Falling For The Rebel Cowboy. Allison Collins B.

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