The Wrangler's Bride

Three

“Hey!”

It came out as a yelp, and Grant couldn’t help laughing as Joker again tugged Mercy’s tidy ponytail into complete disarray. She backed away and gave the big Appy a disgusted look.

“I’ve got to stop using that apple shampoo,” Mercy muttered, tugging at her pale blond hair.

“It’s more than that,” he said, still chuckling. “I feed him the real thing, and I sure don’t get this kind of reaction.”

It was nothing less than the truth; in the week she’d been here, Mercy had become the focus of the horse’s world. He neighed loudly whenever she came into sight, sulked grumpily if she didn’t pay him enough attention, and complained noisily if she paid too much attention to any other horse.

“I’m just somebody new,” she said. “Whose hair happens to smell like his favorite snack.”

“Not just somebody new, something. Not many women come here, and those that do tend to stay away from him.”

“Ah,” Mercy said, smiling again. “So he likes the ladies, is that it?”

“It’s part of his job. He is a stallion, after all,” Grant pointed out, wondering if she would be embarrassed by the earthy explanation.

Mercy’s smile became a grin, and Grant realized she wasn’t easily embarrassed now, any more than she had been twelve years ago.

“I suppose it is,” she said easily. “Maybe you should get him a lady of his own.”

“He has a string of them, every breeding season,” Grant said dryly.

“A job most males would envy,” she said.

He raised a brow at her; had there been a note of sourness in her voice? Almost of accusation? He’d never been one to accept universal guilt for the wrongs done by the entire male population, considerable though they might be, and he wasn’t going to start now.

“Maybe,” he said. “But the rest might feel sorry for him for being a sucker for a city girl.”

Her brows furrowed, and he saw the same expression cross her face that he imagined had just crossed his own, as if she were wondering if he was accusing her of something. He hadn’t meant to; he was long past his old anger at city women and the games they played.

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Let’s just say city girls belong in the city.”

Her brows rose. “I see. And your mother? Does she belong there, too?”

He grimaced at her painfully accurate thrust. Mercy had never been one to back down from a confrontation, and he should have guessed that wouldn’t have changed. Especially since she was now a cop.

“She feels she belongs with Nate. Wherever that might be. But she’s happy, and that’s all that matters.”

“But you’d rather she was happy back here.”

Grant let out a short breath, sorry he’d ever started this. “What I’d rather doesn’t matter, either. Even though she was born here in Wyoming, she felt…too isolated here. There were no other women on the ranch, the closest neighbor is miles away, and Clear Springs even farther.”

“I can understand that,” Mercy said, all the challenge vanishing from her voice. “Your mother is a very outgoing, gregarious woman, she likes people, and it would be hard for her to feel so alone.”

“Yes.”

“Still, it must have been awfully painful for her to leave you here while she moved to Minneapolis. I know how much she loves you. Family is everything to her.”

“She didn’t leave me. I chose to stay here.”

She gave him an odd look that he couldn’t quite interpret. “I know. She told me that even at four years old you were a stubborn cowboy.”

He drew back a little, and his brows lowered. “My mother told you that?”

“She said when she married Nate she asked if you wanted to come live with them. Your answer was to kick Nate in the shin and run away.”

Grant felt himself flush. “My mother talks too much.”

“Are you upset because she said it, or because she said it to me?”

“Both,” he muttered. But a sudden thought made his eyes narrow as he looked at her. “Just when did this conversation take place?”

“Oh, right before Christmas, as I recall. I remember helping Kristina with that marvelous tree.”

Christmas? Almost a year ago? What had Mercy been doing discussing him with his mother then? And then another thought hit him. He’d been with his family at Christmas last year, and Mercy hadn’t even been mentioned, he knew that, or he wouldn’t have been so surprised when Kristina called about her. And if she’d been around, he was sure his mother would have mentioned it; she felt it was her duty to try and make Grant feel part of the family, which included telling him about everyone’s doings, and that would have included Kristina’s closest friend, if she’d been there.

“I was at mom’s the whole holiday week last year, and you weren’t around,” he said.

She’d been off with her now deceased partner and lover, no doubt, Grant thought suddenly, wishing he hadn’t said anything. But she didn’t react with pain or shock or grief, she merely grinned at him.

“I meant Christmas twelve years ago, Grant.”

He blinked. “Oh.” Then he scowled at her. “You set me up for that.”

“Yep,” she agreed blandly. “And you bit.”

She turned back to Joker. She patted his neck, then rubbed gently at his velvety nose, and the stallion nickered softly and let out a gusty sigh of unmistakable pleasure. And Grant had to laugh once more.

He’d wondered how she managed to be a cop, as small and delicate and fragile as she seemed. But he was beginning to see that her sense of humor, her wit and her quick intelligence probably went a long way toward making up for whatever she lacked in size, muscle and brawn. She might not be able to physically intimidate, but he had a feeling the person who tried to outwit her or outthink her would quickly learn a sad lesson, and probably wind up outwitted himself.

“Yes, you big lunk,” she said to the horse, in a soft tone that proved she wasn’t at all immune to the big Appy’s whimsical charm, “you are a beauty. But you know that, don’t you? Pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?”

