Once a Rancher

by Linda Lael Miller

  There was indeed a story. The mansion had been built, back in the day, to assuage the homesickness of their great-grandmother, a young Southern bride, far from home and yearning for the plantation of her childhood.

  By now, Mace was so caught up in the impromptu brainstorming session that he waved his fork in enthusiasm. “I think it would make a great project. You could call it ‘The Carson Legacy: One Family’s Journey in the Great West.’”

  Slater smiled again. “Okay, the Carson clan made its mark, I’ll grant you that. But there were a lot of other pioneers, too.”

  Mace grinned back at him. “I wouldn’t mind seeing myself immortalized on film,” he said.

  That was when Drake wandered in, yawning, probably not from lack of sleep but because he’d been out tending horses since the crack of dawn. “Now why, little brother,” he asked, “would anybody want to immortalize the likes of you?”

  Drake was built like Slater and Mace—tall, lean and broad through the shoulders; unlike them, he had dark blond hair. He looked like a cowboy, could handle a horse like no one Slater had ever seen and was just plain born to be outdoors. He yawned again, swung a leg over his customary chair and sat, reaching for the coffee. He scowled at Mace and grunted to underscore his previous remark. “Why should you be immortalized? You’re not all that special, except in your own opinion.”

  Mace tried not to seem affronted. “Look who’s talkin’,” he drawled.

  Drake flashed that cowboy grin of his. “The voice of reason, that’s who,” he said affably. He nodded at his older brother. “Hey, Slate. Heard you were home. I would’ve said hello before now, but we’re moving a herd to the south pasture, so I’ve been at it for a while. Anyhow, it’s good to see you back.”

  It was good to be back.

  “Mace has been doing his damnedest to inspire me.” Slater drank the last of his coffee. “Says I ought to include our family’s history in the next documentary.”

  “Oh, jeez.” Drake rolled his eyes and sipped from his mug. “Plenty of skeletons rattling around in these closets. If you’re planning on turning them loose, well, I’d appreciate it if you left my name out of the script.”

  Mace raised his eyebrows, nudged Drake with a light jab of his elbow. “You could do a feature on our fascinating brother here,” he suggested drily. “Focusing on his love life. The title could be ‘Boring on the Range.’”

  “Ha-ha.” Drake shot his younger brother a glare. “That’s a brilliant idea,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, I was up and around long before you finished getting your beauty sleep. Now, I’m thinking maybe you should go back to bed for a while. You obviously need some more shut-eye.”

  Slater slid back his chair and stood, empty mug in hand. “You two need to drum up some new insults,” he said. “If I can change the subject—Mace, aren’t we supplying wines for the Bliss River Resort now? How’s that going?”

  His brothers exchanged glances—and grins.

  Mace said, “I was right! Big Brother did find a way to get her into the conversation. You owe me ten bucks.”

  Drake made no move to pull out his wallet. “Damn,” he agreed, “that was fast, Slate. You have some special radar or something? ‘Beep, beep, pretty redhead within range. Sound the alarm. Man your battle stations.’”

  Okay, so he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d thought in bringing their discussion around to Grace Emery.

  Slater decided to brazen it out, anyway. “You mind telling me what you two loco cowboys are talking about? All I asked was how the deal with the resort was going.” God knew he couldn’t have asked Grace the night before, with her all worked up the way she’d been. He sat down again, grabbed a sausage link from what remained of Mace’s double breakfast and took a bite. Harriet Armstrong, the Carsons’ longtime cook and housekeeper, mixed the ingredients herself. Yet another reason there was no place like home.

  He’d eaten in some fancy restaurants, but whatever Harriet put on the table would do just fine. She ran the house with the same kind of no-sweat finesse. He and his brothers referred to the housekeeper as “Harry,” because that was Blythe’s name for her. Harry was like a second mother to all of them, and she’d never had a problem calling bullshit when they tried to put anything over on her.

