Her New Year's Fortune

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  “Wyatt, darling,” she’d greeted, setting down her basket and tugging off her gloves to hold them out to him. “I was beginning to wonder what had become of you both. I was hoping you’d get here before William and I head into Red Rock to meet some friends, or those clouds up there decide there’s some water in them after all and rains all over your plans.” She’d accepted the kiss he dropped on her cheek before turning her smiling welcome to Sarah-Jane, tugging her close for a wholly unexpected hug, before setting her back to cast her gaze over her. “Don’t you look just as pretty as a picture, Sarah-Jane. Either The Stocking Stitch is treating you exceptionally well, or this rascal here is.” She’d gazed fondly at Wyatt.

  Sarah-Jane had felt surprisingly tongue-tied even though she’d seen the gracious woman more than once since she’d first come to Red Rock and had always found her to be extremely nice. “Both are treating me very well, Mrs. Fortune,” she’d managed.

  “And well deserved, I’m quite certain,” Lily had said, giving her arm a little squeeze. “And please, call me Lily. I’ve told you that before. I won’t keep you youngsters. Wyatt, you’ll find everything you need in the stables. But if you need assistance, I’m sure Ruben won’t be far off.” She’d picked up her basket and her garden shears and headed into the house with a wave. After that, Wyatt had taken Sarah-Jane’s hand once again and they’d walked some distance past a beautifully weathered barn until they’d reached the stables.

  Which is where Sarah-Jane presently stood, staring up at a brown horse that seemed immense to her. She’d seen movies, television shows, where individuals had mounted a horse. She’d just never done it personally.

  She gingerly reached out and patted the horse’s gleaming neck and his—her?—head swung around to eye Sarah-Jane with patient brown eyes. “Er, Wyatt?”

  He was standing behind her, saddling the horse he would be riding—a dark gold mammoth with a nearly-white mane and tail. For the “vice president and financial whiz of JMF financial,” he looked entirely at home in the stable, hefting around saddles on his broad shoulder and easily deciphering the tangle of straps that made up bridles and reins. “Problem?”

  She braced herself for embarrassment. “How do I get on?”

  “You haven’t ridden a horse before? And you call yourself a Texan,” he teased gently. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  Definitely embarrassed. “Believe me, I wouldn’t have if I knew how to get my foot up in this stirrup here.” The thing was about on a level with her waist. Her jeans were comfortable and had a fair amount of give, but not that much. Even without the jeans, she couldn’t envision lifting her foot up that high. She’d taken up running, not gymnastics.

  He laughed softly. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a boost up onto Annabelle there soon as I finish here.”

  Which just left Sarah-Jane to worry over what a “boost” might entail.

  As it turned out, it meant placing the toe of her brand new boot in the hands he linked together.

  “Okay,” he coaxed. “When you put your weight on my hands, I’ll lift. You hold the reins and the saddle horn in your left hand like I showed you and the back of the saddle with your right. Your weight is on your foot so you’re pushing up, not pulling up with your hands. Then you just swing your leg over, nice and easy.”

  She barely heard anything past putting her weight on his hands. “I’m too heavy.”

  “Oh, for the love of Pete.” He straightened, his hands propped on his hips. “You’re not too heavy. Honey, I’ve got eighty pounds on you, easy. I can give you a boost, or I can just lift you up there. What’ll it be?”

  If he thought he had eighty pounds on her, she didn’t want to disabuse him. He was six feet of hard, muscular man. She was five-seven of stubborn, female curve. She knew, because she carried it around every day with her, and it wasn’t budging another pound, despite her efforts. Better for him to bear part of her weight than all. “Boost, please.”

  He smiled slightly and she had the strangest sensation that he’d been reading her mind as he crouched down and linked his hands once again. “Go ahead and grab the horn.”

  She reached up and wrapped her fingers around the hard, leather covered saddle horn and gingerly set her boot in his hands.

  “Okay, now step down and push yourself up.”

