Three
Several hours later, eyes grainy from reading ranch paperwork, Amber wandered out of the office. The office door opened into a short hallway that connected to the front foyer and then to the rest of the ranch house. It had grown dark while she worked, and soft lamplight greeted her in the empty living room. The August night was cool, with pale curtains billowing in the side windows, while screen doors separated the room from the veranda beyond.
Muted noise came from the direction of the kitchen, and she caught a movement on the veranda. Moving closer, she realized it was a plump puff ball of a black-and-white puppy. Amber smiled in reaction as another pup appeared, and then a third and a fourth.
They hadn’t seen her yet, and the screen door kept them locked outside. Just as well. They were cute, but Amber was a little intimidated by animals. She’d never had a pet before. Her mother didn’t like the noise, the mess or the smell.
Truth was, she dropped out of dressage riding lessons because one of the horses had bit her on the shoulder. She hadn’t told the grooms, or her parents, or anybody else about the incident. She was embarrassed, convinced that she’d done something to annoy the horse but not sure of what it might have been. When a creature couldn’t talk or communicate, how did you know what they wanted or needed?
The pups disappeared from view, and she moved closer to the door, peeking at an angle to see them milling in a small herd around Royce’s feet while he sat in a deep, wooden Adirondack chair, reading some kind of report under the half-dozen outdoor lamps that shone around the veranda.
Then the pups spotted her and made a roly-poly beeline for the door, sixteen paws thumping awkwardly on the wooden slats of the deck. She took an automatic step back as they piled up against the screen.
Royce glanced up from the papers. “Hey, Amber.” Then his attention went to the puppies. He gave a low whistle, and they scampered back to him.
“It’s safe to come out now,” he said with a warm smile.
“I’m not…” She eased the door open. “I’m not scared to come out.”
Royce laughed. “Didn’t think you were. Shut the screen behind you, though, or these guys will be in the kitchen in a heartbeat.”
She closed the screen door behind her. “Your puppies?”
He reached down to scratch between the ears of the full-grown border collie sprawled between the chair and the railing. “They belong to Molly. Care to take one home when you leave?”
“My mother won’t have pets in the house.” The puppies rushed back to Amber again.
Royce gestured for her to take the chair across from his. “Is she allergic?”
“Not exactly.” Warm, fuzzy bodies pressed against her leg; cool, wet noses investigated her bare feet and she felt a mushy tongue across the top of her toes. She struggled not to cringe at the slimy sensation. “She doesn’t want any accidents on the Persian rug.”
“The price you pay,” said Royce.
Amber settled into the chair. One of the pups put its paws on her knee, lifting up to sniff along her jeans.
“Most people pet them.” Royce’s tone was wry.
“I’m a little…” She gingerly scratched the puppy between its floppy, little ears. Its fur was soft, skin warm, and its dark eyes were adorable.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Not everybody likes animals.”
“I don’t dislike them.”
“I can tell.”
“They make me a little nervous, okay?”
“They’re puppies, not mountain lions.”
“They-” Another warm tongue swiped across her bare toes, and she jerked her feet under the chair. “Tickle,” she finished.
“Princess,” he mocked her.
“I was once bitten by a horse,” she defended. Her interactions with animals hadn’t been particularly positive so far.
“I was once gored by a bull,” he countered with a challenging look.
“Is this going to be a contest?”
“Kicked in the head.” He leaned forward and parted his short, dark hair.
She couldn’t see a scar, but she trusted it was there.
“By a bronc,” he finished. “In a local rodeo at fourteen.”
Amber lifted her elbow to show a small scar. “Fell off a top bunk. At camp. I was
“Did you break it?”
“Sprained.”
“What kind of camp?”
“Violin.”
His grin went wide. “Oh, my. Such a dangerous life. Did you ever break a nail? Get a bad wax job?”
“Hey, buddy.” She jabbed her finger in the direction of his chest. “
Devilment glowed in his deep blue eyes. “You can wax anything I’ve got,” he drawled. “Any ol’ time you want.”
Her stomach contracted, and a wave of unexpected heat prickled her skin. How had the conversation taken that particular turn? She sat up straight and folded her hands primly in her lap. “That’s not what I meant.”
He paused, gaze going soft. “That’s too bad.”
The puppies had grown bored with her feet, and one by one, they’d wandered back to Royce. They were now curled in a sleeping heap around his chair. The dog, Molly, yawned while insects made dancing shadows in the veranda lights.
“You hungry?” asked Royce.
Amber nodded. She was starving, and she was more than happy to let their discussion die.
He flipped the report closed, and she was reminded of their earlier office work.
“Did you talk to Cheng Li?”
“I did,” said Royce. “He promised to fax the paperwork to the Ryder financial office.”
“In Chicago.”
“Yes.” He rose cautiously to his feet, stepping around the sleeping puppies. “Disaster averted. Sasha’ll have soup on the stove.”
“Soup sounds great.” It was nearly nine, and Amber hadn’t eaten anything since their light snack on the plane around 5:00 a.m. Any kind of food sounded terrific to her right now.
They left the border collies asleep on the deck and filed through the living room, down a hallway to the kitchen on the south side of the house.
“Have you talked to your parents?” asked Royce as he set a pair of blue-glazed, stoneware bowls out on the breakfast bar.
The counters were granite, the cabinets dark cherry. There were stainless steel appliances with cheery, yellow walls and ceiling reflecting off the polished beams and natural wood floor. A trio of spotlights was suspended above the bar, complementing the glow of the pot lights around the perimeter of the ceiling.
“I texted them both before I got on the plane.”
“Nothing since then?” He set a basket of grainy buns on the breakfast bar, and she slipped onto one of the high, padded, hunter-green leather chairs.
She shook her head. “I don’t know how this GPS and triangulating-the-cell-towers thing works.”
Royce’s brows went up, and he paused in his work.
“Crime dramas,” she explained. “I don’t know how much of all that is fiction. My dad, and Hargrove for sure, will pull out all the stops.”
