Читать книгу Falling For The Rebel Cowboy - Allison B. Collins - Страница 14
ОглавлениеWyatt 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.
