AN UNLIKELY FAMILY

As a single mother overseeing the biggest merger in her company’s history, Francine Wentworth doesn’t have time for romantic entanglements, especially with a cowboy like Wyatt Sullivan. Tall and handsome with a rebellious reputation, Wyatt is the exact type of man Francine should avoid. But her heart melts completely when her four-year-old son instantly bonds with Wyatt and becomes his little shadow.

As the three spend time together in the Montana mountains, Wyatt shows Francine the beauty of a life beyond work. Yet as tempting as the idea of being with Wyatt is, what future could they have? Francine needs to focus on the merger and her life back in New York, but her heart and her son have other plans!

ALLISON B. COLLINS is an award-winning author and a fifth-generation Texan, so it’s natural for her to love all things Western. It’s a tough job to spend evenings writing about cowboys, rodeos and precocious children, but Allison is willing to do it to bring them all to life. She lives in Dallas with her hero husband of almost thirty years, who takes great care of her and their four rambunctious cats.

Also By Allison B. Collins

Cowboys to Grooms

A Family for the Rancher

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Falling for the Rebel Cowboy

Allison B. Collins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08476-5

FALLING FOR THE REBEL COWBOY

© 2018 Allison B. Collins

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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“I wish you were my daddy.”

Wyatt’s steps faltered, and the breath backed up in his lungs. He swore his heart squeezed tight. Me, too, bud. Me, too.

Then he wondered if Frankie had heard what Johnny said. How would she feel about that?

Frankie led the way to her suite, then opened the door. Wyatt followed her to Johnny’s room, and helped her get him settled for bed.

All tucked in bed, Johnny suddenly grabbed Wyatt’s hand. “Don’t leave.”

“You need to get some sleep, bud.”

“Just a little while? Please, Mommy? Can’t you both stay?”

Frankie looked at him, a question in her eyes.

“Sure.”

Frankie took off her shoes and laid down next to Johnny, gathered him in her arms. Wyatt pried his boots off, then lay behind her, and pulled them both close.

Is this what he wanted? A family? To be responsible for not just a wife, but a child...

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to the Sullivan Guest Ranch in Montana! This is the second book in my Cowboys to Grooms series with Harlequin Western Romance about brothers Nash, Kade, Wyatt, Luke and Hunter. Nash’s story was my first in the series—A Family for the Rancher.

This is Wyatt’s story—he’s my rebel cowboy. He left home at seventeen, an angry young man with a learning disability, roaring out of the ranch on a motorcycle. He’s back in Montana now after realizing this is where he needs to be, mending physical and familial fences with his dad and four brothers, and trying to put his past behind him.

Francine Wentworth is a top executive at her father’s company in New York. They are working on a big merger and want absolute secrecy, so they’ve come to the ranch for business meetings. Francine has brought her adorable four-year-old son, John Allen—I adore this kid! She’s torn between her job and having time with her son, but Wyatt shows her how to relax and have fun with both of them. And she even learns how to wrangle cows, too!

I hope you all enjoy returning to the Sullivans in Montana, and that you fall a little bit in love with Wyatt—as much as I did.

Happy reading!

Allison

Acknowledgments

The old saying “It takes a village” is absolutely true, even for writers who lead a solitary life, entrenched in the lives of their characters.

First and foremost, I couldn’t have written this book without my amazing friends and critique partners Suzanne Clark, Angela Hicks and Sasha Summers. Thank you for the countless hours of brainstorming, critiquing, texting, emailing, and for always being there. I love you, ladies!

Thank you to my wonderful editor, Johanna Raisanen, for believing in me and my cowboy heroes. It’s such a pleasure working with you!

I reached out to my Facebook friends to help name Wyatt’s horse. I loved the suggestion of “Deacon” given by Dan Hill. Thanks, Uncle Dan! Deacon is exactly what Wyatt would have named his horse.

As always, thank you to my husband for being my rock. You are the love of my life.

And to my readers, thank you for being a part of my journey as an author!

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Angela Ackerman and Rebecca Puglisi, for giving authors everywhere—especially me!—the game-changing resources to delve deep into our characters and make them memorable. You know I’m your #1 fan!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Wyatt Sullivan stared at the beauty on the grass, glistening in the Montana sun. He knew each part of her intimately—he’d had his hands on every inch of her more times than he could count. With some pampering and TLC, he would get her purring beneath him again. After all, they didn’t make tractors like this nowadays.

The sound of metal hitting metal clanged behind him, echoing like iron bars slamming shut at lights-out. The old fear roared back and his hands fisted, ready to defend. Chills sharp as barbed wire gripped his neck and galloped down his spine. He tilted his head up to the sky and blew out a calming breath, reminding himself he was safe, back home again.

He’d been a headstrong seventeen-year-old when he’d left, chucked it all, headed out on his own. But after ten years he was back, trying to find his place on the ranch with his dad and four brothers. It had taken him a long time to figure out that this ranch was home. Despite the struggles to fit back in, this was where he belonged.

Click click click echoed on the concrete path from the lodge. A woman crossed into his line of sight, her voice floating to him on a gust of wind. He’d always had a thing for blondes, and this one was real pretty. A pale pink jacket molded itself to her sleek body, and a matching skirt ended midthigh, revealing legs he could explore for days. Then her sharp words became clear.

“I was a fool to have married you. I should have listened to my father from the beginning. But we’re divorced, and I’m stronger and smarter now. I won’t let you treat our son like he doesn’t matter.”

The path curved, but she must have been distracted with her phone call, because she stepped off the concrete, still giving her ex a tongue-lashing. She was heading for the dirt of the soon-to-be vegetable garden. The one currently filled with mud from the heavy rain last night.

He followed, trailing after not only her voice, but some type of spicy perfume. He kind of liked it, and he imagined what it would smell like up close on her skin. Like behind her ear, or at the curve of her breast.

He had to grin as she tried to walk across the grass, her fancy pink heels sinking down with every step. Definitely more suited to a runway than a cattle ranch. She stumbled and lurched like a newborn foal trying to gain its legs.

“Ma’am, you might want—”

She flung a hand up at him and continued berating her ex on the phone.

“Watch out!” he called.

She turned around, glanced up at him and stepped back, mid-tirade. The icepick heel on her fancy pink shoe snapped. Teetering back, her arms wind-milled faster and faster and faster.

He sprinted toward her, even though a little mud might take this princess down a notch.

Or ten.

He grabbed for her hand but missed, snatching nothing more than air.

Gravity kept sucking her down, down, down, and she kept going, slow motion, as she lost the battle.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” she screamed.

She landed on her back, spread-eagle, in the ooey-gooey mud.

Her cell phone plopped in front of him. He picked it up and heard a man’s voice still yelling. “She’ll get back to you later,” he said, then ended the call.

She glared, her pretty blue eyes narrowed at him. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the ground beneath her started bubbling and boiling like a big pot of stew.

He smothered a laugh, saying, “Hope you enjoy your mud bath, compliments of Sullivan Guest Ranch. Ma’am.”

* * *

COLD SLUDGE OOZED and squished beneath Francine Wentworth every time she moved. Can this day get any worse?

A snort broke the silence, and she frowned up at the cowboy standing above her, but he just stared at her—tall, dark and brooding. The epitome of James Dean’s rebel, he silently held out a hand to her.

She tried to sit up, but the mud held tight, and she felt like a pig wallowing around in muck. A lock of hair blew into her face and stuck. She tried to huff it away, but it wouldn’t budge. Wrenching one arm free, she scraped the strand off her face.

She heard a strangled grunt and glanced up at the cowboy. He coughed and rubbed a hand over his mouth. But another strangled sound erupted from him, and he snapped his mouth shut, cleared his throat. Seriously? This guy better not start laughing at me.

