Samantha's Cowboy

Since joining his uncle’s firm Wade had worked diligently to grow Samantha’s savings. As a matter of fact he’d increased her net worth by several million dollars. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two. As of today.”

She was of legal age to withdraw money from the trust without her father’s consent. Wade was positive he hadn’t received a reminder of Samantha’s upcoming birthday from the e-mail system he’d set up to notify him of changes in the status of client accounts.

“Are you going to stand there and ogle me or do I get my money?”

Wade would have preferred to ogle but said, “Let’s continue this discussion in my office.” He held open the door and when she brushed past him, he caught a whiff of honeysuckle—the delicate feminine scent at odds with the sullied, sharp-tongued cowgirl. Wade’s office was a windowless room in the middle of the floor—but not for long. He was in line for a promotion to vice president and the position came with a corner office and a view of downtown Tulsa.

“Something to drink? Water? Coffee?” he asked, as soon as Samantha claimed the chair in front of his desk.

“No, thank you.”

Wade wiggled his computer mouse until the screen saver popped up—a photograph of his eight-year-old son, Luke, proudly displaying his first-place spelling-bee ribbon. A few typed passwords later and Wade had Samantha’s personal information in front of him.

Yes, indeed. Samantha Cartwright was thirty-two years old today. For the life of him, Wade couldn’t figure out why she was dressed like a ranch hand on her birthday. He’d have expected her to spend the day getting dolled up for a celebratory night on the town. “Happy birthday,” he said.

“It will be once I have my money.”

What did a pampered rich girl want with millions of dollars? Last he’d heard she worked in her father’s company pulling down a substantial salary—probably doing nothing but sitting at a desk and looking beautiful—like Veronica.

Before Wade accessed the financial particulars of her account, he asked, “Is your father aware that you intend to withdraw money from your trust?”

Her chin jutted. “No, and I’d rather he wasn’t contacted.”

The hair on the back of Wade’s neck stood on end. As his son would say…Wade smelled a stinker. He suspected Samantha was up to no good, but just how far did he stick his nose into her business without crossing the line? “What are your plans for the money?” He’d worked his ass off researching and selecting investments guaranteed to increase the wealth of her holdings. He hated to see his hard work squandered on a Paris Hilton-type shopping spree.

“Am I required to tell you in order to receive my money?”

“No,” he answered honestly.

Her attention shifted to the filing cabinet in the corner, then the keyboard, then the desk calendar before making eye contact with him. “I’m opening a sanctuary ranch for abandoned and neglected horses.”

Now red flags flapped inside Wade’s head. What did a wealthy woman want with rescuing horses? He suspected Samantha’s ranch was nothing more than a pet project she’d ditch once boredom set in.

“I purchased an old farmstead and I need the money to make several renovations.” Her fingers crushed the yellow notepaper in her hand.

“As your financial adviser I’m obligated to warn you that a horse sanctuary isn’t a sound investment.” An image of a stallion eating from a feed bin filled with hundred-dollar bills popped into his head.

Her eyes narrowed. “The ranch may not be a moneymaking venture, but saving horses is a noble cause.”

Wade wasn’t a horse lover. The private school he’d attended before college boasted riding stables, but after landing in the dirt several times during his first and only riding lesson, Wade had participated in indoor activities such as debate and math club. He had to talk sense into Samantha before she wasted years of his time and effort.

Legally he was required to hand over her money no matter how foolish her plans, yet he had a responsibility to Dawson Investments to dispense client funds in a manner that least impacted the company’s bottom line.

“What amount do you need to get this project off the ground?” he asked.

“I hadn’t considered…” She waved her hand in the air. “I’m positive the funds in my account will be more than enough to cover the costs.”

Heartburn stung Wade’s chest. He had a hunch Samantha had jumped into this venture without creating a budget. “My suggestion would be to withdraw money in smaller increments, allowing the remainder of your funds to continue earning interest.” That was sound advice and Dawson Investments would then be able to absorb the loss at a slower pace. “Have you made a list of property improvements?”

She uncrumpled the note in her fist. He caught a glimpse of the chicken scratch on the paper but couldn’t make out the words. “I need to dig a well.”

She bought a ranch with no water source?

“The previous owner’s well is almost dried up,” she continued.

“Have you contacted a water-drilling company?”

“No—”

Samantha Cartwright hadn’t a lick of sense. She should have paid a drilling company to confirm that there was water in the ground before she’d purchased the homestead.

“—but Millicent assures me there’s water.”

“Who’s Millicent?”

“A water witch who lives on the property.”

You’ve got to be kidding. Avoiding the topic of water witches all together, he asked, “What other repairs and renovations are a priority?”

Her front teeth worried her lower lip, giving Wade the impression she hadn’t prepared at all for this hobby. “I’ll need new fencing, corrals. A barn. A house.”

“Everything’s a priority?” At her nod, he said, “Give me a minute to check the balance of your trust.” He entered the security codes and accessed the transaction page of her account.

Holy hell.

If his eyeballs hadn’t been attached to his brain by optic nerves they would have popped out of their sockets and bounced off his keyboard.

Sweat beaded across the bridge of Wade’s nose and his glasses slipped. He shoved them back into place and gaped at the monitor, willing the numbers—any numbers—to appear.

Nothing save Samantha’s name, account ID and a big fat 0 in the balance column. His fingers clicked the keyboard, searching for a transaction code that would allow him to trace the funds, but there were no notations or documentation of a bank account or wire transfer. Samantha’s money had vanished into thin air.

After confiscating the roll of antacid tablets inside his desk drawer, he tossed three into his mouth and chewed furiously. Where the hell had her money gone?

He’d busted his butt for Dawson Investments and had done all his uncle had asked of him—even marrying the daughter of one of the firm’s clients. His uncle had insisted the marriage would be a match made in heaven but in reality it had been a union from hell that had lasted five years too long. Since his divorce Wade had given up a social life—not that a single father had much time for one—and he’d worked twelve-hour days and most weekends. He’d get to the bottom of this mess or die trying because he wasn’t giving his uncle one damned reason to pass Wade over for a promotion.

The problem had to be a computer glitch. On Monday he’d contact the firm’s technology expert to resolve the issue. Until then he needed to buy time.

“What’s the matter?” Samantha’s question cut through Wade’s panic.

“Nothing.” He logged off the account. “Why?”

She pointed to the roll of antacids. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

Surprised by her concern, he said, “I’m fine.” Then he took a deep breath and willed his anxiety aside. “Do you have your birth certificate and a picture ID with you?” At her frown he lied. “Regulations.”

“I didn’t bring my birth certificate.” She handed him her license.