The Rancher's Bride

“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 oil 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.”