  Holding her breath, she did exactly what he said, and she suddenly found herself rising almost magically upward. That wasn’t so bad. She swung her leg over the horse, managing not to kick poor Annabelle in the process, only to keep right on going, sliding off the opposite side and landing in a heap on the straw-covered ground.

  She heard Wyatt curse even as laughter warred inside her with the effort to catch her breath. He was beside her in a flash, leaning over her with a mighty frown and running his hands gently down her arms and legs. “Are you hurt?”

  She inhaled. Coughed. Let out a laugh. Annabelle even swung her head around to give her a look. “Other than my pride?” She inhaled again. Coughed. Let out another laugh before rolling over and pushing up onto her knees. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

  He let out a loud breath. “You scared the hell out of me!”

  She brushed at the straw clinging to her sweater. “What can I say? I’m no ballerina.”

  “I don’t know any ballerinas personally so I couldn’t say how well they mount a horse, either.” Now that his heart was starting to climb down out of his throat, Wyatt angled his head slightly and studied the view she made in front of him. “You missed some straw,” he murmured.

  She pushed to her feet and craned her head around, pulling at a piece that had stuck in her long, loose hair. “Where?” She swiped her hands down her thighs one more time. “Did I get it?”

  Hell. Why not torture himself a little more? He’d been in a world of hurt since she’d opened her apartment door that morning looking like a fantasy. The episode at the Western wear shop hadn’t helped him any.

  He put one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip, turning her slightly. Then he swept his hand down over the perfect shape of her luscious rear, brushing away the straw that was clinging there. Keeping his hand from lingering was about the toughest thing he’d done in quite a while, but he managed. Just. “All clean,” he muttered gruffly and she snatched up her hat where it had fallen to the ground before hurrying around the head of the horse. He still saw the way her cheeks had gone red.

  He followed her and crouched down again. “Okay, this time, keep hold of the horn,” he suggested wryly. “Or if you’re more comfortable, get a good handful instead of Annabelle’s mane right here.” He patted the horse’s neck.

  “Oh sure,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Pull the poor thing’s hair right out.” But she was still smiling and she quickly set her boot in his hold. A second later, he’d boosted her easily on top of the horse. This time she stayed seated and she beamed down at him.

  She was so damn pretty it made him ache inside.

  “Push down your heels,” he instructed as he adjusted the length of the stirrups. “You don’t want your boot sliding forward or getting stuck in the stirrup.” Once he was satisfied, he adjusted the clenched grip she had on the reins. “Relax. All you’ll need to do is guide by the reins. Annabelle knows what to do.” She was smiling all the while, but still he could tell that she was listening closely. And then it was just a matter of getting up on his own mount, and then he led the way out of the stables.

  As soon as they were out in the open air, he held up Monty for long enough for Sarah-Jane and Annabelle to come up next to them and they fell into a companionable silence that was broken only by the creak of saddle leather and the occasional jingle of a bridle as they left the ranch buildings long behind. Overhead, fat white clouds drifted lazily through the sky, playing hide and seek with the sun.

  He couldn’t have ordered up more perfect weather for a day spent riding. Neither too hot nor too cool.

  “It’s so beautiful out here,” she said, as if she’d
been reading his mind.

  He looked at her. Her dark eyes looked as dreamy as her voice had sounded. “It is.” He looked away from her, reminding himself that he hadn’t brought her out there to seduce her. He and his brothers had spent so much time in each other’s pockets lately, he’d needed some space. From them and from the topic they were all most concerned with—their father and JMF. “So what brought you back from Houston early?”

  Her dreamy look vanished. “I’d just had enough.”

  “Of what?”

  “Have you ever had the feeling that no matter what you do, how you look, how you act, it’ll never be good enough?” She tilted her head to look at him from beneath the brim of her hat, and he saw her roll her eyes. “Don’t answer that. Look at you. You’re—” she broke off and wriggled once in her saddle. “Of course you haven’t,” she finished.

