The Rancher's Bride

by Pamela Britton

  He shook his head. “Here’s your first lesson in horse riding. When a bit is in two pieces, it’s called broken, or a snaffle. It doesn’t mean it’s broken.” He grabbed the bridle in question, showed her what he meant. “See?”

  “Oh,” she said. “But I warn you, I’m never getting on a horse again so you really don’t need to explain all this.”

  She was serious. He could see it in her eyes. For some reason it made him want to laugh. He’d never met a woman who didn’t like horses. To be honest, most of the time they at least pretended an interest. He couldn’t stand women like that. In his experience women would say and do anything to try and garner his interest, all because he was a Clayborne. “Rich,” he’d overheard one woman say.

  Whatever.

  He slipped the bridle on Belle’s head. “Come on,” he said when he was finished. “I’ll show you how to get on.”

  “Can’t wait,” he heard her mutter.

  And despite the turmoil he felt, he almost laughed.

  “Stand atop that mounting block.” He pointed to a wooden box with steps built into the side. “I’ll bring her up alongside of it.”

  “Can’t you keep right on going? Set the animal free. Tell Odelia she ran away and there’s no other horse I can ride.”

  “No,” he said, biting back a smile. “Just throw your leg over and slip onboard.”

  “Nice horsey,” she said, patting its neck like a football player did a fellow linebacker, but when she made the sign of the cross, he let the smile slip free, even felt a puff of laughter slip past his lips.

  “Pick up the reins once you get onboard.”

  “If I get onboard,” she muttered.

  “Go on.”

  He had to give her credit. Despite having severe reservations, she mounted the horse, although flopped was a more accurate description.

  “That was graceful.”

  “Bite me,” she said, picking up the reins.

  He out-and-out chuckled, though he told himself not to. He should not encourage her sassiness, but compared to Laurel’s compliant attitude, it was a welcome relief. Sometimes Laurel’s meek attitude drove him nuts.

  He shut down the thought.

  “I’m going to get on my own horse. Don’t move.”

  “You’re leaving me?” she asked, pretty blue eyes wide.

  “Just for second.”

  “I want down.”

  “Go ahead and get down,” he called over his shoulder, moving to the side of his sorrel gelding and checking the girth before grabbing his horse’s bridle.

  “I can’t get down.” She looked around her as if contemplating a flying dismount. “Not without some help.”

  “Just stay put.” He picked up a spade bit with silver conchos up the side of the leather headstall. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

  “And if the horse bolts? What then?”

  “As long as you don’t kick her in the sides, she’s not going to do anything.”

  When he glanced back up at her, she had the wide eyes of a doe startled by hunters. He felt pity for her then. She really didn’t like this. He paused in the midst of buckling the throat latch. His horse tried to rub on his arm, but he pushed it away.

  “Jorie, I promise you you’ll be fine.” He finished buckling. “I would never let anything happen to you,” he said, patting his horse’s neck.

  She met his gaze. Something flashed between them, something personal and intimate that warmed his insides—though it had nothing to do with horses.

  Shit.

  His hands shook as he went back to doing up the bridle. “Let’s go,” he said, hooking his hand on a rein and leading his horse forward.

  All he wanted to do was get this over with.

  Quickly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  True to his word, Belle had taken good care of her. They rode through two different pastures, one ringed by a white wooden fence and the other ringed by rust-colored metal posts with some kind of half-inch-thick wire between. Eventually they reached the tree line, and Jorie admired the massive oaks that dotted the landscape, their long shadows staining the ground a darker green. They rode along a path, one marked by cow prints and their pudding-like poops that made Jorie grimace. They’d have to do something about that if they were to have wedding guests hike all the way out here.

  If she were honest, though, the ride was almost pleasant. The smell of wet leaves filled the air. Occasionally a branch would drip a splash of yesterday’s rain. She didn’t mind. Ryan made sure she stayed out of trouble. If she hadn’t been so damn terrified she might have actually enjoyed herself.

  Gradually the trees grew denser, though the path remained wide. They began to climb a small incline. Jorie gasped when they reached the summit. A view like none other greeted her at the top.

  “You think this’ll work?”

  She gazed around in awe. A lake was nestled in the middle of a small valley. Trees framed the edge, sometimes right up to the water’s edge, other times hanging back and allowing for a pebbled shoreline. The sun left a zigzag streak of neon light upon its surface. It looked so serene, the water’s surface so smooth that beyond the slash of the sun’s light, a blue-ribbon-colored sky was reflected upon its surface.

  “I think Sophia will love it.” She shifted in the saddle. “I think other brides will love it, too.”

  Ryan was resting his arm on his saddle’s horn, the epitome of a Western cowboy as he sat there in his jeans and cowboy hat.

  “My mom wants to ferry guests out here by horse-drawn carriage.”

  “I know,” she said. “She told me, but I think it’s a little unrealistic right now. The trail out here would have to be widened, and you’d need fifty carriages to get everyone out here in time to watch the bride get married.”

