Winning The Rancher's Heart. Pamela Britton
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the kids’ grandparents once they made the move out west, too. They’d be living on a ranch. They could even have their own horses down the road once she sold the house. Sam had always loved horses. But Sam hated to leave her friends. She didn’t like California, although she’d never been there before. She hated that her mom would be a housekeeper. Why couldn’t she do something different? Why couldn’t they stay in Georgia? And on and on it’d gone.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. At least T.J. was happy. Her son was going from room to room, sounds of “wow” and “cool” being emitted periodically.
As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, a sullen teenager only added to the mix. Jaxton Stone’s sister had said he was a nice man: the perfect brother, she’d said. He worked super hard, which was why he needed a live-in housekeeper. Apparently, her new boss was always off somewhere in the world. He ran a military contracting company. She’d had to Google what that was, a sort of army-for-hire type of thing. They provided protection for corporate executives, too, something she’d never heard of before, but was apparently necessary if the company was big enough that it could afford to pay a ransom. She’d been shocked to read just how dangerous foreign travel could be for the head of a big company, and her new boss made a living keeping those corporate head honchos safe. A very good living, by the looks of it.
Off you go.
She stepped outside and skirted the house to the main entrance. At least her surroundings were pretty spectacular. The home sat on property that looked like something out of an old Western movie, or maybe Bonanza. Rolling hills were covered by dried grass, trees casting inkblot shadows on the ground, taller mountains in the distance. She’d had to cross through those mountains to get to Via Del Caballo, so she knew the ocean lay on the other side. It might have rained this morning, but it was clear now, a few patchy clouds off in the distance. She took a deep breath of the freshly scented air and then squared her shoulders. Lauren had constantly mentioned how great her brother was. She hoped her boss’s sister hadn’t fudged the truth.
The front door sat atop a row of steps like the opening to a Mayan temple. She was just about to make the sacrificial ascent when a sound caught her attention. A dog sat on the massive porch that framed the front of the house. It stared at her curiously from its position by a redwood chair with maroon cushions.
“Hey there, boy,” she said, climbing the stairs quickly. Some kind over overlarge terrier, she thought, smiling at the way tendrils of hair came together at the crown of its head and made it look like it had a Mohawk.
“Bad hair day?” she asked.
The dog just thumped its tail. Skinny little thing. She wondered if it were ill or something.
She smiled down at it and eyed the place. Should she just walk in? Ring a bell?
She pressed the doorbell, stepped back, the dog watching her as she stood there, then moved forward and rang the bell again.
Was he home?
She’d been assured someone would be there to greet her this morning. And the apartment had been unlocked. Maybe he’d stepped out?
She wondered what to do. Wide beams stood above her, the wooden rails reminiscent of pictures she’d seen of Camp David. It smelled new. Like varnish and wood and fresh paint.
He must not have heard me. She peeked through one of the massive windows that lined the front. She didn’t see anybody, so she went back to the door, turning the handle just to see if it was open, not to go inside or anything.
The alarm nearly deafened her. She had to cover her ears it was so loud. The dog that’d been on the porch ran away so fast she wished she could do the same.
Whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo.
What had she done? She hadn’t even opened the dang thing.
Dear Lord.
She stepped back from the door, staring at it, as if she could somehow will the alarm to shut off.
It swung open.
Blue eyes stared down at her. That’s all she caught a glimpse of before he went back inside. Through the open door she watched as he turned toward an electronic console on the wall, pressed some buttons and silenced the alarm.
Her ears rang. Her face blazed. Her smile nearly slipped from her face.
“Good morning.” She tried to brazen it out.
He slowly placed his hands on his hips, and as Naomi looked into his gorgeous eyes, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.
* * *
“DO YOU ALWAYS just walk into people’s homes?”
The redhead’s smile grew even more strained, and he recognized the grin for what it was—a show of bravado that fooled no one.
“I didn’t walk in, I promise.” She lifted her hands. “I just tried the door.”
“Soooo you could walk in?”
“No, no.” She shook her head, a mass of red hair falling over her shoulders. “I was just seeing if someone was here. I wasn’t going to walk in.”
“Mom!” Behind her, a dark-haired girl came to a stop on his gravel driveway. “Are you okay?”
She turned to greet the teen. “I’m okay.” She waved her away. “Just a little misunderstanding.”
A little boy, younger than the girl and with hair as red as his mom’s, skidded to a stop next. “Man, that was loud.”
“I take it those are the kids?” he asked.
She glanced back at him. “Yup.”
Which confirmed that she was Naomi Jones, although her Southern accent gave it away. The friend of a friend that his sister had interviewed and loved, and whom he’d been forced to hire because Lauren felt sorry for the single mom of two. That wasn’t surprising given that his sister had been raising a child all on her own, but that would soon change since she’d met Brennan Connelly.
“Can I see the inside of your house?” the boy asked, lifting up on his toes as if he might be able to peer over his mom’s shoulder.
The girl smacked him on the head.
“Ow!” the boy cried.
“Come on.” The teen gave them what could only be called a glare of derision. “Let’s let Mom do her housekeeping thing.”
His gaze caught on the woman in front of him, just in time to see her wince. “I’m so sorry.”
He’d have to have been a real jerk not to accept her apology. His men might call him a hard-ass, but it really wasn’t true. Well, most of the time.
“It’s okay.” He stepped back from the door. “Come on in.”
“Thanks.”
She glanced around, her gaze coming to rest on a granite water sculpture at the center of the main foyer. The sound of running water soothed troubled souls, his included.
“I love your house.” She stopped in the middle of the foyer, her eyes—the prettiest shade of blue he’d seen in a long, long time—traveling around the interior. “It reminds me of a guest lodge or something.”
“Thanks.”
Those eyes landed back on him. “I’m Naomi Jones, by the way.”
He could tell she wasn’t sure if she should hold out a hand or simply stand there and keep smiling.
He took the guesswork away from her and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Nice to meet you.”
He saw something flit across her eyes, something that told him he might have just offended her, or maybe disappointed her. “You, too.” She stuffed her own hands in her pockets.
Interesting. Usually mimicking