Once A Rancher. Linda Lael Miller

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      She looked past her computer monitor, took in her surroundings. It was an old trick, a way of grounding herself in the real world when her mind wandered.

      Grace loved her spacious second-floor office, overlooking the pool and the gardens. There was a small balcony, complete with a couple of ornate deck chairs and a small, glass-topped table.

      Not that she had time to sit out there and enjoy it all.

      This morning, though, she had the balcony doors open, and a cool, soft breeze wafted in, scented with a tinge of pine and the lush flowers crowding the gardens.

      The resort was a terrific place to work, her salary was generous and so far, she’d gotten along beautifully with the guests as well as the staff. In short, she’d finally gotten her life unstuck, and no complications would be tolerated.

      Specifically, the tall, dark-haired, good-looking cowboy sort of complication.

      “Did you see that booking I forwarded?”

      The question came from her assistant, Meg, who was standing in the doorway, smiling broadly. Meg was young, energetic and fresh out of hotel management school, but inexperienced. The resort owner, George Landers, was an old friend of Grace’s father’s. He had reliable instincts when it came to hiring key people. In time, Meg would develop the necessary air of confident authority required to run one of his resorts, but for now, she was still “wet behind the ears,” to quote George.

      Grace herself had a degree in the hospitality field—which she’d obtained part-time while she was still a cop—but no real experience, and she wasn’t positive that confidence was her strongest suit, either, given some of the choices she’d made in the past. She was skilled at handling difficult situations, however, and the boss knew that because he knew her. She’d been trained to function under intense pressure, but in reality, she didn’t actually run the resort as much as she supervised the staff who ran it.

      The exact instructions she’d received: Just make sure everybody’s doing what they’re supposed to do. I trust you to take care of whatever comes up.

      Thank God somebody believed in her abilities.

      Or maybe she’d just gotten lucky.

      George Landers had gone to college with her father, and the two men had played golf together ever since, every Wednesday afternoon. When George learned that Grace might be looking for a change of scene, he’d punched her number into his cell phone, invited her to his office and offered her the job on the spot.

      She’d jumped at the chance. No, she hadn’t realized Ryder was going to jump with her, but she could cope with that. After all, she was crazy about the kid.

      “I was actually just looking at it,” she answered belatedly, smiling at Meg. “Very nice.”

      “The Carson name carries considerable weight around here.” Meg, wearing the fitted jacket and skirt the company required, crossed the threshold and laid a set of invoices on the desk. “They’ve also recently opened a winery. That Ranch Hand Red on our wine list in the dining room is one of our best sellers.”

      This was valuable information. “The Carsons own Mountain Vineyards? Hmm.” Grace tapped a few keys and their website popped up. The winery building itself was picturesque, a restored barn or bunkhouse, perhaps, rustic but sturdy, attractively weathered, with a shingle roof and tall windows. The mountains provided a staggering backdrop.

      Oh, yes. The place was the epitome of Western charm. “I wonder if they’d consider doing tours and a few wine-tasting events for our guests,” Grace went on, musing aloud. “We could add that to some of our packages, since not everyone comes here to hike or ski. The spa is a big draw in its own right, and wine-tastings ought to fit the mood.”

      “It won’t hurt to ask them,” Meg announced brightly. She was, as usual, brimming with enthusiasm. “It would be fabulous if we could get a few more gigs like this one, right? And this is such gorgeous country—ideal for a corporate getaway.”

      Meg’s buoyant spirits might have been irritating, if they hadn’t been completely genuine. Grace had liked her from the moment she’d first walked through the elaborate glass doors downstairs.

      Thoughtful, she tapped her pen against her desk blotter. “I wonder,” she murmured, “if Slater Carson would consider using the resort in one of his films. As I understand it, he’s only made historical documentaries so far, stuff about the Old West. Maybe he’d be interested in some kind of joint promotion.”

      Meg sank into a chair, her eyes wide. “That’s a stretch,” she said honestly, “but like I said before, it can’t hurt to ask. I mean, what if it actually worked?” She paused, bit her lower lip. “Would you like me to draft a preliminary proposal?”

      The idea was a stretch—but the good ones usually were. Nothing ventured...

      Of course she’d eventually have to make the pitch in person, face-to-face with Slater. Still, it made sense to plant a seed, get him thinking about the possibilities. After all, Mustang Creek was his hometown; surely, he cared about the local economy.

      “Do that,” she decided aloud. “And let him know we’d be willing to offer some leeway on the cost of the event he just booked and any other business he sends our way in the future. Mention the winery connection, too.”

      “Consider it done,” Meg said. She was an attractive young woman, with shiny brown hair that fell gracefully around her shoulders, eyes the color of warm honey and a friendly smile. Secretly, Grace envied her assistant’s less dramatic coloring a little, her own being...well, a bit on the flashy side.

      Inwardly, Grace sighed, reminding herself of her mother’s oft-given advice: Be yourself and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

      Then Grace was all business again. “I want the head chef in the kitchen for this event,” she said. “And whether he likes it or not, we’ll offer a simple menu—one seafood dish, one poultry, one beef, one pork and one elegant vegetarian option. No fancy ice sculptures, nothing with flames.” She grinned at Meg, who grinned back. “Stefano gets carried away sometimes, as you’ve probably noticed. I’ve tried to rein him in, but as he’s pointed out numerous times, I’m not a chef.”

      “No,” Meg said, “but you are the boss.”

      “Indeed I am.”

      “Will there be anything else?”

      Grace waited for a moment, then made the leap. “Invite him to dinner,” she said. “Next Thursday night, if he’s free.”

      Meg looked mildly confused. “Who? Stefano?”

      Grace shook her head. “Slater Carson,” she answered. “I’ll give him the proposal then. I’d call him myself, but I want this to be formal, just business.”

      Meg gazed at her curiously, no doubt wondering if Grace knew the legendary filmmaker and if so, how. And too smart to ask.

      “It’s a long story.” Grace waved a hand in casual dismissal, although, in truth, she didn’t feel casual, not where Slater was concerned.

      Meg nodded and left the office, closing the door quietly behind her.

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