* * *
BONELESS GRILLED CHICKEN had been a good choice for tonight’s menu. It wouldn’t take long to cook, even over coals. With the side dishes either ready and chilling in the refrigerator or warming in the oven, Bridget was free to go on the hayride.
Only because Gregory will be there.
Yes, she didn’t dispute the small, nagging voice inside her. If not for him signing up for the ride, Bridget would have stayed home. But he had signed up, giving her another opportunity to drop more subtle hints that she was available and interested.
He’d been affable this morning when he stopped by the ranch. Nothing more. She must, she decided, be doing something wrong. That, or she was really rusty at male-female interaction.
No, impossible. Ryan responded to her even when she wasn’t trying, which was always.
Heading out the kitchen door, she cut through the pool area, careful not to let her gaze travel to the clubhouse. Seeing it reminded her of square-dancing practice. That first night when Ryan had held her, and she’d enjoyed the sensation of his arms circling her waist much more than she should have.
Thankfully, three other couples had attended the second practice. Avoiding another brush with unintentional intimate physical contact had been easily accomplished.
You liked him holding you.
Stop it! she demanded of the voice. The only reason she’d liked it at all, and she wasn’t admitting to anything, was because over two years had passed since a man last held her and twirled her and looked at her as if he wanted nothing more than to taste her cherry lip gloss.
Bridget forced her thoughts back to the present. Avoiding Ryan at the post-cookout square dance tonight shouldn’t be a problem as at least twenty people were expected. More if Nora and her friends came.
With luck, one of those twenty people would be the handsome Dr. Hall.
She waited for the same tingling sensation to spread through her middle as when Ryan had slipped his arm around her waist and promenaded her across the room. It didn’t happen.
Swatting away a pesky gnat, she hurried up the road toward the stables. Too late, she realized she hadn’t checked the parking area beside the main house. She’d noticed earlier today that Gregory drove a BMW.
A very nice metallic silver sedan. Item number five on her nonnegotiable dating list most definitely checked off. She could see herself sitting in the front passenger seat, leather upholstery no doubt, and beaming a smile at Gregory, who would be sitting behind the wheel and skillfully navigating them to their first date.
What kind of food did he like? She’d meant to ask that while they discussed potential catering options for his sister. Only she’d gotten flustered and forgotten. Admittedly, she’d been trying too hard—a direct result of her insecurities.
He’d been at the ranch on business, she reminded herself, and not there to flirt. Same as the other day at the clinic. If anything, she respected him even more for his professionalism. Tonight would be different, however. The hayride and cookout—and square dance, if he went—were purely social.
As she neared the stables, she searched the faces of those gathered outside. None of them were Gregory’s. She removed her phone from her jeans pocket and checked the time. Twelve minutes before the hayride was due to leave. He could be on his way.
Saying hello to the guests, she wound her way closer to the wagon.
“Bridget! You’re here.”
Hearing her name, she turned. “Oh, hi, Grandma. I thought you weren’t going on the hayride.”
“I’m not. I’m seeing off the guests. But I’m glad you’re going.”
She was? Had she deduced Bridget’s plans?
“You’ve been working hard the last few days,” Grandma Em continued. “Good to see you taking a break. And it doesn’t hurt for one of us to mingle a little with the guests.”
“O-kay.”
Where was Gregory? Bridget strained to see past her grandmother and down the dirt road leading toward the house without appearing obvious.
“Time to load up,” Ryan called out.
He’d been making last-minute adjustments to the harnesses and answering questions. He’d also been posing for pictures with the guests. Lots of pictures. Apparently he was photogenic.
She couldn’t argue with that. He had that sexy cowboy swagger when he walked and rugged good looks. The kind of looks that had women wondering if he was a good guy or a bad guy and hoping for a little of each.
Standing at the foot of the wagon, he said, “Let’s load up. One at a time.”
People meandered toward the wagon, forming a line. Seeing no sign of Gregory and his children, Bridget tried not to panic. It proved difficult and her glance continually cut to the road in search of them. Should she go on the hayride? Stay behind and wait?
She silently chided herself. Here she was, yet again, acting stupid over the doctor. Obviously, he’d canceled at the last minute. She should go home. Get a head start on the cookout.
Suddenly, he appeared in the door to the stables, his children in tow. Bridget’s heart jumped. They must have been inside petting the other horses. Anticipation mingled with relief and coursed through her.
She headed for the stables, her path on a collision course with his. At the last second, she glanced sideways. Huge mistake. Ryan stared at her, emotion flashing in his eyes. Disappointment? Irritation? She ignored him but felt his stare on the back of her neck as she made her way to the stables.
Gregory saw her then, and she produced a smile. The next second, both her mouth and her steps simultaneously froze in place as an attractive woman emerged from the stables. When she reached Gregory, he casually slipped his hand into hers. She said something too soft for Bridget to hear. In response, he cupped her cheek with his free hand.
A date. Gregory had brought a date to the hayride. Not a first date, either, from the looks of it. Bridget swayed slightly as the realization took hold.
