Odelia’s face cleared, a hand lifting to her heart. “That’s it? I thought it was serious.”
“This is serious,” Jorie quickly contradicted. “I feel like I’ve rolled in a briar patch. I’ve got hay in places I didn’t know I could have hay in.”
The hand over her heart lifted to her mouth, Odelia’s mirth clearly visible. “I can’t believe that no-good piece of work otherwise known as my son actually let you feed.”
“I insisted,” Jorie admitted. “I know you want me to learn more about horses and so I thought this might be a simple introduction.”
“It might have been if you hadn’t been in your work clothes. Ridiculous man.”
Jorie was ever so tempted to let Ryan take the fall. She really was. “Actually,” she said, still holding the shirt in front of her. “He did warn me. Kind of.”
“Come here,” Odelia said, motioning with her finger for Jorie to approach.
Jorie didn’t move.
Her new boss tipped her head at her in warning, hands moving to her hips. “Now, now, don’t be modest,” she drawled.
Jorie was completely bemused by the woman’s own outfit. She wore a bright red Western shirt, one with beige piping across the front. There was no fringe today, but she had on the obligatory cowboy hat. Jeans encrusted with rhinestones completed the ensemble. It wouldn’t be so bad, except she’d somehow managed to match the red of her shirt to the red of her lipstick. Not that it looked bad. It was just…unexpected on someone her age.
“Come on,” she urged. “Give me your shirt. I’ve dealt with this problem before. You’re not the first guest who’s found themselves in this predicament.”
Jorie handed over the shirt.
“I’ll go outside and shake it out while you deal with the other problem. And don’t worry. I’ll guard the door against that wretched son of mine.”
But now that Odelia had arrived Jorie had to admit this was her own darn fault. If she hadn’t been so stubborn this would never have happened.
Odelia returned quickly and Jorie felt better already, thanks to her de-hay-manation process, as she’d privately dubbed it. “If I never go near a brick of hay again, it’ll be too soon,” she muttered.
“They’re called flakes, honey, and while I’m grateful that you took my words to heart, you really don’t have to feed the horses.”
Thank God for that.
“Come on,” Odelia added. “Let me show you to the office you’ll be sharing with my son.”
Oh, yeah. The office. She’d forgotten.
Odelia swung the door wide, something brown dashing inside and causing her to step back until she realized it was a dog. The fluffy brown mutt yapped at her and Odelia shushed it, but it was no use. Another dog entered, this one equally small, only it was brown-and-white. Then a third dog entered. This one huge and shaggy. A black-and-white one followed, but it paused in the doorway, nose lifted as if trying to catch her scent.
“Whoa,” Jorie said as the brown-and-white one jumped on her pants.
“Jackson, no,” Odelia said.
Jackson didn’t appear to hear very well. He kept bouncing up and down, the little brown one joining him now. The big brown dog shuffled up along side of her, thrust its head beneath her hand as if asking for a scratch. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the black-and-white dog, nose still lifted, nostrils quivering, its paws taking it ever closer to…
“My quiche,” she cried, darting for the pie plate still atop a shelf.
“Your quiche?” Odelia echoed, only to repeat the words, “your quiche,” and sounding horrified.
Jorie understood why a second later. With the accuracy of a laser-guided weapon, the dog darted.
“Brat, no!” Odelia lunged with a grace of someone in her twenties.
Brat—how appropriate, Jorie had time to think before she, too, made a mad dash for her breakfast.
Brat didn’t appear to care that his name had been called. Nor that the word no had followed that name. Jorie watched as the pie plate slid into the dog’s mouth with an ease that made her gasp.
“No,” Odelia ordered.
The dog, pie plate hanging out of its mouth, glanced at the two humans charging toward him and did what any smart canine would do. He bolted for the door. Jorie tried to catch his collar, but she was nearly knocked off her feet by the big dog who’d suddenly caught the scent of his buddy’s treasure. The two little dogs darted between her legs and Jorie almost fell to the ground. Odelia gave up the chase, turned, shot her a look of apology.
Jorie felt her shoulders slump. She’d really been looking forward to that quiche.
“Was someone looking for this?”
They both turned. Ryan stood by the door, pie plate in hand, although half the quiche was already gone. He smirked.
“Wretched dog,” Odelia said.
When Jorie turned toward Odelia, the woman stared at her son, and it was clear she referred to her son, and not her miscreant canine.
Chapter Five
Ryan had to fight back laughter the whole way up the stairwell that led up to his office. He glanced back once, catching a glimpse of Jorie’s downtrodden face. It wasn’t funny, it really wasn’t, but he’d been the victim of that wretched pack of dogs so many times that it sort of was…only not to Jorie.
He clutched the black iron stair rail that kept people from falling to the barn aisle below. Behind him he could hear his mother bringing up the rear, her red boots clopping on the wooden steps. When he glanced back one more time, two steps from the top of the landing, it was in time to catch his mother’s glare…as if it was somehow his fault that her dogs had heisted Jorie’s quiche.
