Falling for the Rebel Cowboy Read online

  AN UNLIKELY FAMILY

  As a single mother overseeing the biggest merger in her company’s history, Francine Wentworth doesn’t have time for romantic entanglements, especially with a cowboy like Wyatt Sullivan. Tall and handsome with a rebellious reputation, Wyatt is the exact type of man Francine should avoid. But her heart melts completely when her four-year-old son instantly bonds with Wyatt and becomes his little shadow.

  As the three spend time together in the Montana mountains, Wyatt shows Francine the beauty of a life beyond work. Yet as tempting as the idea of being with Wyatt is, what future could they have? Francine needs to focus on the merger and her life back in New York, but her heart and her son have other plans!

  “I wish you were my daddy.”

  Wyatt’s steps faltered, and the breath backed up in his lungs. He swore his heart squeezed tight. Me, too, bud. Me, too.

  Then he wondered if Frankie had heard what Johnny said. How would she feel about that?

  Frankie led the way to her suite, then opened the door. Wyatt followed her to Johnny’s room, and helped her get him settled for bed.

  All tucked in bed, Johnny suddenly grabbed Wyatt’s hand. “Don’t leave.”

  “You need to get some sleep, bud.”

  “Just a little while? Please, Mommy? Can’t you both stay?”

  Frankie looked at him, a question in her eyes.

  “Sure.”

  Frankie took off her shoes and laid down next to Johnny, gathered him in her arms. Wyatt pried his boots off, then lay behind her, and pulled them both close.

  Is this what he wanted? A family? To be responsible for not just a wife, but a child...

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome back to the Sullivan Guest Ranch in Montana! This is the second book in my Cowboys to Grooms series with Harlequin Western Romance about brothers Nash, Kade, Wyatt, Luke and Hunter. Nash’s story was my first in the series—A Family for the Rancher.

  This is Wyatt’s story—he’s my rebel cowboy. He left home at seventeen, an angry young man with a learning disability, roaring out of the ranch on a motorcycle. He’s back in Montana now after realizing this is where he needs to be, mending physical and familial fences with his dad and four brothers, and trying to put his past behind him.

  Francine Wentworth is a top executive at her father’s company in New York. They are working on a big merger and want absolute secrecy, so they’ve come to the ranch for business meetings. Francine has brought her adorable four-year-old son, John Allen—I adore this kid! She’s torn between her job and having time with her son, but Wyatt shows her how to relax and have fun with both of them. And she even learns how to wrangle cows, too!

  I hope you all enjoy returning to the Sullivans in Montana, and that you fall a little bit in love with Wyatt—as much as I did.

  Happy reading!

  Allison

  FALLING FOR THE REBEL COWBOY

  Allison B. Collins

  Allison B. Collins is an award-winning author and a fifth-generation Texan, so it’s natural for her to love all things Western. It’s a tough job to spend evenings writing about cowboys, rodeos and precocious children, but Allison is willing to do it to bring them all to life. She lives in Dallas with her hero husband of almost thirty years, who takes great care of her and their four rambunctious cats.

  Books by Allison B. Collins

  Harlequin Western Romance

  Cowboys to Grooms

  A Family for the Rancher

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  Acknowledgments

  The old saying “It takes a village” is absolutely true, even for writers who lead a solitary life, entrenched in the lives of their characters.

  First and foremost, I couldn’t have written this book without my amazing friends and critique partners Suzanne Clark, Angela Hicks and Sasha Summers. Thank you for the countless hours of brainstorming, critiquing, texting, emailing, and for always being there. I love you, ladies!

  Thank you to my wonderful editor, Johanna Raisanen, for believing in me and my cowboy heroes. It’s such a pleasure working with you!

  I reached out to my Facebook friends to help name Wyatt’s horse. I loved the suggestion of “Deacon” given by Dan Hill. Thanks, Uncle Dan! Deacon is exactly what Wyatt would have named his horse.

  As always, thank you to my husband for being my rock. You are the love of my life.

  And to my readers, thank you for being a part of my journey as an author!

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Angela Ackerman and Rebecca Puglisi, for giving authors everywhere—especially me!—the game-changing resources to delve deep into our characters and make them memorable. You know I’m your #1 fan!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Texas Cowboy’s Triplets by Cathy Gillen Thacker

  Chapter One

  Wyatt Sullivan stared at the beauty on the grass, glistening in the Montana sun. He knew each part of her intimately—he’d had his hands on every inch of her more times than he could count. With some pampering and TLC, he would get her purring beneath him again. After all, they didn’t make tractors like this nowadays.

  The sound of metal hitting metal clanged behind him, echoing like iron bars slamming shut at lights-out. The old fear roared back and his hands fisted, ready to defend. Chills sharp as barbed wire gripped his neck and galloped down his spine. He tilted his head up to the sky and blew out a calming breath, reminding himself he was safe, back home again.

