The Rancher's Mistletoe Bride

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The top drawer of her mother’s dresser was slightly ajar. She pulled it open. A file had been placed on top of old scarves. She lifted it out, but a knocking sound from the front door made her jump. Quickly, she wiped her eyes, and with the file in hand, she hurried back to the living room and let Clint inside. Snowflakes flurried around him. He tapped his hat on his leg before entering.

“You look cold.” Her spirits lifted now that he’d arrived. “And, wait, are you smiling?”

His teeth flashed in a grin as he set his tool belt on the floor to take off his coat and boots. “I love this weather. It’s not blowing too hard, and the cows are munching away as the snow piles up on them. I hope you don’t mind, I dallied a few minutes to take some pictures.”

“You? Dallied?” She padded down the hall with him at her heels. “I’m shocked. And here I pegged you as all business all the time.”

She stopped to face him, and he bumped into her. His hands shot to her biceps, his touch warming her down to the tips of her icicle toes.

“I pegged you as the same.” His dark blue eyes flashed with intensity.

She felt aware of him in a way she hadn’t previously. She wanted to lean into his muscular frame, let him take away the sorrow of losing her father. Instead, she stepped back, forcing a laugh. “You pegged me right, then. Let’s see those photos.”

His face blanked. “You want to see my pictures?”

“Well, yeah.” She shook her head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Color flooded his cheeks, but he swiped his phone and held it out. Two cows stared at her, both munching on hay, an inch of snow on their backs. The sky was white behind them.

“This picture is really good, Clint.” She pulled the phone closer to get a better look. “They seem content.”

“That’s what I thought.” The moment stretched, and he cleared his throat. “Where is the bathroom? I suspect the dripping is coming from that sink.”

She showed him to the room, and she stood in the doorway as he turned on the faucet and opened the cabinet to check the pipes. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Clint...”

He glanced up at her. “Well, you can show me where the water main is.”

“Oh, that might be a problem. I don’t know where it is.”

“I’ll find it.” His eyes danced with amusement.

He was easy to be with. Not much of a talker, but she liked him just the same. Her thoughts bounced to two days from now, Thanksgiving, and how they were both alone with nowhere to go.

Didn’t it made sense to ask him to join her? Yes, it was taking a risk. Spending time together meant further developing a friendship. If something happened to end the friendship, he might quit. She had to keep the ranch’s welfare number one in her priorities. But the loneliness of this upcoming holiday enveloped her.

They were both adults. Surely they could have a meal with each other without their working relationship blowing up.

Clint straightened and moved toward the door.

“Wait, I have a question for you.” She touched his arm, all firm muscle, then snatched her hand back. “Why don’t you have Thanksgiving dinner with me?”

“I have plans.”

She cocked her head to the side. “You told me you were feeding the cattle.”

“Yes. Those are my plans.”

“You can’t feed cattle all day.”

He didn’t look at her.

“Come on.” She sighed. “Neither of us has family, and I don’t want to go to a well-meaning friend’s house, if you know what I mean.”

He met her eyes, understanding connecting them before he moved past her into the hall. “I thought you don’t cook.”

“I don’t. I can buy a premade dinner from the supermarket.”

“Where’s the utility room?”

She tried not to let her disappointment show as she gestured for him to follow her past the living room and kitchen to the door next to the garage. Clint gravitated toward the pipes against the wall. His lack of interest in her offer was apparent. And that was fine. She’d been thinking of him as a friend when she should be thinking of him as the ranch manager.

She’d spend Thanksgiving alone. Maybe she’d drive somewhere, eat Chinese food or something. She didn’t have to spend it here.

“If I eat Thanksgiving dinner with you,” he said over his shoulder, “we’re not having supermarket food. We’re going to cook it. I’ll show you the basics.”

“Really?” Had the sun suddenly appeared? Were rainbows arching over the house? “Thank you! But cooking isn’t my strong suit. The basics might be beyond me.”