“I have some oatmeal in my desk,” he said, feeling guilty despite himself. He took the last step, pausing atop the parquet floor that made up the landing. The stairwell hugged the right side of the building, photos of some of their better-known ranch horses on the wall in between small, narrow windows that helped light the dark corner. “I can make you a quick bowl.”
“That’s okay,” he heard Jorie say.
He stopped in front of two massive oak doors that guarded the entrance to his office like wooden drawbridges. Black iron hinges that matched the stairwell pointed toward the door handles.
“I’m sure I can find something later,” she added.
He’d always thought the door was ostentatious, but his mom seemed to like it. Of course, the hinges squeaked horribly. He’d been meaning to fix that since forever. It didn’t seem to bother his mom. She’d been the one to design the office space beyond.
“Don’t you worry, dear,” his mom said, joining the two of them on the landing, her hand finding Jorie’s shoulder and patting it. “I’ve got plenty of food up at the house. I’ll bring you something down just as soon as I get you settled into the office.”
“If you bring her something, make sure you keep those dogs of yours locked up.”
Yeah, that was definitely a glare coming from his mom, although what he’d done wrong he had no idea. He’d insisted the dogs be locked in the tack room while they showed Jorie her new workspace, but that’d been a matter of self-defense. The last time Mom’s mutts had run amok in his office, they’d broken a lamp, ripped up a leather pillow and tried to eat a piece of furniture. The massive conference room table in the middle of the room beyond still bore Jackson’s teeth marks.
“Our desks are on the left. Yours is the one on the right,” Ryan told his mom’s new employee as he inserted a key into the lock and swung the door wide.
He stepped aside, watching as Jorie’s eyes widened when she caught sight of the office space beyond.
“Oh, wow.”
The words weren’t unexpected. Their guests frequently reacted that way—yes, even the seen-it-all oil executives that came to renegotiate o
il rights every year. It’d taken his mom nearly a year to complete, having always considered herself something of an interior designer, and he had to admit, if there was one thing she was good at, it was making things look girlie. The office was like a cross between a Western saloon and a cattle baron’s boudoir. Cowhide couches that could have sat an elephant to his left, the conference table in the middle of the room, made out of pine lodge poles and a massive glass tabletop that reminded Ryan of a miniature ice skating rink. To their left were three desks, all in a row, each of them facing out, toward the door. Above them, massive ceiling fans spun lazily through the air, their black iron hardware matching the other fixtures in the room.
“Do you like it?” his mom asked, sliding up next to Jorie so she could get a glimpse of Jorie’s face. “My desk is right next to yours, and you’re next to Ryan.” She pointed toward his desk in the corner of the room. He had the most space, and a window. Actually, windows stretched across the front of the room, overlooking the parking area and the winding driveway that led to the ranch, pastures on both sides. “It took me forever to decorate, but I really think it works, don’t you?”
Though his mom was nearly sixty years old, she could still sound like a little kid again. This was one of those moments. The room was striking, beautiful, but you could hear how badly she wanted Jorie’s approval.
“Of course it looks great, Mom. You outdid yourself.”
It was the tone of voice she used, that pleading little-girl-done-good question that hung in the air. He was a sucker for it every time.
So, apparently, was Jorie. “Oh, Mrs. Clayborne…are you kidding? This is stunning.” To his surprise, although he had no idea why, the woman placed a comforting hand on his mother’s shoulder. “It’s truly beautiful. I love the view.”
His mom beamed with pride. Oddly, it made his own heart swell, although not for the world would he let his mom see that. The last thing he needed was his mother realizing how much he wanted to please her. No way.
“Why thank you, Jorie. And, please, don’t call me Mrs. Clayborne. It reminds me of Ryan’s dad and how everyone called me Mrs. Clayborne this and Mrs. Clayborne that when he first brought me home. It was like I was Lady Bird Johnson for goodness’ sake. Took me weeks to get used to it. I finally had to tell Mavis, our housekeeper, to stop.”
She waved a hand in front of her face. Ryan marveled. She so rarely spoke about his dad anymore. It was like a scab she was afraid to itch for fear of making it bleed again. He knew exactly how she felt. He still missed his dad, too, though he’d died twenty years ago, when he was ten.
“Anyway,” his mom was saying with a wave of her hand. “Come see the desk I picked out for you.”
And by picked, his mom meant picked. It might look like the other two desks in the office, but there were subtle differences. It was blond oak like the other two which had been bought at the same time, but this one was more feminine. Not as thick-looking as the other two, which wasn’t surprising since the mate to his desk had been bought for his dad back when the office had been behind the main house. Excuse him. The bridal suite now.
“It’s handmade,” said his mom. “A local craftsman made it just for you. Well, not you specifically, but for whoever I hired.”
And it’d cost them a fortune. Not that they had to worry about money, but that didn’t mean Ryan liked spending a bundle on something that would have been just fine if it’d been made from pressed wood. He doubted anyone his mom hired would be around for long, especially since his mom probably wouldn’t be planning weddings for very long.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
Ryan glanced at Jorie sharply, but she wasn’t mouthing empty platitudes. She genuinely admired the desk, her pale hand drifting over the surface, Ryan wondering what it’d feel like to have that same hand—
Whoa.
