The Wrangler's Bride

by Justine Davis

  He pulled the small ax he’d brought out of a saddlebag. They’d begun riding out only in the past three days, and while Joker’s perfect manners had held, a lot more could go wrong out here than in the relative safety of the corral.

  “Joker’s fine. He and I have an understanding. What about the cookies?”

  Grant looked back over his shoulder at her. “What?”

  “The Christmas cookies. Rita said you asked for them especially this year.”

  “Rita,” he said gruffly, “apparently had a lot to say.”

  Everybody seemed to have a lot to say about him, he thought rather disgruntledly. Without further comment, he walked over to the small tree. He began to work on it with perhaps more industry than the fairly small trunk warranted. It kept him from having to reply to questions he had no answers for.

  He didn’t know why he’d felt this sudden urge to indulge in a few Christmas trappings. And he didn’t like the way everybody seemed to read far too much into such a simple thing. Rita, Walt, even Chipper, they were all teasing him relentlessly. And now Mercy. Although she seemed more serious than teasing.

  The buckskin gave him a wary look as he dragged the felled tree back, but settled down when he only took down his rope and tied it a safe six feet behind. It would drag easily enough and without much damage over the snow, he thought.

  “Grant,” she said, “if you—”

  “Look,” he said, cutting her off before she could start in on him again, “Christmas is just another day around here, the same work to be done, animals to be fed. So don’t go reading anything into a silly tree and some cookies.”

  She just looked at him for a long, silent moment. Then, rather meekly—far too meekly for the Mercy he knew—she said, “I only wanted to ask if you’d mind if we went back by way of that place you showed me yesterday. By that little lake.”

  “Oh.” He supposed he sounded as disconcerted as he felt.

  “It’s not too far from here, is it?”

  “No. It’s just over that rise.” He had to give her that much—for a city girl, she knew how to orient herself in new surroundings.

  “So…can we?”

  “Er…yeah. Sure.”

  “It won’t hurt the tree?”

  His gaze narrowed. Was she needling him? He couldn’t tell. The woman, he’d discovered, was not only a lot more complex than the child had been, she was much more adept at hiding her thoughts. He’d been able to read the child fairly easily, but now he was never quite sure what the woman was thinking, unless her defenses were utterly down. Like that night in the barn.

  And the kind of horror it had taken to bring her to that told him just how strong a woman the child had become.

  “I’d just like to see it again. It was lovely.”

  Apparently she was having no such trouble reading him, Grant thought wryly.

  “I’d think, being from Minnesota, you’d have seen hundreds of lakes prettier than that one.”

  “I can’t explain,” she said. “It just…seems special somehow.”

  “Then let’s go,” he said. He picked up the reins and swung back into his saddle.

  The snow was deeper here in spots, and the going a bit heavier, but in just a few minutes they had topped the rise. The small lake was more like a large pond, nestled at the bottom of the rise. Beyond it, on the other side, was a flat that in summer was only sparsely dotted with sage, some patches of grass and the occasional spruce—not particularly interesting. But in winter, half iced over and surrounded by snow that turned even the rather monotonous sage into delicate crystal, and the spruce into majestic monoliths, and seen from the rise, it was the prototype for half the Christmas cards ever made.

  Mercy swung her leg over Joker’s back and dropped to the ground. She’d become quite adept at it, and with her fit agility she’d managed to work out a leaping method of mounting that bypassed the too-high stirrups. He’d teased her about becoming a trick rider, but she’d been too obviously proud of her progress—and rightfully so, he admitted—to take offense.

  He dismounted himself, gauging as he stepped down that the snow was about six inches deep here atop the rise—not too bad. But more was expected soon, and he had the feeling that this time the white coat was here for the duration.

  He stood slightly behind Mercy, watching. She said nothing, just stood looking out over the picturesque scene. The buckskin snorted and shook his head, while Joker lifted a forefoot and poked at the snow, pushing it into a little pile, either testing the depth himself or trying to build a snowman; Grant wasn’t sure he’d put the latter past the clever Appy.