Joker snorted, and stretched his neck out for more of her rubbing caresses. Grant watched her small, slender hands stroke the glossy black hide, and felt an odd tightening low in his belly.

“You could make even a city girl like me want to learn to ride, couldn’t you?”

Grant looked at her sharply, wondering if her use of his mocking term was meant for him. But she didn’t look at him, merely continued her stroking of the blissfully happy horse’s heavily muscled neck.

For the first time in his life, Grant McClure found himself envying a horse. And he didn’t like the realization one bit.

“Thanks for fixing that bridle for me, Chipper.”

The young hand looked at him, startled. “I didn’t, Mr. McClure. I didn’t have time to get to it, by the time we found that stray colt and I got that fence repaired.”

The colt, one of the first of Joker’s get that had been born on the M Double C, had gotten out of a small corral on the far side of the brood-mare barn when a top rail gave way and he jumped the remaining two. Not an inconsiderable feat for a yearling. Maybe they had a competitive jumper on their hands, he thought with an inward grin; he’d like to see the stir a flashily colored Appy would make on the Grand Prix circuit.

But what Chipper had said made his forehead crease. “Then when did you sort out that mess in the tack room?”

“Er…I didn’t get to that, either. Charlie and I got back so late, really, and I was checking on that leopard mare, you know she’s been acting odd—”

Grant held up a hand. “Easy. I wasn’t criticizing. I didn’t expect you to round up that colt and get back much before dark. But if you didn’t clean it up, who did?”

“Probably the same elf who brought in all that wood yesterday, when it was supposed to be my turn.”

Grant looked over his shoulder at Walt Masters, a wiry, grizzled older man who had been at the M Double C for decades, who had seen it grow from the small place it had been when Grant’s father, Hank McClure, started it to the sprawling, relatively successful spread it was now. He’d been the one to suggest adding blooded performance horses to the ranch’s production, citing the tenuous prices for beef in a changing market these days. Grant had been doubtful, then had warmed to the idea, and now the horses were his favorite part of the operation, and, with the addition of Joker, on their way to being the most profitable.

“Not to mention,” Walt went on, “refilling the wood box in the bunkhouse for us poor, mistreated cowboys.”

Grant snorted and took a swipe at Walt with his hat. “Mistreated, hell,” he said. “You name me one other ranch in the state where the bunkhouse has a pool table and a hot tub for your aching back, you old coot.”

The man grinned. “Your pa’s probably still twirlin’ in his grave over that tub.”

Grant smiled. “Probably, Walt. Probably.”

He was proud that he was able to say it without wavering. It had taken him a long time to get to the point of accepting his father’s too-early death as a topic of conversation. For a long time, he hadn’t been able to talk about it at all. But now he took Walt’s gentle, affectionate joking in stride, knowing the old man had loved Hank McClure like a brother.

But that didn’t mean he cared to dwell on it, and he excused himself and left the barn.

Probably the same elf who brought in all that wood…

Who was, no doubt, the same elf who had mysteriously repaired the rip in the living room curtains, with neat, tidy stitches that were far beyond his own needlework talents, which began and ended with sewing on buttons.

He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. The air carried the feel of snow, and he guessed it wouldn’t be much longer—a week, maybe two—before Wyoming donned its winter coat once more.

He took two steps into the house and then stopped dead. He sniffed, knowing he should recognize the aroma permeating the air, but unable to quite pin it down. Then it hit him; it wasn’t one but two distinct smells; the oddly sweet odor of gun-cleaning fluid and, impossibly…bread. Baking bread. His stomach leaped to attention, and told him about it with a fervent growl.

The bread smell made him curious—and hungry—but the gun-cleaning smell made him wary. He headed in that direction first, into the wood-paneled den where his father’s collection of weapons was kept, along with his own shotgun and two hunting rifles. The characteristic smell became stronger, although his stomach seemed to prefer concentrating on the appetizing sent of the bread.

He found Mercy in the den, with his Remington .306 laid out on the table beside the gun cabinet. He’d planned to clean it tonight, after using it yesterday to take down the injured deer he’d tracked high into the back country, putting the animal, which had somehow broken a leg, out of its misery. He hadn’t really had the time to spare, but neither had he been able to stand the thought of the big-eyed doe struggling along in pain before she inevitably fell victim to some predator a step up on the food chain. He rarely interfered with nature’s plan, but something about the way the frightened, agonized deer looked at him had stirred him to help.

He paused in the doorway, watching as Mercy cleaned the weapon with swift, practiced movements. It brought home to him as nothing had yet that this was a woman familiar with weapons, though more often the kind used mostly to control the worst of the world’s predators, the two-legged kind. And again the incongruity of it struck him; he tried to picture her dealing with some big, brawny, rowdy drunk. Or some recalcitrant thief or burglar. And the only way he could reconcile it was to think of how she had charmed Joker, and figure she probably did her job the same way, using wit and charm and intelligence, rather than brute strength or force.

She finished, and began to put away the cleaning kit. Grant stepped into the room.

“Want to check it?”

