The Wrangler's Bride

by Justine Davis

“I need those salt blocks set out,” Grant said. “Now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chipper said resignedly. Then he brightened, turning his freckled face back toward Mercy. “If you need someone to show you around—”

  “I’ll keep you in mind,” she said, smiling at the boy.

  An utterly charming smile, Grant thought. And utterly without heart. A practiced, surface smile, reflecting nothing of the woman behind it. Yet it didn’t seem to him a phony smile, not like those of some of the women he’d encountered in his infrequent forays into the society his mother was now a part of.

  No, this wasn’t a smile to hide shallowness, it was more of a mask, to hide…what? Emptiness? Pain?

  It came back to him in a rush then, what Kristina had said in her phone call to him last week. It had taken him a moment to connect the name that sounded familiar to the memory of his pesky blond shadow, so he’d missed the first part of what his half sister said. But her plea had been simple enough; Meredith needed someplace to go, a shelter, away from the city, for a while, after the death of her partner, Nick Corelli, who had been murdered in the line of duty.

  “She and Nick were very close,” Kristina had said, in the most patently sincere part of her wheedling request. “She’s devastated. She needs to rest, she’s running herself ragged. Please, Grant. Just for a while. She needs someplace quiet, where people won’t talk about what happened all the time. Someplace to grieve, and to heal.”

  That was it, he thought. Grief was what was living behind that careful smile. She must have loved the man a great deal. And here he was overheating absurdly, not only over his childhood nemesis, but over a woman grieving for a loved one. Mentally chastising himself, he reached for the two bags Chipper had set down beside the truck.

  “I said I can get those,” she said.

  “I’m sure you can, but I’ll do it. You’ve had a long trip.”

  “I sat for most of it,” she pointed out. “I can carry my own bags.”

  Grant dropped the bags, wondering if this was how this visit was going to go. His mother had been at great pains to teach him manners during the few months of the year he spent with her growing up. When he complained that women didn’t seem to want manners anymore, she’d quietly told him women and men most certainly did, they just didn’t want condescension along with them, and continued her lessons.

  He crossed his arms across his chest. But before he could open his mouth, she forestalled him.

  “It’s not a gender thing,” she said quickly, as if she’d read his thoughts. “I’m intruding here, I know that. You have a ranch to run, and you’re doing me a big enough favor just by letting me stay here. If there’s anything I can do to help out, just tell me. I don’t want to be treated like a guest, so I don’t want to start out that way.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Then just exactly how do you want to be treated?”

  She smiled suddenly, the most genuine smile he’d seen from her yet. And it sent a snap of electricity arcing through him that startled him with its swiftness and power.

  “Ignoring me would be fine.”

  Despite the unexpected jolt, his mouth quirked with humor. “I doubt anyone ignores you successfully, Mercy,” he said dryly. “I tried every summer for years.”

  She only lifted a delicately arched brow at his use of the childhood nickname again. “I know. And the harder you ignored me, the more determined I got.”

  “I know.”

  He had to look away from her; that smile was getting to him again. He cleared his throat. He’d warned Kristina, who had only been to the ranch in the summer, about all this, but she’d insisted that was exactly what her friend needed. But he didn’t know if she’d passed his warnings on.

  “You’ll be pretty much stuck inside once the snow really sets in.”

  “I brought lots of books,” she said.

  “I don’t expect you to work. But I do expect you not to create any extra work for my men. Winter is our roughest season, and the hands will be hard-pressed enough just to keep things running around here.”

  Mercy didn’t take offense. “I probably wouldn’t be much good to you anyway,” she answered easily. “I’ve never ridden a real horse, and I know next to nothing about cows. But I can take care of myself. You don’t need to look out for me.”

  “Cattle,” he corrected mildly.

