater was well aware that he affected her and just how he affected her. “How did you happen to land this job?” he asked.
Great. A relatively normal, if somewhat blunt, question. One she could answer, unlike some he could have asked, such as, Why are you looking at me like that? As though—if there was a convenient horizontal surface—you might consider…
“I majored in criminal justice, but I did a minor in business. My dad was a police officer in Seattle. He’s retired now, but back then he was at the top of his game. I admired him, so I followed in his footsteps. After about five years on the job, I decided to get a master’s degree in hospitality management on the evenings I was off duty. I’d taken a hotel management class as an elective while I was an undergrad, because I thought it would be an easy A. It wasn’t, not at all. Still, I kept thinking about it, and I wondered if down the line I might want to change careers. Plus, by then, my marriage was getting rocky, and I needed something else to think about.”
Slater’s expression indicated that he understood. Maybe he did.
She turned the conversation back to him. “So, since the subject came up, why a film producer?”
He shrugged, his expression casual. “Same story to a certain extent. Took a film production class on a whim and got hooked. I worked various jobs as I was learning, including sound, cameras, even helped put up sets and that’s a physical job, so it suited me. All of it suits me. I grew up out of doors and that’s mostly where we film.” He paused. “And that’s a perfect segue as to why I’m here. I promised Ryder I’d run this by you. I hope I’m not putting you on the spot, but I talked to him about doing some chores on the ranch. Only if you agree, of course.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. He was putting her on the spot. If she said yes, Ryder might get hurt or find new ways of getting into trouble. If she said no, and the boy had his heart set on doing this, she’d be the ultimate villain.
As often happened, Slater seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. “If you want to teach that kid real discipline, stick him in a stall with a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow. It’s hard physical work, and he’ll have to learn how to deal with the animals. Ryder told me he wants to ride, so part of his compensation would be riding lessons. My mother will also check his homework regularly, and she’s the most demanding yet gentle critic I’ve ever run across.” He shifted slightly on the desk. “Feel free to get second and third opinions from Mace and Drake on that score.” A pause, another shrug. “Look at it this way. It’ll keep him busy.”
Grace figured there were several additional ways to look at that offer. There was, for instance, the deliciously dangerous possibility that Slater was trying to get to her through Ryder—but, alas, her highly developed instincts said otherwise.
Still, his intentions toward her were precisely what she’d imagined in that dream; she was sure of it. But she was equally sure that Slater wasn’t using Ryder to get there. The cowboy code wouldn’t have allowed that.
“I hope your mother’s up for a challenge, because my stepson will definitely be one.” She might have spoken forcefully, but she was already caving. After all, part of Ryder’s problem was a lack of supervision. She worked too many evenings.
It wasn’t her fault, or Ryder’s; it was just life.
At least now he had Bonaparte to keep him company, but the cat couldn’t be expected to nag him into doing his homework. Couldn’t provide what Ryder needed most—a strong masculine influence in his life.
Slater eased his hip off the desk. Stood. “Mom raised three rowdy boys. Mace and Drake were a handful, always arguing over something. They haven’t changed much, to tell you the truth.”
“You, I suppose, were an angel,” Grace remarked, raising her eyebrows.
He grinned. “No comment,” he said. “Anyway, if you’re okay with this, Ryder can take the bus to the stop closest to the ranch and walk the rest of the way. It isn’t far. In bad weather he’ll just have to do what we did and bundle up. I’ll expect him to do a good job, of course, but I think he understands that. Once he’s through with his chores, the riding lesson and the homework stint with Mom—and Harry’s crammed him full of supper—I’ll bring him home.”
She wouldn’t even have to cook? Surely, Grace thought, there had to be a downside to this generous offer.
“Harry is a woman, I presume?” she asked.
Slater nodded. “Housekeeper and second mother.” He headed for the door. “See you soon.”
Just like that, he walked out as if the whole thing was settled, although technically, she hadn’t said yes.
How the heck had all of this happened so fast? she fretted silently. And did Slater Carson always get his way?
If that was the case, and she suspected it was, she was in big trouble.
*
SLATER WARMED THE bit in his hand, and Heck fought it for only a minute or so before he accepted it, and the bridle could be fastened into place. Once Slater had checked the cinch, he swung into the saddle. Drake was waiting for him, none too patiently, just outside the stable doors, mounted on his favorite horse, an Appaloosa gelding called Starburst.
