The Wrangler's Bride

by Justine Davis

  “You don’t have to do all this, you know.”

  When Mercy straightened and gave him a puzzled look, he knew it had came out rather abruptly, not at all how he’d meant to say it.

  “Keep the fire going? It’s strictly selfish. I hate it when my teeth chatter indoors.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  She closed the tempered-glass door of the stove, dusted her hands off on her jeans—jeans that hugged her hips and backside delightfully; it didn’t seem right that such a little thing had such luscious curves—and turned to face him straight on. A trait he was coming to expect from her. And to suspect was how she faced most things in life.

  Except, perhaps, the death of Nick Corelli.

  “What did you mean, then?”

  “I told you I don’t expect you to work.”

  “And I told you I need to keep busy.”

  “Fine. Keep busy. What you’ve been doing is a big help. But you don’t have to lug hay bales or clean out stalls.”

  “I know I don’t have to.”

  “That’s hard, dirty work. Leave it to the guys whose job it is.”

  She gave him a calculating look. “Oh. But I suppose baking bread and sewing is all right?”

  He’d known when he started this that somehow he was going to end up in trouble.

  “I didn’t mean that. At least not like that.”

  “Then just how did you mean it? You think I can’t do that kind of work?”

  “That would be pretty silly of me, wouldn’t it, when you’ve already proven you can?” he said, trying to be reasonable.

  “Then why are you telling me to stop?”

  He let out a compressed breath. “I’m not. But you’re supposed to be here to rest, not work yourself to death.”

  “Did you ever stop to think,” she said, her voice tight, “that maybe that’s the only way I can rest?”

  “Yes,” he said honestly. “Because I’ve been there. But I’m used to this kind of work. You’re not. And even though you’re a heck of a lot tougher than you look, you could still get hurt.”

  She seemed taken aback at his first words, but by the time he finished, that rebellious look was back in her eyes.

  “All this macho protective stuff might have been appealing when I was twelve and thought the sun rose and set on you,” she snapped, “but I’m not a child anymore, Grant. I don’t need protecting.”

  Grant drew back slightly, both startled and amused by her vehemence. No, it wasn’t a child who was standing toe-to-toe with him, facing him down. It was a woman, and a fierce, passionate one, at that.

  Unfortunate choice of words, he thought as his body surged in response to thoughts brought on just by thinking the word passionate in conjunction with Mercy. Would this ardent intensity carry over into other aspects in her personality? Did she exhibit the same fire and passion in other places, other ways?

  If so, he thought wryly as he tried to quell the heat that was suddenly billowing through him, Nick Corelli had been a very lucky man.

  And realizing he’d just called a man who had been shot to death on a dirty city street lucky was just the absurdity he needed to rein in his own unexpected and unwanted reaction to this woman he’d spent so much time trying not to think about lately.

  “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice light with an effort. “I’m just afraid Kristina’s going to have my head if she finds out I’ve been working you so hard.”

  She accepted the change gracefully. “So that’s it—you’re afraid of your little sister.”

  “Any man in his right mind would be afraid of Kristina.”

  “You’re right.” Mercy smiled, then sighed. “I always wanted to be like her.”

  Grant’s brows furrowed. “What?”

  “You know, glamorous, charming, bubbly. All the things I’m not.”

  “You’ll do just fine as you are,” he said gruffly. “The last thing the world needs is another pampered charmer like Kristina. You’re solid, steady, and not a bit spoiled.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Mercy said, her mouth twisting wryly. “Just what a girl wants to hear.”

  She left him standing there gaping after her as she turned and trotted up the stairs.

  Women, Grant thought, wondering what the hell he’d said wrong now.

  He should, he mused rather sourly, leave the females to Joker.

  Four

  Mercy stretched, then retreated into the warmth of her curled-up shape when her toes found nothing but cold sheets. She opened her eyes to dim gray light, and sleepily wondered what time it was. A few minutes passed before she decided she cared enough to look at the bedside clock; she hadn’t been sleeping well for a long time, and was hesitant to end last night’s relatively peaceful rest.

  When she saw the clock read past 8:00 a.m., she came awake in a rush; she hadn’t slept this late in months. She sat up, rubbing her arms against the room’s chill, realizing now that the fire had probably died down to embers, if Grant had been up and out before dawn, as usual. She’d have to hurry downstairs and stoke it before it died out altogether.

  She yawned as she scrambled into her jeans and a heavy dark green sweater, then pulled on the sheepskin boots that were the only thing she’d ever found that kept her feet warm no matter what. And yawned again. No wonder the man fell asleep in his chair, she thought. She hadn’t been at all surprised when she found him there that night.

  What had surprised her was the book she found resting across his broad chest. Somehow she hadn’t expected the rugged cowboy who ramrodded this big ranch to be prone to reading Shakespeare. But there was no doubt he’d been doing just that—the collected tragedies, to be exact. She’d glanced at the shelves behind the sleeping man, and seen more Shakespeare, Molière and a few more classics tucked in among a selection of much more recent technothrillers, reminding her that Grant had been torn between majoring in literature and studying engineering, despite his never-wavering determination to return to the ranch.

