The Rancher's Mistletoe Bride. Jill Kemerer

Chapter One

      He hadn’t ranched in four years, but the tug of cowboy life always beckoned.

      Clint Romine slowed his truck to study the magnificent property splayed before him. Well-maintained fences lined the perimeter and divided areas for rotating stock. Acres of grazing land, fields for hay production, barns, cabins, outbuildings, paddocks—all appeared neat and orderly and only a ten-minute drive from Sweet Dreams, Wyoming. Rock Step Ranch was everything a cattle ranch should be. And more. If Clint’s interview went well, he’d be in charge of this entire outfit.

      Unease slithered down his neck. Was he fit to manage it?

      His mistake haunted him. A slip in his judgment. The death of a dream. But owning a ranch wasn’t the same as being hired to manage one. Four years ago, he’d had everything to lose. And now? There was nothing left for him to lose. He’d already lost it all.

      Clint drove into a gravel lot near the barn and paddocks, cut the engine, and stepped out. Mountains stood proudly in the distance, and the wind held the bite of early November. Cowboys shouted from the cutting pen. Looked like they were weaning calves. He longed to slap on his chaps and join them.

      After watching for a few minutes, he checked the time and forced himself to stride toward the main house. A two-story log home with a covered porch, a pair of rocking chairs and a faded mat greeted him. Before he knocked, he paused to pray.

      Lord, I’ve made mistakes. I don’t deserve my own land. But if You’ll give me the opportunity to manage this operation, I’ll try not to let You or the ranch down.

      Clint stretched himself to his full height and rapped twice on the door. It opened almost immediately, and he stared into light brown eyes the color of the pronghorns he often saw bounding across the land.

      Alexandra Harrington had grown into a beautiful woman.

      He wasn’t in her league—had never been in her league. When he’d found out she was the one hiring, he’d been concerned about working for his former classmate. Attraction complicated the employer/employee relationship. When he’d worked on LFR Ranch, a cowboy had been fired for flirting with the owner’s daughter. But now that he’d seen Alexandra, his fears disappeared. A smart, successful, stunning woman like her was out of reach for a working guy like him. Not that he needed to worry about it. Rumor had it you had to spend time with a woman, get to know her, to have a shot at dating her. He had no intention of spending time with her, let alone dating her.

      “Thanks for coming, Clint.” She ushered him inside, and once he’d taken off his outerwear, he followed her down a hallway to a large living room with views of the river. The hardwood floors were in bad shape. Scratched. Faded. Three rocks were missing from the stone fireplace climbing the wall to the ceiling. From somewhere nearby, the drip, drip of a faucet fought to override the sound of a ripped screen flapping against a window. Even the air had the stale tang of neglect.

      Strange that the outbuildings, fences and property were in top-notch order, but this house had been allowed to fall apart.

      He turned his attention to the woman he recognized from high school. Still slim in dark jeans and an oversize white sweater. Long, dark brown waves spilled over her shoulders. Her pale face held high cheekbones, full eyebrows and thin pink lips. But Alexandra wore sad the way he wore regret—it permeated her, surrounded her—and he had the strongest urge to take it from her. Which was a laugh, since he had no idea how. He’d never been around many women and probably never would be.

      He did know what it was like to suddenly have no family, though. Her father had died three weeks ago. She had every right to be sad.

      She took a seat on an old tan couch, motioning for him to sit opposite her, and he obliged, his cowboy hat in his hands.

      “Dottie Lavert mentioned you might be interested in managing the ranch for me.” Her words were quiet but firm. “As you know, Daddy died unexpectedly, and I need someone here sooner rather than later.”

      He nodded, not knowing what to think of the way she was fingering the bottom edge of her sweater. Was she nervous? No. This was Alexandra Harrington. Vice president of their senior class, organizer of proms and dances and who knew what else.

      “I remember you from high school,” she said. “You worked on a ranch then, too, didn’t you?”

      “Yes.” He was surprised she remembered him at all. His one goal in high school had been to be as invisible as possible. As a teen, he’d poured all his energy into keeping his spot at Yearling Group Home for teen boys. The Laverts had been hired to run the group foster home. Back then, Big Bob Lavert kept the boys in line while his wife, Dottie, cooked their meals, made sure they did their homework and accompanied them to church. Too bad Yearling had shut down several years ago. It had helped a lot of kids like him who had nowhere else to go.

      “From your résumé, I see you’ve been working for the oil company.” She smiled, her expression open, expectant. “And before that you worked on LFR Ranch.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Call me Lexi.”

      Lexi? He couldn’t call her Lexi. Couldn’t even think of her as Lexi. Too familiar, too accessible. Alexandra had the right amount of remoteness for his liking.

      “I learned about calving, grazing, hay production, keeping the books and maintaining the property from my years at LFR.” He paused, unsure how much more to tell her. If he confessed how he’d left LFR and then been duped out of his own tiny piece of Wyoming, she’d boot him right out the door. And if he admitted he’d spent four years avoiding working on a ranch because it had hurt too much to be surrounded by what he’d lost, she’d think he was crazy. “I’ve been working for the oil company for four years now.”

      She picked up the top paper from a stack on the end table next to her. “Yes, I see you were promoted three times in as many years. Impressive.”

      Impressive? Him? If she only knew... He hoped she didn’t ask about the six months between LFR Ranch and the oil company. If asked outright, he wouldn’t lie to her. And he didn’t want to return to his mind-numbing job.

      “I need someone I can depend on to do all the things my father did. I own a wedding planning company in Denver. I’ve already told my employees I’ll be living in Wyoming at least until Christmas. To put it simply, my business takes all of my time. If running my company from here proves too difficult, I’ll have to move back to Colorado. In that case, I’d come to the ranch once a month or so. I need someone here who is self-motivated. Someone who can delegate work to the ranch hands. Someone I can trust.”

      Could she trust him? Did he trust himself?

      She continued. “The next question might seem forward, but I have to know. Do you drink?”

      “No.”

      She narrowed her eyes, her lips pursing, clearly unconvinced.

      “I’ve seen what it does to people and have no desire to try it.” He held her gaze. “I like to be in complete control of my faculties. At all times. I’ll take a drug test if you’d like.”

      “I’ll take your word for it.” She massaged the back of her neck. She looked tired. More than tired. Exhausted. “You’re not the first person to be considered for this position. I hired a man last week who had a problem with the hard stuff. What a disaster he turned out to be. Daddy’s right-hand man, Jerry Cornell—you’ll meet him in a little while—found him at noon on Saturday still lit out of his mind, sitting in the river in his drawers when he should have been working. When I called him into the office, he had the nerve to tell me not to worry my ‘purdy’ little head about it. Needless to say, I had to let him go.” She got to her feet and started pacing. “He’s fortunate he didn’t get hypothermia.”

      Clint strangled the hat between his hands. He’d worked with plenty of cowboys who drank too much. The fact one of them would disrespect her made him want to rope the jerk up.