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Stepmother?
Slater was still rather dazed, as though he’d stepped off a wild carnival ride before it was finished with its whole slew of loop-de-loops.
“His father and I are divorced.” She said it curtly, evidently reading Slater’s expression.
Well, Slater reflected, that was cause for encouragement. She did look young to be the kid’s mother. And now that he thought about it, the boy didn’t resemble her in the slightest, with his dark hair and eyes.
Finally catching up, he raised his brows, feeling a flicker of something he couldn’t quite identify, along with a flash of sympathy for the boy. He guessed the redhead was in her early thirties. While she seemed to be in charge of the situation, Slater suspected she might be in over her head. Clearly, the kid was a handful.
It was time, Slater decided, still distanced from himself, to speak up.
“I appreciate your bringing it back,” he managed, holding the boy’s gaze but well aware of the woman on the periphery of his vision. “These aren’t cheap.”
Some of the f-you drained out of the kid’s expression. “Like I said, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“You made a mistake,” Slater agreed quietly. “We’ve all done things we shouldn’t have, at some point in our lives. But you did what you could to make it right.” He paused. “Life’s all about the choices we make, son. Next time, try to do better.” He felt a grin lurking at one corner of his mouth. “I would’ve been really ticked off if I had to replace this.”
The boy looked confused. “Why? You’re rich.”
Slater had encountered that reasoning before—over the entire course of his life, actually. His family was wealthy, and had been for well over a century. They ran cattle, owned vast stretches of Wyoming grassland and now, thanks to his mother’s roots in the Napa Valley, there was the winery, with acres of vineyards to support the enterprise.
“Beside the point,” Slater said. He worked for a living, and he worked hard, but he felt no particular need to explain that to this kid or anybody else. “What’s your name?”
“Ryder,” the boy answered, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Where do you go to school, Ryder?”
“The same lame place everyone around here goes in the eighth grade. Mustang Creek Middle School.”
Slater lifted one hand. “I can do without the attitude,” he said.
Ryder recovered quickly. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Slater had never been married, but he understood children; he had a daughter, and he’d grown up with two kid brothers, born a year apart and still a riot looking for a place to happen, even in their thirties. He’d broken up more fights than a bouncer at Bad Billie’s Biker Bar and Burger Palace on a Saturday night.
“I went to the same school,” he said, mostly to keep the conversation going. He was in no hurry for the redhead to call it a night, especially since he didn’t know her name yet. “Not a bad deal. Does Mr. Perkins still teach shop?”
Ryder laughed. “Oh, yeah. We call him The Relic.”
Slater let the remark pass; it was flippant, but not mean-spirited. “You couldn’t meet a nicer guy, though. Right?”
The kid’s expression was suitably sheepish. “True,” he admitted.
The stepmother regarded Slater with some measure of approval, although she still seemed riled.
Slater looked back for the pure pleasure of it. She’d be a whole new experience, this one, and he’d never been afraid of a challenge.
She’d said she was divorced, which raised the question: What damn fool had let her get away?
As if she’d guessed what he was thinking—anybody with her looks had to be used to male attention—the redhead narrowed her eyes. Still, Slater thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in them. She’d calmed down considerably, but she wasn’t missing a trick.
He grinned slightly. “Cuffs?” he inquired mildly, remembering Ryder’s statement a few minutes earlier.
She didn’t smile, but that spark was still in her eyes. “That was a reference to my former career,” she replied, all business. “I’m an ex-cop.” She put out her hand, the motion almost abrupt, and finally introduced herself. “Grace Emery,” she said. “These days I run the Bliss River Resort and Spa.”
“Ah,” Slater said, apropos of nothing in particular. An ex-cop? Hot damn, she could handcuff him anytime. “You must be fairly new around here.” If she hadn’t been, he would’ve made her acquaintance before now, or at least heard about her.
Grace nodded. Full of piss-and-vinegar moments before, she looked tired now, and that did something to Slater, although he couldn’t have said exactly what that something was. “It’s a beautiful place,” she said. “Quite a change from Seattle.” She stopped, looking uncomfortable, maybe thinking she’d said too much.
Slater wanted to ask about the ex-husband, but the time obviously wasn’t right. He waited, sensing that she might say more, despite the misgivings she’d just revealed by clamming up.
Sure enough, she went on. “I’m afraid it’s been quite a change for Ryder, too.” Another pause. “His dad’s military, and he’s overseas. It’s been hard on him—Ryder, I mean.”
