Harlequin American Romance November 2014 Box Set: The SEAL's Holiday Babies\The Texan's Christmas\Cowboy for Hire\The Cowboy's Christmas Gift (34 page)

To
Dianne Moggy,
for being nice enough
to call and reassure me.
Thank You.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Excerpt

Prologue

There had to be more.

There just had to be more to life than this.

The haunting thought echoed over and over again in Constance Carmichael's brain as she sat in her father's dining room, moving bits and pieces of chicken marsala around on her plate.

Her father was talking. But not to her—or even
at
her, as was his custom. This time his words were directed to someone on the other end of his state-of-the-art smartphone. From what she had pieced together, someone from one of his endless construction projects. Carmichael Construction Corporation, domiciled in Houston, Texas, had projects in different stages of completion throughout the country, and Calvin Carmichael thrived on the challenge of riding roughshod on
all
of his foremen.

The table in the dining room easily sat twenty. More if necessary. Tonight it only sat two, her father and her. She was here by mandate. Not that she didn't love her father, she did, but she had never been able to find a way to bond with him—not that she hadn't spent her whole life trying. But she had never been able to approach him and have him see her as something other than the ongoing disappointment he always made her feel that she was.

Calvin Carmichael didn't believe in pulling any punches.

Rather than sharing a warm family dinner, Connie had rarely felt more alone. She felt utterly isolated—and distance was only part of the reason. Before the call came in, her father had insisted that she sit at one end of the table while he sat at the other.

“Like civilized people,” he'd told her.

He was at the head of the table and consequently, she was at the foot—with what felt like miles of distance between them.

If merely sharing a meal had been her father's main objective, it could have been more easily attained than this elaborate command performance. Connie was aware of restaurants that were smaller than her father's dining room. She'd grown up in this enormous house, but it had never felt like home to her.

She watched Fleming, her father's butler, retreat out of the corner of her eye. It was no secret that Calvin Carmichael enjoyed with relish all the perks that his acquired wealth could buy, including not just a cook and a housekeeper but a genuine English butler, as well. The latter's duties included serving dinner, even if the only one at the table was her father.

Connie sighed inwardly, wondering when she could safely take her leave. She knew that if her sigh was audible, her father would make note of it. Moreover, he'd grill her about it once his phone call was over, finding a way to make her feel guilty even if he was the one at fault.

Sitting here, toying with her food and watching her father, Connie felt a numbing malaise, a deadness spreading like insidious mold inside her. Surrounded by wealth, able to purchase and own any object her heart desired, no matter how extravagant, she found she desired nothing.

Because nothing made her happy.

She knew what she needed.

She needed to feel alive, to feel productive. She needed to accomplish something so that she could feel as if she finally, finally had a little of her father's respect instead of always being on the receiving end of his thinly veiled contempt.

“You're not eating. I invited you for dinner, you're not eating. Something wrong with your dinner?”

Connie looked up, startled. Her father had been on the phone for the past twenty minutes, but the slight shift in his tone made her realize that he had ended his conversation and had decided to find some reason to criticize her.

Connie lifted her shoulders in a careless, vague shrug. “I'm just not hungry, I guess,” she replied, not wanting to get into an argument with the man.

But it seemed unavoidable.

“That's because you've never
been
hungry. Had you grown up hungry,” Calvin stressed, “you would never waste even a
morsel
of food.” Crystal-blue eyes narrowed beneath imposing, startlingly black eyebrows. “What's wrong with you, little girl?” If the question was motivated by concern, there was no indication in either his inflection or his tone.

Little girl.

She was twenty-seven years old, and she
hated
when her father called her that, but she knew it was futile to say as much. Calvin Carmichael did what he pleased
when
he pleased to whomever he pleased and took no advice, no criticism from anyone. To render any would just get her further embroiled in a heated exchange. Silence usually won out by default.

“Haven't I given you everything?” Calvin pressed, still scowling at his only daughter. His only child according to him. He had long since disowned the older brother she had adored because Conrad had deigned to turn his back on the family business and had struck out on his own years ago.

Connie looked at her father for a long moment. This feeling wasn't about to go away, and if she didn't say anything, she knew it would only get worse, not to mention that her father wouldn't stop questioning her, wouldn't stop verbally poking at her until she told him what he claimed he wanted to know.

As if he cared.

“I don't want to be
given
anything,” she told her father. “I want to
earn
it myself.”

His laugh was belittling. “Earn it, right. Where's this going, little girl?”

She pressed her lips together for a moment to keep from saying something one of them—possibly both of them—would regret. Her father didn't respond well to displays of emotion.