  “Okay.” She shrugged, accepting that easily, as well. Clearly she had no problem admitting when she knew nothing about something. Grant wished there were more people like that; he’d seen too many who came to this part of the country thinking they were going to find adventure, never knowing or even thinking of the realities of the life they were taking on. His stepbrother Kyle had been one of those. But rancher Samantha Rawlings had quickly—and permanently—straightened him out, Grant thought with an inward grin. And he’d done fairly well, despite the fact that he’d never been able to settle down to any job in his life before.

  But then, with the manipulative, vindictive Sheila Fortune for a mother, that was hardly any surprise, Grant thought, thankful yet again for his own mother’s warmth and genuine goodness. It was amazing that Sheila’s children had managed any semblance of lives of their own, and with Kyle, Michael and Jane all married now, Sheila must be frothing at having lost so much control over her children. He didn’t envy his stepsiblings at all. In fact, there were times when he even felt sorry for his stepfather, but he usually got over that in a hurry.

  He forced himself back to the matter at hand, wondering why he was finding it so difficult to simply talk to this woman, why his thoughts were rambling in crazy directions.

  “I won’t have time to look out for you, once the snow flies,” he warned. “And neither will anybody else. You’ll be on your own.”

  Something dark and painful flickered in her eyes, and Grant regretted using those words.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said briskly.

  Her tone belied what he’d seen in her eyes, but he guessed she was only hiding it well. Or had a lot of practice at suppressing such emotions. She reached for one of the soft-sided navy cases.

  “Split them?” she suggested.

  “Fine,” he said, and took the other.

  She lifted the bag easily, although Grant knew it wasn’t light. He shouldn’t be surprised, he told himself. As a cop—especially a female one—she probably had to be more than just strong and fit to hold her own. And apparently she did hold her own; Kristina had told him she’d been on the force five years, graduating the academy and turning twenty-one, the minimum age to be sworn in, on the same day. It was what she’d always wanted, Kristina had said, and once Meredith Cecelia Brady set her eyes on a goal, there was nothing and no one who could stop her.

  The admiration in his somewhat spoiled half sister’s tone had been genuine, and that was rare enough that Grant had paid attention. And had agreed to her request. Sometimes Kristina could be worse than annoying; only the fact that she was as smart and charming as she was spoiled made her bearable. Someday, he thought, she was going to run into some man she couldn’t control, some man who had no patience with her spoiled-princess act, and the sparks were going to fly.

  But Mercy had been her truest friend, kept through the years, and when she needed help, Kristina had been there. And she hadn’t hesitated to use her half brother to get what she wanted. And since it was one of those rare times when Kristina asked for something not for herself, Grant hadn’t been able to turn her down.

  Mercy.

  She’d told him what to call her, but he kept thinking of her as Mercy, reverting to the old childhood nickname. He wasn’t sure why. A reminder, perhaps, of who she was? A friend of Kristina’s, and a woman in mourning. He would do well to remember that, and if using that name would do the trick, then he’d use it. He hadn’t forgotten that unexpected jolt, or the sudden revving of his heartbeat; inappropriate as it was, it had happened, and if using that childhood name would keep a bit of distance between them, then that was yet ano
ther reason to do it. He had no time to deal with that kind of response. He was sure of that.

  Just as he was sure it had simply been the result of going too long without feminine companionship; hell, he’d barely seen a woman for a month, and hadn’t been on a date in three times that long. No wonder his libido had kicked to life at the sight of the lovely woman Mercy had become. He was sure that was all it was.

  He just wasn’t sure he knew the first thing about providing sanctuary for a heart as wounded as Mercy’s seemed to be. He knew about the pain of loss, he’d known about it for a long time, ever since his mother had left his father and the ranch, when he was three years old. And he’d had it pounded home again when his father died, a long, slow death that had been agony to watch, a strong, vital man wasting away, with his last breath regretting that he’d lost the only woman he’d ever really loved to the city life he hated.