Not two seconds later, said guy lost the battle and did start laughing—a deep rumbling laughter that did funny things to her insides. Even though she threw him her best I’m going to kill you glare, it made him hoot even harder until he was gasping for breath.

The guy kept right on at it, and every time she’d think he was done, he’d look at her and start whooping it up again.

“Are you going to help me up or just stand there like an idiot?” she asked, finally pushing herself to a sitting position. The slimy filth slid down the back of her neck, beneath the collar of her blouse, all the way down her spine, making her skin prickle. She reached back and felt her hair hanging in clumpy mats.

Her throat tightened. She hated it when she hit the boiling point, so angry that all she could do was cry. And it didn’t help that this guy was still standing over her, guffawing at her mud-covered misery.

She clenched her fists tight, the wet dirt oozing through her fingers, and without thinking she flung two globs of the stuff straight at him. The mud missed his face and landed on his already-stained white T-shirt. Which only set him off into another round of that rumbling laughter.

That’s it! Scooping up another fistful from the ground, she lobbed it at him. This time her aim was true, and it landed on his cheek.

“Ma’am.” He wiped his hand across his face, smearing it even more. “I’m real sorry, you just—you got a little something on your face.” He gestured to his upper lip.

Great. A mud mustache? She swiped the back of her wrist across her face but knew she’d just made it worse. If this set off another fit from him, she might scream.

“Are you done yet?” she asked.

He wiped his eyes. “Sorry.” He held a dirt-covered hand out to her...a hand with long, strong fingers that could definitely make her scream—in a good way.

Wait, what?

Mesmerized, she stared at his hand until he withdrew it. He grabbed a rag from his back pocket and made a show of wiping his hands.

He held up somewhat cleaner fingers. “There. Better?”

“Never mind. I can get up all by myself.”

She drew her legs up to stand, but her shoes skated over the surface of the mud pit and squelched. She glanced at her beautiful brand-new pink Dior suit. Ruined. She’d loved this suit. It had made her feel feminine and businesslike all at once. Now it was destined for the trash heap.

“Might be easier if you take off your shoes.”

Her spirits sank even further. Her once pristine shell-pink Blahniks, barely out of the box, were hopelessly ruined, as well. She reached down and removed each one.

Once they were off, she couldn’t help it and cradled them to her chest. “Bye-bye, babies,” she whispered.

“If you want, we can give them a proper burial in the family cemetery later. There might be some old boots buried out there to keep your girlie shoes company.”

This guy was still making fun of her? After that call from her ex, she wasn’t in the mood. She opened her mouth to tear him a new one—having grown up with a father who excelled in the subject, she knew she could do it right.

But the lazy grin on his full lips made her rusty girl parts sit up and take notice—she’d bet anything he knew how to use those lips to a woman’s advantage. Involuntarily, her toes curled, squishing in the mud beneath her.

His gaze shifted to her feet. At least she’d taken the time to get a pedicure before her flight to Nowheresville, Montana.

He continued staring at her hot pink–tipped toes before his eyes drifted slowly up her legs, and she calculated just how long it’d been since a man—any man—had seen her horizontal.

Too long.

Way too long.

His slow perusal continued, and because she wanted to spread her thighs wider, she squeezed them closer together. Her gaze was drawn laser quick to his lips curving up into a sexy, bad-boy, devil-may-care grin.

“You ’bout ready to get up outta there?”

She held her hands out, and Mr. Sexy Bad Boy’s callused fingers slid over her hands and gripped as he pulled her up and out of the mud pit.

Traitorous tingles hippity-hopped up and down her spine.

“Couldn’t you have warned me about that mud?” she asked, stuffing down the scary-sexy feelings about this hot-as-lava man.

“Uh, I tried, ma’am. You were kinda busy yelling on the phone.”

“Don’t ma’am me.” She adjusted her jacket. “The name’s Francine Wentworth. And you are?”

“Wyatt—”

Little-boy giggles reached her, and she looked down as her son ran to her side. “John Allen! What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in day care?” She grabbed his hand before he fell into the pit of mud.

“Mommy! Can I play in the mud, too?” her son asked, reaching for a glob.

She huffed. “Don’t do that. I had an accident.”

John Allen’s face crumpled, and she regretted snapping at him. Her anger drained away, leaving just embarrassment that her muddy humiliation had been witnessed by this ranch hand.

“How about we get you hosed off, Frankie?” Wyatt’s voice rumbled deep as a canyon.

“My name is Francine, not Frankie,” she said, with some uncontained haughtiness for good measure.

The man pushed the brim of his black cowboy hat up off his forehead, looked down at her son. “Well, seeing how she’s covered head to toe in mud, I think she looks more like a Frankie right now. Whaddaya think, kid?”

John Allen looked up at her and laughed. “Yeah, mister!”

“Name’s Wyatt. What’s yours?” he asked, squatting down in front of her son, his jeans pulling tight on his muscled thighs.

“John Allen Wentworth,” her son said, holding his hand out.

Wyatt grinned, and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Johnny.”

What was it with this guy and nicknames?

John Allen grinned, seemingly delighted he had a nickname of his own.

* * *

WYATT UNWOUND THE hose and turned it on, letting the water flow. “Ready?”

The woman grimaced but stepped toward him without a word. He let the water run over her legs, but some of the mud had already dried and wasn’t washing off. Squatting down, he ran his hand over one leg, then the next, rubbing it off. He took his time, making sure to clean off every streak of dirt.

Was it for her sake?

Or his?

“I th-think you’ve got it all now,” she said.

Too bad. He wouldn’t mind washing a few other parts of her body. He stood up and glanced at her cherry-red cheeks. “Cold?”

“A little,” she said, not looking at him, and rinsed her muddy hands off under the hose.

“Francine, what is going on out here?” a man shouted behind him.

Wyatt turned to see a man in a perfectly pressed gray suit storming down the path from the lodge.

“Dammit,” she whispered next to Wyatt.

Instinct had him stepping in between her and the big, angry man.

“Dad, I can explain,” she said, stepping around Wyatt.

“Are you all right? Why are you all muddy?” Frankie’s father whirled to face Wyatt. “What did you do to her?”

“It’s nothing—” Frankie started to say.

“What’s your name? I’m going to report you to the owner.” Mr. Suit pulled a phone out of his pocket.

“Dad, I just tripped in the mud, and this nice man—”

“Wyatt Sullivan,” he said, holding a hand out to her father, knowing damn good and well he wouldn’t take it. “Part owner of Sullivan Guest Ranch.”

Father and daughter glanced at him. “You are?” they asked at the same time.

He tipped his cowboy hat at her. “Yep.”

“Anyway, Mr. Sullivan was helping me so I wouldn’t track mud all over the lodge.”

“Thank you for helping my daughter.” The older man looked calmer but still had a suspicious look on his face. “You don’t look like a luxury-ranch owner. Besides, I met the owner, Angus,” her father said.

“That’s my dad.” This man didn’t need to know Wyatt’s share wasn’t final yet. He would get it when he could prove to his dad he was home to stay.

Wentworth ignored him. “Francine, why don’t you get cleaned up. We need you back in the meeting.”

He looked down at his grandson. “And make sure John Allen doesn’t get dirty, too.” He dialed a number on his cell phone and went back the way he’d come.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Sullivan,” she said.

“Wyatt,” he said, trying to keep his cool as long-forgotten rage bubbled up from his past.

“Wyatt, I apologize for my father. He can be a bit...” She bit her lip.

“Bossy?”

“He is my boss.”

“Sorry,” he said. “So, here for work, not vacation?”

“Well, it’s a working retreat for us. Since we’ll be here a couple of weeks, we decided to let everyone bring their families. We try to keep everyone happy.”

“Where are y’all from?”

“New York City.”

He blinked. “Long way to come for meetings.”