  He’d been a headstrong seventeen-year-old when he’d left, chucked it all, headed out on his own. But after ten years he was back, trying to find his place on the ranch with his dad and four brothers. It had taken him a long time to figure out that this ranch was home. Despite the struggles to fit back in, this was where he belonged.

  Click click click echoed on the concrete path from the lodge. A woman crossed into his line of sight, her voice floating to him on a gust of wind. He’d always had a thing for blondes, and this one was real pretty. A pale pink jacket molded itself to her sleek body, and a matching skirt ended midthigh, revealing legs he could explore for days. Then her sharp words became clear.

  “I was a fool to have married you. I should have listened to my father from the beginning. But we’re divorced, and I’m stronger and smarter now. I won’t let you treat our son like he doesn’t matter.”

  The path curved, but she must have been distracted with her phone call, because she stepped off the concrete, still giving her ex a tongue-lashing. She was heading for the dirt of t
he soon-to-be vegetable garden. The one currently filled with mud from the heavy rain last night.

  He followed, trailing after not only her voice, but some type of spicy perfume. He kind of liked it, and he imagined what it would smell like up close on her skin. Like behind her ear, or at the curve of her breast.

  He had to grin as she tried to walk across the grass, her fancy pink heels sinking down with every step. Definitely more suited to a runway than a cattle ranch. She stumbled and lurched like a newborn foal trying to gain its legs.

  “Ma’am, you might want—”

  She flung a hand up at him and continued berating her ex on the phone.

  “Watch out!” he called.

  She turned around, glanced up at him and stepped back, mid-tirade. The icepick heel on her fancy pink shoe snapped. Teetering back, her arms wind-milled faster and faster and faster.

  He sprinted toward her, even though a little mud might take this princess down a notch.

  Or ten.

  He grabbed for her hand but missed, snatching nothing more than air.

  Gravity kept sucking her down, down, down, and she kept going, slow motion, as she lost the battle.

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit,” she screamed.

  She landed on her back, spread-eagle, in the ooey-gooey mud.

  Her cell phone plopped in front of him. He picked it up and heard a man’s voice still yelling. “She’ll get back to you later,” he said, then ended the call.

  She glared, her pretty blue eyes narrowed at him. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the ground beneath her started bubbling and boiling like a big pot of stew.

  He smothered a laugh, saying, “Hope you enjoy your mud bath, compliments of Sullivan Guest Ranch. Ma’am.”

  * * *

  COLD SLUDGE OOZED and squished beneath Francine Wentworth every time she moved. Can this day get any worse?

  A snort broke the silence, and she frowned up at the cowboy standing above her, but he just stared at her—tall, dark and brooding. The epitome of James Dean’s rebel, he silently held out a hand to her.

  She tried to sit up, but the mud held tight, and she felt like a pig wallowing around in muck. A lock of hair blew into her face and stuck. She tried to huff it away, but it wouldn’t budge. Wrenching one arm free, she scraped the strand off her face.

  She heard a strangled grunt and glanced up at the cowboy. He coughed and rubbed a hand over his mouth. But another strangled sound erupted from him, and he snapped his mouth shut, cleared his throat. Seriously? This guy better not start laughing at me.

  Not two seconds later, said guy lost the battle and did start laughing—a deep rumbling laughter that did funny things to her insides. Even though she threw him her best I’m going to kill you glare, it made him hoot even harder until he was gasping for breath.

  The guy kept right on at it, and every time she’d think he was done, he’d look at her and start whooping it up again.

  “Are you going to help me up or just stand there like an idiot?” she asked, finally pushing herself to a sitting position. The slimy filth slid down the back of her neck, beneath the collar of her blouse, all the way down her spine, making her skin prickle. She reached back and felt her hair hanging in clumpy mats.

  Her throat tightened. She hated it when she hit the boiling point, so angry that all she could do was cry. And it didn’t help that this guy was still standing over her, guffawing at her mud-covered misery.

  She clenched her fists tight, the wet dirt oozing through her fingers, and without thinking she flung two globs of the stuff straight at him. The mud missed his face and landed on his already-stained white T-shirt. Which only set him off into another round of that rumbling laughter.

  That’s it! Scooping up another fistful from the ground, she lobbed it at him. This time her aim was true, and it landed on his cheek.

  “Ma’am.” He wiped his hand across his face, smearing it even more. “I’m real sorry, you just—you got a little something on your face.” He gestured to his upper lip.

  Great. A mud mustache? She swiped the back of her wrist across her face but knew she’d just made it worse. If this set off another fit from him, she might scream.

  “Are you done yet?” she asked.

  He wiped his eyes. “Sorry.” He held a dirt-covered hand out to her...a hand with long, strong fingers that could definitely make her scream—in a good way.

  Wait, what?

