“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.”
Falling for the Rebel Cowboy Page 4