Unexpected Sweetheart: a BBW Romance (Sweetheart Colorado) Read online

  UNEXPECTED SWEETHEART

  Sweetheart, Colorado

  MEGAN WADE

  CONTENTS

  1. Ryan

  2. Rory

  3. Ryan

  4. Rory

  5. Ryan

  6. Rory

  7. Ryan

  8. Rory

  9. Ryan

  10. Rory

  11. Ryan

  12. Rory

  13. Ryan

  Epilogue

  More from Sweetheart, Colorado

  Also by Megan Wade

  RYAN

  T he scent of hay, dirt, and manure burns in my nostrils as I finish mucking out the horse stalls. I certainly don’t miss this. I hang the shovel up on the barn’s wall, and pick up the curry comb so I can get to work on my favorite mare, Comet. She was my horse after Dad rescued her back when I was still in high school. We only got one summer together, and she was scared of almost anyone except for me. So, we developed a special bond, and somehow, it’s still there all these years later, like she waited for me to come back home for her. She's quite honestly the only thing I ever missed about this place, and as I switch to the stiff bristle brush and carefully sweep it over her shiny coat, I can’t help but wish there was space for this girl in my city apartment. Out of my father’s entire estate, she’s the only thing I’d like to keep. Maybe I can stable her somewhere close by to visit her often?

  I let out a sigh as I realize how out of my reach doing something like that is. Before my father passed away, and I learned how in debt he actually was, I was quite comfortable and had these things called savings. But now…I’m at the end of my ability to pay the rent on my apartment and keep this place going. I’ve sold off what I can, but I need a buyer for the ranch and fast, otherwise I’m likely to lose everything I’ve worked for. Not to mention my job if I don’t get back to the city soon.

  “Hup.” I run my hand down Comet’s hind leg and lean into her side, causing her to lift her hoof so I can clear out any dirt or gravel lodged in there. She knows the drill and patiently waits for me to run the pick around the shoe and either side of the frog. I may have grown up on this ranch and know how to run horses and take care of the cattle and the land from here to Sunday, but I’m no rancher—that was my father. Me, I’m a financial analyst, and it’s time for me to go back to my own life. It’s time for me to say goodbye—to the ghost of my father’s expectations, to the ranch, to Comet…

  Gently wiping a damp cloth over her face to finish up, I press my forehead against the old girl’s face and let out my umpteenth sigh of the day. “I wish things were different, girl. But they’re just not.” She nickers, a soft kind of purring sound that I like to take to mean she understands me, but half the time it means, ‘where’s my food?’

  I give her a gentle pat then exit the stall momentarily, returning to dump a bunch of feed in Comet’s trough and offer her a carrot as a treat. She gives me an appreciative grunt as she takes it, munching away like a little kid with a packet of gummies.

  “You know this is a have to, not a want to situation, right?” I say to her as I latch the door of her stall closed. She blows out some air, but she doesn’t seem convinced. “Yeah. Me neither.”

  With a sigh, I move on to the remaining three horses. The barn holds ten, but in the last month I've sold six of them. Ever so slowly, I’ve let go of anything with value just so I can keep making the repayments on the over-draughts on this place. My father was excellent at helping other people’s kids find their way in life—which is what this ranch was used for—but he wasn't the greatest at keeping his books. He was in debt up to his eyeballs when he died, which means that now I’m in debt up to my eyeballs. Thanks, Dad.

  "How’s it going, boy?" I ask as I scratch the top of the dark gelding’s head. His name is Shadow because of his pitch-black coloring. He’s small and docile, so he's a great starter horse for anyone who doesn't know how to ride. But he's not much of a workhorse which is what people are looking for in these parts. I'm worried I won't be able to re-home him. Just like I'm worried I won't be able to re-home Comet either. Comet is too old, and Shadow is too small. Still, I know I can't keep them. I simply don’t have the means, and I honestly don’t know how my father kept this place going for so long. It’s like he was paying his bills with nothing more than grit and determination, the only two worthwhile things I inherited from him. Not that my father saw it that way. He thought I didn’t have enough of a heart, a shitty analogy since my mother died from heart complications when I was only three.