“I want to helm a project.” It wasn't really what was bothering her, but maybe, just maybe, it might help squash these all but paralyzing doldrums that had infiltrated her very soul.

“You? Helm a project?” Piercing blue eyes stared at her in disbelief. “You mean by yourself?”

She tried not to react to the sarcasm in her father's voice. “Yes. My own project.”

He waved a dismissive hand at her. “You don't know the first thing about being in charge of a project.”

Anger rose within her, and she clutched to it. At least she was finally
feeling
something. “Dad, I've worked for you in one capacity or another for the last ten years. I think I know the first thing about being in charge of a project—and the second thing, too,” she added, struggling to rein in her temper. An outburst would only tilt the scales further against her.

Her father was a formidable man, a man who could stare down his opponents and have them backing off, but she was determined not to allow him to intimidate her. She was fighting for her life—figuratively and, just possibly, literally.

Calvin laughed shortly. But just before he began to say something scathing in reply, his ever-present cell phone rang again.

To Connie's utter annoyance, her father answered it. It was time to leave, she decided. This “discussion,” like all the others she'd had with him over the years, wasn't going anywhere.

But as she pushed her chair back and rose to her feet, Connie saw her father raise a finger, the gesture meant to keep her where she stood.

“Just a minute.”

She wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or the person on the other end of the call. His next words, however, were definitely directed at her.

“Forever.” For a moment, the word just hung there, like a single leaf drifting down from a tree. “Let's see what you can do about getting a project up, going and completed in Forever.”

Something in her gut warned her she was walking into a trap—but she had no other choice. She had to do it—whatever “it” turned out to be.

“What kind of a project?” she asked warily.

Her father's attention already appeared to be elsewhere. “I'll have Emerson give you the particulars,” he said in an offhanded manner, referring to his business manager. “Just remember, little girl, I started with nothing—I don't intend to wind up that way,” he warned her, as if he was already predicting the cost of her failure.

Adrenaline was beginning to surface, whether in anticipation of this mysterious project or as a reaction to her father's condescending manner, it was hard for her to tell—but at least it was there, and she was grateful for that.

“Thank you,” she said.

But her father was back talking to the person on the other end of the cell phone, giving that man his undivided attention.

She had a project, Connie thought, savoring the idea as it began to sink in. The world suddenly got a whole lot brighter.

Chapter One

“I can't believe what you've done to the place,” Brett Murphy said to Finn, the older of his two younger brothers, as he looked around at what had been, until recently, a crumbling, weather-beaten and termite-riddled ranch house.

This morning, before opening up
Murphy's,
Forever's one and only saloon, he'd decided to look in on Finn's progress renovating the ranch house he had inherited from one of the town's diehard bachelors. And though he hadn't been prepared to, he was impressed by what he saw.

“More than that,” Brett added as he turned to face his brother, “I can't believe that you're the one who's doing it.”

Finn never missed a beat. He still had a lot to do before he packed it in for the day. “And what's that supposed to mean?” he asked. He'd been at this from first light, wrestling with a particularly uncooperative floorboard trim, which was just warped enough to give him trouble. That did
not
put the normally mild-tempered middle brother in the best frame of mind. “I built you a bathroom out of practically nothing, didn't I?” he reminded Brett. The bathroom had been added to make the single room above the saloon more livable. Until then, anyone staying in the room had had to go downstairs to answer nature's call or take a shower.

Brett's memory needed no prodding. It had always been a notch above excellent, which was fortunate for his brothers. It was Brett who took over running
Murphy's
and being financially responsible for them at the age of eighteen.

“Yes, you did,” Brett replied. “But don't forget, you were the kid who always wound up smashing his thumb with a hammer practically every time you so much as held one in your hand.”

His back to Brett as he continued working, Finn shrugged. “You're exaggerating, and anyway, I was six.”

“I'm not—and you were twelve,” Brett countered. He inclined his head ever so slightly as if that would underscore his point. “I'm the one with a head for details and numbers.”

Finn snorted. It wasn't that he took offense, just that their relationship was such that they took jabs at one another—and Liam—as a matter of course. It was just the way things were. But at bottom, he was fiercely loyal to his brothers—as they were to him.

“Just because you can add two and two doesn't make you the last authority on things, Brett,” Liam informed his brother.

“No, running
Murphy's
into the black pretty much did that.”

When, at eighteen, he had suddenly found himself in charge of the establishment, after their Uncle Patrick had died, he'd discovered that the saloon was actually
losing
money rather than earning it. He swiftly got to work making things right and within eight months, he'd managed to turn things around. It wasn't just his pride that was at stake, he had brothers to support and send to school.

