Falling For The Rebel Cowboy

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.”