Falling For The Rebel Cowboy. Allison B. Collins

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      “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.

      “Dad, I just tripped in the mud, and this nice man—”

      “Wyatt Sullivan,” he said, holding a hand out to her father, knowing damn good and well he wouldn’t take it. “Part owner of Sullivan Guest Ranch.”

      Father and daughter glanced at him. “You are?” they asked at the same time.

      He tipped his cowboy hat at her. “Yep.”

      “Anyway, Mr. Sullivan was helping me so I wouldn’t track mud all over the lodge.”

      “Thank you for helping my daughter.” The older man looked calmer but still had a suspicious look on his face. “You don’t look like a luxury-ranch owner. Besides, I met the owner, Angus,” her father said.

      “That’s my dad.” This man didn’t need to know Wyatt’s share wasn’t final yet. He would get it when he could prove to his dad he was home to stay.

      Wentworth ignored him. “Francine, why don’t you get cleaned up. We need you back in the meeting.”

      He looked down at his grandson. “And make sure John Allen doesn’t get dirty, too.” He dialed a number on his cell phone and went back the way he’d come.

      “I’m really sorry, Mr. Sullivan,” she said.

      “Wyatt,” he said, trying to keep his cool as long-forgotten rage bubbled up from his past.

      “Wyatt, I apologize for my father. He can be a bit...” She bit her lip.

      “Bossy?”

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