In what felt like slow motion, Gregory, the woman and his two children began walking straight for Bridget.
She tried to speak, managing only a wobbly “Hello.”
“Hey.” He smiled at her, too. It was considerably less bright than the one he’d showered on the woman. “Bridget, this is my friend Celeste.” His tone could have melted butter when he spoke the word friend. “Celeste, this is Bridget, head chef at the ranch.”
“Nice to meet you.” Celeste’s name couldn’t fit her any better. With her pale blond hair and flawless complexion, she was as luminous as a shining star.
Bridget felt drab in comparison.
“Welcome to Sweetheart Ranch.” She swallowed against her dry throat. “Enjoy yourself on the hayride.”
Convinced acute embarrassment must be written all over her face, she started to leave. No question about it, she was definitely staying home now.
“Will you be at the cookout later?” Celeste asked pleasantly.
“She’s the chef. Of course she’ll be there.” Gregory’s laugh was warm and rich. It was the kind of laugh Bridget had hoped to coax from him during their two awkward encounters.
Here was her chance to execute a clean escape. He didn’t know she was going on the ride. No one did, other than Grandma Em. And with starry Celeste completely occupying him, neither would notice her exit.
“Have a good evening.” Bridget almost got away, but her grandmother stopped her.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“I’ve changed my mind about the ride,” Bridget muttered.
“Nonsense. Just because that doctor fellow brought a woman along?”
“She has nothing to do with it.”
“Then why are you running away like a dog with its tail between its legs.”
“Grandma, please.”
“There’s no reason not to go on the ride. And don’t bring up the cookout. I happ
en to know for a fact you have everything ready, right down to the condiment tray.”
Bridget watched as Ryan helped the last guest into the wagon.
“All the seats are taken,” she countered. Seats being the bales of straw.
“Sit up front with Ryan.”
No way. He knew Gregory had brought a date. He’d helped Celeste into the wagon, for crying out loud.
“I’d rather not.” She was in no mood for his teasing.
“Bridget, honey. Don’t let that doctor fellow make you feel bad or doubt yourself. You’re a beautiful, strong, talented young woman who also happens to be an incredible catch. You’ll find the right man, and he’ll be darn lucky to have you.”
Bridget rubbed her throat where a painful lump had lodged. If her grandmother had made even one tiny remark about her and Ryan dating, she’d have whirled on her heels and left. But her grandmother hadn’t. Rather, she’d tapped into the very center of the emotions eating away at her.
“Fine. I’ll go.”
“That’s my girl. Now, come on. I told Ryan I’d untie the horses for him.”
They walked to the front of the wagon, where Ryan sat waiting. Gathering the four long reins and weaving them between his fingers, he sent her a quizzical look.
“I’m riding with you,” Bridget explained. “If that’s all right.”
“Climb aboard.” He scooted over.
Holding on to the wagon wheel for balance, she placed a foot on the small metal step and hauled herself up. Twisting ungraciously, she plopped down into the seat. The springs creaked beneath the sudden assault.
She glowered at Ryan, silently daring him to comment. He wisely refrained.
Grandma Em went over to the hitching rail and, at Ryan’s signal, untied the lead ropes. She then moved to the side and raised her hand in farewell.
“Have a great ride everyone.”
She was answered by an enthusiastic chorus of goodbyes.
“Ready?” Ryan pulled back on the reins and called to Amos and Moses. “Haw, haw.” Ears pricked forward, the draft horses swung their large heads to the left and shuffled their feet. When Ryan jostled the reins and shouted, “Step up,” they began slowly walking, pulling the wagon away from the hitching rail easy as pie.
“What changed your mind about coming on the hayride?” Ryan asked when they were underway.
“The food’s ready. No reason I couldn’t.”
“I meant what changed your mind about going after you found out Dr. What’s-His-Name brought his girlfriend?”
“She’s his date. She may not be his girlfriend.”
“Didn’t you see them together? If she’s not his girlfriend, he wants her to be.”
Ryan was right. Bridget refused to give him the satisfaction, however.
“I haven’t been on a hayride since last Christmas,” she said. “I thought it might be fun. And it might be if we stop talking about Gregory,” she added caustically.
“Okeydokey.”
They traveled along in silence, Bridget half listening to the lively chatter of the twenty people behind her in the wagon and enjoying the scenery.
Spring was her favorite time of year. All around them, palo verde trees had exploded with yellow blossoms that layered the ground beneath the trees like a blanket of gold. Here and there, century plants had pushed forth their spindly stalks, some of them thirty feet tall and laden with blossoms at the top.
Before long, they reached a gate, the same one she’d opened while astride her horse the day she and Ryan went riding together.
He reined the horses to a stop with a loud “Whoa.” Nodding at the gate, he asked, “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” She climbed down and held the gate open while the wagon passed through.
On the other side, Ryan stopped the horses again and waited for her. When she was once more seated, he clucked to the horses.
“It’s a beautiful evening.” He offered her a smile. “Sorry you’re not here with a different guy.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Ah. I fall into the I-don’t-mind category.”