“We have our reasons. Besides...” She gestured at the scenery. “It’s nice to see mountains instead of skyscrapers for a change.” She lifted her wrist and checked her watch. At least that wasn’t ruined. “I need to get cleaned up and back to the conference room. Thanks for your help.”

“You need any help getting back?”

“I think we’re fine. Thank you.” She took hold of her son’s hand. “Come on, sweetie.”

“See ya round, Johnny.”

The kid beamed, his grin a mile wide. “See ya!”

Wyatt shook his head. At least the kid wasn’t like Frankie’s old man. Yet.

“See ya, Frankie,” he called and snickered when she froze, her back going even more rigid than it had been. What was it about this woman that made him want to razz her? Was it that she seemed to take herself just a bit too seriously? He wanted to make her smile. Johnny said something to her as the two continued up the path, and she laughed, then they disappeared through the front door of the lodge.

He looked around at the buildings glowing in the late-afternoon sun. His dad and Kade had expanded the lodge while he’d been away, and the main building was at least five times bigger now. Even not knowing anything about architecture, he could tell Kade had designed it specifically for rich people. Like Ms. Francine Wentworth and her bossy father.

It wasn’t exactly home anymore, with all the new guest cabins, outbuildings and bigger barns, but at least each structure was designed to blend in with the natural beauty of Montana. But he still missed the old days when it had been a small dude ranch and they had regular people come out for vacation, to learn the old ways of ranching.

Yeah, they still did cattle ranching now, and trail rides, chuck wagon dinners out in the meadows, but now instead of just families, big groups would come out for working retreats. Kade and Pop had been talking about adding spa services. This was Montana. People should come here to enjoy the land, the wildlife, the wide-open spaces.

Not for fancy treatments and crap.

Which made him think of Frankie and her hot-pink-polished toes and those long legs, a forbidden temptation.

No sense thinking about her. She’d drop him faster than a bronc busts a greenhorn once she found out about his past.

Chapter Two

Wyatt strode to the equipment barn, heels pounding like a hammer setting stakes in the ground. His dog trotted next to him and woofed. He slowed down so Sadie wasn’t exerting herself in her pregnant condition.

It was a pretty day, with the sun shining, birds singing, a crisp autumn breeze lifting the hair off his neck. Yet he was too pissed to enjoy it. His lesson that morning hadn’t gone well. He was finally doing something about getting his diploma, but how could he succeed when he had trouble comprehending what his tutor was teaching him?

He felt stupid.

He hated feeling stupid.

Damn learning problems.

And after that, the long email his dad had sent listing chores, talking about Wyatt’s place on the ranch, had made him so mad the letters got all jumbled up when he’d tried to read it. He knew he had to wait till he calmed down to revisit it.

He huffed out a breath. After nine months of hard work, his dad still didn’t trust him. He’d never get the foreman job he was hoping for.

Maybe if he was more like Kade. His second-oldest brother got along with their dad best—he was ranch manager and damn good at it. Luke, a year younger than Wyatt, did his part as the ranch veterinarian. Then there was Hunter, his youngest brother. Charmer, jokester and the glue that held everyone together. He’d missed them all while he was gone, was still trying to find his place now that he was back. He’d hoped the foreman job opening up would be it. He genuinely wanted it, and it’d prove to his family he was here to stay.

But his dad wasn’t giving him a fair chance—he looked at Wyatt and saw a screwup. Acting out as a teen was one thing, but Wyatt hated thinking about his time in Texas. What had happened down there had been out of his control—his family knew it—but it didn’t erase the mark that dark period had left on him, or the way his dad looked at him now. “Why’d I bother to come back here?” he muttered.

“’Cause it’s your home,” Nash said.

Wyatt glanced around at his oldest brother, ready to let loose with a blast of cusswords, but saw Nash’s six-year-old stepdaughter, Maddy, standing next to him. She beamed at him and threw her arms up for a hug. “Good mornin’, Uncle Wyatt.”

Wyatt picked her up, and she smacked his cheek with a kiss. “Morning, sunshine,” he said and ruffled her long dark curls. “How you doin’?” He’d never been one for kids, but he’d grown to love this little girl who shared her heart with everyone.

“Good,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck and giving him her one-of-a-kind hug. He had to admit it was nice having a niece to spoil along with his four nephews.

“Where’s Kelsey?”

“I got her to go back to bed. Morning sickness hit hard today,” Nash said.

“Does she need a doctor?”

“She says it’s normal,” Nash said, but damn if his voice didn’t waver a bit, and he looked a little queasy himself.

His brother had been injured and angry at the world when he got home from Afghanistan. Kelsey was the best thing that could have happened to him, and he’d fallen hard and fast for her. Now they ran a therapy program for veterans, and Nash was responsible for the horses on the ranch.

“So what’s wrong?” Nash asked.

“For some reason, Pop doesn’t think I know what needs to be done around here. He keeps sending emails and texts for chores that I’m already working on or planning to do. It’s like I didn’t grow up on a ranch with the rest of you.” He handed Maddy to Nash.

“Need some help?”

“Nah. I’ll just keep plugging away at it,” he said, his lip curling. “Well, see y’all later. Need to get to work.” Wyatt yanked open the sliding door of the equipment barn, and metal screeched. One more thing to tack on to his growing to-do list.

He slapped the wall and ran his hand up the row of switches, turning the lights on and banishing the shadows cast by the ancient tractor. The smell of oil and gasoline mixed with sawdust and wood permeated the air. It was familiar, comforting to him in many ways. Each barn had its own smell depending on what it was used for. And he loved them all.

He shucked his denim jacket and hung it on a peg by the door, then strapped on his tool belt. As he crossed the floor to the tractor, the tools clinked and jangled with every step, creating a beat in his head. He cocked his head, listening as he walked, already committing it to memory until he could get his hands on his guitar.

Sadie walked to the side of the barn where he’d set up a bed for her. She stepped onto the pad, turned around three times, then plopped down, sighing as if she’d just run a marathon with a pack of wolves. He watched her for a few minutes, made sure she was okay. He’d found her wandering one of the meadows a while back, and when no one claimed her, decided to keep her. She made a great roommate, but now their little family would be growing when she gave birth.

He turned his attention to the first item on the list. Another tractor with a problem. This one was older than the one he’d fixed the day before. He started taking the tractor’s engine apart, piece by prehistoric piece, convinced there were still more years left in her. He refused to let anyone haul it off to the junkyard. One of the bolts proved stubborn, and he grabbed his hammer and banged on it, letting loose a stream of profanities.

“Hey, mister! What’s that mean?”

The kid’s voice startled him, and he pounded his thumb instead of the bolt. He jerked around, sticking the tenderized thumb in his mouth, and saw Frankie’s kid.

“Hey, Johnny,” he mumbled around his stinging thumb.

“You okay, mister? I didn’t mean it,” Johnny said, hanging his head.

“Not your fault, kid. My fault for getting mad at the da—dang-blasted tractor.”

His thumb finally stopped throbbing, and he stuck the hammer back in his tool belt, then looked around for Frankie. “Is your mom with you?”

Johnny shook his head. “She’s working.”

Great, a kid wandering around a big ranch alone? Not good. “Isn’t someone watching you?”

“No, sir. I was at day care. I’m bored. Can I help?”

Wyatt shook his head, knowing the child-care worker at the lodge would be frantic trying to find him. The kid was a hoot—four years old, he guessed, going on forty, with proper grammar, pressed clothes and everything. Wyatt’s mom would have called the kid an old soul.

Which was a shame.

“How about I take you back up there? You don’t want to miss out on any fun, do you?”

The kid looked up at him, his eyes a piercing blue. “I want to stay here.” He scuffed his shoe—a loafer, for Pete’s sake—at something invisible on the barn floor.