They rode out at a trot, past the fenced pasture near the house toward the far north section, before urging the horses into a faster pace.
It was truly a beautiful evening; the mountains reflecting a ruby-red sunset streaked with indigo, snow already on the peaks, and the air had a crisp tang to it like a fine wine. If Mace could bottle that atmosphere, Mountain Vineyards would make a fortune, Slater thought as he and Drake and their horses covered some ground.
Minutes later they came to the edge of a crystal-clear creek and splashed through at a walk. The aspens were turning, Slater noted, tinting the landscape gold. Winter was on the way, but that was fine. Christmas was special around Mustang Creek, and he enjoyed the changing seasons.
“See that stand of pine over there?” Drake pointed. “We found a good-size doe there a couple of days ago, and she’d been mauled. Badly. I doubt there’s anything left of her by now, but it was a fresh enough kill that the hair stood up on the back of my neck. I took out my rifle, could’ve sworn I was being watched. You know I don’t get nervous easily, but I had a real nasty feeling. And those missing calves—well, we haven’t come across so much as a hank of hide or a bone fragment.”
Grim as it was, things like that happened on ranches now and then. Slater took an educated guess. “Wolves?”
“Maybe.” Drake pushed his hat up a little, his expression pensive. “Except something had dragged the carcass of that doe quite a ways, and it wasn’t all that small. I’ve seen wolves relay a deer, taking turns running it until they wear it out, so they know how to work as a team. But I’m not ruling out a big cat.”
Like most ranchers and farmers, the Carsons didn’t romanticize wolves. They were expert predators.
“Did you move that prize bull in from the far pasture?” Slater asked, after swallowing the bile that scalded the back of his throat.
Drake frowned. “I’ve considered it. Fact is, that critter is hell and gone scarier than any mountain lion, but he gets even more aggressive if we move him. Got away last time we tried to bring him in, and all hell broke loose. We had a one-bull rodeo that day.” A slow grin replaced Drake’s glum expression. “I reckon he’s fundamentally opposed to change of any kind, and I confess, I admire him for the strength of his convictions.”
Slater was always impressed by how well Drake knew just about every animal on the place. He chuckled at his brother’s choice of words. “Poor old feller,” he said. Then, with a shake of his head and a quick adjustment of his hat, he observed, “Only you would worry about the preferences of a half-ton bull.”
Drake’s answer was wry. “Po
or me, you mean. The day ol’ Sherman went on a tear, all the hands were laughing as I left a trail of apples, like Hansel and Gretel leaving their bread crumbs, trying to coax that testy s.o.b. up the ramp and into the back of a cattle truck. Red about split a gut, watching.” Drake paused to resettle his own hat. “I kept hoping the old coot would laugh so hard he’d fall off his horse. Would’ve served him right.”
Slater tried not to show how much he was enjoying the tale. “Wish I’d been here,” he said.
Drake studied him then sobered again. “Not to change the subject, but how’s the quest going?”
“What quest?”
“Grace Emery.”
Slater went for a noncommittal reply, leaning over to pat his horse’s neck. “I don’t know that she can be defined as a quest.”
“What is she, then? A nice lady you could invite over for a cup of tea? I was under the impression that you’d like to further your acquaintance with her through some conversation. Namely, pillow talk.”
“You know,” Slater retorted, “you’re not half as funny as you think you are.” All of a sudden, he was losing it, he realized, and there was no call to be so touchy. He and Mace and Drake had always said what they thought. So he tried again. “I like Grace,” he said moderately. “I won’t deny that. She isn’t just beautiful, she’s smart, not to mention generous, taking on her ex’s son, raising him with no hands-on help from his dad, as far as I can tell.” His temper ratcheted down another notch or two. “And I appreciate you agreeing to let the boy do some work around the stables. When our dad died, we could take Mom’s support for granted, and the support of Harry, Red and everyone else around us. Ryder doesn’t have that. He can count on Grace, of course, but his own parents aren’t even there for him. He probably figures he has to feel grateful for practically everything that anyone, including Grace, does for him. It isn’t a bad life lesson to figure out that things don’t always go smoothly, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to learn, either.”
Once a Rancher Page 8