  He wondered what she hadn’t said. But it didn’t really matter, because she was wrong. His father’s actions seemed to indicate neither he nor his brothers had been good enough for JMF. Which was exactly the sort of thinking that he was trying to get away from.

  “Who’s got you feeling like you’re not good enough? Your parents?” She’d gone to Houston for her father’s birthday; it was a pretty safe guess. And he felt instant antipathy toward them.

  “My mother.” She crinkled her nose, confirming his guess, and looked ahead once again. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too lovely out here to think about it.”

  “I’m not sure what’s worse. A critical parent or one who doesn’t say anything at all when they should.” He wished he’d just kept his mouth shut when she cast him another look.

  “That sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” she said slowly. “Your parents are in Atlanta, aren’t they? Don’t you get along with them?”

  He knew it was his own fault, opening the door to topics he didn’t want to think about. He deliberately focused on the horizon. “I thought we’d head out toward those hills to the west.” There weren’t a lot of trees surrounding the Double Crown’s ranch house, but Lily had told him the landscape was more forgiving up in the gentle hills that was cut through with a small stream. “You up for a little canter?”

  Her gaze was so steady it felt uncomfortably like she was seeing right into him. “You go ahead,” she finally invited. “I’ll plod along and remain safely in my saddle, thanks.”

  He shook his head, tsking. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Still rolling around with my dignity in the straw back at the stable,” she said dryly.

  “We’ll start off slow,” he promised.

  She made a face. “Great,” she drawled, but her eyes were dancing. Her self-worth was haunting in its scarcity—something he was determined to do something about—but she needed no help at all when it came to having a sense of humor.

  He clucked Monty into an easy trot and Annabelle agreeably followed suit. Sarah-Jane, on the other hand, scrunched up her face, wincing and laughing all at the same time as she bounced away. “Stop,” she begged, splaying her hand across her chest. “I left my running bra at home!”

  He did not need to be thinking about her bras, running or otherwise, because all he could think about was getting her out of it. But now he was and there was no help for it. He clucked again and Monty moved from a trot into a canter. Again, Annabelle followed right along.

  “Wyatt! You’re going faster!”

  He shot Sarah-Jane a grin. “Sit your butt down in the saddle,” he called. “Cantering is smoother than trotting. Keep the bottom of your spine soft and just rock with the horse. Just like sex,” he added, wishing to hell he could rid himself of the devil that made him say it. “All you’ve got to do is match up your rhythm.”

  Predictably, her cheeks went red and he heard her make a sort of choking sound, but damned if she didn’t settle that God-given rear end down in the saddle. And then he decided he’d better pay more attention to the ground they were swiftly covering than her mesmerizing movements or end up losing his own seat in the saddle.

  The horses loped along at a smooth, easy pace until they reached the well-treed hills that Wyatt was aiming for. They stopped when he found the trio of logs positioned on the sun dappled grass next to the thin creek that Lily had described, and he helped Sarah-Jane dismount before he led the horses over to the water. They wouldn’t go anywhere, he knew, and he unfastened the saddlebag he’d packed with a lunch from the hotel and handed it to Sarah-Jane. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s food.”

  Sarah-Jane’s heart was still bouncing around inside her chest from their ride. She sat down on one of the rough logs that had been positioned in the past by some kind hand and tried not to wince as her tired legs protested. She pulled off her hat and set it on the log beside her, then lifted a leather flap to look inside the bag.

  Laughter bubbled out of her. “Not fancy?” She pulled out a cool wine bottle that was wrapped in a clever, padded holder that also had spots for two stemless glasses. “I’d hate to see what you do call fancy.” How had she not noticed him packing this stuff in the saddlebags?

  But then she stopped wondering as she watched him unsaddle the horses. Watching him do anything was reason enough to be oblivious to minor details.

  He spread the saddle blankets out on one of the other fallen logs and propped the saddles against them before turning toward her. She pulled out the bottle and handed it to him. “I’m surprised you trust me to drink wine again after the last time.”

