The Cowboy's Perfect Match. Cathy Mcdavid
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mistaken him for one of the local cowboys, what with his well-fitting Wranglers, scuffed boots, Western work shirt and Stetson, which he’d removed and hung on the antique hat rack in the corner.
Now she felt sorry for the bride. They’d been married a mere two days, and her husband was hitting on another woman. Hard as it was for her, Bridget refrained from giving him a piece of her mind.
“Hey, this is good,” he said, biting into a croissant.
“Thank you.” She pivoted and started for the kitchen.
“Wait. Can’t you stay awhile?”
She very nearly blurted, “Does your wife have any idea what a jerk you are?” but held her tongue. He was a guest at the ranch, and she wouldn’t offend him.
All of a sudden her grandmother glided into the parlor. She barely noticed Bridget and instead addressed the man. “Good, you’re here. And getting some breakfast.” She patted Bridget’s arm as she skirted past her. “Thanks for taking care of him.”
“My pleasure,” Bridget answered tersely.
“I got distracted and forgot to tell you earlier that Ryan was coming by.”
Her grandmother’s words caused Bridget to stop short. “Ryan?”
“He’s applying for the wrangler job. He bought the old Chandler place. Nora introduced us the other day. She says he’s a heck of a worker.”
Nora being her grandmother’s best friend, a part-time employee of the ranch when they were shorthanded, and neighbor to the Chandlers before they’d moved. She’d talked more than once about the nice, young, single man next door, emphasizing single.
“Oh. I didn’t know.” Bridget felt her cheeks warm. Thank goodness she’d kept her mouth shut. “Nice to meet you, Ryan. Good luck with the interview.”
In the kitchen she expelled a long breath, vastly relieved. Meeting Ryan had left her disconcerted. First, because she’d mistaken him for the groom from cabin five. Then, because once she learned he was Nora’s neighbor, she’d been briefly intrigued by him.
Remembering he’d purchased the Chandler place put an end to that. To call the old house, with its ramshackle outbuildings, a fixer-upper was being kind. In truth, it was a dump, and owning a decent home ranked number eight on Bridget’s dating nonnegotiable list.
* * *
“BRING THAT WITH you and let’s head to the kitchen.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Ryan DeMere followed Mrs. Foxworthy, owner of Sweetheart Ranch. He carried his loaded plate of food in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other.
Had he overindulged? The way the older woman looked at his plate had him wondering. Ryan did possess a healthy appetitive, brought on by working long, hard hours. Plus, the food here was incredible. He generally preferred a hearty country breakfast. Eggs, biscuits, sausages, gravy and hash browns. Fancy breads and fruit were for folks a lot daintier than him. But these rolls—he’d never tasted anything like them. Darn things just melted in his mouth, and he couldn’t stop at one. Or two.
Okay, he’d taken four, having quickly polished off the first one. The rest were stacked on his plate along with three heaping spoonfuls of strawberry jam and a pile of fruit. He supposed that deserved a look. Of concern, if nothing else. Then again, she didn’t know about the first croissant, unless her granddaughter tattled on him.
Bridget. He’d caught her name when Mrs. Foxworthy called her by it. She was obviously the cook. No, that wasn’t right. His neighbor had referred to Bridget as a chef of some kind. Pastry, maybe? Sous? The other granddaughter helped with the business side and was dating the feed-store owner. He’d met the man several times while buying supplies for his horse but hadn’t made the connection until recently, when his neighbor told him about the job opening at the ranch.
Mustang Valley wasn’t large by any means. According to the welcome sign at the center of town, there were two thousand residents, give or take. Ryan was probably the newest one, having moved here less than two months ago, when he’d purchased the Chandler place. A run-down, sorry piece of horse property by anyone’s standards with a house that most would consider uninhabitable.
It was also perfect for his purposes. In a year to eighteen months, depending on how much the renovations wound up costing, he intended to sell the property for a nice profit.
He’d do it, too. Ryan was no rookie when it came to flipping horse properties. This was his fourth project in eight years. He’d done very well with his first three. If all went as planned, in a few years he’d make enough money to buy his dream ranch. Only then would he settle down in one place.
“Have a seat.” Mrs. Foxworthy motioned to the table. “We can talk here, if you don’t mind Bridget hovering nearby.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t.”
Not at all. For starters, she was easy on the eyes. Bouncy reddish-blond hair framing the face of an angel, when she wasn’t scowling. Nice figure, from what he could tell. That apron did her no favors. Dancing green eyes, his particular weakness. And a great cook.
Could be a little friendlier. Then again, she might not have appreciated his...exuberance. Ryan couldn’t help himself. She was an attractive woman. His neighbor, Nora, had said as much, but Ryan took that with a grain of salt. Then he’d seen Bridget, and his brain turned to mush.
But if he wanted this job—and he did want it—he needed to rein in his enthusiasm. Ryan was the owner of a healthy bank account. But all that money was earmarked for remodeling the house, and he’d need every penny, if not more.
When it came to covering his day-to-day living expenses, he relied entirely on money he earned from side jobs. Those funds were running dangerously low. This past week, he’d begun subsiding on boxed macaroni-and-cheese and bologna sandwiches. Another reason he was currently making a pig of himself.
“Our part-time wrangler wants to retire,” Mrs. Foxworthy explained. She’d helped herself to a cup of coffee after offering one to Ryan. “With trail rides starting soon and the addition of three more horses to our stables, we need someone full-time. I forgot to ask, do you have much experience with driving a carriage and hay wagon?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“Call me Emily, please.”
“Thank you, Emily.” Ryan pushed aside his plate of food. Cramming his face wouldn’t look good during an interview. He could finish later. “I grew up on a working farm outside of Austin. Fourth generation.”
“I thought I recognized your drawl. I have relatives from that part of Texas. What kind of farm?”
“Wheat, mostly. Raised some cattle. ’Course, our horses pulled farm wagons. Not fancy carriages. But I’m thinking the mechanics are pretty much the same.”
“Bridget and her sister are fifth generation here in Mustang Valley.”
She smiled at her granddaughter, who was busy at the counter beating eggs in a bowl. He could see the love Emily had for her granddaughter, and his respect for the older woman increased. Ryan was close to his family, too.
“I’m the youngest of eight,” he said. “My parents had a lot of mouths to feed and shoes to buy. We all had to pitch in from an early age. I was harnessing a team by the time I was ten. Driving a tractor when I was eight. Riding horses since, well, I honestly don’t remember how old I was when I started riding.”
He noticed Bridget sneaking discreet peeks at him as if trying to hide her curiosity. It went both ways. He was curious about her, too, and sneaking peeks.
“Are your parents still in Texas?” Emily asked.
“They are. I’m trying to talk them into moving here after Dad retires. Not sure when that’ll be. He’s darn near seventy, and still putting in eight-hour days, every day of the week.”