  Then she realized she shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d known perfectly well that Grant had graduated college with honors; Kristina had told her so, proud of her big brother’s success. She remembered when he’d left for college that last summer when she was fourteen. She’d wept, certain her white knight was leaving forever and she’d never see him again. And then she’d started high school herself, and by the following summer she’d been far too sophisticated to spend her time mooning over a childhood crush.

  But that hadn’t stopped her that night from simply standing beside the worn leather chair, watching Grant McClure sleep. The mouth that was so mobile, as quick to smile as it was to frown or quirk in wry amusement, had looked warm and relaxed, and the sandy brown semicircles of his lashes had looked thick and soft against his tanned cheeks. Free for the moment of the responsibility of keeping this ranch going, he had looked much as he had when she last saw him, eighteen and off to conquer the world.

  And her world hadn’t ended, as she’d feared it would. No, she’d left her childhood passion far behind. No longer was her singular goal in life to snag Grant McClure’s attention. And the fact that when he joked that he might appreciate her attention now her heart had taken a sudden leap, and a burst of heat had shot through her, was something she would just as soon ignore. It reminded her far too much of the infatuated child she’d been.

  She yawned again, and stretched as she went down the stairs. Still sleepy-eyed, she stirred the coals in the stove until they were glowing brightly, then added three small, dry pieces of kindling. They caught quickly, and she added two larger pieces of wood. When they were burning, too, she shut the stove door. She stood there for a few minutes, until the heat began to radiate again, warming her hands at the rekindled fire.

  Somewhat absently, still pondering the near miracle of her almost restful night’s sleep, she wandered over to the front window and lifted the curtain she’d mended last week. And blinked.

  Snow. Everything was covered with it. A
s if all color had been wiped from the earth’s palette, revealing a spotless canvas.

  She’d always welcomed the first snow back in the city. The pristine white cloak seemed to mask, even if only for a while, the ugliness she too often encountered in her work. She knew it was only a facade, that all the ugliness was still there, but it lightened the load just a little to pretend for a short time that the world was as clean and bright as it looked after that first snow. But here the landscape itself had its own clean, stark beauty, and the coating of snow softened it all to a gentle loveliness.

  She went for her heavy shearling coat and pulled it on, then trotted to the door. The moment she stepped outside, she took in a long, deep breath of crisp air that seemed so clean she could almost taste the purity of it. She found herself smiling, and her smile widened as she stepped off the porch into the pure white and heard it crunch under her feet.

  She grinned widely to herself.

  And then she stopped dead, marveling. She’d been doubtful when Kristina suggested this; going to a quiet place with nothing to do but think hadn’t seemed to her a wise thing to do. Even though she’d thought seeing Grant after all these years, and seeing how her childhood hero had turned out, might be an interesting distraction, she hadn’t thought it would be enough to get her mind off Nick. And the fact that more than anything, she knew, she should be back home, hunting down the men who had killed him.

  But she’d underestimated. Grant McClure was enough to take anyone’s mind off their problems. Of course, that also presented a whole new set of problems, but she thought she’d be able to chide herself out of her own silly reaction to the man. It was just some leftover trace of her childish infatuation, that was all. And, she admitted with an inward smile, proof that even as a child she’d had good taste. Grant was as good-looking now as he had been at sixteen, when she first laid eyes on him. Better, in fact. He’d done more than age gracefully, he’d done it beautifully; at thirty, he was…

  Words failed her. That was something that was rare enough that her inward smile turned rueful. Grant had always had that effect on her. That fact had never bothered her back then. But now, now that she was an adult and supposedly immune to such things, she found it irritating, and she chastised herself seriously and with more than a little chagrin. The man had made it more than clear that she wasn’t his type. You’re solid, steady, and not a bit spoiled. Delightful, she thought. He could have been talking about a dog. Or a horse.

  Her mouth quirked. Well, maybe not a horse. Judging from Grant’s assessment of her charms, she apparently had considerably less personal appeal than the fiery and flashy Joker. So why didn’t she take the hint and quash these stupid, juvenile feelings she was having?

  Maybe she was doing it on purpose, she thought suddenly. Perhaps some defensive part of her mind was busy making Grant the only distraction powerful enough to divert her thoughts from the memories that haunted her. The mind acted in strange ways to protect itself; she’d seen vivid evidence of that more than once.

  So was she only imagining the way her heart sped up when she saw him, or the wave of tenderness that had swept over her as she watched the man who worked so hard asleep in a chair, a volume of Shakespeare in strong hands toughened by ranch work? She didn’t think so. But—

  “Testing how long it will take you to freeze just standing there?”

  She whirled around at the sound of Grant’s voice, wondering how on earth he’d snuck up on her again. Usually she was very much aware of her surroundings and any movement in them; it was a necessary byproduct of her work.

  “I…love the first snow,” she said, hoping the flush rising to her cheeks looked like merely a reaction to the cold.

  “This isn’t like the city. No snowplows come and clear a path for you. The novelty will wear off when we’re under six feet of it and you can’t get out for days.”