  He’d found nothing to ease the pain he felt then. So how could he ever hope to provide it for someone else? He wouldn’t even know where to begin. Kristina had said Mercy wanted only a place to hide, to heal, to find peace. While, in time, he had found these things himself in the wild reaches of this Wyoming country, he had little hope that a city girl like Mercy would find the same kind of relief. Especially since she was dealing with such a brutal, unexpected death. The death of someone who, judging from that look in her eyes, she had loved very much.

  He wasn’t sure there was any relief for that kind of pain.

  Two

  She might not see that white knight anymore when she looked at Grant McClure, Mercy thought, but he was certainly no less imposing or handsome or rugged than he had seemed to her all those years ago. Working on a ranch did wonderful things for the male physique, things that all the gym-bound men she knew in Minneapolis could only dream about.

  And she liked the slight appearance of lines around his eyes, eyes that were clearly used to gazing over long distances, eyes that were even more vividly blue than she’d remembered against his tanned skin. His sandy brown hair was shorter than the long locks he’d worn as a teenager, now barely brushing his collar, but it looked good on him.

  He looked good, period, she thought, proud of how coolly she could acknowledge the fact, with none of the flutter that used to seize her as a child every time she looked at him.

  Well, almost none.

  She stuffed a sweater into a drawer, closed it, then straightened to look around the room. Grant had told her Kristina used it on the rare occasions when she visited the ranch—“before the isolation and lack of parties gets to her and she hotfoots it back to the city.” But it seemed obvious that her friend had left little imprint on the place.

  Or perhaps Grant had returned it to normal when she wasn’t there; the plain, utilitarian furnishings were hardly Kristina Fortune’s style. But Mercy felt comfortable with the large four-poster bed, the plain oak dresser and small desk, and the severely tailored curtains that still managed to be cheerful in a bright blue-and-white check. A comfortable-looking armchair, upholstered in the same bright blue and sitting next to a large window, completed the simple furnishings.

  She walked over to the bed and lifted the small stack of long-sleeved T-shirts she’d brought. Layers, she’d thought as she packed. Kristina had had some choicely descriptive words for winters on her half brother’s ranch, even though she’d never weathered one herself. Mercy had smiled at the thought of anyone from Minneapolis finding someplace else colder, but had packed accordingly.

  And wasn’t it just amazing, she thought as she put the shirts in another drawer, how quickly she’d slipped back into accepting that old nickname? At first, back then, she’d hated it, but she’d grown to like it when she realized that Grant was the only one who called her that, as if it were something special and private between them.

  And now, she thought as she shut the drawer, it was obvious that he still thought of her as that child he’d teased. Which was just fine with her.

  She turned back toward the last thing on the bed, the two silk nightgowns she’d brought. She might have to wear jeans and long johns and wool socks during the day, but at night she preferred the smoothness of silk. It was one of her few indulgences, so she refused to feel guilty or foolish about it.

  She had just tucked them neatly into the last drawer and pushed it closed when an odd scrabbling sound turned her around.

  “Well, hello,” she said, smiling at the knee-high dog with the mottled gray-and-black coat who sat politely just outside her door. He looked at her steadily, with a gaze that was rather disconcerting, since one of his eyes was brown and one a pale blue. She walked over and crouched before the animal. Something in his demeanor prevented her making any presumptuous overtures, such as patting his head; he didn’t seem the type of dog who would welcome instant familiarity.

  “Come to check out the intruder, have you?” she asked.

  The dog cocked his head, and looked at her so assessingly she nearly laughed.

  “I’d recommend you leave him alone. He’s not the cuddly type.”

  She looked up quickly, amazed at how quietly Grant had moved down the hall. She’d barely heard him before he spoke, and she was rarely taken by surprise like that.

  “I can see that,” she said. “I’ve dealt with a dog or two in my time. I recognize the look-but-don’t-touch signals.”

  “He’s a working dog, not a pet. He’s not looking for friends.”

  For an instant, Mercy wondered if there was more to his words than simply a warning about the dog. Then she decided she was looking for things that weren’t there.

