The Wrangler's Bride

by Justine Davis

  “I…”

  “What happened, Mercy? Kristina only told me he’d been killed in the line of duty.”

  “He wasn’t just killed. He was…executed.”

  Now he knew for sure he didn’t want to hear this, but he couldn’t back out now, not when she’d begun to talk at last.

  “Go on,” he prompted, his voice far steadier than he expected.

  “We’d been involved…in an ongoing investigation.”

  Grant sensed she was being purposely vague, but he didn’t push; he supposed there were some things cops just didn’t talk about to civilians, no matter the circumstances, no matter how distracted or upset they were. The training went too deep. Name, rank and serial number, even under torture; military, yes, but he doubted the principles were much different.

  “Nick got a tip, from an informant he’d been working with for a while, on the murder of another officer, a friend, a couple of years ago. He trusted the guy.”

  Something in her tone gave her away. “But he shouldn’t have?”

  “The snitch gave him up. And set him up. The guys we were after were waiting for him in that warehouse. It was an ambush from the get-go.”

  She shuddered once, violently, then again, and Grant instinctively tightened his embrace. He waited silently until the tremors faded, until she was again quiet in his arms. He more than ever didn’t want to hear the rest of this, supposed she would stop if he didn’t push her, but he also knew she needed to get it out.

  “Finish it,” he said, a little hoarsely.

  “I… No. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change anything.”

  “Finish it, Mercy.”

  For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse. But he felt the capitulation in her posture even before the words came, haltingly, in chunks of sound made up of equal parts pain and rage and guilt.

  “They…tied his hands. Behind him. And shot him…in the back of the head.”

  “Damn.”

  “He never had a chance. Except me. And I was too late. He was already dying…when I got to him.”

  Grant went very still; he hadn’t known this. “You…were there?”

  “I was his partner. Of course I was there.” Her voice turned harsh, bitter. “For all the good it did him. He—” She gulped, a jerky little intake of air that he felt, as well as heard. “He was bleeding. So much blood. His head…was…” She shuddered, violently. “He was still breathing. But his eyes…they were already… He died in my arms.”

  Oh, God, Grant thought. “Mercy—”

  “If I’d been a minute sooner. One little minute. If I’d not stopped to call it in, hadn’t taken the time to ask for backup, if I’d just gone ahead and followed him into the warehouse, if—”

  “Mercy, stop.”

  He felt her shake her head, sharply, negating any effort he might make at soothing her now.

  “Don’t you see? It’s my fault he’s dead. I was his partner, I should have been there with him, I could have done something—”

  “Like die with him?” Grant said brutally, trying to break the rush of guilt that was pouring out of her.

  “I could have—”

  “Aren’t you supposed to call for backup in situations like that?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you did what you were supposed to do. Sounds like your partner didn’t.” He supposed it wasn’t kind to say that about a dead man, but right now, all he could think about was Mercy, tough, indomitable Mercy, shaking with remembered horror and guilt.

  “He was a senior officer. I should have followed him, not waited around to—”

  “If you had, you’d be dead.” His voice was flat, blunt, uncompromising. “Men like that grant no quarter. They’d have no more qualms about executing two of you than they had about one.”

  Grant wished she could believe him. It seemed so clear to him, as clear as a crystalline Wyoming winter day. There was nothing she could have done, except add herself to the murderers’ list of victims. He supposed part of it was survivor’s guilt, and the fact that she’d been so close to the murdered man only worsened the effect. But that wasn’t all of it; she honestly thought she should have pulled off a miracle, that somehow she should have done the impossible.

  But she wouldn’t believe, wouldn’t accept. He could sense it. She was too close to the victim, to what had happened. Too close to see it clearly. She was looking through a haze of pain and grief and guilt, and coming up with answers that were wrong, but seemed the only ones possible to her tortured mind.

  “Do you remember that year when I came to visit Mom and went up into northern Minnesota, camping?” he asked softly.

  As if wary of his seeming change of subject, she hesitated before nodding; he felt, rather than saw, the movement of her head.

  “I went hiking, up into the back country. On the second day, I saw a pack of wolves take down a deer. It was a young buck who’d gotten separated from the herd. It wasn’t pretty, but while they were closed in for the kill, the rest of the herd escaped. There was no other choice for them. They didn’t even have to think about choice—for them, the survival instinct is programmed in and undeniable. Only people get the idea that there’s a choice to be made in situations like that. Sometimes I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

  “What…are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that that buck got himself into that by straying from the safety of the herd.”

  She stiffened. “You’re saying it was Nick’s fault he got murdered? You’re wrong. He may have been obsessed with…this case, because the cop who was killed was a friend, but he was still the best cop I ever knew.”

  He knew she was nowhere near ready to accept that her beloved partner just might have been partly to blame for what had happened to him, so he hastened to go on.

  “My point is that just because you’re in the city doesn’t mean there aren’t wolf packs, and they’re just as ruthless there as they are in the wilderness. Worse, in fact, because wolves kill only for what they need to survive themselves. And if you’d given them the chance, these predators would have killed you, too. Is that what Nick would have wanted?”