  She studied him for a moment. “You seem compelled to continually point out that I live in the city. Do you think I’ve forgotten?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a shrug that might have meant anything. “Just a reminder.”

  A reminder for who? she wondered. But as she retreated to the shelter of the covered porch, she said only, “That I’m a city girl? I’m hardly likely to forget that.”

  “City girls never do.” Grant followed her up the two wooden steps, then turned to look out over the whitened landscape. “They might like to visit a remote place like this, for a while, when it’s warm and sunny and the new calves and foals are frolicking around, but they can’t handle living here.”

  Kristina, Mercy thought. She’d said almost exactly that. Grant lives and breathes that ranch, she’d said. And I’ll admit it’s beautiful, in a desolate sort of way, and the baby animals are precious, but give me city lights.

  “Kristina…” she began, then stopped, not sure she should venture into this territory, half-afraid it was going to come back on her.

  Grant gave that half shrug again, just a lifting of his right shoulder beneath his heavy jacket. “She might not be as spoiled as she is if she’d had to live here for a while, away from the bright lights and phony glitter. But she’s a city girl born and bred, and she’ll never change.”

  “Maybe you need a reminder,” she said quietly. “I’m not Kristina.” Or your mother, she added, but silently, doubting very much that he needed or wanted that pointed out to him.

  “No, you’re not,” he agreed easily enough. “But you’re a city girl, as well.”

  “Once a city girl, always a city girl, is that it?” She was beginning to feel a bit testy about his assumptions, although she was beginning to see why he had this particular blind spot.

  “It would be tough to change,” he said, with as much of an effort at diplomacy as she’d ever seen from him on the subject. “I couldn’t learn to live in the city, either. I’ve always known that.”

  “Since you were four?”

  He smiled, but it wasn’t a particularly happy one. “Before that, even. This is my home. It always has been, and it always will be.”

  Mercy sat on the wide porch swing that added an unexpectedly homey touch to the utilitarian house; made of carved cedar, it was a beautiful piece.

  “My father bought that for Mom for their anniversary,” Grant said. “Had it shipped in from a little shop outside San Antonio. He hoped if she sat there enough, she would learn to see the beauty here. She did see it, but it wasn’t enough. Or it was already too late. She’d already made up her mind to leave.”

  “So you kicked your stepfather and told your mother no when she asked you to live with them. Vehemently, I gather.”

  “I was only four,” Grant said, sounding a bit testy himself. “I wanted my mother and father together again. I suppose I thought if I chose to stay here, she’d eventually come home.”

  “But she and Nate were already married.”

  “That doesn’t make much difference to a four-year-old.” He grimaced. “But I shouldn’t have kicked Nate.”

  “He lived,” Mercy said wryly. “And he does love your mom.”

  “I know. Sometimes I think she’s the only person he truly does love. He cares about his kids, but…”

  “I know. I’ve only met Jane and Michael, but they seemed so unsure of how their father feels about them.” She gave Grant a sideways look. “At least you can’t doubt your mother loves you.”

  “Not anymore. I wasn’t convinced when my little ruse didn’t work, but by the time I was ten, I got over it.”

  “At least she respected your decision.”

  “Yes, she did. She always has. Considering that most people think I’m wasting myself out here, that’s quite a concession.”

  “Wasting yourself?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, and Mercy wondered what had been said to make him he adopt such a defensive posture even now.

  “‘You’re a smart boy, Grant, you can do something with your life,’” he quoted sourly. “‘You’ve got a degree, Grant, what ar
e you doing out here in the middle of nowhere, nursemaiding cows?’ ‘Four years of college, gone to waste.’”

  Mercy met his gaze and held it levelly. “Is it what you want to do?”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.” He said it with a grim determination that spoke volumes about how many times he’d had to defend his choice.

  “Then tell them to mind their own business.” He gave her a startled look. “I’ve seen too many people locked into jobs they hate. I’ve seen what it does to them, and those around them. If you’re happy with your work, then it’s right.”

  He smiled suddenly, warmly. Mercy felt as if the sun had abruptly come out.

  “That’s what my mother finally told me,” he said, “the last time Nate lit into me.”

  “Good for her. Sometimes I think that’s the hardest thing for a parent to do, to respect a decision their child makes that they don’t agree with.”

  Grant leaned against a porch post, giving her a speculative look. “The voice of experience?”

  She nodded. “My folks wanted me to be a doctor.”

  Grant blinked. “A doctor? That’s…quite a change, doctor to cop.”

  “And they weren’t happy about it. I had applied and been accepted to a couple of colleges with good medical schools. I knew I wanted to…help people, but I finally realized that wasn’t how I wanted to do it.” Her mouth twisted into a rueful, mocking smile. “Little did I know.”

  “Know…what?”

  “That half the people I deal with don’t want to be helped. They just want the police around to pick up the pieces afterward.” She shivered. “Some of them even want the cops to solve all their problems permanently. They can’t pull the trigger themselves, so they set up a cop to do it for them. Like we were machines, with no feelings at all—”

  She broke off abruptly, realizing her voice was rising and her tangled emotions were on the verge of breaking loose.