  I probably sound like a total ass with the way I talk about my past. Some days, I definitely feel like one. I'm the only child of a man who spent more time caring about children who weren’t his than he did about me. Everyone’s problems were always bigger than my own, and I constantly felt shoved aside, no better than a ranch hand.

  Sniffing, I wipe my forearm across my face before I run the wide-toothed comb through Shadow’s mane. These things always get so tangled.

  No matter how I feel about the man now, he was still my dad, and I have to accept the shitty feeling that comes from knowing that I’m tearing apart his life's work, selling the place I grew up in—the only place on this earth I have memories of my mother.

  Maybe I’m not trying hard enough to save it.

  Maybe I just don’t want to.

  I left Sweetheart, Colorado, a long, long time ago with a view of never coming back. I was done with being a disappointment. Done feeling like I was the last thing on this earth my father cared about. But, of course, the past has a way of sneaking up on us when we least expect it, just when we think it won't affect us anymore, it rears its ugly head and forces us to return to our roots, face the life we didn't want, and make peace with our sins.

  With big, long strokes, I run the soft brush down Shadow’s back and over her side flank, rhythmic movements that are as ingrained in me as breathing is. Growing up on this ranch was hard work. My father believed in earning your keep and said things like ‘no rest for the wicked’, and ‘idle hands are the devil’s playthings’. I got up before the sun, and I sat down again after the wolves started howling. And each night when I was lying in bed, I swore that this would not be my life. Which is why I worked so hard at school and got a scholarship to the best college I could manage. When I finished, I was up to my eyeballs in student loans, but I got myself a job then I got myself a series of promotions, and now I'm one of the city’s best financial analysts with a plush apartment with a great view, the latest car and gadgets and free time on my hands—not a lot, but more than I ever had before. However, I've never been able to quit waking up before the sun. That part of ranch life never could leave me. And now that I’ve been sucked back into the vortex that is this ranch, I don’t have the car or those gadgets anymore. I’m barely managing to keep hold of my apartment. Pretty soon, I’ll have to let that go too, and the ranch will be all there is.

  "Here you go, boy," I say, holding out the carrot as Shadow munches down. He whinnies and nods, making me smile as I back out of his stall and close the gate.

  I repeat the same process on the last couple of horses, then do a final sweep of the barn and head outside, tugging off my gloves and taking a long drink of cool water. Despite the cold weather, mucking out stalls and grooming the horses is sweaty work. And that's on top of feeding the remaining cattle, irrigating the meadows, and checking the grass levels in the pasture. What's left here is manageable for one person—for now. Even if I could afford it, this isn't something I can do indefinitely, a point I made abundantly clear at my meeting with Emma from A Plus Realtors earlier today. I have
maybe thirty days of grace left before I need to get back to Sacramento or my job will be gone too. I’m telecommuting at half pay to keep my position and some sort of cash flow, but that can’t go on indefinitely. My life is currently in free fall because this ranch just couldn’t leave me the hell alone. I’ve gotta do something to dig my way out of this before I’m right back at the beginning, stuck on this ranch with nothing. I worked so hard to get out of here. At the same time, I can’t give up and walk away. I need to save this place, make sure it continues for future generations. Just because I don’t want to be here, doesn’t mean I don’t care about what the ranch stood for.

  Frustration heating my blood, I turn around and kick the barn door, breaking a chunk of wood off the bottom of it and hurting my toe in the process. “Fuck!” I kick it again. If I have to fix it, I may as well give it hell and feel better at the end of it. Seems I have unresolved anger issues.

  Just as I calm the fuck down and wipe my chin of the water that escaped my mouth, the sound of crunching gravel pulls my attention toward the house. A big black limousine with tinted windows and a high-shine wax coating idles out the front. Something like this can mean only one of two things—some higher-up from the bank is coming out here to pressure me for more money, or some rich asshole thinks he can come out here, buy our land and build a bunch of condos on it. Neither of those things is happening on my watch.