  They’d settled into a sort of truce on the way out, Jorie realized. She hadn’t mentioned his engagement and Ryan hadn’t mentioned the kiss. That was good. As far as Jorie was concerned, it was all in the past. Ryan was marrying Laurel and it was up to her to give him the most spectacular wedding she could think of. A wedding Jorie would love for herself.

  “Did you want to take some pictures?”

  She straightened suddenly. “I didn’t bring a camera.”

  “Never fear,” he said, riding toward her while he reached behind him into a saddlebag that held bottled water, too. “My mom told me to pack one.”

  Thank you, Odelia.

  “I’d like to get down if you don’t mind,” she said.

  She didn’t think she could juggle the reins and a camera, not on a horse. Plus, she wanted to get closer to the water’s edge and she didn’t think her horse would like that.

  “I’ll help you down.”

  He jumped off so quickly she felt a stab of envy. He was like one of those damn Western stunt riders.

  “Just swing your leg out of the stirrup and slide down.”

  Easier said than done. She realized quickly that her right leg felt like lead and that swinging one’s leg over the back of a horse wasn’t as easy as it looked.

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  She wasn’t afraid. She just didn’t know what to hold on to and where to put her left leg. Did she keep it in the stirrup? Take it out?

  “Here.” He tapped her. She glanced down. Before she knew what he was about, he reached up and clutched her sides, began to tug her down.

  “Hey.”

  He pulled her off balance to the point that she had no choice but to fall into his arms, his body blocking her own. He pulled her up against him once her feet hit the ground and just like that, it all came back to her. Every delicious, naughty, erotic sensation he’d aroused.

  He let her go. She almost fell, would have if not for the hand she put out, gratefu
l for the saddle that she momentarily clung to.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Was he apologizing for touching her? Or for something else?

  Ignore him. Ignore the memories his touch evoked. She turned toward the lake again, realized she only held one rein, and then used that as an excuse to move away. She picked up the other one that hung toward the ground.

  Get it together, Jorie.

  “Will you hold the horse while I go take a picture?”

  He didn’t immediately answer, and Jorie discovered he was staring down at her, hands flexing, his eyes momentarily flickering with something he worked hard to snuff out. He couldn’t quite manage the task, however.

  “Here.” He held out his hand. The camera was in it. She quickly grabbed it.

  “Hand me your reins, too,” he ordered.

  Her heart pounded. She knew why. He’d touched her. It was brief. It was meant to be impersonal, yet she couldn’t deny it’d affected her.

  She clutched the camera and told herself she was here to do a job, not think about Ryan.

  Engaged, she all but yelled at herself, turning and focusing on the scenery around her. She examined the camera, trying to figure out how to turn it on. It was digital, but not one she was familiar with.

  “It’s on the top,” he said. “To the right.”

  Ah. The thing switched on. She quickly peered at the digital display, snapped a shot.

  “There’s a place I was thinking would work great for a wedding. Follow the path to the shoreline. It’s to the right.”

  He led both horses toward her. How he did that—felt so comfortable with a horse on either side of him—Jorie didn’t know. One of them snorted. She jumped. He lifted a brow.

  “Easy for you to smirk,” she said. “You were probably born in the saddle.”

  He shook his head, and though she didn’t mean to do it, she still found herself admitting he was one handsome cuss of a man. Laurel was a lucky woman in more ways than one because, man, could he kiss—

  Stop.

  “Not exactly born, but horses have always been a big part of my life.”

  “Lucky you,” she heard herself say, her frustration with herself leaking into the tone of her words.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t have pets when you were growing up?”

  “I would hardly call a horse a pet, and my mom considered herself lucky to feed the two of us. Pets were out of the question.”

  Yet she’d always wanted one.

  “Not even a cat?”

  “Not even a gerbil.”

  He didn’t say anything. She glanced over at him in time to see him shake his head. “That’s sad. Everyone should have a dog of their own.”

  “You have four.”

  “Now.” He glanced down, jumped over a little hole in the dirt path, saying, “Watch yourself on the way down,” before adding, “And don’t mistake Mom’s Mutts for my own.”

  The laugh escaped her lips before she could clamp down it down. “Mom’s Mutts. That’s what you call them?”

  “It’s appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “I was actually thinking along the lines of Odelia’s Ogres.”

  He laughed, too. “Brat’s not so bad.”

  “He ate my quiche.”

  “Yeah, but he told me later he was sorry about that.”

  She found herself on the verge of laughing again. How did he do that? How could he make her feel such lows…and such highs?

  He stopped at a nearby tree and slung the reins of the two horses over a limb. He didn’t tie them, just wrapped them a few times.

  When he turned back to her, he was smiling, too, the water in front of him catching his eyes and turning them more blue than green.

  “Come on over this way,” he said.