  Mace apparently felt it was incumbent upon him to elaborate on the wager he’d made with Drake. “I bet that if you took one look at Grace Emery, you’d be getting acquainted right quick. You’d be all over that.” He shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me how you did it so fast. You arrived after supper last night and now it’s breakfast time. Every guy within a hundred miles of Mustang Creek suddenly feels the need for a spa visit, just so they can get a look at her, and you, brother, you somehow figured out how to get her to come to you.”

  His assistant, Nathan, must have told one of them about Grace’s visit, Slater concluded with a degree of resignation. Fine. He wasn’t going to tell them why she’d stopped by; the business about the swiped sign was between him and Ryder. As far as he was concerned, the matter was settled. “What’s her story?” he asked.

  Mace seemed to relish answering the question. “She’s divorced. The kid lives with her because her ex-husband is some sort of hotshot military type. He’s deployed at the moment.” He paused, then added, “From what I’ve heard, she’s doing a great job at the resort. The owner hired her personally.”

  Not much news there. Grace had told him most of those details, along with the fact that she’d been a police officer at some point. As brief as their encounter had been, though, Slater could well imagine the memorably lovely Ms. Emery meeting any task head-on. Of course the transition from cop to hotel manager was quite a leap. Obviously, there was more to her story, and he wanted to hear it. “Interesting.”

  One thing about his brothers—they weren’t inclined to poke their noses into other people’s business, and when he didn’t divulge Grace Emery’s reason for stopping by, they left it alone.

  Mace said matter-of-factly, “To answer your other question, our wine arrangement with the resort seems to be going well. On another subject, I’ve been doing some research, and I’m getting some new info on what vines we ought to put in. As you know, Mom wants to expand the operation, take it national. Anyway, the clients at the resort select different wines than the ones the liquor stores order from us. The higher-end lines go over better with the spa guests—they want the full-bodied, well-balanced reds or big, oaky chardonnays, while on the retail level, the customers seem to prefer fruity, lighter varieties. We’re entering a few competitions this year to see if we can get more press.” He paused, but only long enough to take a breath. Once Mace got talking about the vineyards and the wines they produced, it was hard to shut him up. “The trick here is dealing with our weather and finding vines that can handle the winters and still produce the quality of fruit and yield we’re after. Right now we buy most of our grapes from other states. That’s not unusual, but I’d like to swing the pendulum our way.”

  Slater enjoyed his younger brother’s passion for the wine business because he knew this venture was their mother’s dream as much as it was Mace’s. They were three very different people, he and Mace and Blythe, but he could identify with both of them, since filmmaking and running a successful vineyard were both artistic pursuits. Drake, however, couldn’t have been less interested, down to earth as he was—always active, always on the move. It was almost comical the way animals and kids gravitated toward him. Slater had seen his middle brother at many a picnic or cookout with a toddler on his lap and three dogs belonging to someone else at his feet. He’d be talking away with friends, evidently oblivious to the Doctor Dolittle phenomenon.

  “I don’t know much of anything about making wine,” Slater admitted, addressing Mace, “but that sounds like a plan to me. I can grow mold on a piece of cheese in the fridge, and that’s about it. Speaking of wine and cheese, I need to throw a shindig for the investors. They deserve a celebration. I’m thinking the resort would be the
perfect venue.”

  Both his brothers laughed, and Drake reached into his pocket and pulled out a few bills. He selected one and handed it to Mace. “You win,” he said. “Here’s your ten bucks.”

  *

  GRACE PEERED AT her computer screen, blinked a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The booking had come in just as she was thinking about taking her lunch, and it was major. Slater Carson’s production company had reserved fifteen of the resort’s best rooms as well as the private dining room, and had requested gourmet menu suggestions and comprehensive spa privileges for its top executives and a number of investors.

  The bill would amount to tens of thousands of dollars. Grace was new enough to the resort-management field to be impressed, although she supposed such expenditures were common in the corporate world.

