The Rancher's Bride. Pamela Britton

It was just a horse snorting, though. Ryan was still busy feeding horses. She had no idea if he’d noticed her absence, and didn’t care. He’d figure out what she was doing soon enough, she thought, shaking the silk fabric.

      How in the heck was she going to adhere to Odelia’s wishes to learn more about horses if she couldn’t even feed them without messing it up?

      Bits of green hay rained down like confetti. She had the stuff down her bra, too. Leaning forward, she scooped the cups out.

      “Yuck.”

      A knock startled her.

      “Go away,” she called out.

      He’d probably come to gloat. Evil man.

      He knocked again. Louder.

      “I said—”

      The door opened.

      “Hey!” She jerked her blouse in front of her.

      “Are you okay?” Odelia asked, the woman’s eyes filled with concern. “Ryan mentioned something about an accident.”

      The breath gushed out of her. “I thought you were Ryan.”

      “What happened?” Odelia slipped into the room, her eyes darting over Jorie quickly.

      “I had hay down my shirt.”

      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.