  While I fully intend to sell this ranch to the first suitable buyer, I’m not willing to hand it off to just anyone. The buyer needs to be a rancher and use the land as it was intended. I know, I know, beggars can’t be choosers. But that’s precisely why, three months after my father’s passing, I’m still stuck here playing at being a rancher in Sweetheart, Colorado, while my life in Sacramento becomes a distant memory I’m desperately trying to hold on to.

  Shoving my gloves into my back pocket, I head over to where the limo is waiting, slowing my pace as I approach. The driver gets out of his door and gives me a curt nod before he walks to the back and opens it up. Some guy in a suit that probably cost as much as my entire wardrobe gets out and smooths a pinky-ring-wearing hand over thinning black hair. I remove my hat to be polite.

  "You own this place?" he asks, his voice like gravel.

  "That depends..." I meet his eyes and give him a long, stern look before continuing, "What's your business here?"

  The slimy rich guy grins. "Sweetheart Mountain Ranch,” he says. "A working camp that promises to straighten out your wayward youth." He’s quoting information from the website. The website where it clearly states that we are no longer taking bookings.

  "We’re closed."

  "I booked months ago. You weren't closed then."

  "I don't have any record of a booking," I say, placing my hands on my hips as I glare back at the man. He thinks I'm a simple-minded rancher, but no rancher is simple-minded. And neither is a financial analyst. I've dealt with the likes of him enough times to know that I'm about to be ‘persuaded’ by whatever power he feels he has. Fuck that.

  “Well, I happen to have"—he reaches into his pocket. Here it comes—"a booking confirmation and receipt that says I did." Oh, shit! That's not what I was expecting him to pull from his pocket. Goddamnit, Dad. How can one man be so horrible at keeping records?

  I take the slip of paper he offers me and study it before shoving it in my back pocket. "Listen, the man you made that booking with has passed away. I'm his son. And I'm just here sorting out his estate. The ranch is no longer running the way it was. And I'm sorry you had to come all this way to find that out. But if you go to The Stop and tell them Ryan Oakley sent you, a lady called Alice will make sure you get a good meal before the journey home. That's the best I can do."

  "The best you can do?" he scoffs. "The best you can do is honor this contract before I sue you for everything you have and then some. You’ll be lucky if you can afford the sugar you put in your coffee.”

  I actually laugh at that, which sends him in to a head-quivering bluster that sets off the loose skin on the bottom of his chin. "Hate to break it to you, buddy. But this place is so deep in debt that my children—God help them if I ever have them—will probably still be paying it off when they’re my age. So, don't threaten me by taking everything away. There's nothing left."

  "Nothing left?” He steps back and looks around, up at the house and around the property. The ranch is everything we can currently see and then some. “I saw a For Sale sign on the way in. How about I head back into town and buy this place for myself? I can put the clubhouse here”—he gestures to the house—“The driving range that way, and eighteen holes covering the rest of it. Reckon it’ll be a really lucrative business. Everything you see here will be gone, and as a son who's obviously out here honoring his deceased father, I assume that's not something you want to happen."

  I press my teeth together so hard that I think they crack. “Two weeks," I spit, shooting daggers at him with my eyes.

  He smiles and I see a flash of gold in his teeth. "Three weeks and we have a deal."

  I grit my teeth together and give him a single nod. He’s seen my hand, and he’s got me bent over. As much as I hate this place, there’s no way I can let it become a golf course. “Fine.”

  He gives his chauffer a nod then the door to the limo opens and a dark-haired girl wearing head to toe pink steps out–pink leather skirt, darker pink knee-high boots, fluffy pink sweater, and pink-rimmed sunglasses. My body responds. That is no shitty kid. This girl is all curves and temptation, and I want no part of it.