She didn’t look at him as she spoke, and he realized she’d known he was there all along.

“No,” he said. “It’s obvious you know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you.” She gestured toward the rack on the wall beside the cabinet. “It goes there, I presume?”

“Yes.”

She made no move to pick up the weapon. “That’s up to you, then. I couldn’t reach it without climbing all over your couch.”

He’d never thought about how high that rack was before. His father had been even taller than he was, his mother five-seven, so he’d never even thought about it. And this simple realization made him marvel yet again that she had managed to do what she had.

He was putting the Remington back on the rack when his stomach reminded him noisily of the other smell saturating the air. A little embarrassed, he finished racking the rifle, then glanced at her. She was grinning.

“It does have that effect, doesn’t it?”

“I thought you didn’t cook.”

“I don’t. But I can bake up a storm. I hope you don’t mind me invading your kitchen.”

“Not,” he said fervently, “when the results smell like that. I’m going to have a riot on my hands if that smell gets out.”

“I made three loaves. I hope that’s enough for everybody.”

“When did you have time, between all your other little jobs?”

She didn’t deny his words, only shrugged. “I had all day.”

“I thought you came here to…recuperate.”

That shadow he’d seen before darkened her expression for a moment. But she said only “I can’t just sit around. I feel better if I’m doing something.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Keeping busy was the only thing that had gotten him through the days after his father died. And he’d done it well, kept so busy that he dropped into an exhausted sleep at night. That hadn’t stopped the dreams, but on the better days, he hadn’t remembered most of them by morning. And eventually they had faded, leaving behind only a lingering sadness, and gradually allowing the good memories to return.

He wondered when Mercy would be able to face Corelli’s death without that shadow darkening her eyes.

A couple of nights later, when he found himself with that rarest of things, time on his hands, when he found himself actually considering sitting down with a book, he had to admit that it was because of Mercy, because of all the myriad things she had seen needed doing and had done, the tiny little tasks that he always had to put off until after a full day of ranch work, the things that ate up his evenings until he had no time left for one of the few great pleasures in his life.

He let out a long sigh of satisfaction as he lowered himself into his father’s leather recliner and put the footrest up. For a few minutes he just sat there, book in hand, savoring the prospect of peacefully reading for a couple of hours. His eyes drifted closed, and he wondered where Mercy was. She’d been out flirting with Joker when he rode in, but he hadn’t seen her since. Nor had she been in the house after he finished his shower; an even lengthier than usual affair after he’d rescued that calf from a mud hole on the south flats. He’d wound up even muddier than the bawling creature, and the mud had dried to a skin-pulling crust by the time he got back to the house.

He opened his eyes suddenly, aware that something had changed. The room was dark, and he thought groggily that the light over the chair had burned out. Then he realized he was swathed in something, and it took him a moment to realize it was the blanket from the back of the couch. He freed one arm and reached out to try the lamp. It came on cooperatively, lighting the chairside table, and his book, neatly closed and sitting beside the lamp.

And the clock on the desk across the room said 3:00 a.m.

Walt? he wondered. No, the old man might have turned out the light, might even, in a fit of helpfulness, have put away his book, but tucking a blanket around him was hardly old Walt’s style. And it was unlikely he’d have come back to the house after retiring to the warmth and comfort of the bunkhouse, anyway.

He knew who had probably done it, he just didn’t want to admit that Mercy had found him sound asleep and tucked him in like a kid. Didn’t want to admit he found it oddly comforting.

He didn’t want to admit how much he’d come to like having her around in such a short time.

“She’s a tough little thing,” Walt said. “Stronger’n she looks, too.”

Grant didn’t have to ask; even if Walt’s words hadn’t made it obvious, there was only one “she” on the ranch. Mercy was everything Walt had said, and more.

“She wasn’t too happy with me when I tried to help her with that hay bale,” Chipper put in rather morosely.

“Did she need help?” Walt asked. Grant had the feeling he already knew the answer.

“Well…no,” Chipper admitted, looking sheepish. “She slung that thing on the wagon like she’d been doin’ it forever. She is awful strong.”

“Learns fast, too,” Walt put in. “I had to check on that leopard mare this morning. She’s making me nervous with all that pacing around, even though she’s not due to foal for another six weeks.”

“Me, too,” Grant said; the pregnant mare they called simply Lady was one of their most valuable, and she was in foal to Joker. Their first get had been the colt who had escaped the other day, and Grant had hopes this foal might turn out as well. “But what does that have to do with our…visitor?”

“By the time I was done, that girl had all the stalls on this side of the barn shoveled out.”

Grant stared at him. “She was mucking out stalls?”

“And doin’ a fine job of it, too.”

Fixing tack. Stacking wood. Cleaning the tack room. Cleaning his rifle. Baking bread. And now slinging hay bales and cleaning stalls.

She needs to rest, she’s running herself ragged.

Kristina’s words echoed in his head. If this was what Mercy considered resting, he didn’t want to know what she thought was work. And what she’d been doing wasn’t just work, it was labor, simple, hard, physical labor, requiring a strength and endurance he never would have guessed she had, from her appearance.