He cranked a lever on a copper pipe. “Something tells me you’ll pick it up quickly. Now, stay in here while I turn on the faucet. If I yell to turn it off, pull this lever up, okay?”

She nodded, admiring his broad back as he left the room. Only then did she realize she was still holding the file she’d found in her mother’s drawer. Absentmindedly, she opened it, scanning the sheet.

Her mouth dropped open. Heart stopped beating. Vision blurred.

Clint ran back into the utility room, yanking the lever up. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

She lifted her face, the file and its contents dropping to the floor, each sheet gliding in a different direction.

“He lied to me, Clint. He lied. He knew.” Everything she’d thought to be true since the funeral suddenly came into question. And the betrayal almost buckled her knees.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and peered into her eyes. “Who? What are you talking about?”

“Daddy knew he had cancer, and he didn’t tell me.”

Chapter Four (#u7b19ba79-5920-5df5-8621-c7a919679b73)

Clint had no idea what to do, so he bent and picked up the papers that had scattered across the floor. He scanned the top sheet. Pathology report. Dated October 1 of this year. A handwritten note about getting a second opinion was scrawled in the margin.

“He must not have known for long. A month, tops.” Clint handed her the papers, but she kept her arms by her sides, her hands balled into fists.

“He kept this from me.” Her words were tight, cold, hard. “He robbed me of helping him.”

“I’m sorry—”

“The faucet will have to wait. I need to be alone.”

Clint nodded, set the documents on a shelf and left. His thoughts were jumbled as he strode under the dark sky back to his cabin. Lexi had so many dimensions. He’d seen her exhausted, mourning, professional, playful and now this. Whatever this was. Upset didn’t quite explain it.

Betrayed, most likely. It was the lying part she’d focused on.

And the lying part was something he knew a little too well.

A pit formed in his stomach. He’d been keeping something from her, too. But what could he do about it now? She was already reeling from her father’s death. Finding out RJ had known about the cancer had put her over the edge. If Clint came clean and told her about how he lost his property, it would add to her burdens. She’d fire him and be left without a manager. She’d work night and day to save this ranch as well as her company, and she’d be as hollowed out as she’d been when she hired him.

It wouldn’t be right to add to her problems to selfishly clear his conscience.

He ducked his chin against the snow pellets. Why was she so upset about her dad not telling her, anyhow? A month seemed pretty quick to go from diagnosis to death. Maybe RJ had planned on filling her in at Thanksgiving. Or maybe he thought he was invincible. From all accounts, he sounded like the kind of guy Clint had been surrounded by his entire adult life—a tough Wyoming rancher who never admitted defeat, not even to cancer.

Regardless, Clint and Lexi weren’t close. They’d only known each other a short time. Not telling her about his past wasn’t a betrayal. He was doing what she’d hired him to do—managing the ranch.

Speaking of which... He hadn’t secured additional feed for the winter. If he didn’t find any in the next week or so, they would have to sell the calves at the scheduled date or risk losing valuable cattle in the frigid months ahead.

Was he making the best decisions for the ranch? Maybe he’d been lying to himself and his past was affecting his work performance.

His porch light glowed, and he muttered under his breath at the sight of Banjo curled up on the welcome mat the same way he’d been every night since Clint had found him there last Thursday. Each night he’d tried to take the dog back to the barn, but Banjo wouldn’t budge from the porch.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Clint bent to stroke Banjo’s black-and-white fur, and the dog got to his feet, wagging his tail and adoring Clint with his big brown eyes. “This isn’t your home. You can’t stay here.”

Banjo cocked his head.

“Fine. I can’t have you freezing. You can sleep on the floor. Just this once.” He unlocked the door. He’d said those same words every night, and just this once had turned into Banjo, you own me. “Okay, I’ll admit I’m a pushover. But you are sleeping on the floor.”

The idea of Banjo sleeping on the end of his bed appealed to him, but he couldn’t allow it. He didn’t want the dog living with him. Banjo was old, arthritic, and Clint doubted he would make it through the next year. Growing attached to the dog would not be smart. He’d lose him, too.