  She sagged against him again, and her whispered “No” was barely audible.

  “Mercy, I’m sorry. I know you loved him, but getting yourself killed wouldn’t have saved him, and thrashing yourself with guilt now won’t bring him back.”

  “I did love him. He was…just about my best friend.”

  It seemed an odd way to describe a lover, he thought, but he said only, “I know how hard it is to lose someone you care for so much. What a hole it leaves.”

  She took in a breath, and he could almost feel her gathering herself together. And when she spoke, the harsh undertone in her voice was nearly hidden.

  “I know you do. Your mother told Kristina she was genuinely worried about you when your father died.”

  Grant drew back slightly. “Was she? I didn’t know. We never…talked about him much.”

  “She did love him, you know.”

  “Just not enough.” There was little bitterness in his tone; that was something he’d worked hard enough at to be faintly proud of now.

  “Enough to stay here? Perhaps not. But she did love him.”

  He sighed. “I know she did. But I don’t think she ever regretted her decision.”

  “No. She told me once the only thing she ever regretted was not being with you as you grew up. And that if she hadn’t been certain you were strong enough and independent enough and stubborn enough to make it on your own, she never would have been able to grab her second chance for happiness.”

  He chuckled. “She’s sure called me the latter often enough.”

  He heard her make a small sound, not quite an answering chuckle, but light enough that he thought the initial storm just might be over. Then she gave a sigh that sounded more worried than anything, and he knew it was.

  “I just hope Nick’s kids are as strong as you were.”

/>   “He…had kids?”

  “Two. A boy and a girl. God, it’s going to be so awful for them, without him.”

  “I’m sure you’ll…help them.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I am their godmother, after all. But I’m afraid Allison’s got a rough road ahead.”

  Godmother? What in the world? “Allison?” Grant asked, because he couldn’t figure out what else to say.

  “Nick’s wife.”

  “He was married?” he asked blankly.

  She lifted her head. “To one of my closest friends,” she said, obviously puzzled. “I introduced them, in fact.”

  “But I thought…”

  “You thought what?”

  “Kristina said you were very close to him.”

  “I was.” Her voice quavered just slightly. “I told you, he was just about my best friend. But he was…more than that. He was ten years older than I, and had been a cop for fifteen years. He was my mentor, the guy who got me through the toughest times of being a cop, and a female cop at that. He never coddled me, but he made sure I knew what I needed to know to make it. I was maid of honor at their wedding, and I was there when both Matt and Lisa were born. They were…family.”

  The emotional, clearly heartfelt outburst made Grant feel a bit slimy for his assumptions.

  “I thought you and he were…you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. What did you think—” She broke off suddenly, as if the obvious answer had finally struck her. “You thought Nick and I were…lovers?”

  “Well,” he said awkwardly, “yes. From the way Kristina talked…”

  His voice faded away, and he wondered if he’d ever before felt so awkward, so much as if he’d really put his size eleven boots in his mouth. Both of them.

  “She told you we were close, so you took for granted it was a…romantic relationship?”

  “I—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those men who think a man and a woman can’t simply be friends?”

  “I never said that,” he answered hastily, before she could take off on that tangent. “I just meant, from the way my sister talked, I…assumed. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  He was more than just sorry; his thoughts were in a horrible tangle. He was repelled by the brutality of what had happened, concerned over her feelings of guilt, sorry about his misguided assumptions…and unexpectedly and unwelcomely relieved to find that she and Nick hadn’t been romantically involved. And he didn’t like that reaction of his at all. He’d been able to keep his response to her under control when he was able to think of her as a woman grieving over the death of a lover.

  But now, now that he knew Nick had been simply a friend, married to another friend, and that she was even godmother to their children, he wasn’t sure where that left him and his confused emotions.

  And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Six

  She’d never thanked him for listening, Mercy thought. Not really. Not in the way she should have for what he’d done. No matter if you weren’t personally involved, hearing such an ugly story wasn’t easy. And it certainly wasn’t Grant’s business to listen to her, to let her pour out her agony as she had last night.

  And, she added silently, color rising to heat her cheeks as she walked through the snow on this quiet, peaceful Sunday morning, it certainly wasn’t his job to hold her as he had, so gently, so comfortingly, so…so tenderly.

  Her mind shied away from the acknowledgment of what he’d done, and how she’d felt, how she’d let him, how she’d even relished the feel of his arms around her. Shied away from admitting he’d eased her pain as no one else had been able to do, simply by being there and holding her. And his words, so like what others had said to her, but somehow so much more powerful, had unexpectedly comforted her.

  She knew it would take more than mere words to truly ease the guilt she couldn’t help feeling, but for the first time since it had happened, she felt as if it were possible. Felt that someday, she might truly believe there was nothing else she could have done. And she found herself almost able to smile at the thought of her being romantically involved with Nick, who had been more of a big brother to her than anything. She could understand where Grant had gotten the idea, but not the odd way he’d reacted when he found out it wasn’t true. He’d seemed almost…upset, and she couldn’t come up with an explanation for that.