  She stood there for a long time, not speaking, not moving, barely seeming to breathe, until Grant began to wonder if she was all right. At last he took a step forward, to where he could see her face.

  She was crying.

  It wasn’t a noisy, wrought-up kind of crying. Her cheeks were wet, and tears were still flowing over them, but she was utterly silent. No sobbing, no wailing. It was as if the tears had simply welled up and overflowed. But that did little to allay his unease; he had little experience with weeping females, other than Kristina, who as a child had seemed to cry at the drop of a Stetson when she didn’t get her own way. Fortunately, she’d outgrown that habit, as far as he knew.

  But, as Mercy had pointed out, she was not Kristina. She never had been. It would take far more than a foiled childish want to make her cry.

  “Mercy?” he said finally, unable to think of anything else to say.

  She turned to look at him then. And to his surprise, what he saw in her eyes was not pain, or anguish, but a kind of glow that nearly took his breath away.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she whispered.

  “You’re crying because…it’s beautiful?”

  Hastily she wiped at her cheeks, as if she’d become aware of her own tears only when he said it. “I’m sorry. Sometimes, when something…makes me feel so much, it kind of bubbles out.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Grant said, rather gruffly.

  “I…I’ve learned to control it, most of the time. I have to, at work. But this…kind of snuck up on me.”

  Without even thinking of what he was doing—probably because if he had thought, he wouldn’t have done it at all, he admitted—Grant put his arm around her. He felt her stiffen for an instant, and then she relaxed and leaned against him. She felt…good, there beside him. Right. Not too small, or too fragile, or too delicate for this tough land, but as if she fit, belonged.

  And that she’d found so much beauty in this place that was his life made him feel…he wasn’t sure what. Just as he wasn’t sure what to call this odd sensation building inside him as they stood there in a companionable silence that was almost intimate. It wasn’t just desire, although he’d at last had to ruefully admit that it wasn’t simply long abstinence that had him wound up tighter than Walt’s old pocket watch. It was so many other things, as well; respect for her courage, admiration for her intelligence and quick-wittedness, and appreciation for her willingness and ability to learn new things, even when they were utterly foreign to her.

  It was a very confusing and unsettling mix, and he wasn’t at all sure what it meant. In fact, he thought, he’d never been less sure about more things than he had been since Mercy walked back into his life.

  Except for the unexpected fact that the child who had turned his summers into chaos seemed to have become a woman capable of doing the same to his entire life.

  Eight

  “You’re what?”

  Grant stared at Walt, who returned his gaze with a twinkle lighting his eyes that Grant didn’t trust at all.

  “You heard me,” the old hand said.

  “But you never go to town for Christmas.”

  “I told ya, they’re having a big wingding over at the cattle growers’ building. Dancin’ and all. Saw the posters for it when I was in town last week. Probably go on all night.”

  “They do that every year,” Grant pointed out,
“and you’ve never gone before.”

  “Maybe I never been asked before,” Walt said blithely.

  “But—”

  “You saying I can’t have Christmas Eve off? Just because I don’t have family around here like the rest of the men, does that mean I can’t make plans? Downright Scroogey of you, boy.”

  “Of course you can,” Grant began, “but—”

  “I’ll get my chores done ’fore I leave, and make sure all the animals are handled and bedded down. Even you should be able to handle the rest.”

  “It’s not that—”

  “And besides, you’ll have Mercy here to help. Wouldn’t say that, usually, but for a city girl she’s picked up right fast on things.” Walt grinned suddenly. “A lot of things.”

  “Yeah,” Grant muttered.

  “A diamond’s a diamond, boy, no matter where you find it, or what kind of setting it’s in, fancy or plain. And all the fancy trappings in the world don’t make a diamond outa glass.”

  Grant grimaced. “You want to quit philosophizing and say what you mean?”