Wyatt bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh even as he felt sorry for the kid. Way too young to already be like a little old man.

Sadie woofed, and Johnny looked at her. “You got a dog?” he asked, already racing over to her side. He stopped short, then reached a little hand out for her to sniff. Sadie looked up at the boy, and Wyatt could have sworn she smiled.

“Mister, can I pet her?”

“Sure. Her name’s Sadie.”

Johnny crouched down next to her and patted her head. “I love dogs.”

“You and your mom have a dog?”

Johnny shook his head, his chin wobbling. “No. We can’t have one.”

Poor kid. “Come on, let’s get you back to the lodge before they call out the big guns.” He walked to the door and waited while Johnny said goodbye to Sadie.

The boy patted Sadie one last time and walked to the door, dragging his feet and looking as if Santa and the Easter Bunny had just crossed him off their nice lists.

Wyatt squashed the guilty feelings down deep. Sure, he had nephews and a niece, but what did he really know about kids? The boys had been born while he’d been gone, so he was still trying to get to know them.

But a guest’s kid? Not his pint of beer.

They reached the lodge and Wyatt took him inside to the day care, made sure Mrs. Dailey had him in hand, then retraced his path to the barn.

As he walked inside, he checked on Sadie, and damned if she didn’t look like she was frowning at him.

Grabbing the wrench off the seat, he went back to working on the tractor in peace. He settled back in to work, losing himself in the task of stripping the engine bare to find the source of the problem.

Sometime later he surfaced as a scuff quietly echoed, the noise sending goose bumps prickling along his back. The sound transported him back to a time when he’d been helpless, no defense other than his fists against men bigger than him.

He gripped the wrench tighter and casually reached for the hammer with his free hand. No one would ever take him by surprise again.

He jerked around, weapons raised, scanning for the intruder. His eyes searched the shadows until Sadie gave a soft woof, and he moved enough to see her and Johnny staring at him. How had the kid made it all the way inside the barn making so little sound?

“What are you doing back here?”

“I dunno,” Johnny said, his arms going around Sadie’s neck.

“You can’t keep running off like that, kid. Mrs. Dailey will get upset, and your mom...well, let’s just say I don’t want to see her bad side.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” Wyatt said, setting the tools down on the wheel of the tractor and pulling his phone out of his pocket. He dialed the day care lady and asked for Frankie’s—Francine’s, he corrected—phone number.

Entering the number on his phone, he texted her to say Johnny was down at the barn, and wouldn’t stay in day care.

A few minutes later, he received a text that she’d be right there. Not more than five minutes later, she came running into the barn, once again wearing fancy shoes. On a ranch.

“John Allen Wentworth. Why did you leave the day care?”

“I don’t like it there.”

“Are the other kids mean to you?” He hadn’t thought about that being the cause of Johnny not wanting to stay put.

The kid shook his head. “I want to stay here. With Sadie.” He buried his face in the dog’s shoulder.

Francine turned to Wyatt. “I don’t understand why he’s doing this. I’m sorry.”

Wyatt studied Johnny. “Maybe he just doesn’t like people? I can take ’em or leave ’em sometimes myself.”

She stepped closer to him. “He’s really shy. But he’s never disobeyed me like this before. I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry he’s getting in your way.”

“You okay if he stays here with me?” His words surprised himself. Surprised Miss New York as well, if the look on her face was right.

“I don’t want to burden you.”

He thought about it. “I’m just working on the tractor today.” The kid needed to have some fun, and if he was going to keep wandering around, at least Johnny could hang around the barn so Wyatt could keep an eye on him.

She hesitated.

“Look, I know you don’t know me—”

She shook her head. “That’s not it. If you’re sure you don’t mind. I’ll be down to pick him up as soon as the meeting is over later today. You’ve got my phone number, right?”

He nodded.

“I really appreciate it.” She looked at her watch. “I need to get back. John Allen, you can stay here, but you mind Mr. Sullivan, okay? You do what he says and don’t go anywhere, you hear me?” She kissed the top of her son’s head.

The kid bounced up and down. “I’ll be good. Promise!” He raced back to Sadie and sat down next to her.

“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. I appreciate it.”

“Wyatt.”

Her nose crinkled. “What?”

“I’m Wyatt, Miz Wentworth.”

“Oh, yes. Call me Francine. Thanks again. I’ll see you later.”

Wyatt watched her hurry up the path to the lodge until she disappeared through the doors. Must be hard for her to raise a child on her own and have to work. Kade had been doing it, but at least they lived here at the ranch, with plenty of family around to help out when he needed it.

He got back to work on the tractor but checked on Johnny every few minutes.

“Mister, how come you’re taking that apart?”

Johnny’s words startled him, and he looked down at the kid staring up at him. “It stopped working.”

“You know how to fix stuff?”

Wyatt nodded. He might not be good with reading, but he’d always had a knack for anything mechanical.

“Will you teach me?”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Johnny shrugged.

“You got any old clothes you can change into?”

Johnny shook his head.

“Any play clothes that can get dirty, and your mom won’t care?”

“Play clothes?”

What was with Francine, that the kid didn’t have something to play in, to be a little boy in? Her suit yesterday probably cost more than three months’ pay, but her boy didn’t have jeans and a T-shirt? Surely he didn’t wear pressed clothes and dress shoes every day?

“How old are you?”

Johnny held up four fingers.

Wyatt pulled his phone out again and called Kade. “You still have any of Toby’s old clothes from when he was about four?”

“Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“Got someone here who needs to borrow them.”

“No problem. They’re in the spare room at my place. Help yourself.”

Wyatt pressed the end call button. “Okay, kid. Let’s go. I think we can find something for you to wear.”

Kade’s cabin was closest to the lodge and outbuildings, and it wasn’t too cold out, so Wyatt bundled Johnny into his own denim jacket and rolled the sleeves up, then they set off walking the short distance.

He let them into the cabin, and they headed upstairs to the spare room. Although, when he opened the door to the room, he changed that to junk room. A stack of canvases lined one wall, and the boxes Kade had mentioned were stacked on two more walls, each one neatly marked. He looked closer and saw the year had been added to each one, along with a list of the contents. Following the system his anal-retentive brother used, it was easy to find the box with Toby’s clothes from when he was four.

He pulled the box down and opened it, then dug through it to find several white T-shirts, pint-size Western shirts and miniature denim jeans and jackets. Holding the jeans up to Johnny, he figured they’d fit, even if the cuffs had to be rolled up some. Digging into the box farther, he found small cowboy boots and socks. Another box yielded several old cowboy hats.

“What do you think? Wanna wear a hat, too?”

Johnny’s eyes lit up, rivaling Fourth of July sparklers. “Really? Yeah! Thanks, mister!”

“Call me Wyatt,” he said, feeling old, even though he was only in his late twenties.

Johnny beamed. “Thanks, Mr. Wyatt!”

“Let’s get you changed and get back to work, okay?”

The kid grinned and unbuttoned his blue shirt, then pulled on the T-shirt and a brown Western shirt.

“So do you go to school yet?”

Johnny nodded.

“Let me guess. You’re in college, right? Graduating soon?”

Johnny giggled. “No, sir. I go to preschool.” He grinned, and Wyatt noticed a gap where he’d lost a tooth.

“What do you do for fun?”

The kid cocked his head. “Um, piano lessons.”

“Do you like it?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“How come?”

“My teacher’s really old and smells like paper.”

Wyatt grinned. “I must have had the same teacher as you. Or maybe they were sisters. She’d be about a hundred and fifty now.”

Johnny nodded, his face solemn. “That’s how old Mrs. Jenkins is, too.”

Wyatt laughed, and Johnny looked surprised. He sat the little boy down on the chair and rolled the denim cuffs up, then helped him put on the boots.