Slater sympathized. The kid’s father was out of the country, he’d moved from a big city in one state to a small town in another, and on top of that, he was fourteen, which was rough in and of itself. When Slater was that age, he’d grown eight inches in a single summer and simultaneously developed a consuming interest in girls, without having a clue what to say to them. Oh, yeah. He remembered awkward.
He realized Grace’s hand was still in his. He let go, albeit reluctantly.
Then, suddenly, he felt as tongue-tied as he ever had at fourteen. “My family’s been on this ranch for generations,” he heard himself say. “So I can’t say I know what it would be like having to start over someplace new.” Shut up, man. He couldn’t seem to follow his own advice. “I travel a lot, and I’m always glad to get back to Mustang Creek.”
Grace turned to Ryder, sighed, then looked back at Slater. “We’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Carson.”
Mr. Carson?
“I’ll walk you out,” he said, still flustered and still trying to shake it off. Ordinarily, he was the proverbial man of few words, but tonight, in the presence of this woman, he was a babbling idiot. “This place is like a maze. I took over my father’s office because of the view, but it’s clear at the back of the house and—”
Had the woman asked for any of this information?
No.
What the hell was the matter with him, anyway?
Grace didn’t comment. The boy was already on the move, and she simply followed, which shot holes in Slater’s theory about their ability to find their way to an exit without his guidance. He gave an internal shrug and trailed behind Grace, enjoying the gentle sway of her hips.
For some reason he wasn’t a damn bit tired anymore.
* * *
HAVING BEEN A police officer, Grace had plenty of experience dealing with men. In law enforcement, still a male-dominated field even though women were finally making inroads, overexposure to testosterone was inevitable. She’d come to terms with the effect her appearance had on the male gender, not out of vanity, but because she was practical to the bone.
She wouldn’t have described herself as beautiful; she got an instant update on her imperfections every time she consulted a mirror. She knew her mouth was a shade too wide. Her nose tilted up just a little, giving her an air of perkiness that was wholly unfounded, and she couldn’t have gotten a tan in the middle of a desert. Her eyes were an almost startling shade of blue—she’d been accused of wearing colored contacts—and she didn’t even want to discuss the hair. Just call her Carrot-Top.
It was ridiculously curly unless she wore it long, and the stuff could go clown-crazy if the humidity was high. Thankfully, Wyoming was drier than Seattle, so she didn’t have to fight it quite as much now. The color was impossible to change, although she’d tried highlights and different treatments, but nature won out every time, so now she let it go its own way.
Slater Carson hadn’t been turned off.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Grace wasn’t sure how she felt about her own reaction. Yes, she was jaded about men, but something was different this time. She was—okay, she could admit it—sort of flattered.
Recalling the slow, gliding assessment of those sexy blue eyes as they moved over her, she got a definite buzz. And Slater Carson wasn’t hard to look at, either, with all that dark, wavy hair, a day’s beard growing in and a lean, wiry build that said cowboy. He moved like one, too, with long, slow strides, and when he smiled at her as he held the back door open to a starry Wyoming night, there was an easy curve to his mouth, the hint of a grin, not in the least boyish, but confident, amused, knowing.
The message had been clear: he wouldn’t mind if they met again.
Well, Grace thought, Mustang Creek was a small town, where everybody seemed to know everybody else, so they were bound to run into each other at some point.
If he expected more than a polite nod and a “howdy,” though, he’d be disappointed.
Grace distrusted men like Slater—too good-looking, too privileged, too used to getting whatever and whoever they wanted. Yep, the illustrious Mr. Carson reminded her a little too much of her ex-husband, exuding confidence the way he did, certain of his success, of his place in the world.
No, thanks. Grace had been down that road before, and after all the excitement and the heady passion and the dazzle, she’d run smack into a dead end. In some ways, she was still reeling from the impact.
Feeling resolute, she got into her vehicle, which she’d parked in the well-lit driveway alongside the Carson mansion, and slammed her door, waiting for Ryder to stop dawdling and plunk himself down in the passenger seat.
This wasn’t how she’d planned to spend her evening. Her vision had included downloading a movie, munching popcorn, generally vegging out on the couch with her bare feet propped up, wearing shorty pajamas and face cream.
Grace had had a long day at the resort; she’d dealt with a faulty air-conditioning unit and repairmen who couldn’t seem to agree on what was wrong, a chronically late employee who was wonderful when he actually got there, by which time the rest of the staff was thoroughly and justifiably annoyed, plus guest complaints about the lap pool that ranged from too hot to too cool. Among other things.
Coming home to find Ryder about to nail a newly acquired and obviously expensive metal sign to one wall of his bedroom had immediately thrown her evening plans for a loop. Immediately suspicious, Grace had questioned the boy.
Never a good liar, he’d confessed.
