His Perfect Bride: Hired by the Cowboy / Wedding Bells at Wandering Creek / Coming Home to the Cattleman. Judy Christenberry
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come up with one yet, it didn’t mean she wouldn’t. Heck, she’d been finding her way out of scrapes for years. This one was going to take a little more ingenuity, that was all.
It was time to end this whole meet-and-greet thing. She pushed away her tea. “Listen, thanks for helping this afternoon, and for the tea. But I should get going.”
She stood to leave and he rose, reaching into his pocket.
“Here,” he offered, holding out a card. “If you need anything, call me.”
“Why would I do that?”
His face flattened and he stepped back at her sharp tone. “I’d like to be of help if I can. I’m at Windover Ranch, just north of Sundre.”
She had no idea where Sundre was, and had no plan to discover the wonders of Windover Ranch, so she figured there’d be no harm in responding to his solicitude by being polite. She tucked the small white card into her jeans pocket.
“Thanks for the offer. It was nice meeting you, Connor.”
She held out her hand, and he took it firmly.
Her eyes darted up to his and locked.
Another time, another place. She lost herself momentarily in their chocolaty depths. Perhaps in different circumstances she might have wanted to get to know him better. It was just her luck that she’d fainted in front of the first hot guy she’d seen in a good long time.
And it was the height of irony to meet someone like him when she was obviously unavailable. She was pretty sure that being pregnant with another man’s child was probably number one on a guy’s “not in this lifetime” list.
“Goodbye,” she whispered, pulling her hand away from his grasp.
Her steps were hurried as she exited the shop, but she couldn’t escape the gentle and understanding look he’d given her as she’d said goodbye.
“HAVE you seen today’s paper?” Connor stopped his agitated pacing and faced his grandmother.
Johanna Madsen looked coolly over the rims of her glasses, her shrewd eyes assessing. Not a single white hair was out of place, curled back from her temples stylishly and stopping at her collar.
“Yes, dear, of course I have.”
Connor started pacing the elegant sitting room again, feeling fenced in among the classic furniture and expensive knickknacks. His head was ready to implode. How could she sit there so implacably, a study in calm? This was big. It was huge. It was probably the end of Windover.
“We almost lost the farm after the last scare. This’ll put the final nail in the coffin, Grandmother.”
“My, you are upset,” Johanna replied with a tiny smile. “You never call me Grandmother unless you’re piqued at me.”
“Whatever.” Connor stopped pacing and faced the elderly woman squarely. “I want to know what you’re willing to do to help me save our heritage.”
She laughed, a raspy, rusty sound that made Connor’s lips twitch even as he waited for her answer.
“Our heritage? You’ve been thinking about this all day, I can tell.”
On the contrary. For a few hours that afternoon he’d forgotten about his current troubles, focusing on another’s issues. A slight girl with jet-black hair and astonishing blue eyes. With a baby on the way. Where was she now? He hoped she was still all right. When her face had paled and she’d wavered he’d simply acted, while no one around had batted an eyelash.
And even at her worst she’d still maintained a sense of humor. He admired that. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was in a bad way. For the father to simply disappear like that…Connor frowned. He had no compassion for cowards. A real man stood up and did what needed to be done.
And so, apparently, did Alex. Because the only sense he’d got from her today was that of strength and stubbornness, not hopelessness and self-pity.
And why, considering the current pickle he found himself in, was he thinking about her when he should be focusing on convincing Gram to release his trust fund?
“Connor?”
“Yes, Gram,” he answered sharply, turning back to the woman who looked so much like his father. Right now her expressive eyes were troubled, and the mouth that always looked like it held a secret joke was a thin line.
“Look,” he relented, “you know as well as I do why I’m here. There’s already a ban imposed on beef exports. It’s the same scenario as before, only this time it’ll be harder to convince the world our beef is safe. Meanwhile I have a herd, a growing herd, that I can’t slaughter but that still has to be fed and cared for.”
“And you want the cash?”
“My birthday is less than a year away. Surely you can release it a little early?”
Her blue hawk-like eyes bored into his as she folded her hands in her lap. Hands that had once been rough and workworn but now held a small smattering of delightful rings. “No, my grandson, I can’t do that. Your parents’ will clearly states that those monies be held in trust for you until your thirtieth.”
Connor cursed fluently; Johanna merely raised an elegant eyebrow. He glared at her, and she stared him down.
Damn it. She was strong—too strong. She’d lived her life, worked the ranch herself, knew what tough meant. She’d chosen comfort, a condo with a mountain view for her retirement. But she’d lost none of that prairie woman’s steel.
“Gram. I can’t do it. Not without the resources.”
“You are your father’s son. You can.”
“He never had to deal with this.” He said it and knew without a doubt he was right. The last scare had nearly bankrupted them, and they’d kept going by the skin of their teeth. But now…there was nothing in reserve. The only way to keep Windover running was with cold, hard cash. And it was clear now she wasn’t going to give him any. His heart sank. He’d fail after all.
Like hell I will. His lips thinned with frustration and determination.
“Legally I can’t release the money, Connor. You know I would if I could.”
Her eyes softened just a little, and he saw the deepening wrinkles there.
“I don’t want to see Windover go under either,” she continued. “It means as much to me as it does to you. You know that.”
He did know it. She’d spent all her married life there, had delivered his father, seen grandchildren grow and thrive.
“I’m just trying to find a way, and everywhere I turn there seems to be a roadblock.” Exasperated, he ran his fingers through his hair.
“There is one other provision, remember?” she remarked blandly.
She couldn’t be serious.
“The one other way for me to claim that trust fund is to get married. Gram, I’m not even seeing anyone! What do you want me to do? Post an ad at the general store? Perhaps I could find a mail order bride on the Internet!”
She shrugged, undaunted by his sarcasm. “Mail order brides have worked in the past, as you well know.” She rose from her chair and stood, her five-foot-ten frame slim and imperious, but mischief sparkled in her eyes. “I suggest you get busy, my boy.”
“Busy? Doing what?”
She laughed again, throwing him a flirtatious wink. “Why, courting, of course!”
Courting. Hmmph. Connor snorted as he accelerated through the