Falling For The Rebel Cowboy. Allison B. Collins

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      “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 stood there, staring at them with bloodred eyes, steam puffing out of his nostrils. His horns curved forward, and the tips looked razor sharp.

      Sadie gave a sharp bark, and he reached back to run a hand over her head, hoping she’d stay quiet. Beside him, Frankie’s breaths shuddered in and out, too fast. “Take a deep breath and hold it. Count to five and let it out.”

      He heard her breathe in, ending on a whimper, then she blew it out. “Again. I don’t want you to pass out on me. I need you to keep Sadie quiet. She’s pregnant, and I don’t want her upset.”

      Frankie’s breathing finally slowed down, and she murmured softly to the dog.

      A bellow ripped through the cloudy morning, and the bison swung its massive head toward the departing herd. With one last look at Wyatt and Frankie, the animal shifted about and wandered across the valley toward the river.

      “Oh, thank God,” she murmured.

      He faced the front windshield and put the car in gear, making sure all the bison were off the road, then continued to town.

      By the time Wyatt pulled into a parking spot in front of the general store, Francine seemed totally fine.

      “This is a charming little town,” she said as she unbuckled her seat belt.

      He looked up and down the street, saw the same old buildings that had always been there, just prettied up for the season. Neatly trimmed window boxes burst with fall foliage. Colorful flags announcing the harvest festival hung from the old-fashioned streetlights.

      “Where do you need to go?” he asked.

      “Children’s clothing store.”

      “I don’t think there’s one here. But Marge might have something in the general store. That’s where I’m going, anyway.”

      “Great, I can get clothes for John Allen, a rake and a horse blanket,” she muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

      “You can always order online from whatever fancy place you shop,” he said and got out, letting Sadie follow behind him. She quirked a brow, and he wondered if this morning’s tutoring session was making him snappy. Once again, it hadn’t gone well.

      “I just thought I’d get him some clothes to play in while we’re here.”

      “Kade won’t mind if Johnny keeps the ones we borrowed yesterday. Plenty more you can have.”

      She didn’t say anything, but he could just imagine how pissed her father would be to know his grandson was wearing old hand-me-downs.

      Wyatt opened the door to the general store and held it for her, and she walked by him at a fast pace, her heels clacking on the wood floor. “You might wanna look at getting some play clothes for yourself,” he murmured.

      Marge walked up to them just then. She was a staple in town and ran a tight ship, but she had the biggest heart ever. Maybe that was why she and his mother had been best friends. “Marge, this is Francine Wentworth, from New York City. She needs some jeans and stuff. Maybe even a horse blanket, too.”

      Francine rolled her eyes at him as she shook Marge’s hand. “Hi, Marge. It’s nice to meet you.”

      “Welcome to our town, Francine.” Marge leaned in to hug him. “’Bout time you came to see me, Wyatt.” She grabbed a handful of his hair. “You need a haircut.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said. Almost thirty years old and she could still make him feel like a rebellious twelve-year-old.

      “Come on, Francine. I’ll show you around,” Marge said.

      He stayed put a minute, watching Marge and Frankie interact. They’d just met yet were already talking like old friends, even if they were polar opposites. Marge, with her curly silver hair and reading glasses hung around her neck, old jeans and a pressed shirt. Frankie and her perfectly done blond hair and makeup, fancy coat and black suit.

      He looked around the store, the merchandise. Another place in town that hadn’t changed over time. It always smelled the same in the general store—coffee, mothballs, penny candy, a wood-burning fire and new denim. Most days a group of older men sat by the stove and played checkers and gossiped.

      He craned his neck to see the back of the store. Yup, three of them were back there, already in place. He winced—he’d have to pass them to get to what he needed. He and his friends had probably pranked—or worse—all of them at least once in his troubled youth.

      He’d been to town a handful of times since coming home, tried to avoid locals when he did. No sense putting it off. He headed toward the kitchen supplies, and as he approached the checkers players, they all stopped talking. Wyatt nodded at them but didn’t stop. As soon as he passed them, they started talking again, this time in whispers.

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