The Wrangler. Pamela Britton
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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.
Chapter Three
Samantha watched him go. Frankly, she was unable to tear her eyes away from him. The rain had turned his white shirt damn near transparent, and though her eyesight was failing, she could still make out every sinewy cord of muscle that rippled down his back.
“He’s a real handful, that one,” Eugenia Baer proclaimed.
Sam faced the woman she’d traveled two thousand miles to see. She hadn’t expected to meet her. Everyone she’d ever talked to about Mrs. Baer had painted her a recluse. Although to be honest, the entire family was something of an enigma. If she’d had money to spare she could have hired a P.I. Instead she’d been forced to research on the Internet. Eugenia Baer appeared to be the last living descendant of William Baer, the man who’d founded the ranch.
“I don’t think he wants me here,” Samantha said, running her fingers through her brown hair, but there was hardly any hair there. She hadn’t gotten used to having it all buzzed off in the hospital.
“Nonsense, dear. He’s just wet and cold and miserable.”
He wasn’t wet and cold and miserable when they’d first met. Frankly, he’d been hard and sweaty and hot…
Sam!
At some point in the future she would have no idea if a man was good-looking or not. She better enjoy it while she could.
“Has he worked for you long?” Sam asked, hearing footsteps above her head. It was a weird question to ask given that she suspected Clinton had worked for the ranch his entire life. He was this woman’s grandson. But Sam wasn’t thinking clearly. Up there, somewhere on the second floor, a man was stripping out of his clothes.
She swallowed, forced herself to meet Eugenia’s eyes.
“Who, Clinton?” she asked, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Well, uh. Yes. I guess you could say he has worked for me a long time. Practically his whole life.”
There was something about the way the woman said the words that alerted Sam to the fact that Eugena Baer thought Sam was clueless about Clinton’s true identity. Interesting.
“Does he help with the Baer Mountain Mustangs?” she boldly asked, hoping to startle a confession. She had broached the subject of the horses just before Clint had walked in and she’d yet to discover if Mrs. Baer would admit to the wild herd.
“Um, yeah,” Eugenia said, bending forward and grabbing her cup of tea off the table, “about those mustangs.”
And here it was, Sam thought. This was when Eugenia Baer would deny the Baer Mountain Mustangs were still alive. Although to be honest, Sam felt fortunate to have gotten this far. Telling Eugenia she’d driven two thousand miles because the dream of seeing the horses had been the one thing to help her through the loss of her mom and dad had touched the rancher. As it happened she, too, had suffered a loss: her son-in-law and daughter had passed away a few years back.
“I’ve heard the rumors about them, of course,” Eugenia said now. “Most people in these parts have.” She held a porcelain cup with tiny violets painted on the side and it somehow suited the woman whose gray hair and ivory skin appeared almost too delicate to belong to a rancher. “But whatever makes you think these mustangs even exist?”
And