The Wrangler's Bride

by Justine Davis

  “Kristina said you needed someplace where people wouldn’t…talk about it all the time.”

  “And you’ve given me that.” She looked up at him earnestly. “Thank you for that, Grant.”

  “I… You’re welcome. But I should be thanking you, for all you’re doing around here. I told you didn’t have to work—”

  “And I told you I needed to.”

  “I understand.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. “Yes, I think you do. And I thank you for that, too. And for all the quiet, peaceful places you’ve shown me here. I know it took up a lot of your time, taking me all over—”

  “They’re places I love. It’s no hardship.”

  And it hadn’t been. He’d found a new appreciation of things he sometimes took for granted, seeing them anew through her eyes, experiencing the peace they could bring all over again, simply by watching the calm spread over her face and the shadows retreat from her eyes.

  “I thank you, just the same.”

  “I should thank you. I needed them, too, once. You made me see them again. Regain what they mean to me.”

  “Grant,” she said, whispering his name, as though her throat had become suddenly tight.

  “Mercy,” he said. His voice sounded the same.

  He wasn’t sure how it happened. He didn’t remember moving, but he didn’t remember seeing her move, either. But then she was in his arms, his hands had tilted her head back and he was lowering his head, his mouth searching for hers hungrily. He heard her make a sound, not of protest, but of surprise. And then she was helping him, stretching up to meet him, to span the distance between them.

  Her lips were soft, warm, and a haven after the chill of the day. She tasted of sugar and cookies, and something else hot and sweet and distinctively Mercy. Somehow he’d known she’d taste like this.

  What he hadn’t known was how just the feel of her mouth under his would send a heat rocketing through him that vanquished any lingering chill he’d brought inside with him. What he hadn’t known was how the feel of her petite body pressed against his like this would make him resent the layers of clothing between them. What he hadn’t known was how kissing her would send him into a whirling spin, knowing nothing but the feel and taste of her and not caring.

  What he hadn’t known was that kissing her wouldn’t ease the ache that had been building in him for days, but instead would expand it, so fiercely and so suddenly that he doubted he could contain it much longer.

  He had to stop this. He had to, he knew he had to; much more of this, and he was going to die if he didn’t have her, right here, right now. She had him so fired up, he didn’t think he could even make it to the floor; it would be right here on the damned kitchen counter. Not that that wouldn’t work nicely, with his height and her lack of it…

  With a throttled groan, he made himself pull back. Had he thought this room cozily warm? It seemed downright cold now, without the heat of her, without the touch of her mouth, without the feel of her curves pressed against him.

  He heard her make a tiny sound, half sigh, half…He didn’t know what. He only knew he felt like whimpering himself.

  Mercy groped blindly for the edge of the counter. She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and stunned-looking. He knew he should say something, do something, but he couldn’t seem to manage either.

  Mercy swallowed, the movement visible at her slender throat.

  “I…”

  She swallowed again and tried again. This time she was more recovered, and her words came almost normally, with just an undertone of wobbliness.

  “When you say thank-you, you don’t kid around.”

  Grant blinked. He supposed quick recoveries were a necessary part of her work, but he wasn’t sure he liked this one.

  “That,” he growled, “had nothing to do with thank-yous.”

  “Grant—”

  “Thank-yous are for…cookies.” He turned on his heel, and added, “And warm socks.”

  He walked away without looking back, telling himself he was in a hurry to get into more warm, dry clothes than just his socks. But he didn’t believe it, not when he knew perfectly well that he was fleeing from the kitchen like a kicked puppy, because if he stayed he was going to kiss her again, and he didn’t want to have to answer for what might happen if he did.

  She wondered if he was going to come in at all. She knew, because he’d told her often enough, that the ranch neither knew nor cared that it was a holiday eve; the same work had to be done as on any other day. And it would be the same again tomorrow, Christmas Day.

  But she also knew that Walt had done most of the chores before he hopped in the truck this morning and drove off toward town, Chipper beside him, headed home for a celebration only slightly marred by his little sister’s bout with the flu. The rest of the hands had—most of them stopping by to get a handful of cookies to tide them over on their journeys, and to leave her with some rather surprising tokens—been gone by noon, some riding, most piling in large groups into the two other available ranch vehicles, each driven by the man who had the farthest to go, who would reverse the trip the morning after Christmas Day, picking up the hands he’d dropped off today.

  But Grant was still holed up in the tack room. He’d told her there would be no lesson today, rather gruffly, and apart from that he’d barely spoken to her.

  He certainly hadn’t mentioned what happened in the kitchen yesterday. And she couldn’t decide if she was hurt or relieved. How could she, when she was still in shock? Never had she felt anything like what she’d felt when Grant kissed her. None of the imaginings she’d ever had, rising out of childish ignorance of what happened between a man and a woman, had ever been anything like this. Even what she’d experienced as an adult, although admittedly limited, had never, ever led her to believe that a single kiss could have the effect this one had had.

