The Millionaire and the Cowgirl. Lisa Jackson
to give it up when his wife died. Now Adam was a single father with three children and trying to cope.
Kyle didn’t envy him. Hell, he didn’t envy anyone here today. Tugging at his collar, he tried to concentrate.
Sterling, catching his eye for a brief instant, flipped the page and kept reading in his soft-spoken drawl. Kyle liked the guy. He seemed to shoot from the hip and rarely minced words. Reading glasses were propped on the tip of his nose, and his white hair, impeccably combed, gleamed silver in the gentle light thrown by brass fixtures.
“And to my grandson Grant McClure, I bequeath Fortune’s Flame, a registered Appaloosa stallion….”
Kyle watched for a reaction from his stepbrother, but Grant continued to 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?”
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