and groaned, maybe even screamed a little, belching black smoke, and she quickly backed out of the way. As the tractor rolled out of the barn, Wyatt whooped, waving his hat in the air. John Allen followed suit, and she snapped a few more pictures as they continued down the drive and out into an empty field.
She continued watching them, enjoying the late-afternoon sun as it turned everything a gold hue. Her stomach growled, and she knew John Allen had to be hungry. But a few minutes more wouldn’t hurt, would it?
The tractor turned and headed back to the barn, just as she thought she heard her name over the roar of the engine.
“Francine. What are you doing?” her father asked, coming up the path toward her. He started to say something else, but the engine drowned out his voice, for which she was grateful.
“Mommy! Did you see me? Did you see me?” John Allen squealed as Wyatt stopped the tractor next to them.
“What the—” her father said. “Why is my grandson on that tractor? It’s dangerous.”
She glanced at him, alarmed at how red his face was. His blood pressure had skyrocketed the last few years from too much work and stress.
“Get down right now, young man,” her father called.
Wyatt looked from her father to her, climbed down from the behemoth, then lifted her son down. John Allen’s face crumpled, and his eyes glistened with tears. He crowded up against Wyatt’s legs. His move shocked her more than anything—John Allen usually preferred to play alone. He’d taken to Wyatt so quickly.
Wyatt laid a hand on his shoulder and patted it. “It’s okay, bud. I’ll bet your granddad was just surprised to see you riding up on this big ol’ tractor. He doesn’t know you were a big help to me today.”
His words were calm, but his voice had a slight edge and his expression was closed off.
She set her hand on her dad’s arm, felt the tension running through his tendons like thick coiled rope. He shook her off, and she stepped back.
“John Allen, you’re a Wentworth, not a ranch hand. You’re going to be an important part of my company someday, not a common mechanic.”
“Dad!” she said, embarrassed to no end at his thoughtless words. “Wyatt—er, Mr. Sullivan and John Allen were having fun today.”
Her father turned to Wyatt. “What right do you have taking my grandson out of day care? I ought to have you arrested.” Even as he uttered the threat, he pulled out his cell phone.
Wyatt’s hands fisted at his sides, and he took a step forward—big, tall, intimidating and very scary. He reminded her of an outlaw—and with his long dark hair and black cowboy hat, he definitely fit the image of a rebel cowboy.
She stepped between them, raising her arms to the side like a referee at an MMA match. “I gave permission for John Allen to be here.”
Her father slowly put his mobile back into his pocket. “I don’t want this to happen again. He’s my grandson and I’m making sure he’s on the right path for success.” He turned to her, and it took everything she had to keep her back straight. “Francine, take him up to the lodge and get him cleaned up. I want to debrief on this last meeting before dinner.” He turned on his heel and strode back up the path to the main lodge.
Dreading it, but knowing she had to get it over with, she turned to Wyatt. He’d knelt down and was consoling her son, something she should be doing. John Allen threw his arms around Wyatt’s neck and squeezed. Since he was facing her, the shocked look on Wyatt’s face surprised her, but it was soon followed by sweet tenderness as he hugged her baby back.
“I’m so sorry, Wyatt. He didn’t mean what he said.”
“Oh, I’ll bet he did,” Wyatt said, standing up. His face was devoid of any expression, and she never wanted to play poker with him...not that she even knew how.
“I am sorry,” she said and took John Allen’s hand. Words could hurt, and her father was a master at wielding them like a sword, both in the boardroom and out. “Thank you for watching him today.” She took her son’s hand and led him to the path that would take them to the lodge.
“My pleasure. Anytime,” came the low response. When she glanced back, Wyatt was already walking away.
Francine rubbed her temples, willing away the headache she’d woken up with. She glanced around the table at her coworkers, noticing the tension and stress clearly marked on everyone’s faces. The merger was stalled, and at this point, for every step forward, they slid back three.
At the first lull in a heated conversation, she spoke up. “I think we all need to take a break.”
Her dad glanced up, opened his mouth, then looked around the table and snapped it shut. “She’s right. Take a break and come back in—” he slid his cuff up enough to see his watch “—two hours.”
Sighs of relief sounded as everyone jumped up and headed for the door.
Francine stood up and stretched, grimacing at the stiffness in her back and neck. She sent a quick text to Mrs. Dailey to make sure John Allen had stayed put in day care that morning. The woman answered that he was still there, no problems. Francine breathed a sigh of relief, then crossed the room to the coffeepot, pouring yet another cup of caffeine to keep her going the rest of the day.
A movement outside the window caught her eye, and she looked out. A big truck sat in front of one of the barns, and a man stood in the back, unloading bales of hay. He’d lift a bale, then chuck it in front of the barn, where three other men hauled them inside.
Just as she took a sip of coffee, the man outside turned slightly, and she realized it was Wyatt.
Even as she watched, he grabbed a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his face, shoved it back in and grabbed up another bale of hay. His biceps flexed with each movement, and even being a city girl, she knew those bales had to weigh a lot. Yet he made it look effortless, his movements streamlined and graceful.
The weather was cool, yet he’d still sweat through his T-shirt, which now hugged his back.
It was almost hypnotic watching him, and she found herself relaxing for the first time in days.
A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped, sloshing coffee on the credenza. She grabbed several napkins and mopped it up.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. I called your name three times and you never heard me. What are you looking at?” Her dad glanced out the window.
“Nothing. Just thinking about the meeting—”
He frowned. “You were watching that Sullivan boy, weren’t you.”
She laughed. “Dad, he’s hardly a boy.”
“I get it. You’re a beautiful single woman, and he’s a relatively—well, a decent-looking man.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, something he did when uncomfortable.
“Don’t
