Falling For The Rebel Cowboy. Allison Collins B.
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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?”