  Not that Slater struck her as the corporate type; she couldn’t really picture him wearing a suit, giving speeches in some boardroom. He’d looked like a denim and custom-made boots man to her, but then she’d met him only once, and under distinctly awkward circumstances at that. So maybe she’d missed something.

  Still, Grace had good instincts where people were concerned; as a cop, she’d learned to depend on her gut.

  She’d certainly noticed Slater’s easy air of command. He was clearly comfortable with himself, and he was assertive but not overbearing. Otherwise, he would’ve been a lot tougher on Ryder the night before.

  It was a safe bet that Mr. Carson had a clear idea of what he wanted and seldom, if ever, hesitated to go after it.

  She couldn’t help making a few comparisons—and there were undeniable similarities between Slater and Hank, her ex-husband. Both men were strong, single-minded and ambitious.

  There were undeniable differences between them, too.

  Hank, in fact, was not merely ambitious, he was driven, a trait that could seem sexy at first glance; power usually was sexy. She’d been drawn in quickly, despite the practicality that had served her so well on the force. Trouble was, she’d sadly miscalculated her place in the pecking order. On the list of Hank’s priorities, she came in last.

  Even Ryder was low on the figurative totem pole. Hank’s career was number one, and both she and his son were basically distractions. Afterthoughts.

  She’d been wounded by this realization, and she’d been cautious ever since. One major mistake was forgivable; two would constitute disaster.

  Okay, so she didn’t know Slater well enough to write him off as a player, but she’d learned to be wary of his brand of charisma.

  If he saw her as a conquest—she’d run into that attitude before and after Hank—he was riding for a fall that would bruise his masculine ego big-time.

  Count me out.

  She looked past her computer monitor, took in her surroundings. It was an old trick, a way of grounding herself in the real world when her mind wandered.

  Grace loved her spacious second-floor office, overlooking the pool and the gardens. There was a small balcony, complete with a couple of ornate deck chairs and a small, glass-topped table.

  Not that she had time to sit out there and enjoy it all.

  This morning, though, she had the balcony doors open, and a cool, soft breeze wafted in, scented with a tinge of pine and the lush flowers crowding the gardens.

  The resort was a terrific place to work, her salary was generous and so far, she’d gotten along beautifully with the guests as well as the staff. In short, she’d finally gotten her life unstuck, and no complications would be tolerated.

  Specifically, the tall, dark-haired, good-looking cowboy sort of complication.

  “Did you see that booking I forwarded?”

  The question came from her assistant, Meg, who was standing in the doorway, smiling broadly. Meg was young, energetic and fresh out of hotel management school, but inexperienced. The resort owner, George Landers, was an old friend of Grace’s father’s. He had reliable instincts when it came to hiring key people. In time, Meg would develop the necessary air of confident authority required to run one of his resorts, but for now, she was still “wet behind the ears,” to quote George.

  Grace herself had a degree in the hospitality field—which she’d obtained part-time while she was still a cop—but no real experience, and she wasn’t positive that confidence was her strongest suit, either, given some of the choices she’d made in the past. She was skilled at handling difficult situations, however, and the boss knew that because he knew her. She’d been trained to function under intense pressure, but in reality, she didn’t actually run the resort as much as she supervised the staff who ran it.

  The exact instructions she’d received: Just make sure everybody’s doing what they’re supposed to do. I trust you to take care of whatever comes up.

  Thank God somebody believed in her abilities.

  Or maybe she’d just gotten lucky.

  George Landers had gone to college with her father, and the two men had played golf together ever since, every Wednesday afternoon. When George learned that Grace might be looking for a change of scene, he’d punched her number into his cell phone, invited her to his office and offered her the job on the spot.

  She’d jumped at the chance. No, she hadn’t realized Ryder was going to jump with her, but she could cope with that. After all, she was crazy about the kid.

  “I was actually just looking at it,” she answered belatedly, smiling at Meg. “Very nice.”

  “The Carson name carries considerable weight around here.” Meg, wearing the fitted jacket and skirt the company required, crossed the threshold and laid a set of invoices on the desk. “They’ve also recently opened a winery. That Ranch Hand Red on our wine list in the dining room is one of our best sellers.”