He held up three miniature cowboy hats. “Which do you want to wear?”

Johnny looked at all three, then up at Wyatt’s own hat, and pointed at the black one.

He set it on Johnny’s head, then tapped the brim. “Fit good?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s get back to work, bud.”

Wyatt led the way back out, then locked up. As they walked back to the main area, he noticed his long strides were making Johnny trot to keep up. He reached down and lifted Johnny up onto his shoulders.

Johnny squealed and grabbed Wyatt’s hair.

“You okay, pal?”

“I never done this! It’s fun!”

And with that, Wyatt’s heart broke a little for this kid who seemed a rookie to fun.

* * *

FRANCINE GLANCED DOWN at her phone for what had to be the hundredth time, making sure Wyatt hadn’t texted her. She’d been so surprised he’d said John Allen could stay with him.

She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Lately John Allen had been restless and hadn’t wanted to stay in preschool. She suspected it was because he was so painfully shy, but she’d followed the suggestion of the teachers and had him tested. The full results weren’t back yet, but everyone agreed he was very smart for his age and was most likely bored at the level he was being taught.

Looking up, she caught her father staring at her, concerned. She shook her head and smiled. She’d have to have a long talk with John Allen tonight about wandering off.

She forced her attention back to the report in front of her. This merger was really important to the future of Wentworth & Associates. It would give them a stronger team and make them one of the most influential investment groups in the country.

But things weren’t going well, and they’d already discovered one corporate spy a few weeks ago. So they’d packed everyone up and come to Montana for a working vacation, away from any underhandedness in New York. The team they’d brought here were all trusted associates, on both sides of the negotiating table. And to keep them happy about working out of state so close to the holidays—without weekends, so they could stay on track—their families had been invited.

It had been a shock when her dad’s assistant had found a luxury ranch in the middle of nowhere with plenty of availability for the entire group. Too bad she had to keep her head in the game, or she would’ve enjoyed the ranch amenities more.

Harvey Knight spoke up. He was the president of Knightsbridge, the other investment group Wentworth was merging with. She studied him, his body language. The man was older than her father; even though he looked healthy, he had an air of fragility around him. He’d told her dad he was ready to retire, enjoy his grandchildren and wife after working too many years under too much pressure. He’d guaranteed that he’d announce his retirement once the merger was complete, as long as all of his associates remained with the company. This retreat was also a way of making sure everyone got along.

She turned her attention to the rest of the team. Today was a smaller meeting with the top executives in both companies, so only eight surrounded the conference table. A few power clashes had sprung up, and it was her job to evaluate how everyone would mesh. The benefits of a minor in psychology had granted her that unenviable position.

Her counterpart, Peter Yates, the executive vice president of Knightsbridge, definitely had a temper. How he’d fit in with the rest of her team, she wasn’t sure at this point. He’d brought his wife and teenage daughter, who definitely looked like a handful, with him to Montana.

Then again, she was looking at two weeks with a wandering son, an impending merger and her father’s mood swings to deal with—a handful of her own.

Three exhausting hours later, they finally decided to call it a day. She stacked her notes together and put them in a leather portfolio, then stood up and headed out to pick up John Allen.

Her heels clicked on the concrete sidewalk as she walked toward the barns, and she caught a ranch hand smirking at her outfit. She remembered Wyatt commenting on her shoes yesterday. What did they expect? She was a VP here for work, and she needed to look the part. Besides, she loved her designer wardrobe.

As she neared the big red equipment barn, she stopped at the most unlikely thing she’d ever seen. The barn doors were wide-open, and Wyatt Sullivan stood in front of a red tractor that had to be a hundred years old. His back was to her, his hands on his hips, booted feet spread apart, looking as if he was scrutinizing the tractor. He definitely fills out a pair of jeans.

But it was the pint-size boy standing next to him that had her biting her tongue. Dressed exactly like Wyatt, her son wore old jeans, a brown Western shirt, tiny boots and a smaller version of Wyatt’s black cowboy hat. His posture mirrored Wyatt’s.

Even as she watched, John Allen turned his head and looked up at Wyatt, just as Wyatt used a finger to tip the brim of his hat up so it rested on the back of his head. Her son raised his little hand and did the exact same thing, and they both went back to staring at the tractor.

“What do ya say, bud? Shall we start her up, make sure it works?”

John Allen looked up at him, his face very serious. “Yup.”

Wyatt grabbed a couple of rags off the bench next to him and handed one to her son. John Allen watched him carefully as Wyatt wiped his greasy hands on the rag, then followed his exact movements.

She slipped her phone out of her suit pocket and took photos of the pair together. The last thing she wanted was John Allen hanging around large equipment, but he looked so cute she had to capture the image.

Wyatt turned around then and saw her watching them. He tipped his cowboy hat at her. “Ma’am,” he drawled.

John Allen tipped his hat at her, as well. “Mommy,” he drawled. Then grinned as big as she’d ever seen him. “Mr. Wyatt fixed the trak-ter, and I helped!”

“You did? Wow. I’ll bet Mr. Wyatt sure appreciated your help today.” She glanced up to see Wyatt watching her. His eyes were so deep, almost fathomless pools, and she wondered what he was thinking.

“Where did those clothes come from?”

“They’re my nephew’s hand-me-downs—didn’t want to ruin Johnny’s fancy clothes.”

“Fancy clothes?”

“His little GQ Junior outfit.”

“Oh,” she said, embarrassment burning her cheeks at not having thought to bring any jeans or tennis shoes for her son. He rarely wore them in New York.

“We were just about to start the tractor up and take a spin around the field. You okay with that, Francine?”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” She looked up at how high the seat was on the tractor. “John Allen snuck away from day care twice today, and he knows better than that.”

Her son’s smile collapsed, and his chin wobbled. “I’m sorry, Mommy. Please? Can I go?” He looked up at her, beseeching her, with hands clasped together as if in prayer.

Wyatt shifted, and he clasped his hands together, mirroring John Allen this time. “Please, Mom? I’ll be real careful with him.” He stepped forward, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. “Kid needs to have some fun, and he really did help me today.”

She looked at him, frowning. How on earth could her baby help fix a tractor?

“Oh, all right. But not for long. We need to get you cleaned up for dinner.”

John Allen jumped up and down, and his hat fell off. Wyatt picked it up and plunked it back on his head, then lifted him up high, onto the seat of the tractor. Wyatt climbed up and sat down, then pulled John Allen onto his lap.

“Hold on tight, sweetie. And you do exactly what Mr. Wyatt says, okay?”

Her son bounced up and down and looked so excited—as if it was his birthday, Christmas and Halloween all rolled into one day.

Wyatt started the old tractor, and it grunted and groaned, maybe even screamed a little, belching black smoke, and she quickly backed out of the way. As the tractor rolled out of the barn, Wyatt whooped, waving his hat in the air. John Allen followed suit, and she snapped a few more pictures as they continued down the drive and out into an empty field.

She continued watching them, enjoying the late-afternoon sun as it turned everything a gold hue. Her stomach growled, and she knew John Allen had to be hungry. But a few minutes more wouldn’t hurt, would it?

The tractor turned and headed back to the barn, just as she thought she heard her name over the roar of the engine.

“Francine. What are you doing?” her father asked, coming up the path toward her. He started to say something else, but the engine drowned out his voice, for which she was grateful.

“Mommy! Did you see me? Did you see me?” John Allen squealed as Wyatt stopped the tractor next to them.

“What the—” her father said. “Why is my grandson on that tractor? It’s dangerous.”

She glanced at him, alarmed at how red his face was. His blood pressure had skyrocketed the last few years from too much work and stress.

“Get down right now, young man,” her father called.