He blinked, looked away, his gaze caught on his own desk. “Mom,” he said. “I’m going to make Jorie a bowl of oatmeal. Why don’t you show her where all the important things are?”
“You don’t have to do that—”
But he was already moving off.
Putting some space between them.
What was it about the woman that made him want to ruffle her feathers? he thought, heading to the kitchenette in the left corner of the room. He wanted to tease her until she blushed, he admitted, grabbing a bowl from above the sink. He wasn’t that way with Laurel. Yet he hardly knew this woman.
He glanced back, his mom waving her hand toward the conference table, Ryan hearing her mention the name of the famous craftsman who’d made it. He hardly paid attention as he poured oatmeal into a bowl, then some milk he didn’t even remember grabbing from the mini-refrigerator below.
She was damn good-looking.
Yeah, so what? he asked himself, punching some buttons on the microwave. He’d seen plenty of good-looking women before. So what if she had thick, silky hair—the kind he liked best on a woman? And so what if her eyes were the same color as the forget-me-nots that grew wild in the pastures? Didn’t mean a thing.
The microwave binged. Ryan grabbed the bowl, gasped and almost dropped it.
“Damn it.”
He heard footsteps behind him. “Mmm. That smells good, doesn’t it?” he heard his mom say. “Looks like it’s not quite done, though. Stir it up a bit and put it on for another thirty seconds.”
As if Ryan couldn’t see that for himself.
“Why don’t you sit down while I grab the file for the first wedding I want you to work on,” he heard his mom say as he punched the buttons.
Ryan spun toward his mother.
“The Western wedding of the year.”
“Mom—”
“Now, now, honey, don’t be shy.”
He wasn’t being shy. He just didn’t want Jorie to know he was about to get married.
And that was the scariest thought of all.
* * *
“LEAVE HER BE until after she eats breakfast,” Jorie heard Ryan say.
The smell of oatmeal drove her crazy.
“Nonsense,” his mom answered, hooking an arm into hers and guiding her to a chair.
She was so grateful for that chair.
There had been times during her office tour when she thought she might pass out, but it was her own stupid fault, she thought, all but collapsing into the seat. If she hadn’t been so hardheaded and determined to prove to Odelia’s son that she was here to work, not sleep, she might have been in her new house, unpacking, maybe even still sleeping…and definitely eating. Yes, absolutely, positively, for sure eating.
Her stomach yelled at her impatiently.
Instead she found herself sitting at a table as big as a bocce ball court hoping against hope that the same son she was determined to impress would bring her a damn bowl of oatmeal. And soon.
“I can’t wait to hear your ideas,” Odelia was saying.
“Mom—” her son said again, louder this time, as if the sound of the microwave might be drowning out his words.
Hurry up, oatmeal.
“Ryan’s been so quiet about it all, and his fiancée is so sweet she won’t say a word. She prefers to leave everything up to me instead. Says I’m the pro, but we all know I’m hardly that…”
Jorie blinked.
Fiancée?
“…you’re the expert,” Odelia was saying, “which is why I’m turning the whole thing over to you.”
Engaged.
“Mom, she hasn’t even had breakfast. Give her a moment, will you?”
Get it together, Jorie. It’s no big deal. So he’s engaged. What was so surprising about that?
Funny, he never mentioned it.
“When’s the wedding?” she heard herself ask.
But why would he mention it?
<
br /> Odelia’s brow wrinkled beneath her hat. “That’s the kicker.”
Jorie’s heart began to race like the minute hand of a watch.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Odelia said, “especially since you just started…”
“Mom, really. She doesn’t have to work on my wedding.”
“End of next month,” Odelia blurted.
Six weeks? Was she kidding?
“I know that doesn’t give you a whole lot of time. If it’s any consolation, the kids just told me about it last week, but we can do it. We’ve already got the location. All we need are a few minor details ironed out.”
“Here.” A bowl of oatmeal was set in front of her, its steam wafting up and teasing her nose. She watched Ryan’s eyes dart over her face. They were filling with something like concern. Concern and something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “I put some brown sugar and milk on it. Hope that’s okay.”
Gone was the teasing smile. In its place was a look that appeared almost troubled.
Engaged.
Of course. He was a hardworking, attractive male who would one day inherit a huge ranch. Frankly, she was surprised someone hadn’t snapped him up years ago. Half the eligible females in the county must have set their caps at him over the years.
“Eat,” Odelia ordered, the woman’s kindly blue-green eyes filled with encouragement.
She felt rather than saw Ryan move back from the table. He hovered near her for a moment, almost as if he was waiting to see how she liked the oatmeal. The spoon she picked up felt cold in her hands. She took a bite and almost sighed in delight as the hot food filled her mouth.
“I’m going down to the maintenance barn. Gonna lay materials out for Sam,” she heard Ryan say. “So we can get started on replacing those boards.”
“Oh, perfect,” Odelia said. “Jorie can see where you’re going to get married.”
The spoon froze halfway between the bowl and her mouth, and though she’d only had a few mouthfuls, it didn’t taste as good as it had a moment before.
“She can do that tomorrow.”
The Rancher's Bride Page 4