The Rancher's Bride. Pamela Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t say anything, just looked out the window, and Ryan admitted that she was the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen. Period.

      And you’re engaged, buddy.

      He stepped on the accelerator, racing by the hay barn and tractor shed perhaps a little too fast, but anxious to get to work quickly nonetheless. His tires lost purchase when he stopped in front of the wide opening. Ryan cut off the big diesel engine and jumped out before he could have another wayward thought.

      Horses nickered. The sensor-light buzzed on. He heard her truck door open, thought about helping her out of the truck before chastising himself yet again. She wasn’t some kind of damn ranch guest. She was his mother’s latest implement of torture, one he’d have to babysit until his mom’s arrival.

      “Stairway to the office is to the left.” He flicked the barn lights on, horses nickering again. “Go on up and make yourself at home. Eat some of that quiche.”

      “Where are you going?”

      “Feed the horses.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “You want to help?”

      Her answer was nearly instantaneous. “No.”

      Thank God.

      “But I probably should.”

      “What?” He blinked and turned back to her. She was still juggling the quiche and her heels, the cuff of her black slacks dragging on the ground. “What makes you say that?”

      “Your mom told me I needed to get comfortable around horses, you know, in case I needed to lead a bride to the altar on a horse or something.”

      She was serious. “You can save your horse lessons for later.”

      It was the wrong thing to say, he could tell instantly. She was the type of woman that didn’t like to be told what to do, especially by a man. “I’d rather start now.”

      “You can’t feed horses in that outfit.”

      She glanced down as if surprised by his words. “Why not?”

      “You’ll get hay all over yourself.”

      She dropped her heels, slipped her feet in them and glanced back up at him with a smile. “Nonsense,” she said, holding the quiche out in front of her. “I’ve seen horses fed on TV. It doesn’t look very hard. The pitchfork does all the work.”

      TV? Pitchfork?

      He almost explained the truth of the matter, but her stubborn I-can-do-anything-you-can-do-better attitude really got on his nerves.

      “You can set your quiche down in the tack room,” he said, figuring if she wanted an introduction to horses lesson, he’d damn-well-skippy give her one. “Follow me.”

      Pitchfork. He nearly laughed. Not unless this was circa 1830.

      He turned on the light when they reached the tack room, a spacious room at the end of the row of stalls, one that was filled with Western saddles and bridles and smelled of leather and saddle soap. A glance back revealed Jorie standing just outside, one shoe kicked off, left foot out behind her, the woman shaking it as though she was a cat who’d stepped in a pool of water. He almost laughed again. Barn aisle dirt had a way of seeping into heels, or so he’d been told.

      “Here.” He held his hand out. “I’ll set your quiche down right there.”

      It should be safe from the flash mob otherwise known as Mom’s Mutts on the grooming shelf to his right, he thought, dreading the arrival of the gaggle of ranch dogs. People were forever dropping their unwanted pets out in the country, and for some reason they always seemed to gravitate toward the Spring Hill Ranch. They settled in as if the place was some kind of canine retirement home.

      “I’ll start at one end and you can start on the other.” He guided her to the feed room located next to the tack room. It was double the size of their tack room, double the height, too, with bales of hay stacked to the ceiling. This was horse hay, though, which meant the sweet smell of alfalfa filled the room. “They each get one flake.”

      “Flake?” She looked perplexed standing there in her designer pants.

      “Yup.” He went to the closest bale, pulled out his pocket knife, slit the baling twine. It came apart with a pop and a twang, the hay still warm on the inside. They’d just loaded it into the feed room yesterday. “It should be as wide as this.” He slipped the knife back in his pocket, held up his hands, and touched his two thumbs together so she could observe the space between them.

      “What about the pitchfork?” She glanced around as if looking for one.

      He didn’t want his lips to twitch with a smile, but they did. “Nobody uses pitchforks to feed horses anymore.” He grabbed one of the soft, green flakes. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. He supposed some old-timers might still use them, but not here where everything was state-of-the-art.

      He brushed by her, pausing for a moment near the door to watch. She approached the bale as if it was a complicated puzzle, reached down, picked up a flake, and then did exactly as he’d thought she’d do as she straightened. She held the thing up to her chest like a giant library book, gasping as stalks of alfalfa slipped right down that fancy shirt of hers.

      “Ack.”

      She dropped the flake of hay, brushing at the front of her shirt as if ants had crawled down her bra.

      “You might want to watch that,” he said, balancing his own flake in the palm of one hand, à la pizza delivery boy. “If it gets down your shirt, you’ll have to take that shirt off.”

      “Excuse me?” Her head popped up, pretty blue eyes wide.

      “That’s the only way you’ll get it out of your clothes.” He smiled, though he knew he should leave her alone. He just couldn’t resist messing with her. “Once it’s down your shirt, it’ll keep poking at you all day.”

      “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

      “Yup.” He lifted a second wedge of hay he held while still balancing the first. “If you need a place to strip, you can do it right there.” He winked. “I promise not to watch.”

      Her cheeks turned pink, her sexy mouth pressed together. It was exactly the reaction he’d been looking for. She didn’t smile at him flirtatiously. Didn’t seem to welcome his invitation to undress in front of him. Not, he quickly reassured himself, that he was looking for that. No, no. He’d just been curious. Obviously, she hadn’t come to Texas to snare herself a cowboy bachelor.

      Disappointed?

      Absolutely not.

      “The day I undress in front of you is the day the Tooth Fairy does the Macarena on your nose.”

      He found himself laughing despite himself.

      “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me,” he said, heading off to feed.

      “There won’t be a next time,” she shot back, and for some reason the words only made him smile all the more.

      He СКАЧАТЬ