Wyatt looked from her father to her, climbed down from the behemoth, then lifted her son down. John Allen’s face crumpled, and his eyes glistened with tears. He crowded up against Wyatt’s legs. His move shocked her more than anything—John Allen usually preferred to play alone. He’d taken to Wyatt so quickly.

Wyatt laid a hand on his shoulder and patted it. “It’s okay, bud. I’ll bet your granddad was just surprised to see you riding up on this big ol’ tractor. He doesn’t know you were a big help to me today.”

His words were calm, but his voice had a slight edge and his expression was closed off.

She set her hand on her dad’s arm, felt the tension running through his tendons like thick coiled rope. He shook her off, and she stepped back.

“John Allen, you’re a Wentworth, not a ranch hand. You’re going to be an important part of my company someday, not a common mechanic.”

“Dad!” she said, embarrassed to no end at his thoughtless words. “Wyatt—er, Mr. Sullivan and John Allen were having fun today.”

Her father turned to Wyatt. “What right do you have taking my grandson out of day care? I ought to have you arrested.” Even as he uttered the threat, he pulled out his cell phone.

Wyatt’s hands fisted at his sides, and he took a step forward—big, tall, intimidating and very scary. He reminded her of an outlaw—and with his long dark hair and black cowboy hat, he definitely fit the image of a rebel cowboy.

She stepped between them, raising her arms to the side like a referee at an MMA match. “I gave permission for John Allen to be here.”

Her father slowly put his mobile back into his pocket. “I don’t want this to happen again. He’s my grandson and I’m making sure he’s on the right path for success.” He turned to her, and it took everything she had to keep her back straight. “Francine, take him up to the lodge and get him cleaned up. I want to debrief on this last meeting before dinner.” He turned on his heel and strode back up the path to the main lodge.

Dreading it, but knowing she had to get it over with, she turned to Wyatt. He’d knelt down and was consoling her son, something she should be doing. John Allen threw his arms around Wyatt’s neck and squeezed. Since he was facing her, the shocked look on Wyatt’s face surprised her, but it was soon followed by sweet tenderness as he hugged her baby back.

“I’m so sorry, Wyatt. He didn’t mean what he said.”

“Oh, I’ll bet he did,” Wyatt said, standing up. His face was devoid of any expression, and she never wanted to play poker with him...not that she even knew how.

“I am sorry,” she said and took John Allen’s hand. Words could hurt, and her father was a master at wielding them like a sword, both in the boardroom and out. “Thank you for watching him today.” She took her son’s hand and led him to the path that would take them to the lodge.

“My pleasure. Anytime,” came the low response. When she glanced back, Wyatt was already walking away.

Chapter Three

Francine rubbed her temples, willing away the headache she’d woken up with. She glanced around the table at her coworkers, noticing the tension and stress clearly marked on everyone’s faces. The merger was stalled, and at this point, for every step forward, they slid back three.

At the first lull in a heated conversation, she spoke up. “I think we all need to take a break.”

Her dad glanced up, opened his mouth, then looked around the table and snapped it shut. “She’s right. Take a break and come back in—” he slid his cuff up enough to see his watch “—two hours.”

Sighs of relief sounded as everyone jumped up and headed for the door.

Francine stood up and stretched, grimacing at the stiffness in her back and neck. She sent a quick text to Mrs. Dailey to make sure John Allen had stayed put in day care that morning. The woman answered that he was still there, no problems. Francine breathed a sigh of relief, then crossed the room to the coffeepot, pouring yet another cup of caffeine to keep her going the rest of the day.

A movement outside the window caught her eye, and she looked out. A big truck sat in front of one of the barns, and a man stood in the back, unloading bales of hay. He’d lift a bale, then chuck it in front of the barn, where three other men hauled them inside.

Just as she took a sip of coffee, the man outside turned slightly, and she realized it was Wyatt.

Even as she watched, he grabbed a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his face, shoved it back in and grabbed up another bale of hay. His biceps flexed with each movement, and even being a city girl, she knew those bales had to weigh a lot. Yet he made it look effortless, his movements streamlined and graceful.

The weather was cool, yet he’d still sweat through his T-shirt, which now hugged his back.

It was almost hypnotic watching him, and she found herself relaxing for the first time in days.

A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped, sloshing coffee on the credenza. She grabbed several napkins and mopped it up.

“Didn’t mean to scare you. I called your name three times and you never heard me. What are you looking at?” Her dad glanced out the window.

“Nothing. Just thinking about the meeting—”

He frowned. “You were watching that Sullivan boy, weren’t you.”

She laughed. “Dad, he’s hardly a boy.”

“I get it. You’re a beautiful single woman, and he’s a relatively—well, a decent-looking man.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, something he did when uncomfortable.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He looked at her, his mouth turned down in a frown. “I’m just saying, if you’re going to have a—a—an encounter—”

“Dad!” Her stomach did flip-flops, and heat bloomed up her chest to explode in her cheeks.

He held a hand up to stop her words. “I don’t think he’s the right type of man for you—in fact, I’m sure he’s been a lot of fathers’ worst nightmare.”

“You don’t know that, or anything about him—”

“You’ve been pretty quick to defend him. I’m just saying, you need to be more discreet.” He became more stern, pointedly saying, “That means no ogling the ranch hands. We have a great deal riding on this merger, and I don’t want any distractions or gossip.”

As if she didn’t know that. She was on track to be CEO one day—if anyone knew focus, it was her. And if she had imagined doing something with Wyatt—in the dark of night—the last thing she wanted was to discuss it with her father.

“I know what’s at stake. I’m not planning on doing anything—”

“Good,” her father said. Glancing away, he added, “I just don’t want you hurt again...once is enough, trust me.”

Her dad was a blunt man, but his words softened her. He’d been through a divorce when her mother left them. Over two years ago, she’d followed in his footsteps with one of her own. “Dad, I’m sorry.” She slipped her arm through his and laid her head on his shoulder.

“It was a long time ago. You were too young to see it, but your mother and I were never happy together.”

“We’ve never really talked about it. I know you’ve seen a few women over the years, but do you regret never marrying again?”

“No, I don’t.” He squeezed her hand. “Besides, even if your mother and I didn’t get along, at least she gave me you. And I’m very happy about that.”

She smiled. “Me, too, Dad. We make a pretty good team at Wentworth’s, don’t we?”

“No one I’d rather have more at my side.”

“I learned from the best,” she said. It was true. Her dad could be tough, but he’d trained her from a young age to be a sharp-minded businesswoman. Oh, she’d worked hard to earn it, but she counted her blessings to be highly placed in a Fortune 500 company. It was where she and her dad connected, especially after her mother left—he’d always been there for her.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” her dad said. “You should go out, get some fresh air.” He stopped at the door and looked back at her. “I love you, Francine. You’re one hell of a businesswoman. All I ask is that you don’t make a mistake you’ll regret, for yourself or my grandson.”

She nodded. Glancing out the window again, she noticed they had finished unloading the hay from the truck. The three men who’d been helping Wyatt stood around a cooler, drinking water and laughing at something. Wyatt was off by himself, staring out at the lake.

She and Wyatt hadn’t talked much, but she could sense he usually kept to himself. John Allen had certainly taken to him quickly, and he rarely liked strangers. She’d sensed a reserve about Wyatt, much like her son’s, around other people, as if he was hesitant to let himself get close to anyone.

That was probably why her son had bonded with him—and it was also a reason to stay away.

Chapter Four

Early the next morning, Francine made sure her son was at the day care, under strict orders not to leave. Her father was on a conference call to Germany when she left the lodge. She walked down the front steps, and a little pink sports car caught her attention as it sped down the road leading out of the property. Cute car.

Her mission of the morning was to find a way into town and buy her son some play clothes. Her dad had complained the evening before about her son wearing someone else’s old worn-out clothes, even if it was just temporary. She felt a little guilty, escaping on her own, but she really needed it. Besides, it’d be fun to surprise John Allen with a cowboy hat.