Grace had figuratively grabbed the kid by one ear and dragged him to the Carson house.
Now he hauled open the door on his side and got in.
“I’m sorry,” Ryder said. He didn’t really sound sorry, and he didn’t look at her, but sat staring out the windshield instead. His tone was stubborn, and the set of his mouth underscored his attitude.
Grace sighed inwardly.
Ryder was a good kid, and Slater Carson had been right earlier, when he’d said everybody made bad decisions now and then. “You know better.”
“It just—”
She raised a hand to indicate she wanted him to stop. Now. “There’s no excuse I care to hear. You stole something and we returned it.”
Grace started the car, flipped on the headlights and turned around to head back down the driveway.
Ryder was quiet for a few minutes. They reached the county highway, which was practically deserted at that time of night, and, since both the ranch and the resort were well outside town, they didn’t pass many cars.
Eventually, Ryder said, “He liked you.”
Fourteen and he’d picked up on that, Grace reflected with rueful amusement, but he still couldn’t pick up his underwear.
He liked you.
There was liking a woman, and there was wanting to go to bed with her. Grace was not inclined to explain the difference to a fourteen-year-old.
So she said briskly, “He doesn’t know me.”
“He thought you were pretty.”
There were times when she wished Ryder would talk to her more, and times, like now, when she wished he wouldn’t. “I think it’s just possible that he’s prettier than I am.”
That made Ryder crack up. “At least he tried to be subtle. He didn’t, like, stare at your—”
He stopped abruptly, and Grace figured he’d be blushing right about now over what he’d almost said, so she cut the kid a break and kept her gaze on the road. “Mr. Carson was very polite,” she conceded. “How’s the science project coming along?”
Ryder jumped on the sudden change of subject, even if school wasn’t one of his favorites. “Okay, actually. Turns out my partner isn’t as geeky as he looks.” He was quiet for a moment, then he went on. “I was wondering if he might come over to our place and hang out sometime. That okay?”
Grace felt a rush of relief. She’d been waiting for Ryder to stop rebelling against the move to Mustang Creek and make some friends, hoping and praying he would.
She was in over her head with this parenting thing.
And she didn’t seem to be getting any better at it.
A few months back Grace’s former father-in-law had called her one day, out of the blue. Haltingly, he’d explained that with his wife so ill, they couldn’t handle their grandson on their own. They hated to ask, but since Hank was overseas and all, they didn’t have anyone else to turn to.
Hank, Grace’s ex and Ryder’s father, made a career of being unavailable, in her opinion, but of course she didn’t say that.
She’d had no idea what to say, under the circumstances. Ryder’s mother was remarried, with a whole new family, and for reasons Grace still didn’t understand, the woman had never shown much interest in her firstborn, anyway. When she and Hank were divorced, she’d handed Ryder over without a quibble, not even asking for visitation rights.
The woman couldn’t be bothered to send her son a birthday card, never mind calling to see how he was doing or firing off the occasional text to keep in touch.
The whole scenario made Grace furious on Ryder’s behalf, and it didn’t help that Hank was so emotionally distant, absolutely caught up in his military career.
In that respect, she and Ryder had been set adrift in the same boat, but Grace had had options, at least. She could divorce Hank—which she had—and move on. His son didn’t have that choice.
So she’d said yes, Ryder could stay with her until Hank’s current deployment ended, and here they were in Mustang Creek, Wyoming, stuck with each other, both of them struggling to adjust to major changes.
Grace brought herself back to the present. “I think it would be great if your friend came over sometime. I could order you guys a pizza, how’s that?”
Ryder nodded. “As long as it isn’t like the ones they have at the spa, with goat cheese and whatever those green things are. I tried to like the stuff, Grace, but no way.”
“Artichoke hearts,” she supplied helpfully. “How about plain old pepperoni?”
Ryder grinned. “That would be great,” he said.
“Okay, you’re on. I just need your word that you’ll stay out of trouble for five minutes.” She feigned a narrow glare. “I didn’t like facing Mr. Carson with what you’d done any more than you did, buddy.”
Ryder’s grin broadened. “Maybe not,” he agreed, “but I think he sorta enjoyed it.”
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_235146f2-5328-5a0c-86dc-18c51fa65536)
BEYOND THE TALL windows of the breakfast room off the ranch-house kitchen, the Tetons soared against a morning sky of heartbreaking blue. Slater sat in his usual place at the table, coffee mug in hand, silently marveling. He’d looked out on that same vista almost every morning of his life and never once taken it for granted.
He was a lucky man, and he knew it.
The sound of boot heels on the wide plank floor alerted him to company.
