The Wrangler's Bride. Justine Davis

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