Once and For All: An American Valor Novel (25 page)
Read Once and For All: An American Valor Novel Online
Authors: Cheryl Etchison
In a far corner, the men of the 75th gathered around a lone table beautifully decorated like all the others. Except this table was set for one and went unused. As they made their way across the dance floor, Danny told her of the regiment tradition, how a table is always set in memory of those who did not return from combat.
Her eyes misted at the memory of how close he came to being one of those men, of her losing him forever. As if reading her mind, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Bull handed out whiskey-filled shot glasses to each of the men and offered one to Bree, as well.
“Are you certain? Shouldn’t this just be for the men?”
“On other occasions, maybe. But today you’re drinking, too, Mrs. MacGregor,” Bull said with a wink.
Once everyone had a drink, Gibby raised his glass high, offering a toast. “To those who fought alongside us and now watch over us from above. Fair winds.”
“Fair winds,” they replied in unison before quickly tossing back the tiny glasses of amber liquid. Bree followed suit, the whiskey burning a path from her throat to her belly. She’d barely caught her breath before Bull was attempting to refill her shot glass for a second round.
“Oh, no.” Bree placed her hand over the glass. “No. No. No.”
“But we’re not done yet,” said the giant blond warrior standing in front of her. “And it’s practically un-American to refuse a toast to those who protect your freedoms.”
Bree gave Danny the side-eye as he chuckled at Bull’s manipulation, but she reluctantly lowered her hand, allowing him to fill her glass. “How many more?” she whispered for Danny’s ears only.
“Not sure.”
“Are you wanting them to get me drunk?”
“Do you think I’d complain?” Danny suggestively waggled his eyebrows.
Bree narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re so bad. So very bad.”
Gibby turned to face Lucky and raised his glass. “To goodbyes—may they never be spoken. To friendships—may they never be broken.”
“To Lucky,” they all said in unison before downing the second shot.
Afterward, Danny slapped his hand upon Lucky’s shoulder. “Seriously, man, good luck in Oklahoma. Put that GI Bill to good use and show those snot-nosed college kids how Rangers do things.”
“Will do,” Lucky said. “Just as long as you promise not to take any more bullets. The organs you have left are essential items.”
They finished off their conversation with a bro-hug as Bull made his way around the circle, filling their glasses for a third time.
“Gibby’s really good with these toasts.” Bree leaned heavily against Danny’s chest as she hoisted her glass. “I have to admit I’m impressed.”
Danny lowered his head to whisper in her ear. “He Googles them all.”
Oh.
“To Danny and Bree.”
This time the group turned to face her and Danny, and she couldn’t help but smile at these brave, strong men raising their glasses in toast to them. And then, much to their delight, she threw back her shot. Which surprisingly went down far easier than the first two.
Bree took a deep breath and steadied herself. “Please tell me we’re done?”
“Even if Gibby’s not, you are.”
D
ANNY PRIED THE
shot glass from Bree’s hand and placed it on the table before leading his wife to the center of the floor for one last dance.
He liked thinking of Bree that way—
his wife
. More than he ever could have imagined. And he couldn’t believe there would ever come a day when he would tire of hearing those two beautiful words.
His beautiful bride, who was more than a little tipsy, limply tossed her arms around his neck and leaned into him. Which of course gave him a good excuse to hold her a little closer than appropriate in his arms.
Bree tipped her head back and looked up at him with those big brown eyes. “You certainly know how to carry out a covert operation, Daniel MacGregor.”
Her eyes were a little glassy, her speech a little slurred. Damn, she was cute.
“Anything you would have done differently?” he asked
“Not. One. Single. Thing,” she said with half-mast eyes and a giant smile on her face. “It was absolutely perfect.”
Bree pulled her arms from around his neck, choosing instead to wrap them about his waist as she rested her head upon his chest and burrowed beneath his chin.
He should call it a night, say their farewells and take her to their room for the weekend at the bed-and-breakfast across the street. But he wanted to finish this one last wedding dance with his new bride. His wife.
“You should know I used part of the decorating money to pay for this shindig. That means we’re stuck with my old furniture for a while.”
“That’s okay.”
“You won’t mind having a new house and no real furniture to put in it?”
“Doesn’t matter one bit,” she said, snuggling closer. “After all, we’ll always have the bed.”
W
H
EN WRITERS BEGIN
the querying process, the mantra chanted most is “It takes only one.” Luckily, it wasn’t long before “the one” found me and I couldn’t have wished for anyone better. Thank you Stephany Evans for pulling me from the slush pile and setting this whirlwind in motion. Many thanks to Rebecca Lucash, Amanda Bergeron, and everyone at Avon Impulse. You have made my dreams come true and I look forward to working on many more books together.