  “I mean you’re as stubborn as a mule and blind as a bat about city girls,” Walt said, his tone stern. “And if you ask me, I think you’re afraid of bein’ all alone out here with that little gal.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Grant snapped, wondering if it sounded as unconvincing as he felt.

  “Ridiculous? I may be old, son, but I ain’t blind. Anyone can see—”

  “Whatever they want to see.”

  This time it was Grant who cut the other man off, not wanting to hear what the old hand thought everyone could see. He already knew, anyway. He’d caught enough surreptitious glances and stifled grins from all the hands to have a pretty good idea of what they were thinking. And the fact that more than once one of them had caught him intently watching Mercy as she rode, or as she tended to Joker—she’d insisted that if she was going to ride him, she would take care of him, as well—or as she did another of the small chores that accumulated, to make his and everyone’s life so much easier, didn’t help any.

  It was just that he was…intrigued, Grant insisted to himself as Walt walked away, chuckling. Mercy had adapted to life here better than he’d ever expected her to. Better than he would have expected any city girl to. Certainly better than Kristina ever had on even her fair-weather visits. But then, he hadn’t expected Kristina to adapt. She was a—

  Stubborn as a mule and blind as a bat about city girls…

  Walt’s words echoed in his head, but he told himself the man who’d known him longer than anyone except his mother was wrong. He wasn’t blind, or stubborn, he was just…wary. And with good reason.

  Annoyed—he told himself it was with Walt’s meddling, but he had a suspicion that he was kidding himself—he strode out of the tack room and toward the house. He headed for the side door to the mudroom outside the kitchen. Once inside, he pulled his coat off first, then boots wet from a day slogging around in the snow, breaking up the ice that had formed on the three natural water holes on the flats; the last thing they needed was to have to rescue unwary cattle who had strayed too far out on the thin ice in search of water.

  Even his socks were soaked, he thought wearily, and he supposed his feet had been colder than this sometime in his life, but he couldn’t recall when right now.

  He sat on the small bench in the mudroom, for a moment too tired even to stand and go into the warmth of the house. But soon the chill overtook even his weariness, and he knew he needed to move. In a minute, he’d be shivering.

  He stood up. His icy feet protested, and he knew he should get inside. But he’d become aware of something else now, more baking smells drifting from the kitchen. Mercy hadn’t been kidding; she might not cook, but she could bake up a storm. Everybody on the ranch had been spoiled by her delicious bread, biscuits and cakes. He wondered if she worked this hard when she wasn’t trying to keep her mind occupied; he had a feeling she did. She did it too naturally; whether it was one of the inside chores he had a tendency to let slide, or outdoors, doing hard, dirty work, she brought to it the same energy and determination.

  He opened the inner door and stepped into the kitchen. Cookies, he thought, recognizing the smell in the instant before he saw the obvious proof in the gaily decorated shapes cooling on the counter. Christmas cookies.

  Mercy, traces of flour on her clothes and smeared across one cheek, gave him a smile that warmed him as much as the change in temperature between the two rooms. She gestured with the baking sheet dotted with cookie dough that she held in one hand, indicating the already sizable piles of still-warm freshly baked treats.

  “Rita said you asked about having cookies this year. I hope you meant it.”

  “I…”

  His voice trailed off; he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He’d only mentioned it because he vaguely remembered his mother making cookies, probably when he’d been barely big enough to toddle around in this same kitchen, and he’d thought it might take away some of the glumness of spending the holiday away from home and her family.

  Mercy slid the baking sheet into the oven, shut the door, then tugged off the oven mitt she’d been wearing. Grant heard a sound from the corner of the room, and glanced over to see, to his shock, Gambler sitting there, waiting patiently. What he was waiting for became obvious when Mercy tossed him a piece of a broken cookie. The dog caught it neatly, gulped it down, and settled in to wait for the next.

  “Even the dog,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Why was he surprised? After Joker fell for her like a ton of horse, why shouldn’t Gambler do the same? Even the little Aussie dog’s cool aloofness was no match for Mercy’s genuine warmth and the sincerity that radiated from her.