  They lapsed into silence as he guided her toward the water’s edge, the peace and tranquility of the area soothing her frayed nerves. Jorie inhaled a deep breath. What she wouldn’t have given to grow up in a place like this, a place where she could run and escape her mom’s latest and greatest boyfriend.

  Something of what she felt must have shown on her face because he asked, “I take it you and your mom must have had it pretty hard.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “How old were you when you lost your dad?”

  “We didn’t lose him,” she answered. “He lost us.”

  They’d reached the area he’d been talking about, Jorie could tell, and he was right. It was gorgeous, a meadow stretching away from the shoreline, a ring of trees surrounding it.

  “How old were you when he left?”

  “He left before I was born.”

  He’d paused by the shoreline. Jorie turned back to face him, crossing her arms in front of her, and attempted to change the subject.

  “Sophia will absolutely love this. I just don’t know how we’d get her out here—or her guests.”

  “He left before you were born?”

  “Yes,” and the irony wasn’t lost on her. Laurel had found herself in the exact same situation as Jorie’s mother, only Laurel had a knight in shining armor. Lucky girl.

  “And you haven’t seen him since?”

  “Not once.” She spun in a slow circle. “We could put the altar here. Maybe one made of wood. A trellis with some type of climbing vine.”

  “She never married?”

  “Oh, she married,” Jorie answered. “Twice. She gave up on the whole marriage thing when her second marriage fell apart.” She kicked at the dirt. “Do you think we could put down some sod here?”

  “You’d have to figure out a way to water it, and keep the cows out of it.” He glanced around. “And you’d need a lot of sod. Is your mom still alive?”

  “No. The cows will be a problem, too.”

  “When did she die?”

  Darn it. She wished he would just drop the issue. “Five years ago, when I was twenty-three. We’d have to do some serious cleanup for this to work.”

  “We could do a hayride.”

  It took her a moment to follow his line of thinking.

  “I’m sorry about your mom, by the way.”

  “Don’t be. She was a victim of her own circumstances. She died blaming the world for her troubles.”

  But mostly me.

  “That’s too bad.”

  Change the subject, Jorie.

  “By ‘hayride’ you mean to get the guests out here, yes?”

  “Yeah. One of our flatbed trailers could be converted. We could pull it with some horses.”

  She felt excitement fill the void his questioning had evoked. “That’s a great idea. How many people do you think would fit on a trailer?”

  Thank God he’d changed the subject.

  “If we use hay bales as seats, probably around thirty, maybe even forty.”

  “Could you set up more than one trailer?”

  “Sure, but you’d have to talk to my mom about buying the teams of horses.” He smirked. “Not that she’ll mind buying more horses.”

  She nodded. “It’s a great idea, Ryan. I bet Sophia’s wedding guests would love it, too. An authentic Western wedding. Do you think we could get it done by spring?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’ll be a dream wedding.”

  A fish broke the surface of the water, drawing their attention.

  “That’s important to you, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Giving brides their dream.”

  How perceptive of him. “Every girl deserves at least one day in her life that’s perfect.”

  “Because so little of your life has been perfect.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, the glare from the sun momentar
ily blinding her as she turned to face him.

  “It’s all an act, isn’t it?”

  She lifted a hand to shield her eyes. He stood there, blue-green eyes unblinking.

  “The way you dress. The fancy hairstyles. Even the way you talk. You’ve worked hard to tame your Georgian accent. It’s still there, but you’ve softened the edges, made it sound genteel.”

  It was like hearing her fortune told, a fortune that sounded eerily familiar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He closed the distance between them. She hated that her stomach curled in on itself the closer he drew near. Hated that once again she found herself admiring his stunning blue-green eyes. Hated that she loved the way he smelled, even when she had no business noticing that smell.

  “But you do,” he said gently.

  She couldn’t breathe for a moment.

  “What were those stepfathers like, Jorie?”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” She lifted a hand. “I didn’t come out here to be psychoanalyzed. You happen to be way off the mark, by the way, but it doesn’t matter because I’d rather focus on all the work we have to do out here. Will we need to hire a private contractor? Or do you have enough ranch hands to do the work?”

  Liar. He’d hit the nail square on the head. She just wished she knew how he’d been able to read her so perfectly.

  “We can hire whoever you need.” He took another step closer. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You think your way through a problem. It’s how you’ve survived.”

  Yes, it was. It’s how she’d made it through the past year. She’d lost her business and her self-esteem in one fell swoop. It’d taken her months to figure out what to do. Thank goodness she’d had enough savings to make it through, although it’d been just barely enough to get her to Texas. Now here she was, starting over again, and the last thing she needed was some silver-spooned cowboy prodding her past.

  And stealing kisses.

  “I enjoy my work,” was all she said when she realized he was still waiting for an answer.

  “You solve your own problems.”

  It was her turn to read into his words, her turn to catch the wistful edge of his tone.

  “Life is what you make of it,” she said.