Although writing is a solitary pursuit, I have many friends who were always there to cheer me on. Special thanks to my dear friend, Liz, who read eleven billion versions of this story. Thank you for all the times you listened when I called to bounce off the latest ideas, but especially for dragging me along to the RWA 2011 convention. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be writing some depressing book that no one would want to read—including me. Many thanks to Gloria and Gena, two strong and beautiful women who inspired me to write a cancer survivor that had spunk and a sense of humor. Thank you to all “mah gurls” from the place that shall remain nameless. Your friendship and support means so much to me. Next time we all get together, drinks are on me.
Many thanks to George Kohrman, MD, who taught me I can do just about anything I want to a character as long as I follow the third rule of surgery—stay away from the pancreas. Any medical mistakes in this book are the fault of the student, not the teacher.
Thanks to Mom and Dad who let an eight-year-old spend hours pounding away on a gray IBM Selectric typewriter and not once complaining about the amount of paper I wasted on my stories.
I need to give a shout out to my girls for eating large quantities of pizza, tolerating mommy’s excessive computer use, and having to hide my extensive collection of shirtless-man books when your friends come over.
Lastly, many thanks to my husband, who was always ready with a well-timed pep talk or kick in the track pants whenever I began to doubt myself. It seems only appropriate that this book will be released on our 19
th
anniversary. So here’s your gift. I’ve spent a lot of time on this sucker. I hope you like it. And, no, you can’t retire just yet.
CHERYL ETCHISON graduated from the University of Oklahoma’s School of Journalism and began her career as an oil and gas reporter. Bored to tears and broke as hell, it wasn’t long before she headed for the promised land of public relations. But that was nearly a lifetime ago and she’s since traded in reporting the facts for making it all up. Currently, she lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband and three daughters.
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R
IBBON
R
IDGE
B
OOK
S
IX
by Darcy Burke
A S
EASON'S
O
RIGINAL
N
OVEL
by Vivienne Lorret
A
N
A
CCIDENTAL
H
EIRS
N
OVEL
by Christy Carlyle
An Excerpt from
Ribbon Ridge Book Six
By Darcy Burke
College sweethearts Bex and Hayden were once the perfect couple but is five years enough time to heal broken hearts . . . and give them a second chance at first love?
Ribbon Ridge, July
H
ayden Archer drove into the parking lot at The Alex. The
paved
parking lot. He hadn’t been home since Christmas, and things looked vastly different, including the paved lot instead of the dirt he’d been used to. The project to renovate the old monastery into a hotel and restaurant was nearly complete, and his siblings had done an amazing job in his absence.
He stepped out of his car, which he’d rented at the airport when his flight had arrived that afternoon. Someone would’ve picked him up, of course. If they’d known he was coming.
He smiled to himself in the summer twilight, looking forward to seeing his brothers’ surprise when he burst in on Dylan Westcott’s bachelor party. Hayden glanced around but didn’t see anyone. They’d all be at the underground pub that Dylan had conceived and designed. It was fitting that its inaugural use would be to celebrate his upcoming wedding to their sister Sara.
Hayden could hardly wait to see the place, along with the rest of the property. But he figured that tour would have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight was for celebrating. And shocking the hell out of his family.
He made his way to the pub and immediately fell in love with what they’d done. He’d seen pictures, but being here in person gave everything a scale that was impossible to feel from half a world away.
They’d dug out the earth around the entrance to the pub and installed a round door, making it look distinctly hobbit-like. He wondered how much of that design had come from his brother Evan, and was certain Kyle’s fiancée, Maggie, the groundskeeper of the entire place, had tufted the grass just so and ensured the wildflowers surrounding the entry looked as if they’d been there forever. A weathered, wooden sign hung over the door, reading: Archetype.
As he moved closer, he heard the sounds of revelry and smiled again. Then he put his hand on the wrought-iron door handle and pushed.
The noise was even louder inside, and it was nearly as dim as it had been outside. There were recessed lights in the wooden beams across the ceiling and sconces set at intervals around the space, all set to a mellow, cozy mood.
Hayden recognized most of the twenty or so people here. A few tables had been pushed together, and a handful of guys were playing some obnoxiously terrible card game while others were gathered at the bar. Kyle, one of his three brothers—the chef with the surfer good looks—stood behind it pouring drinks.
Hayden made his way to the bar, amused that no one had noticed him enter. “Beer me.”
Kyle grabbed a pint glass. “Sure. What were you drinking?” He looked up and blinked. “Shit. Hayden. Am I drunk?” He glanced around before settling back on Hayden.
“Probably. Longbow if you’ve got it.”
Kyle came sprinting around the bar and clasped him in a tight hug. He pulled back, grinning. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he bellowed.
The noise faded then stopped completely. Liam, his eldest brother, or at least the first of the sextuplets born, stood up from the table, his blue-gray gaze intense. “Hayden, what the hell?” Like Kyle, his expression was one of confusion followed by joy.
“Hayden?” Evan, his remaining brother—the quiet one—leaned back on his stool at the other end of the bar. Like the others, he registered surprise, though in a far more subdued way.
“Hayden!” This exclamation came from the table near Liam and was from Hayden’s best friend, Cameron Westcott. He was also the groom’s half-brother.