  “You look cold,” she said.

  “I am,” he admitted.

  “Chipper told me you’d probably come in cold and wet.”

  Grant’s brows lowered. “He’s supposed to be riding fence today.”

  “He is. He just came by to tell me his mother wasn’t going to be able to get here because his little sister was sick, so I should go ahead with the cookies without her.” She grinned. “He looked a little eager for them himself.”

  “I can see why,” Grant said; he’d never seen so many cookies at once before. But he knew that once the hands found out about them, they’d disappear rapidly. If there were any left at all for Christmas Eve tomorrow, he’d be surprised.

  Not, he thought, that there’d be any need for them. Not with just him and Mercy left on the ranch, while everybody else scattered for their own personal celebrations.

  I think you’re afraid of bein’ all alone out here with that little gal.

  An odd contraction of muscles rippled through him; Grant told himself he was shrugging off Walt’s silly assessment, but it might have been a shiver, as well. Strictly because he was cold, he insisted silently, even though the kitchen was cozily warm.

  “You are cold,” Mercy said. “Here, munch on these and wait a second.”

  Before he could speak, she’d shoved three fragrantly warm cookies at him and disappeared into the utility room on the other side of the big kitchen. It contained the big chest freezer, the laundry facilities and a washtub and counter, among other things, and had an outside door so that the hands could get in and use the heavy-duty washer and dryer if they wanted to. As he took a careful bite out of one of the rich butter cookies—and then gobbled down the rest—he heard what sounded oddly like the clothes-dryer door opening, then closing, and only then realized that he’d been hearing the appliance’s faint hum since he’d walked into the kitchen.

  He was considering whether to snag one of the rather intriguing-looking snowman cookies when Mercy came back, holding something in her hands.

  “Here,” she said, holding out to him what looked like a pair of his own heavy wool socks.

  “What—” He broke off abruptly the moment he touched them; they were warm, a
lmost hot. Fresh from the dryer, he realized.

  “Put them on. Now, before they lose all the heat.”

  He obeyed without another word, sighing aloud at the warmth. When he looked back at Mercy, she was smiling widely.

  “My mom always used to do that when I came in with frozen toes from playing in the snow. It always felt so good.”

  “It still does,” Grant said fervently.

  “Of course, now she just makes me sit down and pour desert sand out of my shoes when I come in.”

  “Quite a change from Minneapolis snow.”

  “Yes. But they like Arizona. And it is beautiful there. When the brush is green, and the Dragoon Mountains are looking really red, it’s lovely. Besides, my dad gets a kick out of telling people they live just outside of Tombstone, and can see Boot Hill from their backyard.”

  He smiled at her words, but wondered if there was an undertone of sadness in them. Or loneliness.

  “You must…miss being with them now.”

  She leaned against the edge of the large cooking island. His father had had the old, smaller kitchen remodeled for his mother as a wedding present; later, after she left, he’d barely been able to bear sitting in the spacious, efficient room. It hadn’t been Grant’s favorite place, either, but now, full of the aroma of baking and with Mercy standing barely two feet from him, it seemed the coziest room in the house.

  Mercy tossed another bit to the waiting Gambler. He snapped it up, then looked at her questioningly.

  “That’s it, sweetie,” she said. “Any more might make you sick.”

  The normally reserved dog wagged his stump of a tail, but seemed to understand. He glanced at Grant, as if gauging his owner’s mood. Grant wasn’t sure what the dog saw, but apparently it wasn’t enough to drive him away; he curled up on the rag rug in front of the sink and closed his eyes. If the dog didn’t work so darned hard, he’d think he was getting soft. But he deserved a little spoiling, Grant thought, if he’d take it. And apparently Mercy’s charm extended to the dog, as well as the horse.

  Then, finally, after he decided she wasn’t going to, she responded to his statement about her parents. “I do miss them. But I was just there at Thanksgiving. And I knew I couldn’t…take much more of their well-meaning concern.”