“Look, I didn't swing by to squabble with you,” Brett went on. “I just wanted to see how the place was coming along—and it looks like you're finally in the home stretch. Liam been helping you?” he asked, curious.

This time Finn did stop what he was doing. He looked at Brett incredulously and then laughed. “Liam? In case you haven't noticed, that's a box of tools by your foot, not a box of guitar picks.”

Finn's meaning was clear. Of late, their younger brother only cared for all things musical. Brett still managed to get Liam to work the bar certain nights, but it was clear that Liam preferred performing at
Murphy's
rather than tending to the customers and their thirst.

“I thought Liam said he was coming by the other day,” Brett recalled.

“He did.” Finn's mouth curved. “Said watching me work inspired his songwriting.”

“Did it?” Brett asked, amused.

Finn shrugged again. “All I know was that he scribbled some things down, said ‘thanks' and took off again. I figure that
he
figures he's got a good thing going. Tells you he's coming out here to help me then when he comes here, he writes his songs—and calls it working.” There was no resentment in Finn's voice as he summarized his younger brother's revised work ethic. For the most part, Finn preferred working alone. It gave him the freedom to try different things without someone else second-guessing him or giving so-called advice. “Hey, Brett?”

Brett had wandered over to the fireplace. Finn had almost completely rebuilt it, replacing the old red bricks with white ones. It made the room look larger. “What?”

“You think our baby brother has any talent?” he asked in between hammering a section of the floorboard into place.

“For avoiding work?” Brett guessed. “Absolutely.”

Finn knew that Brett knew what he was referring to, but he clarified his question, anyway. “No, I mean for those songs he writes.”

Brett could see the merit in Liam's efforts, especially since he wouldn't have been able to come up with the songs himself, but he was curious to hear what Finn's opinion was. Since he was asking, Brett figured his brother had to have formed his own take on the subject.

“You've heard him just like I have,” Brett pointed out, waiting.

Finn glanced at him over his shoulder. “Yeah, but I want to know what you think.”

Brett played the line out a little further. “Suddenly I'm an authority?” he questioned.

Down on his knees, Finn rocked back on his heels, the frustrating length of floorboard temporarily forgotten. Despite the fancy verbal footwork, he really did value Brett's take on things. Brett had been the one he'd looked up to when he was growing up.

“No, not an authority,” Finn replied, “but you know what you like.”

“I think he's good. But I think he's better at singing songs than he is at writing them,” he said honestly, then in the next moment, he added, “But what I
do
know is that you've got a real talent for taking sow's ears and making silk purses out of them.”

Never one to reach for fancy words when plain ones would do, Finn eyed him with more than a trace of confusion.

“How's that again?” he asked.

Brett rephrased his comment. Easygoing though he was, it wasn't often that he complimented either of his brothers. He'd wanted them to grow up struggling to always reach higher rather than expecting things to be handed to them—automatic approval readily fell into that category.

“You're damn good at this remodeling thing that you do.”

Finn smiled to himself. Only a hint of it was evident on his lips. “Glad you like it.”

“But you don't have to work on it 24/7,” Brett pointed out. Finn had immersed himself in this huge project he'd taken on almost single-handedly. There was no reason to push himself this hard. “Nobody's waving a deadline at you.”

“There's a deadline,” Finn contradicted. He saw Brett raise an eyebrow in a silent query, so he stated the obvious. “You and Lady Doc are still getting married, aren't you?”

Just the mere mention of his pending nuptials brought a wide smile to Brett's lips. Just the way that thoughts of Alisha always did.

Until the young general surgeon had come to town, answering Dr. Daniel Davenport's letter requesting help, Brett had been relatively certain that while he loved all the ladies, regardless of “type,” there was no so-called soul mate out there for him.

Now he knew better, because he had met her. Not only was she out there, but he would be marrying her before the year was out, as well.

“Yes,” Brett replied. “But what...?”

Finn anticipated Brett's question and cut him short. “This is my wedding present to you and Lady Doc—to say thanks for all the times you were there for Liam and me when we needed you—and even the times when we thought we didn't,” he added with a touch of whimsy. “And this is, in a small way, to pay you back for staying instead of taking off with Laura right after high school graduation, the way she wanted you to.

“In other words, this is to say thanks for staying, for giving up your dream and taking care of your two bratty younger brothers instead.”