  “Then far be it for me to trespass,” she said, standing up. The dog continued to look at her, somewhat quizzically now. “But should he change his mind, I trust you won’t have a problem if I don’t reject him?”

  “Not likely,” Grant said shortly, leaving Mercy wondering if he was referring to the dog or himself. She smothered a sigh; she didn’t remember him being so prickly.

  “Does he have a name?” she asked. “Or is he simply ‘Dog’?”

  To her amazement, Grant flushed. “Er…well, he was just Dog for a while. Until he showed us who he was.”

  Mercy smiled; what a wonderful way to think of it. “So what name did he earn?”

  He seemed relieved, as if he’d expected her to find his answer silly. “Gambler.”

  Mercy glanced at the dog, who sat motionless in the same spot she’d first seen him in. “Really? Why?”

  Grant smiled then. “He’s a lazy slug when he’s not working. But when he is…he does the work of five hands. And he won’t let anything get in his way. You tell him to move cattle, he moves them. Over, under, around, he’s everywhere, and they keep moving, as if he were a field marshal ordering his troops. I’ve seen him move a small herd a quarter of a mile without ever touching the ground.”

  Mercy blinked. “What?”

  “He walks on ’em. Jumps. Steer to steer, cow to cow, whatever. Gambles his life on his own sure-footedness. He never stops moving. And neither do they.”

  She looked back at the dock-tailed animal, who couldn’t weigh more than forty pounds, if that. “I can see why he has that patrician air, then. He’s earned it.”

  “Yes, he has.”

  He sounded pleased. And for some reason that made her unable to meet his gaze. She looked at the dog instead, until Grant spoke.

  “I thought you might like to look around the place. Get oriented.”

  She looked at him then, and wondered why she hadn’t been able to before; there was nothing intimidating about him now. At least, nothing more than his size and muscle, and she was used to that. And she’d handled bigger men than him in her five years on the force.

  “I’d like that. And that way I won’t have to bother anyone later.” She gave him a sideways look. She wasn’t sure how much Kristina had told him, and she didn’t want to go into any more details than necessary. “And I promise this will only be for a while. As soon as…they call me, I’ll be on
the next plane out, and out of your way.”

  He looked at her for a moment. “I…didn’t mean to give you the impression you would be a bother.”

  “Of course I will,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t live here, don’t know about life on a ranch, I can’t help but be somewhat of a bother. But I’ll try my best to keep it to a minimum.”

  He raised one sandy brow. “You have changed.”

  She laughed, realizing as she did so that it was the first time since Nick had died that she’d really, genuinely laughed. She quashed the instant welling of pain that seemed to always be there, ready to swamp her any time she let her guard down and thought of the man who had been so much more to her than just a partner.

  “You mean I never used to care if I was a nuisance or not?” she managed to say lightly.

  He smiled, as if her laugh had pleased him. “Something like that.”

  “Only around you,” she said. “And probably only because it bugged you so much.”

  His smiled turned wry. “I had a sneaking suspicion even back then that that was why you did it.”

  “If you had really ignored me, I probably would have just gone away.”

  “Now she tells me,” Grant said with mock sarcasm.

  This time, they both laughed, and Mercy felt a slight lessening of the steady ache she felt as if she’d been carrying forever, although she knew it had been only since the grim night Nick had died in her arms, five weeks ago.

  She grabbed up her shearling jacket and tugged it on as they walked down the stairs to the main part of the house. It was a story and a half, in a rambling floor plan which seemed bigger than it probably was, because of the steep pitch of the roof, which was designed for heavy snows. The three bedrooms were tucked up in that well-insulated roof area, to take advantage of the warm air generated by the wood stoves Grant had told her he preferred to rely on.

  “We’ve got propane heat,” he’d said as they passed the big storage tank, “but I try not to use it if we don’t have to. Cooking and hot water takes enough.”