  She looked out over the ranch, which was still covered with snow, although much had melted on this searingly clear day after the storm. She looked up at the Rockies, towering over the horizon with their own coating of new snow. She took in the quiet peacefulness of it, and she began to believe that just maybe she might be able to absorb some of this peace. That somehow the wild beauty of this land, where even the harshness of the kind of life where the only law was truly the survival of the fittest seemed clean and pure, might cleanse her tortured mind and heal her battered soul.

  But it wouldn’t do to become too fond of this place. She was only here until they caught the murderers, and then she’d be on her way back to the city, to help put them away and resume her life.

  She heard the sound of a car, and glanced out toward the gravel lane that led to the ranch from the paved county road. She saw a bright red four-wheel-drive wagon approaching, its driver negotiating the snowy road with apparently little trouble. A local, she guessed before the probable identity of the new arrival struck her; Chipper’s mother, the industrious, efficient and clever Rita, the more-than-accomplished cook.

  Stop it, she muttered to herself. You’re being…rude, she finished, not wanting to put the other probable name to what she was feeling.

  Determined to chivy herself out of this silliness, she started back toward the house, determined to compliment the woman on the delicious food they’d been eating all week, thanks to her efforts. Even frozen and reheated, the meals of lasagna, meat loaf and chicken had been better than anything she’d ever managed on her own.

  Her resolve to be gracious faltered slightly when she got close enough to see the woman; she was a brunette, all right, but she’d underestimated her flashing-eyed beauty. Rita Jenkins was nothing less than a stunner.

  She also had her hands more than full, with a milk crate crammed with food, topped with several grocery bags, one of which seemed about to topple. Mercy hurried to rescue it.

  “Oh! Thanks, dear. It would be the one with the eggs.”

  “Of course,” Mercy said. She lifted another bag, and the dark-haired woman breathed a sigh of relief. “If not eggs, the bag with the most glass.”

  The woman’s laugh was bright, cheerful, and charming, Mercy thought with an inward sigh. And the gleam in those dark brown eyes wasn’t just beautiful, it was utterly delightful, with its warm humor. She also wore a simple gold wedding band on her left hand.

  “I’m Rita,” she said. “You must be Mercy.”

  “Not a tough guess, around here,” Mercy said, but she made sure to smile as they lugged the bags inside and into the kitchen.

  The laugh came again. “Grant told me you were coming. He neglected to mention how much you were going to pretty up the place.”

  Mercy blinked. “I…er… Thank you.” She stammered to a halt, taken aback by the unexpected compliment.

  “But,” Rita added, “my son took up the slack. I believe you’ve made a conquest there.”

  “I…didn’t mean to,” Mercy said carefully as she set down her bags, not sure what to say; she knew Chipper had a crush on her, but this was his mother, after all.

  “It’s all right, dear. I’d worry, except for the fact that he falls in love an average of once a month.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  Rita laughed again, that bright, silvery sound. She was indeed a charmer, as much as Kristina was, although in a very different, much more earthy and open way. And she was, in her way, as beautiful as Kristina, the perfect dark foil to Kristina’s blond beauty.

  Suddenly Mercy felt very small and plain and mousy.


  “Where’s Grant?” Rita asked.

  “I… He’s checking on a pregnant mare. She’s acting strange, Walt says.”

  “Must be Lady. Walt would know. He’s the best horse midwife in the state.”

  Mercy couldn’t help smiling at the thought of the crusty, grizzled old hand being called a midwife.

  “I’d better get started,” Rita said. “I was supposed to be here yesterday, but Jim didn’t want me to drive all the way out here in that storm.”

  “Jim is your…husband?”

  “That he is, lucky devil.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially as she lifted out a can of tomato sauce. “Of course, I’m really the lucky one, but I’ll never tell him that.”

  There was no doubting the sincerity of her words and her feelings, and Mercy felt a sudden lessening of pressure that bothered her as much as it relieved her. To hide what she was afraid might be showing in her face, she turned and began to empty another grocery bag. It was full of flour, white and brown sugar, butter and, at the bottom, bright red and green candy sprinkles.

  “Christmas cookies?” Mercy guessed.

  “Yes. For some reason, Grant said he wanted some this year. If I have time, I’ll get to them today,” Rita said. “I know it’s a bit early, but getting out here this time of year is never certain.”

  She’d completely forgotten that Christmas was only three and a half weeks away; just getting through the Thanksgiving holiday with her concerned family had been enough to eat away all her slight emotional reserves. It was one of the reasons she’d agreed to come here; she hadn’t thought she could deal with any more of her parents’ fussing. They’d been worried a great deal about her, and although she understood and loved them for it, she found it more than a little wearing to have to constantly reassure them that she would be all right. Especially when she wasn’t at all convinced herself.

  “I…could do that for you. The cookies, I mean.”

  Rita’s swift unpacking of the foodstuffs—she’d just lifted a sizable ham out of the plastic crate—came to a halt. She looked at Mercy, her expression for the moment unreadable.

  “I don’t mean to poach on your territory,” Mercy said quickly. “It’s just that I can’t cook worth a darn, but cookies I can do.”