The Rancher's Bride. Pamela Britton
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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?” He drove her car between the two farm buildings, his eyes quickly bouncing between her and the gravel road.
“Never mind,” she said. Darn it. Why did she always do that? A thought would pop into her head and, bam, out it came.
“Ah, no,” he said, having obviously figured out what she’d said. “I’ve never played football.”
Just pretend like you meant to ask the question, Jorie.
“Your mom seems nice,” she said next.
“She’s a pain in the butt.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m thinking about having her committed to an old folk’s home.”
“You are not.”
“I even called a couple places, but they wouldn’t take her just yet. I have to wait until her dementia gets a little more advanced.”
“Dementia?” Jorie asked, sitting up in her seat.
And then he smiled.
He was teasing her.
“Gotcha.”
“Why, you little—” She couldn’t think what to say, not without insulting him at least, and not as tired as she was.
“Little what?” he prompted.
Okay, so he wasn’t just good-looking. He was drop-dead gorgeous. And, apparently, he had a sense of humor.
“You’re not very nice.”
“Sorry. Thought I should try to break the ice.”
He drove her car down a gently sloping hillside, and Jorie was presented with a vista that took her breath away. A pasture lay spread out in front of her. To the right was an old barn, to her left another grove of trees, one with two homes nearby. The same creek she’d noticed earlier was here, too, tall oak trees surrounded yet another group of homes.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s lovely,” she said.
“That used to be the main homestead,” he explained. The tires crunched as he took a fork to the left. “The barn over to our right is what my mom lovingly calls the ‘wedding chapel.’”
She’d seen pictures of it on the internet, but Jorie made a mental note to suggest adding a photo page to Spring Hill Ranch’s website, one that would highlight the rustic charm of their venue. The rolling hills and stately trees were just stunning.
Seconds later he pulled to a stop in front of one of the homes, a charming single-story with wood windowpanes and a tiny front porch.
“You’ll be living in a home that used to belong to the ranch foreman, only that’s me these days, so I live in the main house right there.” He pointed to a home about four-hundred yards away. “The old main house. My mom lives in the big one over the hill.”
“You mean you’ll be living next door to me?”
He shut off the car. “Yup. And I’ll be giving you a ride to our office every day, too.”
Our office.
She’d completely forgotten about that.
Suddenly there didn’t seem to be enough air in the vehicle.
He’s turned off the car, you dork.
“Look,” he said, pulling her keys out. “I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but I feel I should tell you something.” He fiddled with her keys a second. “My mom,” he said. “She goes through these…phases. Over the years she’s tried a number of things.”
She saw him frown, and even in profile he was handsome. “Look, I know you just drove all the way out here from Georgia, but things might change, you know? My mom’s the best mom in the world, but she gets burrs up her butt from