The Millionaire and the Cowgirl. Lisa Jackson
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stare out the window, never once flinching at the sound of his name. Grant seemed as out of place here in his jeans, Western-cut jacket and Stetson as a dusty pickup in a parking lot filled with BMWs, Cadillacs and Porsches. Kyle silently wagered with himself that his cowboy stepbrother couldn’t wait to climb on a plane, shed the lights of the city and fly back to the harsh life he loved in the middle of nowhere—Clear Springs, Wyoming.
Next to Grant, Kristina, the only child of Nate and Barbara, Kyle’s father and stepmother, fidgeted in her chair and bit her lower lip nervously while trying to appear interested. Spoiled beyond belief, she tossed a strand of blond hair over her shoulder and looked like she wanted nothing more than to flee from the stuffy attorney’s office. She caught Kyle’s eye, sent him a silent message, then glanced away.
He didn’t blame her. They’d suffered through the funeral, graveside service and a catered buffet afterward for the closest friends and family of Kate. Hundreds of sympathy cards, a veritable garden of flowers and sprays and tens of thousands of dollars in checks to Kate’s favorite charities had been arriving in a steady stream. Then there was the press and the speculation about her death, how she’d flown the company jet alone over the jungles of South America, somehow lost control and perished a horrible, mind-numbing death….
Kyle ground his teeth together.
“…And to my grandson Kyle, I leave the ranch in Clear Springs, Wyoming, with all livestock and equipment, aside from the stallion, Fortune’s Flame….” Kyle had barely been listening until the stipulation was read: “…Kyle must reside on the ranch for no less than six months before the deed and all other necessary paperwork is transferred into his name….”
It was just like his grandmother to bequeath him the ranch—the one oasis of his childhood—with strings attached. He heard his brother Michael’s swift intake of breath, probably because of the value of the ranch and the fact that Kyle had never made anything of himself—not really.
Later, Michael had spoken to him alone, given him some speech about responsibility, taking control of his life, making the most of the opportunity Kate had given him.
Kyle hadn’t listened much. He didn’t need lectures. He knew he’d fouled up and he didn’t figure it was any of Mike’s damned business what he did with his future. It was his to gild or ruin.
But his brother was right about one thing. Now Kyle had a chance to prove himself by living here on the ranch, making the necessary repairs and eventually selling it all for a tidy profit, though that probably wasn’t what the old lady wanted.
“What did you expect?” he said to the empty room, as if his grandmother could hear him. “Did you really think you could control me from the grave? Did you? Well, you’re wrong. I’m gonna sell this place like that….” He snapped his fingers and reached for the latch of the window, but as he closed the pane, he glanced out at the starry night, past the old orchard to the neighboring ranch, where a lamp glowed brightly in one of the windows.
Sam.
An unexpected jolt of emotion caused his heart to kick. For a fleeting instant he wondered if his grandmother had planned to place him in such close proximity with the one woman who could make him want to strangle her one instant and make love to her the next. But that was impossible. No one, but no one, had known about his affair with Sam—well, only Sam and himself—and that was the way it would always stay.
He stared at the warm patch of lamplight, a welcoming beacon, it seemed, and gritted his teeth as he realized he’d like nothing better than to walk across those moonlit fields, pound on her door and take her into his arms. He’d kiss her as he used to, with the same passion that had steamed through his blood and brought his manhood springing to attention years ago.
But crossing the fence line to the Rawlings place was the last thing on earth he planned to do.
Turning on his heel, he nearly slammed his head on a low-hanging crossbeam before he stalked out of the room. He felt cornered and manipulated and frustrated as he thought about Sam. As if his grandmother was listening from her spot on the other side of the pearly gates, he grumbled, “Okay, Kate. You’ve won. So I’m here. Just tell me one thing. What the hell am I supposed to do about Sam?”
Three
“Great, just great.” Sam kicked off her boots on the back porch, where a moth was beating itself senseless against the exterior light. She stole a glance past the barbed-wire fence to the few visible acres of the Fortune spread and wondered again what Kyle was up to.
All afternoon and evening she’d been fighting a blinding headache that had developed when she’d first set eyes on Kyle Fortune after ten long years. Throughout her chores she’d thought about him, wishing she’d never have to deal with him again, while knowing deep in her foolish heart that she had no choice.
Why had Kate—a woman Sam had admired for her courage and clear vision—seen fit to leave the place to him, when she had more than a dozen descendants to choose from? Kyle was the least fit to run the ranch, the most unlikely candidate for adopting Wyoming as his home. Why not Grant, who had never left Clear Springs? Or how about Rachel, who many people in town thought was so like her grandmother? Rocky, Kyle’s cousin, was adventurous, a pilot, for crying out loud, and she’d always loved Clear Springs. But no, Kate had chosen Kyle and then strapped him to the place for six long months—right next door to Sam.
Padding to the kitchen sink, she muttered under her breath, cranked on the faucets, then splashed cold water on her face, letting it drip onto her blouse. “Criminy,” she said under her breath before taking a long swallow from the faucet. If she had any brains or courage, she’d call Kyle, tell him she needed to talk to him, and then, once she was face-to-gorgeous-face with him again, admit that they had a daughter, a beautiful tomboy of a girl.
“Oh, right. And then what?” she wondered aloud as she wiped her sleeve over her mouth. Kyle would either turn tail and run—if history served to repeat itself—or he’d demand proof of paternity and then, once the results of the blood tests were announced, probably expect no less than partial custody. “Damn it all to—” She stopped short when she caught a glimpse of Caitlyn’s reflection in the window over the sink. “What’re you doing up?”
“What’re you doing cursing?”
Sam sighed and straightened the sleeves she’d pushed up over her elbows. With the special smile she reserved for her daughter, she lifted a shoulder. “Okay, you caught me,” she admitted. “I’m upset, I guess.”
“Because of your friend?” Caitlyn was eyeing her oddly. Her nine-year-old face was puckered in concentration, her Fortune blue eyes silently accusing.
“Yeah, because of him.”
“You tell me not to let other people bother me.”
“Good advice. I guess I’ll take it. Now, why don’t you explain why you’re up so late? I thought you went to bed an hour ago.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Caitlyn said with a shrug, but the lines of concern didn’t smooth from her forehead.
“Why not?”
“It’s hot.”
“And…?” Sam prodded, walking up to her daughter and, with gentle hands, turning her toward the stairs leading to her bedroom.
“And…” Caitlyn worried her lip.
“What is it?”
“It’s Jenny Peterkin,” Caitlyn finally admitted with a scowl.
“What about Jenny?” Samantha didn’t like the topic of the conversation. Jenny was a spoiled ten-year-old who had been the bane of Caitlyn’s existence since second grade.
“I think she called me.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. While you were in the barn, the phone rang and someone asked for me and said they were Tommy Wilkins, but it didn’t sound