Линда Миллер – Forever A Hero (страница 13)

Mace’s face changed again; the grin returned. “The winery is that way,” he said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the pastures she’d admired on the drive in. “It’s about five miles from here, and there are ruts in the cattle trail we call a road that are deep enough to swallow your rental car.” He shrugged casually. “If you’d rather hike or ride a horse, we can do that.”

Kelly let him know she hadn’t been on horseback since summer camp, when she was twelve, and though she worked out regularly at home, she wasn’t up for a five-mile walk. “You win,” she said. “Let’s take the truck.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d choose the horse,” he teased, opening the truck’s passenger door for her.

“It’s tempting,” Kelly said, and it was. “I’m a greenhorn, and I haven’t ridden in a long time, but I’d like to try again—eventually.”

“That can definitely be arranged,” Mace said, helping her into the truck.

Her seat belt fastened, Kelly looked down at her sneakers, then at Mace’s boots. She’d be needing a pair of those, she decided. Not the fancy showboat kind she could have found so easily in LA or the pricey boutiques at the resort, but the real deal.

They wouldn’t be hard to find in a place like Mustang Creek, where cowboy boots were practically part of the landscape.

“You seem to be feeling good,” Mace ventured, starting the truck and steering toward an open gate on the other side of the stable. An ancient, weathered man waited at one side, ready to close the gap after they drove through.

“Just like new,” Kelly confirmed. The truck jostled and jolted through the gate.

“That’s Red, by the way,” Mace said, raising a hand to the old man as they passed. “He’s been working for the Carson outfit for so long, he doesn’t recall when he signed on.”

Kelly watched in the rearview as Red closed and latched the gate behind them. “That’s loyalty,” she said. “But shouldn’t he have retired, say, thirty years ago?”

Mace chuckled. “Don’t let Red hear you say that,” he answered. “That old coot is still spry, and he knows more about cattle and the cowboy trade in general than any man alive.”

“He plans to die with his boots on?” Kelly asked. She might not be a cowgirl, but she’d seen her share of Western movies.

“That he does,” Mace replied, tossing her another of those devastating grins of his. “I’m impressed, Ms. Wright. I wouldn’t expect a city slicker to know the vernacular.”

Kelly smiled. “My dad and I are big John Wayne fans,” she said. “Mind if I roll down the window?” She wanted to feel the wind ruffling her hair.

“The Duke,” Mace said with reverence. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore.” He glanced at her, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. “And, no, I don’t mind if you open the window.”

The truck bumped overland, reminding Kelly of a mechanical bull she’d ridden once, somewhere in Texas. She’d gone to a cowboy bar with half a dozen business associates after an intense meeting, and she’d probably had a little too much to drink.

“You did say there was a road here somewhere?” she asked. The breeze coming in through the window smelled of sweet grass, wildflowers and, alas, manure.

“I said it was more of a cattle trail,” Mace corrected. “We haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“And this is the only way to reach the vineyards and the winery?”

He laughed. “I didn’t say that,” he replied.

Kelly gave him a mock glare. “There’s an actual road?” she demanded. “Besides the route we’re taking now?”

“Sure is,” Mace replied, clearly enjoying the exchange. “We have a retail shop and a tasting room, and we run tours a couple of times a week.”

“Not to mention trucks coming and going,” Kelly said wryly, as the one they were riding in bucked along over rough ground.

“This is a shortcut,” Mace told her.

Kelly rolled her eyes, trying hard not to laugh. “Or,” she said, “it’s a kind of initiation. Something along the lines of snipe hunting.”

“Never,” Mace lied. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“You just like doing things the hard way?”

“I do appreciate a challenge,” he admitted.

Suddenly catching on to the subtext, Kelly didn’t respond. She just held on tight and relished the soft breeze, thinking of pioneer women, traveling overland in covered wagons for months on end, fording creeks and rivers, rattling up and down mountainsides.

Eventually they bumped onto the aforementioned cattle trail, but it wasn’t much better than the rocky terrain they’d already covered.

Mace finally broke the silence. “You all right over there?” he asked, his voice subdued.

Kelly was moved by his concern, knowing he’d remembered her overnight stay in the hospital. “I’m just fine,” she told him with a smile. “Really.”

He seemed uncertain. “You were 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.”