Page 34 of A Sunny Sweetheart for the Cowboy

“I’ve got a piece of paper signed by your parents that says otherwise.”

The boy scoffed. “I forged that.”

Weston’s blood ran cold. Did the Amstutzes even know their son was at Sweet River? Or was the kid lying about that, as well as — apparently — everything else?

“No getting in that lake. Final word.” Weston pivoted away, trying to keep his cool when all he wanted to do was blast the kid. Throw him over a packhorse like a sack of horse feed and haul him back to the resort. Let Tate deal with him.

“She’s in the water.”

Movement by the shore caught Weston’s attention at the same time as Matthew spoke. And… there was Paisley, with her boots and socks off and her jeans rolled up, standing in several inches of water while one of the horses drank.

“Maybe I’ll go help her with the horses.” Matthew shot off across the meadow toward Paisley.

Should Weston chase him down and tackle him? They’d both have bruises. Worse, they’d be a spectacle, and Weston would lose the respect of all the other kids, to say nothing of Harvey and Susanna.

The kid he’d been would not respond well to that kind of treatment. Did that mean Matthew was like a younger Weston? Heaven help them all, if that were the case. He’d wish that on no one’s parents.

And Paisley wondered why he didn’t want kids? He remembered himself all too well. Remembered the endless arguments with his dad. Weston had challenged everything. Openly when he was young, more furtively as he got older and smarter. Which, come to think of it, might not be the definition of smarter.

Now, he saw Paisley’s face light up at Matthew’s approach. The two exchanged words Weston couldn’t hear from across the meadow. Then a high five before Paisley handed Mirage’s halter to Matthew. The boy led the horse toward the makeshift corral and glanced over at Weston, offering a thumbs-up.

Weston’s gut churned. That kid thought he was so clever, going around Weston to get into Paisley’s good graces. Next thing he’d know, the boy would be the one leading the horses into the lake for a drink. Why had he given such strict orders? He’d only meant to make himself very clear. He hadn’t meant to set up a challenge he was about to lose.

Well, he didn’t have to watch Matthew’s flagrant disobedience. Weston turned on his heel and strode up the trail. He’d rather ride Ranger to clear his head, but he wasn’t going anywhere near the horses while the boy was there. Hiking boots would be better on the steep path than cowboy boots, but there was no time for changing them. All he needed was to get out of sight for a few minutes until he’d calmed down.

He’d throttle the kid later. How? No idea, but he’d think of something.

Would he only be stooping to the tween’s level? No. The kid needed to learn about authority.

Was it Weston’s place to teach that lesson? If not him, then who? If not now, when?

Why did he even care? As far as he knew, none of the other kids had been within earshot. He wouldn’t put it past Matthew to brag about it to the others, though. Lead a full-on, defiant charge into the lake.

Like that would happen. The others mostly ignored Matthew. He wasn’t much of a leader. Weston couldn’t see the likes of Elsa or Aryana following Matthew anywhere, let alone into the frigid water.

Weston climbed until he came to a flat rock with a decent view downward. He sat and watched the kids scurry around the camp like so many ants. Matthew and Paisley led two of the horses out of the water.

Weston closed his eyes and managed a bit of mindful breathing. “Lord?”

But he didn’t even know what he wanted to say. To ask. All he knew was that he saw too much of himself in Matthew. Saw too much lashing out. Too much pent-up frustration. He’d handled it no better at that age. Or, honestly, in the fifteen years since.

Oh, he didn’t shove his nose into places he wasn’t wanted anymore. Doors had slammed on that beak more than once.

He still held back to avoid pain. He’d built an entire persona around that, and it had served him well. Until it hadn’t.

Until Paisley.

No, not her. Until the day Mom had invited him and Jude for dinner and told them she’d found her father, that he wanted to meet them, that he wanted to shower blessings on them — that’s how Mom put it — and walk them into their inheritance as his grandsons.

Weston had been skeptical. No one had ever wanted to favor him. Dad sure hadn’t. Mom… well, she’d tried, but she’d worked two jobs to keep their fragile life stitched together. There hadn’t been much time or energy left over for blessings.

He didn’t much believe in them, anyway. Life was hard. He’d made it harder than it had to be through dumb choices. Rayna was right to have walked away. He’d walk away from himself if he could.

Walter Sullivan — aka “Grandfather” — seemed to be for real. He hadn’t punished Weston by assigning him to stable management. He’d been playing to Weston’s stated strengths. And now he was indulging Jude’s desire to fly.

What dreams did Weston even have? He’d never allowed fantasies beyond getting away from it all, just him and Ranger, high in the mountains, with a fish-bearing stream and nothing but nature around them.

And here he was. Practically perfect, except for those annoying tweens and the not-so-small Littles.

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