Forever A Hero. Linda Miller Lael

banged up—”

      “No,” Kelly pointed out. “I was fine. You were the one who insisted I visit the ER.”

      Mace remained thoughtful.

      “Hey,” Kelly persisted, determined to keep the mood light. “This is nothing. I’ll have you know I once rode a mechanical bull.”

      Mace turned her way, obviously confused. “What?”

      She gave an exaggerated sigh even as a smile formed on her lips. “I said—”

      “I heard what you said,” Mace answered, and the expression on his face was priceless, part amusement, part skepticism. “I’m not sure I believe you, though.”

      Kelly tried to look offended. “I can prove it,” she said. “I have video.” Maybe two seconds’ worth, but she had ridden the robot bull.

      Mace tilted his head to one side, as if confounded, though the gleam in his eyes told another story. “Okay,” he allowed. “Mind telling me what that has to do with spending the night in a hospital?”

      “I’m trying to make a point here,” Kelly informed him loftily.

      “Which is?”

      “Which is, I might be a city girl, but I’m tough.”

      “Did I say you weren’t?”

      “Not directly,” Kelly replied airily, folding her arms. “But you wanted to see my reaction to a rocky ride across the open range.” She paused for effect. “How’d I do, cowboy?”

      Mace gave a husky shout of laughter. “You did all right,” he said as the roof of a long building came into view. “For a greenhorn.”

      “Don’t forget the mechanical bull,” she said, pretending to be miffed.

      From his expression, Kelly guessed he was enjoying the image.

      “Did you stay on for the full eight seconds?” he asked.

      She frowned. “Huh?”

      “That’s rodeo-speak,” Mace told her. “During the bull-riding event—in which, by the way, they use real bulls—the main objective is to stay on the critter’s back until the buzzer sounds. In eight seconds.”

      “Oh,” Kelly said.

      “How many seconds?”

      Kelly bit her lip, murmured her reply.

      Mace leaned in her direction. “I didn’t quite hear that,” he said.

      “Three, I think,” Kelly answered, throwing in an extra second for the sake of her dignity.

      Mace’s whistle sounded like an exclamation—a rude one.

      “What?” Kelly nudged him, feeling a little indignant, although she teetered on the verge of laughter.

      Mace flashed her another grin. “I’m impressed, that’s what. Three seconds isn’t a bad ride, even on a motorized barrel with a hide and a couple of horns glued on for effect.”

      Just then, they crested a hill, and the vineyard came into view, acres and acres of it, set in tidy rows. The winery occupied the long building she’d glimpsed before, standing on a low rise, overlooking the crop.

      Kelly spotted a paved drive, winding its way up from a dirt road and opening onto a spacious parking lot, empty at the moment except for a vintage roadster out front and a truck backed up to a loading dock in the rear.

      “Is that car—” she began.

      “An MG?” Mace finished for her. “Yep, ’54, all original parts.” He pulled up beside the gleaming green roadster and shut off the truck’s engine. “It belongs to my mother. My grandfather gave it to her a few years ago, and she recently had it restored.”

      Mace got out of the truck, came around to her side and opened the door. She climbed down on her own because she wanted to prove she was able-bodied, her recent brush with disaster and brief hospitalization notwithstanding.

      Mace didn’t comment; he simply shut the truck door behind her and headed for the main entrance. The double doors were made of thick glass, and a closed sign dangled in one of them.

      Mace punched a series of numbers into a pad on the outside wall, and the locks gave way with an audible buzz.

      He pushed one of the doors open and held it for Kelly.

      Inside, the silence was complete.

      “Where is everybody?” she asked, stepping past Mace into a reception area furnished with comfy chairs and sofas. The art on the walls was quality stuff, with a distinctly Western theme, and the floors were wide-planked hardwood, held in place by pegs instead of nails.

      “We just shipped a major order. I gave everybody except the field crew a few days off.”

      “Generous of you,” Kelly commented, feeling slightly disconcerted. Mountain Winery was a small venture in comparison to other wineries. If her company couldn’t count on a steady supply of the product, Dina and the board of directors would lose interest in an alliance, fast.

      Before Mace could respond, a beautiful woman, around sixty, appeared in a nearby doorway. She was fit, and she wore jeans, a tank top, boots, along with a knowing smile. “My son is definitely generous,” she said affectionately. “But he’s also a hardheaded businessman. Once harvest rolls around, the whole outfit will be working overtime.”

      “Mrs. Carson?” Kelly asked, extending a hand as she approached.

      The woman’s grip was firm as they shook hands. “Blythe,” she corrected. “You must be Kelly Wright. May I call you Kelly?”

      “Um, sure,” Kelly said. She’d read up on Blythe Carson before she left LA, a routine part of her preparations, but there was precious little information about her online, and the few pictures she’d seen fell far short of the reality. It was hard to believe this woman was the mother of three grown sons and the legal owner of a ranch valued at many millions of dollars.

      Blythe smiled. “Well, Kelly, are you feeling better? According to Mace, you’ve had a rough time since you arrived in Wyoming.”

      Kelly looked back over one shoulder, meeting Mace’s eyes, then turned to face his mother again. “I had a close call,” she said, “but I was lucky. Your son came along just in time.”

      Mace said nothing. There it was again, that reticence. Did the man even have an ego?

      “None the worse for wear, then?” Blythe asked. Her voice was like music, though it had a husky quality, too. Considering her beauty, her charm, her kindness—considering everything about her—it seemed incredible that she hadn’t remarried after her first husband’s death.

      Blythe must have loved Mace’s father very much.

      “None the worse for wear,” Kelly confirmed.

      Blythe looked past Kelly to Mace. “I’m out of here,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

      “See you at home,” Mace said.

      “If you know what’s good for you,” Blythe went on, “you’ll invite Kelly to stay for supper. Harry’s counting on it. She’s been cooking most of the day.”

      “I guess that depends on Kelly’s plans for the evening,” Mace told her, his tone so noncommittal that Kelly didn’t know whether he wanted her to accept or refuse.

      Her plans, such as they were, included room service, a bubble bath and reading in bed.

      Compared to a family dinner, the prospect seemed not merely dull, but lonely, too.

      Blythe didn’t press for a decision. She simply told Kelly she’d enjoyed meeting her, gathered her belongings and left the winery. Outside, the MG purred to life.

      Kelly