Rich Rancher For Christmas. Sarah M. Anderson
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attention. But once the attention stopped...
Her phone pinged—a text from her producer, Steve. Anything yet?
Natalie forced herself to breathe once, and then twice. Working on it, she texted back.
The latest numbers are in—you’re falling behind. If you can’t pull this out, I’m giving your slot to Kevin.
The tightness in her chest squeezed so hard she had trouble breathing. There was no way she could wait until the next Beaumont baby was born—she needed Carlos Julián Santino or CJ Wesley or whatever name he went by and she needed him now. She could not lose her spot to Kevin Durante. Kevin had great hair and that was it. He was dumber than a post, lousy in bed and, unfortunately, was exactly the sort of benign golden boy that did well on morning television. She’d rather cut off her toe than give her spot to Kevin.
No worries! she texted back. I’ll be in touch.
There was an agonizingly long pause before Steve replied. You better be right about this, Baker.
I won’t let you down! she texted back, hoping that sounded far more confident than she felt.
Steve was running out of patience with her. If she lost ground to Denver This Morning, then she’d be out of a job, out of broadcasting, out of the public eye. Steve’s job security rested entirely on beating Denver This Morning in the ratings. She knew damn good and well he wouldn’t go down with her ship. He would replace her in a heartbeat if it came to that. With Kevin.
So, she continued to sit in the freezing cold outside of the Wesley house, waiting. The house was dark and she had knocked on every visible door when she’d arrived. She was as confident as she could be without breaking and entering that no one was home.
Okay, she bargained with herself, she would tough it out for ten minutes and if no one showed up she would head back to the diner. The coffee might be god-awful, but it was hot. And maybe that grumpy cowboy would show up.
She spent the next ten minutes toggling between Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, trying to fight the growing sense of panic at the lack of likes and hearts and favorites and retweets. Clearly, her last posts hadn’t been shocking enough. Feeling desperate, she posted: Rumor has it that Matthew Beaumont and his child-star bride Whitney Wildz are expecting—but is the baby really his?
She felt a pang of guilt at the lie before she reminded herself that the Beaumonts were a public entity and this was how the game was played. Besides, if anyone could handle the heat, it was PR genius Matthew Beaumont. Really, the Beaumonts should be thanking her. She helped them sell beer, after all.
The guilt successfully contained, she posted and cross-posted the rumor. As the comments added up and the retweets accumulated, the tightness in her chest loosened. This was better. She had a therapist once tell her that her need for approval was unhealthy and she should accept herself for who she was. Natalie had accepted that she was not going back to that therapist ever again.
Still, she was freezing. She put down her phone and went to put her car into Reverse when she saw it—a vaguely familiar pickup truck rolling up behind her. Oh, thank God—she was in no mood to die of frostbite out in the middle of nowhere.
Well, well, well. If it wasn’t a particularly familiar-looking tall, dark, handsome cowboy climbing out of that pickup truck. She should’ve known. The cowboy in the black hat from the feed store was none other than Carlos Julián Santino Beaumont Wesley. That muscle twitch in his jaw—that was his tell. She had been so close to the truth—why hadn’t she seen it?
Her heart did a funny little skip at the sight of him and honestly, she wasn’t sure if that was because he was the man she’d been searching for to secure her job for the foreseeable future or...
Or if she was just glad to see him.
That was ridiculous. She wasn’t glad to see him and he sure as hell wasn’t glad to see her—even at this distance, his scowl was ferocious. She waited until he had shut the door of his truck before she opened her own door. She unfolded her legs slowly, letting her skirt ride up a little so he could catch a glimpse of her thigh as she stood. “We meet again.”
A whole lot more than his jaw was twitching. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He was pissed, but she refused to cower. “I believe I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Santino. Or should I say, Mr. Beaumont?”
She was pushing her luck and she knew it. He was practically vibrating with rage and no amount of bare leg was going to appease him. If only she’d guessed that the man she was looking for was the cowboy from the feed store, she would’ve at least put on long pants because that cowboy had not been interested in her body. And, by all accounts, he still wasn’t.
“My name is Wesley,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Sure, we can play it that way. CJ Wesley, right?” With shivering fingers, she pulled out her phone and opened up the camera app.
The next thing she knew, she was staring at her empty hand. She blinked and looked up just in time to see Wesley pocketing her phone. “Hey! Give that back!”
“No,” he said, and almost smiled. “I don’t think I’m going to. You’re on private property, Ms. Baker. You’re about two steps away from flat-out stalking me. You’ve been working your way through the population of Firestone for the last three weeks trying to get out here. I’m trying to think of a good reason why I shouldn’t call Jim Bob and have you arrested for stalking, trespassing, and—” His gaze swept over her body. “And sheer stupidity. Did you even look at the weather before you drove out here today? Don’t you know there’s supposed to be a blizzard that hits tonight? And you’re out here in what—a pair of heels and a skirt? You’re lucky you’re not dead of exposure already.”
She stared at him and, for a moment, forgot to arrange herself in the most seductive way possible. The first part of what he said—the trespassing and stalking—wasn’t so surprising. She’d had people angry at her before.
But the part about the blizzard and exposure? He was mad at her—perhaps justifiably—but it had almost sounded like he was concerned about her. “Our meteorologist said it wasn’t going to hit until tomorrow.”
“Get in your car,” he said sharply.
The force of his words backed her up a bit. Although it could have been the wind. “What? No! You’re crazy if you think I’m going anywhere without my phone.”
Unexpectedly, he jerked his head up and looked at the sky. Dark, she realized. His eyes were a deeper color—hazel? Maybe light brown. Not the light green of so many of the Beaumonts. The shadow from the brim of his hat had to have been the reason why she hadn’t seen the Beaumont in his face in the feed store. Every Beaumont man had the same jawline. CJ Wesley was no exception.
She was beginning to shake, the wind was that vicious. She eyed his heavy sheepskin coat with jealousy. “Look,” she began, “I’m sure there’s something—”
“Ms. Baker,” he interrupted, “get in your car and start driving. That storm isn’t going to hit tomorrow. It’s coming. Now.” As he spoke, he reached back into the bed of his truck and pulled out several grocery bags. “And I’m not giving you your phone back. I’ll take a hatchet to it before I let you take pictures of me and splash them all over God’s green earth. My life is not for sale.” He looked up at the sky and grimaced. “City slickers,” he mumbled, she thought.
He brushed past her, moving too fast for her to grab him and get her phone out of his pocket. He set down the groceries on the porch and fumbled with his keys.
She just stood there, gaping at him. “I am not leaving without my phone.” Her life was on that phone—her connection to the world. If she didn’t have it...well, she didn’t have anything.
He stopped as he got the door open and turned back to her. “You leave right now or you won’t be leaving at all.” He pointed at the sky behind her.
Reluctantly,