The Rancher's Bride. Pamela Britton

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      And that fancy little wedding coordinator could go back to Georgia and his life would return to normal.

      “That’s what you said three months ago.”

      “Shut up, Sam.”

      His friend glanced over at him sharply, laughed, but whatever else he’d been about to say was cut off by the arrival of the same blue compact car as before, only this time his mother was in the passenger seat. On the other side of the windshield he could see her mouth going a hundred miles an hour, typical of his mom. The woman driving was nodding and smiling.

      Until she caught sight of him.

      The smile dropped from her face like a brick. Okay. So maybe he’d been a little hard on her earlier. No. Not hard. Unwelcoming. But, damn it, this whole wedding thing was BS.

      “You didn’t tell me she was smokin’ hot.”

      Ryan didn’t need to ask who Sam was talking about. “Doesn’t matter what she looks like.”

      It was true, though. His mom’s new wedding coordinator was pretty. She had hair so blond he would have sworn it was from a bottle except he’d looked for the telltale signs: the dark roots, the fake streaks of blond, the black eyebrows. He’d spotted none of those things which meant it might be real. She had the blue eyes to go along with it, too.

      “Good thing Laurel’s so sweet, else she might be jealous.”

      Laurel. His fiancée.

      “She’ll probably welcome her with open arms,” he heard himself say before shoving off to greet his mother. He didn’t like thinking about Laurel.

      His future bride.

      He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his brow.

      “My, my, my,” his mother marveled as she got out of the car. “You finished putting all that hay up in record time.” She glanced back at the driver. “Come on out, Jorie. You need to meet Sam.”

      She was wearing one of her Annie Oakley outfits again. Lord help him. She’d never dressed like that before, but lately she’d been wearing the fringed shirts and fancy Western hats as if they lived in some kind of theme park—and maybe they did. His mom had told him time and time again that city people loved their ranch because of the ambience. That must be why she’d been channeling the ghost of Westerns past.

      “Not quite,” Ryan said. “We’ve still got one more load to go.”

      “Well, that can wait.” She hooked an arm through her new employee’s. “Jorie, this is Sam.”

      “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” The two shook hands, Sam going so far as to tip his hat.

      Ryan smirked. Leave it to Sam to try and charm a woman he’d just met.

      “And this is my son, Ryan, whom I think you already met. Ryan, Jorie here is exhausted. Why don’t you hop in her car and drive her down to her quarters. She has luggage she needs unloaded, too.”

      He didn’t shake her hand, just nodded, not that she noticed.

      “Oh, that’s not necessary,” the blonde interjected. As he had earlier, he noticed the black suit she wore accentuated the shape of her body, something he definitely shouldn’t be aware of given that he was engaged. “I can unload my own suitcase.”

      “Nonsense,” his mother said with a pat to the woman’s arm. “You need your rest. I hate to say it, dear, but you look plumb wore out.”

      His mother was right. Though she had a flawless complexion, she appeared pale, her pretty blue eyes glazed by a sheen of fatigue.

      “Come on,” he said, taking pity on the woman against his better judgment. He motioned her toward her car.

      She didn’t move.

      Stubborn, huh?

      She glared.

      Ooo. And she had claws. This might be fun, after all.

      “Go on,” his mother ordered.

      She met Ryan’s gaze again, her blue eyes narrowing.

      “You heard my mother,” he said. “Go on.”

      Clearly, she wanted to argue. Just as clearly, she wanted to please. She turned, reluctance personified. Ryan almost smiled, but he was too busy noticing her legs. He couldn’t tell if she wore panty hose or not, but she sure had some tan legs…and shapely.

      Cut it out.

      “I can drive,” he heard her say as he headed to the driver’s side

      “I won’t hear of any such thing,” his mom answered for him. “Ryan will drive you. Sam, why don’t you go get that last squeeze of hay. I’ll guide it in.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous, Mom.” Ryan stripped his gloves off and tucked them in his back pocket before opening the passenger-side door. “I’ll finish up just as soon as I drive Ms. Peters here to her new quarters.”

      The woman had reluctantly slid into the seat, the door closing with a heavy thud.

      “You’re a good son.” His mother came around the side of the car, reached up and patted his cheek—just before kissing him—as if he were seven years old and not thirty.

      But despite the irritation he felt at being treated like a child, he couldn’t deny one thing: he loved his mom. She might be a pain in his rear, but she was the only family he had.

      He opened the driver’s side door, the smell of perfume or floral shampoo instantly enveloping him.

      He nearly closed his eyes.

      Now, the woman in the car? She was going to be a pain in his rear, too, he could tell.

      He didn’t like her.

      Jorie leaned back in the passenger seat and closed her eyes, so exhausted she felt as if she could go to sleep right then and there. Except she couldn’t. Not with him in the car.

      “Buckle up,” was all he said.

      Cool currents from the car’s air conditioner wafted across Jorie’s face as he put the car in gear, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the smell of him. He stank.

      No, he doesn’t.

      He smells manly.

      Be nice to him, Jorie. He’s your boss’s son.

      Jorie forced her eyes open, shot him a glance. He was as muscular as a professional athlete.

      “Do you play football?”

      Stupid, stupid, ridiculous thing to ask. What was wrong with her?

      He’d glanced over at her as if she had tentacles hanging from her ears.

      “Huh?” СКАЧАТЬ