  "That's what you want me to fix?" I balk, pulling out the booking slip from my jeans and quickly scanning the details. The girl is twenty—thank God—and there’s some special note here about ‘breaking the party girl and producing an executive’. What the actual fuck? “My father ran a camp for troubled teens, not twenty-year-olds. Exactly what did my father agree to do for you?”

  “Fix her, of course. My daughter is soon to turn twenty-one, which means she’ll be inheriting a large portion of the family holdings, that includes a voting share in the company. She needs to be ready to take on the responsibility, or I’ll be taking steps to make sure she never receives it.”

  The girl in question folds her arms across her middle and looks bored.

  “Shouldn’t she be at college learning to do that?”

  “Rory was kicked out of college,” he states as he swings his gaze to his daughter. She lowers her sunglasses and blows a giant bubble of gum until it pops. Fuck. “Rory, come and meet Mr. Ryan Oakley."

  “Why? I’m not staying here,” she says, smacking her lips together as she pulls out her cell and starts searching for a signal—one she won’t get up here. It’s a landline or nothing this high up the mountain.

  “Yes, you are. It’s time to grow up, Rory. You’re not a child anymore,” he snaps before heading back to the limo. “Good luck.” He says that last part to me as the chauffeur closes him inside. Then they practically speed off the mountain.

  Rory stands there in the middle of her pink luggage and looks at me as she blows another gum bubble. A twenty-year-old who’s acting like a spoiled teenager? I roll my eyes and will my dick to stop its ridiculous interest in the curvy heiress. She’s got trouble written all over her.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  RORY

  “Rory. What’s that short for?” the filthy-looking guy in jeans and budget flannel asks me, contempt in his piercing blue eyes. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but he’s turning me the fuck on. Hello, Ryan…

  “It’s Lorelai,” I say, sliding my sunglasses on top of my head so I can get a better look at him. He’s a solid six-two, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame. If I were in LA, I’d think he was an actor walking off the set of a western, because he has ‘hot cowboy’ written all over him. His light brown hair is messy and sticking up like he’s sweaty and tired. And the light smattering of stubble along his jaw tells me he either shaved early this morning, or didn’t bo
ther shaving at all. My ovaries quiver in appreciation. We’re not in New York anymore, Rory. “But no one calls me that, so don’t even think about it.”

  “OK, Lorelai,” he shoots back, and I level him with a glare.

  “Rude!” I think I see a smirk forming at the corner of those perfectly shaped lips of his. I have a friend who’s slowly transforming himself into the model of the perfect man, and I’ll bet he’d love to show a picture of those lips to his plastic surgeon. I snap a photo of the filthy cowboy to show him later. The cowboy flinches.

  “First thing you should know about Sweetheart Ranch,” he says, stalking toward me and snatching the cell phone from my hand.

  “Hey!” I object.

  “There’s no signal. This thing is useless.” He tosses it to the side, and it lands facedown in the garden bed. I just about scream.

  “If you’ve broken that, I’ll make you—”

  “Make me what?” He gets in my face, and all I can smell is animals, hard work, and something that makes my skin tingle. What the hell? “In case you haven’t realized, Lorelai, Daddy just drove away and left you. You’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, and I’m the one in charge. For the next three weeks, you’re mine. You do as I say without complaint, and if we’re lucky, we’ll both get what we want out of this.”

  “You have no idea what I want,” I practically whisper, locking eyes with his defiantly. Why am I so turned on by this bully?

  “I think you want the same thing I do,” he says, his warm breath washing over me. Images of myself tearing that disgusting flannel off him and raking my long nails down his manly chest assault my mind and I shake them away.

  “What do you want?” I ask, sounding way too breathy.

  “My life back.” He pulls away, and suddenly I feel a rush of coolness as the heat of his body leaves me. For a moment, I catch myself wishing it would return, and my nipples seem to agree, hardening to points so diamond-hard, I’m surprised they don’t slice through my sweater. Since when did I like roughing it?