The groom himself stood up from where he sat next to Evan. “What an awesome surprise.” Dylan grinned as he hugged Hayden, and for the next several minutes he was overwhelmed with hugs and claps on the back and so much smiling that his cheeks ached.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” Liam asked, once things had settled down.
Kyle had gone back behind the bar and was now pulling Hayden’s beer from the tap. “Do Mom and Dad know you’re here?”
Hayden looked at Liam. “Because I wanted to surprise everyone.” Then he looked at Kyle. “And no, Mom and Dad don’t know.” Hayden took his glass from Kyle and immediately sipped the beer, closing his eyes as the distinct wheat flavor his father had crafted brought him fully and completely home.
Kyle leaned on the bar. “Mom is going to be beside herself.” He slapped the bar top. “Now this is a party!”
An Excerpt from
A Season’s Original Novel
By Vivienne Lorret
USA Today
bestselling author Vivienne Lorret launches a new historical romance series featuring the Season’s Original—a coveted title awarded by the ton’s elite to one lucky debutante . . .
The Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence.
L
ilah read no farther than the heading of the newspaper in her hand before she lost her nerve.
“I cannot look,” she said, thrusting the
Standard
to her cousin. “After last night’s ball, I shouldn’t be surprised if the first headline read, ‘Miss Lilah Appleton: Most Unmarriageable Maiden in England.’ And beneath it, ‘Last Bachelor in Known World Weds Septuagenarian Spinster as Better Alternative.’”
Lilah’s exhale crystallized in the cold air, forming a cloud of disappointment. It drifted off the park path, dissipating much like the hopes and dreams she’d had for her first two Seasons.
Walking beside her, Juliet, Lady Granworth, laughed, her blue eyes shining with amusement. Even on this dull, gray morning, she emitted a certain brightness and luster from within. Beneath a lavender bonnet, her features and complexion were flawless, her hair a mass of golden silk. And if she weren’t so incredibly kind, Lilah might be forced to hate her as a matter of principle, on behalf of plain women throughout London.
“You possess a rather peculiar talent for worry, Cousin,” Juliet said, skimming the five-column page.
The notion pleased Lilah. “Do you think so?”
After twenty-three years of instruction, Mother often told her that she wasn’t a very good worrier. Or perhaps it was more that her anxieties were misdirected. This, Lilah supposed, was where her
talent
emerged. She was able to imagine the most absurd disasters, the more unlikely the better. There was something of a relief in the ludicrous. After all, if she could imagine a truly terrible event, then she could deal with anything less dramatic. Or so she hoped.
Yet all the worrying in the world would not alter one irrefutable fact—Lilah needed to find a husband this Season or else her life would be over.
“Indeed, I do,” Juliet said with a nod, folding the page before tucking it away. “However, there was nothing here worth your worry or even noteworthy at all.”
Unfortunately, Lilah knew what that meant.
“Not a single mention?” At the shake of her cousin’s head, Lilah felt a sense of déjà vu and disappointment wash over her. This third and final Season was beginning on the same foot as the first two had. She would almost prefer to have been named most unmarriageable. At least she would have known that someone had noticed her.
Abruptly, Juliet’s expression softened, and she placed a gentle hand on Lilah’s shoulder. “You needn’t worry. Zinnia and I will come up with the perfect plan.”
As of yet, none of their plans had yielded a result.
Over Christmas, they had attended a party at the Duke of Vale’s castle. Most of those in attendance had been unmarried young women, which had given nearly everyone the hope of marrying the duke. Even Lilah had hoped as much—at first. Yet when the duke had been unable to remember her name, she’d abruptly abandoned that foolishness. And a good thing too, because he’d married her dearest friend, Ivy, instead.
The duke had developed a
Marriage Formula
—a mathematical equation that would pair one person with another according to the resulting answer. Then, using his own formula, the duke had found his match—Ivy. As luck would have it, both Ivy and Vale had fallen deeply in love as well. Now, if only Lilah could find her own match.
“I have been considering Vale’s
Marriage Formula
. All I would need to do is fill out a card.” At least, that was how Lilah thought it worked. “Yet with Vale and Ivy still on their honeymoon, I do not know if they will return in time.”
Then again, there was always the possibility that the equation would produce no match for her either.
Juliet’s steps slowed. “Even though I couldn’t be more pleased for Ivy, I’m not certain that I want to put your future happiness in the hands of an equation.”
Lilah didn’t need
happiness
. In fact, her requirements for marriage and a husband had greatly diminished in the past two years. She’d gone from wanting a handsome husband in the prime of his life, to settling for a gentleman of any age who wasn’t terribly disfigured. She would like him to be kind to her as well, but she would accept any man who didn’t bellow and rant about perfection, as her father had done.
“A pleasant conversation with someone who shares my interests would be nice, not necessarily happiness, or even love, for that matter,” Lilah said, thinking of the alternative. “All I truly need is not to be forced into marriage with Cousin Winthrop.”
