The Rancher's Bride. Pamela Britton
Читать онлайн книгу.
target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#fb3_img_img_ba0ffb9d-383e-5e8c-b53a-ea7570428ea8.jpg" alt="cover"/>
Here Comes The Bride!
Rude with a bad attitude—that’s Ryan Clayborne, all right. From the moment she meets her new boss’s son, Jorie Peters vows to spend as little time as possible with the surly rancher. That she has to plan his wedding? Well, that’s just bad luck. The sparks shooting between them? Those are a Texas-size disaster.
The last thing Ryan needs is some big-city wedding coordinator stomping her high heels all over his ranch. He has bigger things on his mind—mainly a temporary marriage to a friend he doesn’t love. But one look at Jorie turns the cowboy’s life, and heart, upside down. Heated thoughts lead to cold feet, but Ryan’s still determined to do the honorable thing. Even if doing right has never felt—so wrong...
“I met your bride today.”
Ryan nearly winced, caught himself just in time and managed to croak out, “Oh, yeah?”
“She seems…sweet.”
He caught the pause, found himself meeting Jorie’s gaze despite his resolve. She’d put her hair up. It made her cheekbones look high and sexy, like a damn lingerie model.
“I take it you were expecting overbearing and ostentatious.”
To his surprise, she appeared to consider the question, her head tipping to the side.
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Jorie admitted, her pretty blue eyes narrowing for a moment. “But she’s really nice.”
Everyone loved Laurel, including the man who’d gotten her pregnant—or so he claimed. He’d run out on her the moment he’d discovered she was pregnant.
“She’s a good girl.”
Something sparked in Jorie’s gaze, something that made him instantly regret his words. Damn it. She was too smart. He realized that was part of his attraction. Had she picked up on the one tiny detail about his wedding he didn’t want anyone to know? Had she somehow put it together that he didn’t love his bride?
The Rancher’s Bride
Pamela Britton
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With over a million books in print, Pamela Britton likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that changed thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR.
But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and RT Book Reviews. She’s won numerous awards, including the National Reader’s Choice Award and a nomination for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.
When not writing books, Pamela is a reporter for a local newspaper. She’s also a columnist for The American Quarter Horse Journal. The Rancher’s Bride is the author’s twenty-seventh title.
For Melissa, sister of my heart, fellow horsey-person extraordinaire, maker of the always divine venison Swiss steak (eat your heart out, Pioneer Woman), consumer of all things martini (with me).
I love you.
Contents
Chapter One
The hot breath of Texas enveloped Jorie Peters like a steamy wet blanket.
“Ugh.” She grimaced, swiping at a brow already covered by sweat.
So this was Texas?
Her gaze swept over rolling hills and grass-covered pastures. It didn’t look a thing like she expected.
She inhaled a deep breath of resignation. The scent of fresh-cut grass made the humidity seem heavier. The building she’d parked in front of was filled to the brim with hay and at least four stories tall. Its dark shadow spread across the gravel road like a blob of ink. Three other outbuildings surrounded her. Farm buildings, she clarified—one to her right which held tractors and one to her left which housed equipment, and some kind of long one out in the distance behind the building where she’d parked. She turned, her heel grinding into the gravel as she spun in place, wondering where to go. There was nothing that looked like a horse barn in sight.
“You can’t park there.”
Her heart jumped out of her throat. She turned, trying to find the voice’s owner.
“I have another squeeze of hay coming in.”
The words echoed, so much so that she couldn’t determine where they came from.
“Up here.”
Oh. Up.
Her gaze drifted along the hundreds of hay bales. And there he was, at least twenty feet above her, a tall, lanky male wearing an off-white cowboy hat. Well, this was Texas after all, and so she should expect the hat. She was a long ways away from Atlanta. He wore chaps, too—kind of. They were too short for him, the leather flaps looking as if they belonged on a six-year-old and not a grown man.