“Need some help, ma’am?” Wyatt drawled from behind her.

She turned around, and he stood there, looking so much like every bad boy her father had warned her away from. Black cowboy hat, black T-shirt, denim jacket, dark hair just a bit too long, a scar slashing white on his chin—she hadn’t noticed it before. His blond Labrador stood at his side staring up at her with deep brown eyes, so maybe Wyatt wasn’t all bad. A country song about a man and his dog came to mind.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Does Uber come out here? I can’t seem to find any drivers on the app.”

His quirked eyebrow made her feel stupid.

“So...no Uber service?”

“Nope. Need a ride somewhere?” His breath puffed out in the frosty morning like cigarette smoke.

“I want to go into town and get some things for my son.”

“I’m headed there. You can ride with me.”

If she remembered correctly, the closest town was at least an hour away. Cooped up with him in a vehicle for that long? She pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

He shrugged, said, “Come on,” and led the way to his black pickup truck. He opened the passenger door, then stood aside. Just as she started to climb into the truck, the blond lab jumped into the passenger seat.

“Sorry. She loves going for rides. Just give her a shove and she’ll move over.”

She shooed her hands at the dog, but it didn’t move. “Come on, sweetie. Move over, okay?” She waved her hands again.

The dog looked at Wyatt, and he looked at the dog. If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn they both rolled their eyes. He gave a quick whistle and the dog rolled over.

Leaving a layer of blond dog hair behind on the passenger seat.

Great. Francine looked down at her black suit and Chanel coat. Wyatt reached in and moved the seat forward, and the dog jumped into the back. He brushed the seat off, then rummaged behind it, pulling out an old red plaid blanket.

“It’s old but relatively free of dog hair,” he said, then spread it across the seat.

“Thanks,” she said and climbed up into the truck, shivering in the cold morning.

He shut the door, walked around to the driver’s side and got in, then started the engine. “It’ll warm up in a minute.” He put the truck in gear and headed down the long drive to the main road.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Sadie.”

Before long, heat poured out of the vents. “Is it always this cold?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes. It’s already snowed up in the mountains.”

“Do you and your family live here all year, or go elsewhere when the snow hits?”

“All year. Guests come here in winter, too.”

“Doesn’t it get lonely out here?”

“Nope.” He turned the radio on.

She took the hint he didn’t want to talk and settled back, watching the scenery roll by. Born and bred in New York City, she was used to the frenetic pace of a big urban area and millions of people. She knew concrete and crowds and skyscrapers, not mountains and valleys and lakes.

The road curved along the prairie, river and hillsides. She spotted some kind of sheep clambering up and down rocks—

Wyatt slammed on the brakes, and the truck stopped suddenly in the middle of the road. She braced a hand on the dashboard and looked out the front window.

A large herd of massive animals plodded across the road in front of them. Sadie’s head appeared over the back of the seat between them, her doggy breath warm on Francine’s neck. The dog yawned, ending with a squeak, then lay back down, giving a doggy sigh, as if this were a common occurrence.

“Are those buffalo?” Francine wished he’d stopped the truck about a mile back.

“Bison.” Wyatt leaned back, his thumb idly tapping the beat to the song on the radio.

“They won’t stampede, will they?”

“Nope.”

His brief answers really irked her. Did he not believe in civilized conversation? “Gee, you’re just a regular chatty Cathy. Let me guess. You do PR for the ranch, right?”

* * *

SHE WAS FEISTY. He might even appreciate it...but something told him she was used to talking down to guys like him. “That would be my brother Hunter. I don’t believe in talking just to fill a silence.”

She stared at him a beat, then her gaze shifted over his shoulder. Her mouth opened, and a scream ricocheted around the truck. But not just any scream. One of those Friday the Thirteenth–Freddy Krueger–Chucky–Halloween movie screams.

He whipped his head around and saw an enormous bison standing not two feet from his door, staring at them.

He held very still but slid a hand to Frankie’s knee. “Quiet,” he snapped. “Don’t upset it.”

Her scream cut off abruptly. The bison still stood there, staring at them with bloodred eyes, steam puffing out of his nostrils. His horns curved forward, and the tips looked razor sharp.

Sadie gave a sharp bark, and he reached back to run a hand over her head, hoping she’d stay quiet. Beside him, Frankie’s breaths shuddered in and out, too fast. “Take a deep breath and hold it. Count to five and let it out.”

He heard her breathe in, ending on a whimper, then she blew it out. “Again. I don’t want you to pass out on me. I need you to keep Sadie quiet. She’s pregnant, and I don’t want her upset.”

Frankie’s breathing finally slowed down, and she murmured softly to the dog.

A bellow ripped through the cloudy morning, and the bison swung its massive head toward the departing herd. With one last look at Wyatt and Frankie, the animal shifted about and wandered across the valley toward the river.

“Oh, thank God,” she murmured.

He faced the front windshield and put the car in gear, making sure all the bison were off the road, then continued to town.

By the time Wyatt pulled into a parking spot in front of the general store, Francine seemed totally fine.

“This is a charming little town,” she said as she unbuckled her seat belt.

He looked up and down the street, saw the same old buildings that had always been there, just prettied up for the season. Neatly trimmed window boxes burst with fall foliage. Colorful flags announcing the harvest festival hung from the old-fashioned streetlights.

“Where do you need to go?” he asked.

“Children’s clothing store.”

“I don’t think there’s one here. But Marge might have something in the general store. That’s where I’m going, anyway.”

“Great, I can get clothes for John Allen, a rake and a horse blanket,” she muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

“You can always order online from whatever fancy place you shop,” he said and got out, letting Sadie follow behind him. She quirked a brow, and he wondered if this morning’s tutoring session was making him snappy. Once again, it hadn’t gone well.

“I just thought I’d get him some clothes to play in while we’re here.”

“Kade won’t mind if Johnny keeps the ones we borrowed yesterday. Plenty more you can have.”

She didn’t say anything, but he could just imagine how pissed her father would be to know his grandson was wearing old hand-me-downs.

Wyatt opened the door to the general store and held it for her, and she walked by him at a fast pace, her heels clacking on the wood floor. “You might wanna look at getting some play clothes for yourself,” he murmured.

Marge walked up to them just then. She was a staple in town and ran a tight ship, but she had the biggest heart ever. Maybe that was why she and his mother had been best friends. “Marge, this is Francine Wentworth, from New York City. She needs some jeans and stuff. Maybe even a horse blanket, too.”

Francine rolled her eyes at him as she shook Marge’s hand. “Hi, Marge. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Welcome to our town, Francine.” Marge leaned in to hug him. “’Bout time you came to see me, Wyatt.” She grabbed a handful of his hair. “You need a haircut.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Almost thirty years old and she could still make him feel like a rebellious twelve-year-old.

“Come on, Francine. I’ll show you around,” Marge said.

He stayed put a minute, watching Marge and Frankie interact. They’d just met yet were already talking like old friends, even if they were polar opposites. Marge, with her curly silver hair and reading glasses hung around her neck, old jeans and a pressed shirt. Frankie and her perfectly done blond hair and makeup, fancy coat and black suit.

He looked around the store, the merchandise. Another place in town that hadn’t changed over time. It always smelled the same in the general store—coffee, mothballs, penny candy, a wood-burning fire and new denim. Most days a group of older men sat by the stove and played checkers and gossiped.

He craned his neck to see the back of the store. Yup, three of them were back there, already in place. He winced—he’d have to pass them to get to what he needed. He and his friends had probably pranked—or worse—all of them at least once in his troubled youth.