While Finn and Liam were aware of Laura, he had never told them about the ultimatum she'd given him. Had never mentioned how tempted he'd been, just for a moment, to follow her to Los Angeles. All his brothers knew was one day, Laura stopped coming around.

He looked at Finn in surprise. “You know about that?”

Finn smiled. “I'm not quite the oblivious person you thought I was.”

“I didn't think you were
oblivious,
” Brett corrected him. “It was just that you saw and paid attention to things the rest of us just glossed over.” His smile widened as he looked around the living room. Finn had outdone himself. “But seriously, this is all more than terrific, but this is
our
ranch house,” he emphasized, “not just mine.”

Finn looked at him and shook his head in wonder before getting back to work. “You bring that pretty Lady Doc here after you've married her and she finds out that she's sharing the place with not just you but also your two brothers, I guarantee that she'll walk out of here so fast, your head'll spin clean off.”

He might not be as experienced as Brett was when it came to the fairer sex, Finn thought, but some things were just a given.

“Now, I don't know nearly as much as you do when it comes to the ladies, but I do know that newlyweds like their own space—that doesn't mean sharing that space with two other people. Liam and I'll go on living at the house. This'll be your place,” he concluded, waving his hand around the room they were currently in as well as indicating the rest of the house.

“But the ranch itself is still
ours,
not just mine,” Brett insisted.

“Earl Robertson left it to you,” Finn stated simply. The man, he knew, had done it to show his gratitude because Brett had gone out of his way to look in on him when he had taken sick. That was Brett, Finn thought, putting himself out with no thought of any sort of compensation coming his way for his actions.

“And I've always shared whatever I had with you and Liam,” Brett stated flatly.

Finn allowed a sly smile to feather over his lips, even though being sly was out of keeping with his normally genial nature.

“I see. Does that go for Lady Doc, too?”

Brett knew that his brother was kidding and that he didn't have to say it, but he played along, anyway. “Alisha is off-limits.”

Finn pretended to sigh. “It figures. First nice
thing
you have in aeons, and you're keeping it all to yourself.”

“Damn right I am.”

Finn changed the subject, directing the conversation toward something serious. “Hey, made a decision about who your best man is going to be?”

Brett was silent for a moment. He'd made Finn think he was debating his choices, but the truth of it was, he'd made up his mind from the beginning. It had been Finn all along.

“Well, Liam made it clear that he and that band of his are providing the music, so I guess you get to be best man.”

His back to Brett, Finn smiled to himself. “I won't let it go to my head.”

“Might get lonely up there if it did,” Brett commented with affection. He glanced at his watch. “Guess I'd better be getting back or Nathan McHale is going to think I've abandoned him,” he said, referring to one of
Murphy's'
two most steadfast patrons.

Finn laughed. “Wonder how long he'd stand in front of the closed door, waiting for you to open up before he'd finally give up.”

Brett began to answer without hesitation. “Two, maybe three—”

“Hours?” Finn asked, amused.

“Days,” Brett corrected with a laugh. The older man had been coming to
Murphy's
for as many years as anyone could remember, motivated partially by his fondness for beer and most assuredly by his desire to get away from his eternally nagging wife, Henrietta. “I'll see you later tonight.”

Finn nodded. “I'll be by when I get done for the day,” he said. He was back to communing with another ornery section of floorboard before his brother walked out the front door.

* * *

C
ONNIE
HAD
DECIDED
to just drive around both through Forever and its surrounding area to get a general feel for the little town. For the most part, it appeared she'd stumbled across a town that time had more or less left alone. Nothing looked ancient, exactly, and there were parking places in front of the handful of businesses rather than hitching posts, but all in all, the entire town had a very rural air about it, right down to the single restaurant—if a diner could actually lay claim to that title.

She'd been amused to see that the town's one bar—how did these cowboys survive with only one bar?—had a sign in the window that said Hungry? Go visit Miss Joan's diner. Thirsty? You've come to the right place. That had told her that there was obviously a division of labor here with territories being defined in the simplest of terms.

Given its size and what she took to be the residents' mind-set, Connie doubted very much if a place like this actually
needed
a hotel—which, she had a feeling, had probably been her father's whole point when he had given her this
project,
saying if she wanted to prove herself to him, he wanted to see her complete the hotel, bringing it in on time and under budget. The budget left very little wiggle room.

“Newsflash, Dad. I don't give up that easily,” she murmured to the man who was currently five hundred miles away.

Challenges, especially seemingly impossible ones, were what made her come alive. At first glance, the sleepy little town of Forever needed a hotel about as much as it needed an expert on wombats.

It took closer examination to see that the idea of building a hotel had merit.