The Rancher's Bride. Pamela Britton
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sure I can find something later,” she added.
He’d always thought the door was ostentatious, but his mom seemed to like it. Of course, the hinges squeaked horribly. He’d been meaning to fix that since forever. It didn’t seem to bother his mom. She’d been the one to design the office space beyond.
“Don’t you worry, dear,” his mom said, joining the two of them on the landing, her hand finding Jorie’s shoulder and patting it. “I’ve got plenty of food up at the house. I’ll bring you something down just as soon as I get you settled into the office.”
“If you bring her something, make sure you keep those dogs of yours locked up.”
Yeah, that was definitely a glare coming from his mom, although what he’d done wrong he had no idea. He’d insisted the dogs be locked in the tack room while they showed Jorie her new workspace, but that’d been a matter of self-defense. The last time Mom’s mutts had run amok in his office, they’d broken a lamp, ripped up a leather pillow and tried to eat a piece of furniture. The massive conference room table in the middle of the room beyond still bore Jackson’s teeth marks.
“Our desks are on the left. Yours is the one on the right,” Ryan told his mom’s new employee as he inserted a key into the lock and swung the door wide.
He stepped aside, watching as Jorie’s eyes widened when she caught sight of the office space beyond.
“Oh, wow.”
The words weren’t unexpected. Their guests frequently reacted that way—yes, even the seen-it-all oil executives that came to renegotiate oil rights every year. It’d taken his mom nearly a year to complete, having always considered herself something of an interior designer, and he had to admit, if there was one thing she was good at, it was making things look girlie. The office was like a cross between a Western saloon and a cattle baron’s boudoir. Cowhide couches that could have sat an elephant to his left, the conference table in the middle of the room, made out of pine lodge poles and a massive glass tabletop that reminded Ryan of a miniature ice skating rink. To their left were three desks, all in a row, each of them facing out, toward the door. Above them, massive ceiling fans spun lazily through the air, their black iron hardware matching the other fixtures in the room.
“Do you like it?” his mom asked, sliding up next to Jorie so she could get a glimpse of Jorie’s face. “My desk is right next to yours, and you’re next to Ryan.” She pointed toward his desk in the corner of the room. He had the most space, and a window. Actually, windows stretched across the front of the room, overlooking the parking area and the winding driveway that led to the ranch, pastures on both sides. “It took me forever to decorate, but I really think it works, don’t you?”
Though his mom was nearly sixty years old, she could still sound like a little kid again. This was one of those moments. The room was striking, beautiful, but you could hear how badly she wanted Jorie’s approval.
“Of course it looks great, Mom. You outdid yourself.”
It was the tone of voice she used, that pleading little-girl-done-good question that hung in the air. He was a sucker for it every time.
So, apparently, was Jorie. “Oh, Mrs. Clayborne…are you kidding? This is stunning.” To his surprise, although he had no idea why, the woman placed a comforting hand on his mother’s shoulder. “It’s truly beautiful. I love the view.”
His mom beamed with pride. Oddly, it made his own heart swell, although not for the world would he let his mom see that. The last thing he needed was his mother realizing how much he wanted to please her. No way.
“Why thank you, Jorie. And, please, don’t call me Mrs. Clayborne. It reminds me of Ryan’s dad and how everyone called me Mrs. Clayborne this and Mrs. Clayborne that when he first brought me home. It was like I was Lady Bird Johnson for goodness’ sake. Took me weeks to get used to it. I finally had to tell Mavis, our housekeeper, to stop.”
She waved a hand in front of her face. Ryan marveled. She so rarely spoke about his dad anymore. It was like a scab she was afraid to itch for fear of making it bleed again. He knew exactly how she felt. He still missed his dad, too, though he’d died twenty years ago, when he was ten.
“Anyway,” his mom was saying with a wave of her hand. “Come see the desk I picked out for you.”
And by picked, his mom meant picked. It might look like the other two desks in the office, but there were subtle differences. It was blond oak like the other two which had been bought at the same time, but this one was more feminine. Not as thick-looking as the other two, which wasn’t surprising since the mate to his desk had been bought for his dad back when the office had been behind the main house. Excuse him. The bridal suite now.
“It’s handmade,” said his mom. “A local craftsman made it just for you. Well, not you specifically, but for whoever I hired.”
And it’d cost them a fortune. Not that they had to worry about money, but that didn’t mean Ryan liked spending a bundle on something that would have been just fine if it’d been made from pressed wood. He doubted anyone his mom hired would be around for long, especially since his mom probably wouldn’t be planning weddings for very long.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
Ryan glanced at Jorie sharply, but she wasn’t mouthing empty platitudes. She genuinely admired the desk, her pale hand drifting over the surface, Ryan wondering what it’d feel like to have that same hand—
Whoa.
He blinked, looked away, his gaze caught on his own desk. “Mom,” he said. “I’m going to make Jorie a bowl of oatmeal. Why don’t you show her where all the important things are?”
“You don’t have to do that—”
But he was already moving off.
Putting some space between them.
What was it about the woman that made him want to ruffle her feathers? he thought, heading to the kitchenette in the left corner of the room. He wanted to tease her until she blushed, he admitted, grabbing a bowl from above the sink. He wasn’t that way with Laurel. Yet he hardly knew this woman.
He glanced back, his mom waving her hand toward the conference table, Ryan hearing her mention the name of the famous craftsman who’d made it. He hardly paid attention as he poured oatmeal into a bowl, then some milk he didn’t even remember grabbing from the mini-refrigerator below.
She was damn good-looking.
Yeah, so what? he asked himself, punching some buttons on the microwave. He’d seen plenty of good-looking women before. So what if she had thick, silky hair—the kind he liked best on a woman? And so what if her eyes were the same color as the forget-me-nots that grew wild in the pastures? Didn’t mean a thing.
The microwave binged. Ryan grabbed the bowl, gasped and almost dropped it.
“Damn it.”
He heard footsteps behind him. “Mmm. That smells good, doesn’t it?” he heard his mom say. “Looks like it’s not quite done, though. Stir it up a bit and put it on for another thirty seconds.”
As if Ryan couldn’t see that for himself.
“Why don’t you sit down while I grab the file for the first wedding I want you to work on,” he heard his mom say as he punched the buttons.
Ryan spun toward his mother.
“The Western wedding of the year.”
“Mom—”
“Now, now, honey, don’t be shy.”
He wasn’t being shy. He just didn’t want Jorie to know he was about to get married.
And that was the scariest thought of all.
* * *
“LEAVE HER BE until after she eats breakfast,” Jorie heard