Page 4 of The CEO and the Mountain Man

I grabbed the mounting block, just to give my hands something to do. “Yeah … not sure what’s going on. The dad looks lost.”

“Like he couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a flashlight.” Jake shouldered me. “Just your type.”

“Shush, you.”

Jake wasn’t wrong, though. Lost, kinda fussy city boys were a particular weakness of mine. But, like most guys in his tax bracket, I doubted Clark Jensen thought much of the likes of me.

“Welp.” Jake handed over the bridle. “Good luck with all ofthat.”

I shot him the finger, then led Betty over to the round pen, where they had their arms crossed on top of the fence like real cowboys. It was cute.

Kinda.

River was snarling at pretty much everything. The fence, the sun, the dirt, his dad. I nearly laughed when he snarled at Betty. Betty was a quarter horse with a past, and she would not give one solitary shit about his rancid attitude.

Clark, on the other hand, gave several shits. After breakfast, when I’d first registered the rolling disaster, I looked him up. He was the CEO of a midsize tech company. Wastewater management software, or somesuch.

That sort of careful practicality in his choice of business bled out into everything else about the man. He wasn’t a small guy, exactly, just a lot shorter and leaner than me. A little shy of six feet, a runner’s build to my bulk. Chocolate-brown hair that fired red in the morning sun. Olive-brown eyes with a preppy style that stood out in the sea of Wranglers almost as much as his son’s punk-noir aesthetic.

This morning, he was sporting a rolled-sleeved, blue-checkered button-down tucked into sharply creased knee-length khaki shorts. He accompanied this with brown leather tennis shoes that probably cost him more than my rent. He also seemed to have forgotten his socks.

His footwear was a bold choice, given the number of times he’d be encountering horseshit today, but to each his own, I guess.

I clapped my hands together.Time to make the magic happen.

“Clark and River, right?” I asked, slowing my approach, giving them time to face me and adjust to my height. Between my hat and boots, I towered over them.

River’s eyes widened, but a heartbeat later, he resumed his I-hate-everything glare, lest anyone mistakenly think he actually gave a damn.

Oh, right.Punk as fuck, this one.

Clark fidgeted next to River. After staring up at me for an uncomfortable moment, Clark stuck out his hand. “Yep. Um. I’m Clark, and this is my son, River.”

“It’s nice to meet you two,” I said, shaking his proffered hand. Firm grip. “I’m Beau Rawlings, and I’m in charge of the youth activities.”

River gave me a look that would peel the paint off the side of a barn.

“I’m eighteen years old,Dad,” he said, looking like he’d been sucking on a Sour Patch Kid. “I’m too old for this shit.”

Clark opened his mouth but not much came out.

“Actually,” I said, stepping in. “I work with folks fifteen to twenty years old. So, you are the exact right age for this shit.” I waited for the retort, and when none was forthcoming, I continued, “We have a youth group joining us tomorrow, but for today, I wanted to get y’all comfortable riding a horse.”

River, who’d been leaning against the fence, was passive-aggressively slow to approach me, then fumbled his walking stick.

Way to assume the worst of the kid,I thought, remembering a second too late that I’d read about his physical limitations just last night.

When River tried to lean down to retrieve his walking stick, he grabbed his hip, cursing under his breath.

“Son,stop. I’ll get the cane.”

“It’s not a cane, Dad.” He wobbled, and I held out my hand. He grabbed my arm and stabilized himself. “It’s a walking stick. And I only need it because we just spent two fucking days in the car.”

Clark looked horrified.

Hoping to help, I tried distracting River with a question. “Your intake form said that you suffered a fractured hip and a broken ankle six months ago. Is this part of that injury, or do you have a more recent injury I should be aware of?”

River turned on his father, nearly losing his balance again. The wind whipped his hair around, almost obscuring the pain and anger on his face.