  And there had been nothing of the infatuated child in that kiss. It had been purely adult woman, responding to adult male. The woman who had been trying so very hard to wish away the effect this man had on her. The woman who finally had to admit that the boy she’d had the huge crush on had become the man who could shake her to the core with a single kiss.

  She took in a deep breath and held it for a moment. She didn’t know what to do now, but couldn’t help feeling that she should do something. Anything. And feeling that if she didn’t, she would soon be flying out of her skin. She was already pacing the floor of the living room, and she found herself checking the wood stove every five minutes despite the fact that she’d just added two sizable logs to it.

  She made herself sit down on the comfortable old couch, just to stop herself from that fruitless crossing and recrossing of the room. She took in another deep breath, trying to steady herself. But it did little good, not when the air was scented with the fresh fragrance of the tree they’d brought home, now sitting in front of her, barely a yard away.

  She remembered that long, quiet time at the small lake, when Grant had put his arm around her in quiet understanding. She’d known then that he, too, had sought out the quiet places to heal his pain. And that he knew she needed the same kind of peace those places had given him. On the heels of that thought came the memory of the way he’d thanked her.

  I needed them, too, once. You made me see them again. Regain what they mean to me.

  It took a strong, secure man to admit that he needed something as ethereal as the peace of quiet, lonely places. But then, she’d had no doubts that Grant was a strong man. She’d known—sensed, somehow—even when he was sixteen that he had within him that kind of strength. It was the other part that had her mind racing. Was it simply because he was secure enough not to care what anyone else thought? Or had he admitted to that need because he knew—and trusted—that she would understand?

  Do you have to analyze everything, Brady?

  Nick’s wry voice came back to her, and she felt a sudden return of the old pain as she thought of his family, spending their
first Christmas without him. That was where she should be, she thought. She should be with them, with Allison and the kids, her godchildren. But she knew it was impossible, and the Corellis knew why it was. They probably understood better than anyone. Allison had been among the first to encourage Mercy to come here, to put a safe distance between herself and the city. But that didn’t remove the feeling. And she wasn’t sure she was any better off thinking about that than she had been trying to figure out Grant’s motives.

  Maybe she did analyze too much, but if it was a weakness, it was also one of her strengths; more than once, it had provided a lead that had paid off. Even Nick had to admit that, although it had been more frequent that he just gave her a sideways look and said, “Sometimes, Brady, a cigar is just a cigar.”

  And sometimes, Mercy thought as she glanced out the window, where the afternoon shadows had turned to dusk, men were a pain in the backside.

  Even as she thought it, her own particular pain in the backside opened the front door and stepped inside, Gambler at his heels. The boss and the dog got no days off, it seemed, though everyone else had abandoned them for their own revelries.

  She watched as he took off his hat and coat and hung them on the rack just inside the door; he was drier today than yesterday, it appeared. Then he turned back and leaned down to pick something up off the porch. When he came inside, she saw that it was an armful of pine branches.

  He stopped when he saw her sitting there, as if he hadn’t realized she was there. For a moment he just stood there, as if he weren’t sure what to say. Then, at last, he gestured with the branches.

  “I thought we could use the fireplace tonight, and add them to the fire. This stuff smells good when it burns.”

  Yet another addition to the list of little things he’d done, she thought, including saving and setting out as decoration the Christmas cards he’d received from his family and neighboring ranchers, when Walt had told her they were usually read and discarded as soon as Grant was sure he’d returned the favor. That, the tree, the cookies…were they all for her sake, these concessions to the holiday that the other ranch residents’ reactions told her were so uncharacteristic?

  He stacked some logs in the grate of the fireplace, then tossed a couple of the pine branches and some kindling on top and underneath and lit the whole pile. It caught quickly, and in minutes the distinctive scent began to waft into the room. He turned back, and simply stood there for a moment. Yesterday—before he’d kissed her, anyway—she would have suggested he sit down and relax. Now she didn’t quite know what to say.

  At last he walked toward her and sat on the couch beside her. Well, sort of beside her, Mercy amended in rueful silence; he’d left a safe three feet between them. Gambler curled up on the hearth rug before the fire and promptly went to sleep, unaware of or choosing to ignore the undercurrents between the humans in the room.

  She’d heated up Rita’s contribution to the evening, a heaping plate of spicy chicken wings and a huge pot of homemade soup. Grant tackled it hungrily. And silently.

  “Would you like something warm to drink?” she asked when he paused for a breath.

  He considered this for much longer than she thought the simple question deserved, then finally nodded. She got up and went to the kitchen, where she’d had her usual Christmas Eve concoction heating. After a few moments of preparation, she had the two glass mugs ready and walked back into the living room. Grant took his and sniffed curiously.

  “Hot apple cider?”

  “Sort of,” she said. “It’s a tradition in my family.”

  Looking curious, he stirred the golden liquid with the cinnamon stick she’d put in it, then put the mug to his lips. He took a sip. His brows shot up, but then he licked his lips, as if he liked the taste.

  “Brandy?” he asked.

