Mr Serious. Danica Winters
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and the army were—his heart. He glanced down at Dunrovin Ranch and the guesthouses speckled throughout its expanse.
As much as he had loved the place where he spent most of his childhood, the lifestyle it symbolized was exactly what he feared the most—boredom. A life spent in habitual motion. Feed the horses, take care of the guests, take care of the ranch’s maintenance, take care of the animals and go to bed, ready to repeat it every day until one morning he just didn’t wake up. It wasn’t that he judged his adoptive mother and father, Eloise and Merle Fitzgerald, for their need for complete stability. It was because of their stability and values he had even made it out of childhood alive. He owed them everything.
“Waylon?” the pilot asked again. “You got a place?”
“Put her down just there.” He motioned toward the gravel parking lot that stood empty in the midmorning sun.
That was strange. This time of year, Dunrovin was normally hopping with life—winter-themed weddings, riding classes and parties to celebrate the coming of Christmas.
As the pilot lowered the bird toward the ground, people started spilling out of the main house. His adoptive mother waved at the helicopter, and even from a distance, he could see the smile on her face. In just the few years since he’d left the ranch, she’d grown gray and her back had started to take on the slight curve that came with age and osteoporosis. His father, the quiet and stoic man who was always working, stood beside her, holding her hand.
Next to them was a blonde. She was tall and lean, the body of a rider, but he didn’t recognize her. She turned slightly, and he could make out the perfect round curve of her ass in her tight blue jeans. Perhaps she was one of their trainers. Either way, he’d have to watch out for her. She looked like the kind of woman who would end up in one of two positions with him—either toe to toe in a shouting match, or between the sheets. As it was, he just needed to get in and out of the ranch and back to work. The last thing he needed was any more drama than necessary.
The blonde shaded her eyes as she frowned up at him, but after a moment her gaze moved to the apple tree in the corner of the lot. Standing high in its branches was a little girl who looked to be about three years old. Her brunette curls blowing in the rotor wash as she gawked at him.
What in the hell was a girl that little doing standing in a tree?
The blonde jogged toward her as if she’d had the same thought.
“Be careful,” Waylon said to the pilot, pointing to the toddler.
The pilot pulled back on the stick, and the powerful draft at such a low altitude kicked up a thick cloud of dust.
The little girl in the tree started to sway, and Waylon called out a warning into the deafening roar of the chopper’s wash.
The girl trembled as she struggled to keep hold of the bark. She looked up at him as a gust of wind set her off balance, and her left shoe slid from the branch. The girl’s blue dress moved against her like an unwieldy sail and propelled her out of the tree. She careened toward the ground.
From where he sat, it looked as though she landed face-first at the bottom of the tree.
“Bring this bird down, dammit!” he shouted.
Hopefully the little girl was still alive.
What kind of man thought it was okay to fly into a quiet ranch like he was some kind of freaking hero? Who did Waylon Fitzgerald think he was? All that man ever did was leave destruction in his wake, and as far as Christina Bell was concerned, this was just another example of how little he cared when it came to how his actions affected others.
She rushed to her niece as the girl tumbled out of the apple tree and landed on the ground. The girl let out a shrill cry, but it was nearly drowned out by the chopping of the blades of the bull-in-a-china-shop helicopter.
“Winnie, are you okay?” Christina called above the sound.
Tears streamed down Winnie’s dusty face, cutting through the dirt and exposing her unmarred skin below. “It hurts.”
“It’s okay, Win. You’ll be okay.” Christina ran her hand over the girl’s head, smoothing her curls and trying to comfort her. “Where does it hurt, sweetie?”
Winnie cried, and her sobs stole her voice, but she motioned to her right arm and wrist. Of course it would be the girl’s arm. She’d probably put her hand down during her fall in an attempt to catch herself.
As soon as the helicopter touched down, Waylon ran over, dropping his bag on the ground at Winnie’s feet. “Are you okay, kid?”
Christina turned toward him, and she could feel a snarl take over her face. “You leave her alone.”
He took two steps back, like he was afraid a bite would follow the growl. It might have been the smartest thing he’d done so far. All she wanted to do was come at him. He was the reason Winnie was hurt—in many ways, he was responsible for the bad things in her life.
She stared at him as the helicopter lifted off the ground and set to the sky. Alli had told her that he was a military police officer for the army, and she had seen pictures of him in the main house, but none of that did him justice. The man, all two hundred-ish pounds of him, was lean, and from what she could see, his chest was just as muscular as his legs. Even his forearms were thick, so much so that the muscles stressed the cloth of his rolled-up plaid sleeves.
He gave her a small smile, like he hoped that it would be his get-out-of-jail-free card, and she forced herself to look away from his almond-shaped eyes, buzzed black hair and copper-toned skin. He was a far cry from the scraggly teenager whose pictures adorned Eloise Fitzgerald’s walls. Christina didn’t like him, but she couldn’t deny he might have been one of the sexiest men she’d ever seen in real life. She could certainly understand how her sister had fallen for the man. And regardless of Alli’s latest drama, she had been right in divorcing the man if his entrance was any indication of his character.
Just because a man was ridiculously handsome and knew how to make an entrance, it didn’t make him a man worth calling a husband—or a father.
Yep, she definitely hated him. Maybe it was just her hatred of every man who’d left his wife in the lurch, or it could have been all the things Alli had told her about the guy, but there was nothing redeemable about him. Not even that stupid grin he tried to ply her with.
“Is the kid okay?” he asked, his rough voice suddenly taking on a silky edge.
It wouldn’t work with her. No way. No how. Especially when he referred to his daughter as “the kid,” but then again, he didn’t know who she was to him.
Winnie looked up at the man and wiped the tears from her cheeks with her good hand. “My arm,” she said, lifting her limp right arm for him to see. “It hurts.”
He squatted down next to Christina, far too close. He smelled like motor oil and spicy men’s cologne—if she had to explain it, she would have said it was the scent of a real man. On the other hand, it was the scent of Waylon Fitzgerald—notorious father at large.
He didn’t reach for the girl; instead, he leaned back on his heels as though being that close to a hurt child made him deeply uncomfortable.
“Does your back hurt, sweetie?” Christina asked.
Winnie shook her head and stood up, being careful not to put any weight on her arm. The area around her wrist was red and had already started to take on a faint bruise. It had to be broken, yet amazingly the little girl had stopped crying.
“What’s your name, kid?” Waylon asked.
“Winnie. I gonna be three.”
“You’re such a big gir1.” He looked over at Christina. “Is she yours?”
She snorted at how