He’d been to town a handful of times since coming home, tried to avoid locals when he did. No sense putting it off. He headed toward the kitchen supplies, and as he approached the checkers players, they all stopped talking. Wyatt nodded at them but didn’t stop. As soon as he passed them, they started talking again, this time in whispers.

The price you paid for being a teen rebel in a small town.

He looked around to see where Francine was and saw Marge had shown her to the shelves full of folded jeans. They were still chatting, which surprised him. What would a big-city woman have to talk about that much with someone she’d just met in a small town in Montana?

He studied Francine, noting how her face lit up when she laughed. She seemed much more relaxed now. More like the Frankie he called her in his head.

Picking up the rest of the items he needed for the ranch, he then headed for the hat section. He picked one out for Johnny that matched his own.

He set it on the counter with his other items as Marge set down a stack of clothes for Francine. He noticed there were some women’s jeans and shirts, even a hat and boots.

“Oh! I forgot a hat for John Allen,” Frankie said, starting to walk away.

“I got him one,” he said, pulling his wallet out.

She walked back to the counter and took it from his stack and laid it on hers. “Thanks.”

He pulled it back. “I said, I got it.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to.”

She glanced at the price tag, and bit her lip. “It’s kind of pricey for such a small hat.”

A bitter taste coated his tongue, and his lip curled up. “I can afford it. I’m not the poor ranch hand your dad accuses me of being. I had fun with Johnny, and I want to get this for him. He’s a great kid.”

She held her hands up. “That’s not what I meant at all. Sorry if I offended you... That’s sweet of you. I know he’ll love it.”

They finished their transactions, and as they left the store, Wyatt’s stomach growled. He stowed their packages in the back seat of the truck, then closed his door. “You want breakfast?”

“No, thanks. But I will have some coffee.”

They entered the diner next door, and Sadie followed them in.

Frankie looked at him. “Are dogs allowed in the diner?”

He waved at one of the waitresses, then opened a screen door to another room. Sadie trotted in and immediately lay on one of the dog beds. “So many people bring their dogs to town, they have this room set up with food and water bowls and stuff.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Very progressive for such a small town.”

“We’re not Podunkville,” he bit out. “Just makes it easier for dog owners, and we don’t have to leave them in vehicles.”

“That’s not what I—Never mind. Forget I said anything.” She huffed.

They sat in a back booth, and Patsy, their waitress, stopped by for their order. “Coffee?” She held the pot up.

Francine nodded. “Please.”

Patsy filled her cup, then turned to Wyatt. “You want the usual, honey?” she asked, filling his mug.

“Hey, Patsy. Yeah, thanks.” He pushed the laminated menu across the table. “Sure you don’t want something, Frankie? They have great food.”

She smiled at Patsy. “No, thank you, I never eat breakfast. Just black coffee.” She watched Patsy walk away, then looked at him. “You’re not going to quit with the Frankie, are you?”

“Hasn’t anyone ever called you that before?”

She shook her head. “Not even in school or on the playground.”

“Francine just seems too formal for you when you’re relaxed, laughing with Marge.” He paused, took a sip of hot coffee. “Or covered in mud.”

Her cheeks colored prettily, and her nose wrinkled.

“I’ll stop calling you that.”

She held up her hand. “No, it’s okay. I kind of like it. Reminds me I need to relax more often. Just promise you won’t do it in front of my colleagues.”

Patsy returned and set his food down and refilled their coffees. His mouth watered when he saw she’d included one of the diner’s famous cinnamon rolls.

He picked up his fork and glanced at Frankie.

“That roll is as big as my hand.” She held her hand over the cinnamon roll. “Correction, it’s as big as your hand.”

“Yeah, and awesome.” Even as he said it, she licked her lips, and he wanted to be the one to make her do that. Not a cinnamon roll. He cut a piece off and handed her his fork. “Just try it. One bite won’t kill you.”

She took the fork and slid it between her lips. Her eyes closed as she chewed. “That is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

He picked up her unopened bunch of silverware and took the napkin off. “Go on, have some more. I’ve got plenty here.” He’d just taken a bite of eggs when she snatched a piece of bacon off his plate and ate it in no time.

“I thought you don’t eat breakfast.”

Red stole across her cheeks, and she looked sheepish. “Must be this mountain air. I’m actually hungry today. And I haven’t had bacon in years.”

He grinned, gestured to Patsy for another order, and slid his plate across the table to Frankie. “Well, don’t deprive yourself anymore. Dig in.”

They ate in near silence, and it surprised him that it was not an uncomfortable silence.

The front door opened, and a cold wind blew in two older women. They zeroed in on Wyatt and frowned. As they passed their table, one of them harrumphed and muttered the word trouble, and he almost spit out his coffee.

Frankie leaned forward toward him. “What on earth was that about?”

“Teachers.”

“Yours?”

“Yup.”

“I take it the school years were not pleasant ones?”

They weren’t—especially with the passing of his mother. But the last thing he needed was her learning he’d never graduated. “Why?”

“Because they keep whispering to each other and looking at you. Do you want to leave?”

“Nope. It was a long time ago. Let’s just say I wasn’t the best student.”

* * *

FRANCINE PUSHED OPEN the door and walked to where Wyatt waited for her. He leaned against the side of the truck, legs crossed in front of him, thumbs in his belt loops. He seemed to be staring at something and nothing at the same time, his mind a million miles away. The hint of grief on his face really surprised her.

She hated to bring him any more grief, but the conversation she’d just had in the diner bathroom troubled her. She dreaded bringing it up to Wyatt, but she had to, for John Allen’s sake. Once they were on the way back to the ranch, she leaned forward and turned the radio down a bit.

“When I was in ladies’ room, one of those old biddy teachers followed me in.”

“And?”

“She told me to stay away from you, for my own sake. And safety.”

His face turned to stone, and he wouldn’t look at her. A muscle jumped in his cheek, and she all but heard him grinding his teeth. “That so?”

“She said you’re a troublemaker.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was a bit of a rebel in my younger days.”

“Just a bit?”

He winced. “Okay, more than a bit. I wasn’t the best student, and I had a lot of anger.”

“So you were in a gang?”

“What?”

“She said you’d been in a gang.”

“I guess from her point of view, we were a gang. I hung around with a few guys and we had motorcycles, played pranks, caused trouble around town, if you call that a gang.”

“You had a motorcycle in high school?”

He shrugged. “I did odd jobs for the mechanic in town. He let me buy an old one for cheap. Had to rebuild it from the frame up.”

“You rebuilt a motorcycle as a kid?”

“I was always good with mechanics. Better than learning anything in school,” he muttered almost under his breath, but she heard him. “Damn thing stalled more than it ran. But it was mine, and it got me off the ranch. I still have it, even though I don’t ride it much anymore.”

She steeled herself, dreading the next part, hating to pry, but she had to. “The old lady also said you’d been in jail.”

His whole body went still, and his eyes narrowed. “This is why I hate coming to town,” he muttered. “That part is true.”

Adrenaline flooded her body, and she wanted to jump out of the truck. What had she been thinking yesterday, letting her boy spend the day with a complete stranger—who had a record!

“I’ll bet she didn’t tell you that I took the rap to keep my friend safe, did she?” he ground out through clenched teeth.

“No, she didn’t. Is that what happened?”

“My friends and I were out one night. Todd had gotten hold of some booze, so we were passing the bottle around, feeling pretty good. He did something stupid and the cops were called. If his dad had found out, he’d have beaten Todd again, real bad. So I took the rap and had to spend the night in jail. The charges were dropped the next morning because someone saw what really happened and stepped forward.”

He glanced over at her, a vein jumping in his temple. She could tell how much it bothered him to talk about this. She set a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I had to ask because of my son.”

“I’d never hurt a kid,” he ground out, yanking his arm from beneath her touch. “And I don’t appreciate anyone thinking I would.”

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