  He smiled slightly. “I’ll take my chances. But if anyone gets to pretend to be someone else, this time it’s me.” He slid her a look and stuck his hand into the saddlebag, coming up with a wine opener. “And that was a joke, so don’t start cringing or anything.”

  She was cringing, but hopefully not anywhere he could see. “I know you’re joking,” she managed. “I’m sure there’s no reason you’d want to be someone else.”

  He grunted. “You’d be surprised.” He sat beside her and deftly opened the wine bottle before tucking the opener and the cork back inside the bag. “There’s food in there, too,” he prompted when she just sat there, looking at him.

  She didn’t delve into the bag again, but held it against her chest, wishing to heaven that she could read his mind the way he seemed to so easily read hers. “Are you happy, Wyatt?”

  His eyes narrowed. Then he slid one of the glasses out of the padded holder and filled it with pale gold liquid, which he held out to her. “Right now I am.”

  She slowly took the glass. “You sound surprised.”

  “Not really.” He filled the other glass. “That’s what being around you does.”

  Her stomach swooped. She made him happy?

  He gently tapped his glass against hers and his lips twitched. “Cheers, Gertrude.”

  Just that easily, she laughed.

  So did he.

  And she knew that no matter what happened for the rest of her life, she’d never forget that moment.

  “Why don’t we see how well the rest of the lunch fared?” His voice sounded gruff after his laughter died.

  Wholly bemused, she looked away from his face. “Can you hold this?” She held out her glass and reached into the bag with her other hand. She felt the brush of his fingers against hers as he took the glass and she started, the simple, undoubtedly unintentional impact quaking through her all the way down to her toes. She closed her eyes and drew in a careful breath, glad that her tangled hair was falling over her cheeks, hiding her face from him.

  He muttered an oath and suddenly set both glasses on the ground before pushing off the log and striding toward the creekside where the horses were grazing.

  Alarmed, she quickly set aside the saddlebag and stepped over the spilled wine glasses to follow. She couldn’t believe her bravery when she set her fingertips on his back, squarely between his rigid shoulder blades. “Wyatt? What’s wrong?”

  If anything, he went even more rigid at her touch. “Sarah-Jane, if you want to have
just a picnic here and ride on back to the ranch, no harm, no foul, then you’d better keep your hands to yourself and give me a minute.”

  She sucked in a breath, her fingers curling into her palm and away from him.

  He angled his head and she caught a glimpse of searing blue beneath the brim of his hat before he looked away from her, back toward the creek. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered. “Are you a virgin, Sarah-Jane?”

  Mortified, she folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Why would you even ask that?”

  He exhaled noisily. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She had a fleeting thought of Felicity, who really was a virgin. “Well you’d be wrong,” she retorted, even though her face was flaming hot. “Are you?”

  He gave a bark of laughter that did not sound in the least bit humorous. “Not since I was still in high school and wet behind the ears.”

  She lifted her chin. “I guess that’d make two of us, then.”

  He gave her another look. A disbelieving one.

  She automatically glanced up when a drop of water hit her cheek. The clouds had collected together and it had begun lightly sprinkling. “His name was Bobby and he was the captain of my high school football team.” The rest of the ignoble details were hers to keep, and frankly seemed to be losing their importance by the minute.

  He thumbed his hat back an inch. “Was he, now.” His voice had gone smooth. “And who else?”

  She pressed her lips together. “A lady doesn’t sleep and tell.”

  “A lady just did,” he pointed out calmly, though the ferocity in his expression remained. “Her name was Jennifer and she was head cheerleader.”

  “Naturally,” she muttered sourly. She couldn’t have competed with a cheerleader back then any more than she could compete with a beauty pageant winner now. “Followed no doubt by a bevy of Jennifer and Georgianna types.”

  “None of whom interest me at this particular moment.” His gaze was burning over her face again. “Sarah-Jane, do you even have a clue how much I want you?”