LITMIR.BIZ

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even without the wine operation, yet comfortable in jeans, boots and shirts that probably came from a modest Western store.

      The man had nothing to prove to anyone, and he knew it.

      While Kelly, her undeniable success notwithstanding, had to shift mental gears in every new place or unfamiliar situation, Mace seemed comfortable in his own skin, as that other old saying went. He was flexible, certainly—his innovative wines proved that—but deep down, he was as solid as the mountains of Wyoming.

      He loved this land, this ranch; he’d said the place was in his blood, and being there, Kelly knew it hadn’t been an idle statement. Intuitively, she understood that Mace was one of those rare people who carried the essence of their home within themselves. They belonged, no matter where they happened to be.

      It was an enviable quality.

      “Ready for a look around?” Mace asked, bringing Kelly back from her meandering thoughts.

      “Absolutely,” she said, landing in the present moment with a thump. “Where do we start?”

      Mace grinned, shoved a hand through his hair. “With the winery, I guess,” he replied after a glance in the direction of the grand house. “Harry will kill me in my sleep if I don’t introduce you to her, but that can wait.”

      “Harry is a ‘her’?”

      He nodded. “She’s the family housekeeper, and the best cook this side of the Mississippi, though if you quote me to Stefano on that, I’ll have to deny everything.”

      Kelly laughed. “If I happen to run into Stefano the Great, I’ll lie like crazy,” she promised.

      “Oh, you’ll run into him, all right,” Mace said, feigning concern. “He’s likely to track you down and ask why you didn’t finish that lobster salad at lunch today.”

      Amused, Kelly rested her hands on her hips. “If I remember correctly, you left plenty of food on your plate, mister. Won’t Stefano be after you for an explanation, as well?”

      Mace sighed. “Yeah,” he said with humorous resignation. He was leading Kelly toward his truck as he spoke. “But I plan to put all the blame on you.”

      Kelly laughed again and slugged Mace lightly in the arm. “And people say you’re a hero?”

      Suddenly he stopped, and his expression turned serious. “I’m no hero, Kelly. Just a man.”

      She didn’t argue, although she could’ve made an airtight case that he was a hero. As for being “just a man,” well, Mace Carson wasn’t just anything, but she respected his humility.

      Knowing it would be all too easy to slip back into rescued-princess mode, Kelly decided it was time to change the subject. “Are we going far?” she asked, inclining her head toward the truck.

      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

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