The Wrangler. Pamela Britton
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again, maybe Gigi had put them in the oven before the woman arrived.
“Clinton McAlister, what the devil’s taken you so long out in that barn?”
“Horse’s wet,” he said, refusing to glance left in the direction of the family room. “Waited until he was dry.”
He was certain his grandmother had her sitting on the floral-print couch beneath the front window. And he was certain they were both drinking tea, steam rising from a cup on the oak coffee table in front of them. He could smell the lemon from here. He hung his hat on a hook to the right. Water poured off the brim and landed on the hardwood floor.
“You better clean that up,” his grandmother said, obviously spying the puddle.
“I know, I know…” he muttered, his spurs hitting the wood and emitting a chink-chink-chink as he walked toward the kitchen—and he still didn’t shift his gaze in their guest’s direction. He didn’t want to. Peering into her attractive face affected him in a way that it probably shouldn’t do given that they’d been strangers up until an hour ago.
“Come meet Samantha Davies.”
“Already did,” he said.
“Clinton!” his grandmother cried.
He about skidded to a stop.
“You sit down and be nice,” Gigi ordered, and sure enough, she had her on the couch, one of his grandmother’s hands patting the seat cushion to the right of her. Their “guest” sat to her left.
And finally, reluctantly, he looked that woman in the eye. She was even prettier up close. Olive-colored skin. Brown hair that was short, but that flattered her high cheekbones and heart-shaped face. And eyes as green as springtime prairie grass.
“Gigi,” he said to his grandmother, using the name he’d been calling her since he was three because he’d been unable to pronounce the words “Grandma Eugenia”; it’d all come out sounding like Gigigigi…and the name had stuck. “I need to go upstairs and change.”
“Not before you shake hands,” she said.
Fine, he told his grandmother with his eyes, the rowels of his spurs suddenly muffled when his muddy feet hit the area rug. She’d kill him later when she saw the brown spots.
“Clinton McAlister,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Clint is my—”
“Ranch manager,” he interrupted Gigi before she could say “grandson,” which caused Gigi to draw back. For some reason, he didn’t want this woman knowing who he was, although he wondered if she hadn’t guessed already. This was a small town and people talked. Fact is, he owned the Baer Mountain Ranch. His grandmother had deeded it over to him a few years ago.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, keeping their eye contact to a minimum.
Damn, but she was beautiful.
And warm. Her fingers were soft, her flesh so hot he nearly hissed.
“Clinton is actually—”
“Really cold,” he interrupted his grandmother again, reluctantly releasing her hand. “As you can tell.”
“Clinton,” Gigi said, “whatever is the matter with you?”
If he admitted he was the owner of the Baer Mountain Ranch, he might be obligated to sit down and speak to this stranger—and that he didn’t want to do. He had a feeling spending time with her would be…troublesome.
“I’m freezing, Gigi,” he said. And then with his eyes he pleaded, just humor me, would you?
His grandmother might be pushing seventy, but she was no fool. She could smell something in the air…and it wasn’t just brownies.
“Fine,” she said. “Off with you. Go change.” She waved her hands. “You smell like horse.”
“Actually,” their guest said before he could turn away, “I like the smell of horse.”
Clint had no idea why the words sent a stab of warmth right through his gut. All she’d done was admit to something he understood—he liked the smell of horse, too. But hearing her softly feminine voice say the words like and smell in a sentence in connection to him, well, it made him think about stuff that he probably shouldn’t, especially given that she’d been talking about horses.
“Well, I smell like wet horse,” he said, more sternly than he meant to.
He caught his grandmother’s gaze. She was leaning back now, her gray eyebrows lifted, and it was obvious she was trying not to smile.
“I’ll be upstairs,” he grumbled, turning.
“You’ll go upstairs and change and then come right back downstairs,” Gigi said.
“Gigi, I have work to do.”
“That work can wait. It’s still pouring outside.”
It was, though it’d probably pass quickly. Storms this time of year always did.
“Go on,” Gigi ordered, waving her hands again. “Mr. Ranch Foreman,” she tacked on.
“Fine,” he snapped.
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