  “What? Oh, yes. Brandy.” She hoped the flush she felt in her cheeks would be written off to the warmth of the brew, or at least the crackling fire, rather than it’s true cause, watching Grant’s tongue slide over his own lips as it had over hers yesterday. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, I’m just surprised. I didn’t know we had any.”

  “Walt got the things for me when he was in town last week.”

  “Oh.” He took another sip, longer this time. Then he smiled. “This is really good.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  He sipped again, this time looking at the tree. “Where did all that come from?” he asked, indicating the odd assortment of things hanging on the tree, from a polished silver spur to a small golden cross.

  “The hands,” she said simply. “They came in to trade them for cookies, to dress up the tree.”

  His startled gaze flicked to her, then back to the tree. “Oh” was all he said. “It looks nice.”

  She supposed they could be having a more mundane conversation, but she wasn’t positive. But a few moments later, as silence returned between them, she thought she would have welcomed even prosaic conversation. Or perhaps it was only her imagination that told her the silence was a strained one; that faculty had certainly been working overtime lately. She’d even thought perhaps he had another reason for lighting the fire in the seldom-used fireplace, that it might have something to do with the fact that an open fire was a lot more…enjoyable than a closed wood stove. And she refused to acknowledge the word she hadn’t used, even in her thoughts.

  Grant finished his meal, and Mercy gave up on hers; she’d managed to down only a small bit of the tasty soup and a couple of the spicy chicken pieces. He cleaned his hands and then tossed the napkin into the fire. They both watched the blaze as the paper caught and burned as if it were a major solar flare-up and their job was to study it.

  Mercy wasn’t comfortable with the silence that spun out once more, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t probably make it worse.

  “Do you want to go for a ride tomorrow?”

  Mercy blinked, almost as startled by the suddenness and sound—as if he’d been trying to speak—of his words as by what he’d said.

  “I thought you said—”

  “I know. But Joker’s already antsy after one day off. If he gets another, he’ll be crazy.”

  “Oh.” Of course. Joker. That was the reason for the request, not any desire to ride with her, or even to see that she got out on Christmas Day. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  She hadn’t thought she sounded particularly sarcastic, but still he looked at her rather sharply. And spoke the same way.

  “If you don’t want to, I’ll take him out.”

  She sighed. “I didn’t mean that. I’d like to go for a ride. It sounds like a lovely way to spend Christmas morning.”

  “All right, then.”

  “But not,” Mercy went on, “if you’re going to act like a cranky grizzly bear all day.”

  “Grizzlies are always cranky,” he said, a snap still in his voice. “It’s their nature.”

  “So sue me for a redundancy.”

  His mouth tightened, but he didn’t speak. He finished his drink. He tugged off his boots. He got up and threw another log on the fire, which didn’t need it yet. All without saying another word. She half expected him to leave while he was up, but he came back and sat down again. She let out a small breath of relief.

  Hard to believe, she muttered to herself, that you once got a medal for valor.

  Her own chiding sarcasm roused her to speak.

  “Is this about yesterday?”

  Grant froze. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at her. “What?”

  “Your…mood. Is it about what happened in the kitchen yesterday?”

  She saw his jaw tighten. “You mean kissing you?”

  It took nearly all her nerve to nod.

  “No.”

  She breathed again, once more not sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Delusions of grandeur, Brady, she muttered to herself. Whatever made you think that, just because that kiss boiled your blood, it d
id a thing for him?

  “It’s not about kissing you at all,” Grant said.

  Did he have to rub it in, that she’d been a fool to even think it might have been? “Fine. I’m sorry I even thought it might be—”

  “It’s about,” Grant said, sounding rather ominous, “the fact that I didn’t want to stop with a kiss.”

  Nine

  Grant regretted the words the moment they escaped, but it was too late. He couldn’t call them back.

  To hell with it, he swore inwardly. He was tired of trying to hide the fact that he wanted her. He didn’t even know why he’d been trying. He’d taken worse teasing from the hands before, and no doubt would again.

  And it was only natural, he told himself. Even likely. You take a healthy thirty-year-old guy, stick him out on a remote ranch with nothing but cattle, horses, a scruffy dog and some ranch hands for company, then drop a gorgeous woman like Mercy in the middle of it—what do you expect? There was every reason to count on exactly what had happened. And no reason to try and hide it.

  Except that the woman who’d been dropped in the middle was here to heal, to grieve over the ugly death of a dear friend. Hardly in a state to be rational. Or make a rational choice. To take advantage of that would be contemptible.

  Not to mention dangerous, he thought wryly, if Kristina ever found out. Fortunes, he’d learned, were a very tempestuous breed. Perhaps, he thought, suddenly serious as he remembered Nate’s brother, Jake, even murderous.

  But Mercy wasn’t. She was merely…vulnerable. And right now she was blushing furiously.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, a little stiffly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “I… You…”

  “Forget I said it, will you?”

  She bit her lip. Then her chin came up, as it always seemed to when she was confronting something difficult head-on. Which was most of the time; no sidestepping or tiptoeing around for Mercy, even if the subject was unpleasant.