“It’s not like that,” Bridget insisted.
“For the record, I’m glad the doctor has a girlfriend. And before you warn me off for the tenth time, I’m glad because he doesn’t deserve you, Bridget. Not if he can’t see what a great gal you are.”
Her grandmother had said something similar to her before the ride and with the same sincerity in her voice as Ryan’s.
“Thank you,” she murmured softly, the painful lump reappearing.
“And also, for the record—” he took his eyes off the road ahead of them to gaze at her “—there isn’t anyone else I’d rather have sitting next to me.”
Bridget tried to convince herself he was only trying to make her feel better. Deep inside, she knew that wasn’t true. Everything from the intensity of his stare to the seductive timbre of his voice told her just how much he liked being with her.
For the first time all day, Bridget forgot about Dr. What’s-His-Name.
CHAPTER EIGHT
RYAN UPENDED THE bucket and poured grain into Amos’s feed trough. The big gelding shoved his arm aside and attempted to gulp bites midair as the grain fell.
“Slow down, will you?” Ryan moved the empty bucket out of range. “There’s enough fat on you to feed you till summer.”
An exaggeration, certainly, although Amos and his brother, Moses, both carried a spare tire around their middles.
Ryan ran a hand along Amos’s back before leaving the stall. The formerly gleaming hide that Ryan had painstakingly brushed had been dulled by dust and sweat. He’d have his work cut out for him in the morning, getting the pair of Haflingers shiny and pretty for the carriage rides around town.
Neither horse was the least bit concerned with appearance as they munched on their dinner.
“Wish I had something to eat.” Ryan rested an arm on the stall door. “I missed the cookout.”
Unharnessing had taken time, almost as much as harnessing, and he’d worked up an appetite. Hearing the passengers talk excitedly about the cookout menu during the hayride and knowing Bridget’s culinary skills firsthand had whetted his appetite further.
“The doctor has a girlfriend,” he told Moses, who shot him a sideways glance while chewing. “Yeah, that’s what I say. Good. He probably snores or has a secret gambling habit or is a picky eater. That would crush Bridget. She loves experimenting with food.”
Who was Ryan fooling? He suspected the doctor was a nice guy. The fact that he felt inferior was his problem and no reason to invent flaws where none existed.
“I can’t decide if I should go to the square dance or not.”
In the stall across from Amos, Goldie emitted a high-pitched squeal and kicked at the wall. Her neighbor had dared to reach his nose between the bars separating them and given her a love nip on the rump, which she neither appreciated nor reciprocated.
“I can relate, buddy,” Ryan told the brown gelding. “Women are fickle creatures.”
Goldie snorted as if insulted.
He crossed the aisle to her stall. “Do you think I should go to the dance?”
To prove his point about being fickle, Goldie ignored her neighbor in favor of Ryan and placed her head on his shoulder in the equine version of a hug.
He stroked her neck. At least this female liked his attention.
“Should I take that as a yes?”
Goldie sniffed his neck, the noise loud in his ear like a jet engine at takeoff.
“You’re right. I did promise Emily I’d help demonstrate the steps.”
Beside them, the brown gelding stomped his foot on the ground.
“Easy, boy. No reason to get jealous.”
Given the chance, Ryan could easily lose his heart to Bridget. No
t just lose, but give it away. That wouldn’t happen, though. Not when they were maintaining a safe distance from each other.
Moving out from beneath Goldie’s head, he noticed a smudge on his collar left by the horse and brushed at it. “Good thing I brought a clean shirt with me.”
He replaced the lid on the grain barrel and shut off all but one security light before leaving the stables. At his truck, which he’d parked alongside the stables, he opened the passenger door and lifted the shirt from where he’d hung it.
Ryan owned exactly two dress Western shirts. This was the better of the two. Laying it on the seat, he undid the snaps of the shirt he wore. They popped open one after the other with a quick rat-tat-tat. Stripping off the dirty shirt, he bunched it into a ball and threw it on the floor in front of the passenger seat. His white undershirt gleamed bright in the glow of the moon.
“There you are.”
The voice startled him. Seeing a familiar silhouette materialize from around the stables, surprise morphed into delight and then anticipation.
“Hi.” He offered Bridget a grin. “What brings you here?”
She stepped closer. The same moonlight that lit his undershirt also illuminated her lovely features. He stood there, dumbstruck and more than a little lovestruck.
“You missed dinner.” She held up a covered plate he hadn’t seen at first. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“I am. A little.” For food. For her. For what they couldn’t have.
She studied him intently. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Just changing shirts.” He didn’t dare tell her the truth, that she’d dazzled him. “Don’t want to go to the dance smelling like horses.”
Something in her eyes flickered. “You don’t smell like horses.”
How did she know? They weren’t close enough for her to tell.
He could remedy that. Six long strides in her direction should do the trick.
“Folks at the dance may beg to differ,” he said, not moving. “In fact, I should wash up a bit.” He stuck a hand in the back pocket of his jeans and produced a handkerchief. “Be right back.”
The Cowboy's Perfect Match Page 10