  This was valuable information. “The Carsons own Mountain Vineyards? Hmm.” Grace tapped a few keys and their website popped up. The winery building itself was picturesque, a restored barn or bunkhouse, perhaps, rustic but sturdy, attractively weathered, with a shingle roof and tall windows. The mountains provided a staggering backdrop.

  Oh, yes. The place was the epitome of Western charm. “I wonder if they’d consider doing tours and a few wine-tasting events for our guests,” Grace went on, musing aloud. “We could add that to some of our packages, since not everyone comes here to hike or ski. The spa is a big draw in its own right, and wine-tastings ought to fit the mood.”

  “It won’t hurt to ask them,” Meg announced brightly. She was, as usual, brimming with enthusiasm. “It would be fabulous if we could get a few more gigs like this one, right? And this is such gorgeous country—ideal for a corporate getaway.”

  Meg’s buoyant spirits might have been irritating, if they hadn’t been completely genuine. Grace had liked her from the moment she’d first walked through the elaborate glass doors downstairs.

  Thoughtful, she tapped her pen against her desk blotter. “I wonder,” she murmured, “if Slater Carson would consider using the resort in one of his films. As I understand it, he’s only made historical documentaries so far, stuff about the Old West. Maybe he’d be interested in some kind of joint promotion.”

  Meg sank into a chair, her eyes wide. “That’s a stretch,” she said honestly, “but like I said before, it can’t hurt to ask. I mean, what if it actually worked?” She paused, bit her lower lip. “Would you like me to draft a preliminary proposal?”

  The idea was a stretch—but the good ones usually were. Nothing ventured…

  Of course she’d eventually have to make the pitch in person, face-to-face with Slater. Still, it made sense to plant a seed, get him thinking about the possibilities. After all, Mustang Creek was his hometown; surely, he cared about the local economy.

  “Do that,” she decided aloud. “And let him know we’d be willing to offer some leeway on the cost of the event he just booked and any other business he sends our way in the future. Mention the winery connection, too.”

  “Consider it done,” Meg said. She was an attractive young woman, w
ith shiny brown hair that fell gracefully around her shoulders, eyes the color of warm honey and a friendly smile. Secretly, Grace envied her assistant’s less dramatic coloring a little, her own being…well, a bit on the flashy side.

  Inwardly, Grace sighed, reminding herself of her mother’s oft-given advice: Be yourself and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  Then Grace was all business again. “I want the head chef in the kitchen for this event,” she said. “And whether he likes it or not, we’ll offer a simple menu—one seafood dish, one poultry, one beef, one pork and one elegant vegetarian option. No fancy ice sculptures, nothing with flames.” She grinned at Meg, who grinned back. “Stefano gets carried away sometimes, as you’ve probably noticed. I’ve tried to rein him in, but as he’s pointed out numerous times, I’m not a chef.”

  “No,” Meg said, “but you are the boss.”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “Will there be anything else?”

  Grace waited for a moment, then made the leap. “Invite him to dinner,” she said. “Next Thursday night, if he’s free.”

  Meg looked mildly confused. “Who? Stefano?”

  Grace shook her head. “Slater Carson,” she answered. “I’ll give him the proposal then. I’d call him myself, but I want this to be formal, just business.”

  Meg gazed at her curiously, no doubt wondering if Grace knew the legendary filmmaker and if so, how. And too smart to ask.

  “It’s a long story.” Grace waved a hand in casual dismissal, although, in truth, she didn’t feel casual, not where Slater was concerned.

  Meg nodded and left the office, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Once Grace was alone, she found her thoughts turning in another direction.

  She was uneasy about Ryder; he’d crossed an alarming line, stealing from Slater Carson.

  Okay, so it wasn’t armed robbery or drug trafficking, and she didn’t want to make too big a deal of it. Still, she’d seen too many kids head down the wrong trail in her last job, and the trouble often began with some small infraction.