  Mesmerized, she stared at his hand until he withdrew it. He grabbed a rag from his back pocket and made a show of wiping his hands.

  He held up somewhat cleaner fingers. “There. Better?”

  “Never mind. I can get up all by myself.”

  She drew her legs up to stand, but her shoes skated over the surface of the mud pit and squelched. She glanced at her beautiful brand-new pink Dior suit. Ruined. She’d loved this suit. It had made her feel feminine and businesslike all at once. Now it was destined for the trash heap.

  “Might be easier if you take off your shoes.”

  Her spirits sank even further. Her once pristine shell-pink Blahniks, barely out of the box, were hopelessly ruined, as well. She reached down and removed each one.

  Once they were off, she couldn’t help it and cradled them to her chest. “Bye-bye, babies,” she whispered.

  “If you want, we can give them a proper burial in the family cemetery later. There might be some old boots buried out there to keep your girlie shoes company.”

  This guy was still making fun of her? After that call from her ex, she wasn’t in the mood. She opened her mouth to tear him a new one—having grown up with a father who excelled in the subject, she knew she could do it right.

  But the lazy grin on his full lips made her rusty girl parts sit up and take notice—she’d bet anything he knew how to use those lips to a woman’s advantage. Involuntarily, her toes curled, squishing in the mud beneath her.

  His gaze shifted to her feet. At least she’d taken the time to get a pedicure before her flight to Nowheresville, Montana.

  He continued staring at her hot pink–tipped toes before his eyes drifted slowly up her legs, and she calculated just how long it’d been since a man—any man—had seen her horizontal.

  Too long.

  Way too long.

  His slow perusal continued, and because she wanted to spread her thighs wider, she squeezed them closer together. Her gaze was drawn laser quick to his lips curving up into a sexy, bad-boy, devil-may-care grin.

  “You ’bout ready to get up outta there?”

  She held her hands out, and Mr. Sexy Bad Boy’s callused fingers slid over her hands and gripped as he pulled her up and out of the mud pit.

  Traitorous tingles hippity-hopped up and down her spine.

  “Couldn’t you have warned me about that mud?” she asked, stuffing down the scary-sexy feelings about this hot-as-lava man.

  “Uh, I tried, ma’am. You were kinda busy yelling on the phone.”

  “Don’t ma’am me.” She adjusted her jacket. “The name’s Francine Wentworth. And you are?”

  “Wyatt—”

  Little-boy giggles reached her, and she looked down as her son ran to her side. “John Allen! What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in day care?” She grabbed his hand before he fell into the pit of mud.

  “Mommy! Can I play in the mud, too?” her son asked, reaching for a glob.

  She huffed. “Don’t do that. I had an accident.”

  John Allen’s face crumpled, and she regretted snapping at him. Her anger drained away, leaving just embarrassment that her muddy humiliation had been witnessed by this ranch hand.

  “How about we get you hosed off, Frankie?” Wyatt’s voice rumbled deep as a canyon.

  “My name is Francine, not Frankie,” she said, with some uncontained haughtiness for good measure.

 
The man pushed the brim of his black cowboy hat up off his forehead, looked down at her son. “Well, seeing how she’s covered head to toe in mud, I think she looks more like a Frankie right now. Whaddaya think, kid?”

  John Allen looked up at her and laughed. “Yeah, mister!”

  “Name’s Wyatt. What’s yours?” he asked, squatting down in front of her son, his jeans pulling tight on his muscled thighs.

  “John Allen Wentworth,” her son said, holding his hand out.

  Wyatt grinned, and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Johnny.”

  What was it with this guy and nicknames?

  John Allen grinned, seemingly delighted he had a nickname of his own.

  * * *

  WYATT UNWOUND THE hose and turned it on, letting the water flow. “Ready?”

  The woman grimaced but stepped toward him without a word. He let the water run over her legs, but some of the mud had already dried and wasn’t washing off. Squatting down, he ran his hand over one leg, then the next, rubbing it off. He took his time, making sure to clean off every streak of dirt.

  Was it for her sake?

  Or his?

  “I th-think you’ve got it all now,” she said.

  Too bad. He wouldn’t mind washing a few other parts of her body. He stood up and glanced at her cherry-red cheeks. “Cold?”

  “A little,” she said, not looking at him, and rinsed her muddy hands off under the hose.

  “Francine, what is going on out here?” a man shouted behind him.

  Wyatt turned to see a man in a perfectly pressed gray suit storming down the path from the lodge.

  “Dammit,” she whispered next to Wyatt.

  Instinct had him stepping in between her and the big, angry man.

  “Dad, I can explain,” she said, stepping around Wyatt.

  “Are you all right? Why are you all muddy?” Frankie’s father whirled to face Wyatt. “What did you do to her?”

  “It’s nothing—” Frankie started to say.

  “What’s your name? I’m going to report you to the owner.” Mr. Suit pulled a phone out of his pocket.