The Airman's E-Mail Order Bride (Heroes of Chance Creek Book 5) (28 page)
Read The Airman's E-Mail Order Bride (Heroes of Chance Creek Book 5) Online
Authors: Cora Seton
The Heroes of Chance Creek
The Navy SEAL’s E-mail Order Bride (Volume 1)
The Soldier’s E-Mail Order Bride (Volume 2)
The Marine’s E-Mail Order Bride (Volume 3)
The Navy SEAL’s Christmas Bride (Volume 4)
The Cowboy Inherits a Bride (Volume 0)
The Cowboy’s E-mail Order Bride (Volume 1)
The Cowboy Wins a Bride (Volume 2)
The Cowboy Imports a Bride (Volume 3)
The Cowgirl Ropes a Billionaire (Volume 4)
The Sheriff Catches a Bride (Volume 5)
The Cowboy Lassos a Bride (Volume 6)
The Cowboy Rescues a Bride (Volume 7)
The Cowboy Earns a Bride (Volume 8)
by Cora Seton
W
omen. Where was
he going to find enough women?
Staff Sergeant Boone Rudman folded himself into the narrow seat allotted to him on the small plane he’d just boarded along with fifty-something other souls bound for Chance Creek, Montana. He carefully stowed his battered leather briefcase under the seat in front of him, handling it with the reverence due to something so special. His grandfather had given it to him when he graduated from high school. His own grandfather had carried it to Yale University back in 1929. It wasn’t until World War II that the Boones had become Navy men. Ever since there had been two traditions in the family—serving their country and passing down the briefcase to the oldest son of each generation.
He tucked it further beneath the seat, turning over his dilemma in his mind. They’d need several women to start—maybe even a half-dozen. That number would need to ramp up over the coming months. Of all the tasks on the to-do list inside his briefcase, finding those women ranked as the toughest in his mind. It wasn’t that Boone had ever found it difficult to attract women. They liked his broad shoulders and the muscles he’d built up during his time in the service. As long as he regaled them with stories about his training days or funny incidents he’d seen along the way, everything was fine. The trouble started when he spoke from the heart about his passions. Hydroponics, geothermal heat, and local resources made their eyes glaze over. When he started on micronutrients, closed system aquaculture and rain gardens, they ran for the hills.
Somewhere there must be women who truly cared about sustainable living.
Boone just hadn’t met them yet.
Discontent rippled through him, but Boone refused to let it gain control. He’d been too long without female company. The nature of his work as a Navy SEAL had made finding a partner difficult. The nature of his hobbies and interests made it downright impossible. If sex was all he wanted he could find what he was looking for in any bar, but Boone wanted more than sex. He wanted to find his equal. A passionate, intelligent woman on fire to follow her dreams and build a better life for herself. He wanted to start a family—a carefully planned, population-neutral family of two children they’d raise with all the right ideals.
Boone chuckled at this high-minded portrait of his needs. Who was he kidding? He just wanted someone to fuck who didn’t bore him at the breakfast table the following morning.
He glanced down at the worn leather briefcase again. Inside it lay a sheaf of paperwork and maps, along with the laptop he’d used to plan out every element of the community he intended to build when he arrived at Westfield ranch. It was strange to travel without the men he’d served with in the Navy SEALs for so long. Jericho and Clay had watched his back since BUD(s) training. Walker had helped guide their Navy careers and led them through situations they shouldn’t have survived.
Now he was on his own. Temporarily. Boone liked to think of himself as an advance party of one. He’d arrive in Chance Creek ahead of the others, scope out the terrain, set up headquarters and prepare for the rest of them to land. Together they’d build a community that could survive a future of climate change and scarce resources. With their combined intelligence, know-how and can-do attitudes they were singularly positioned to succeed in a way other would-be sustainable communities hadn’t.
As long as they could find some women.
He greeted the flight attendant with a smile several minutes later when the plane levelled out and it was time for his packet of pretzels and cup of pop. He examined the items she placed on his tray table—the individually wrapped snack, the plastic cup, the soda can whose heavy contents had already travelled miles to get to him—and reminded himself not to lecture the flight attendant on waste. Change started with individuals who cared. First he’d fix his own life. Then he’d helped those around him. He was young, strong and smart. Plenty of time to change the world.
As he sat back and munched his pretzels, Boone relaxed, knowing he couldn’t fail. Walker had provided the land. He had the plans and the knowhow. His buddies would soon supply the man power.
All they needed was women.
Boone had no idea where those women would come from, but he felt confident he’d figure it out.
Riley Eaton pulled
the rental moving truck into the gravel area in front of Westfield mansion and sighed with contentment. “There it is. It isn’t Pemberley, but it’s as close as we’ll find in Chance Creek.”
“It’s beautiful,” Savannah Edwards said. “Look at that house!”
Riley bit back a smile. Westfield was beautiful. With its stone exterior it presented a proud façade worthy of Jane Austen’s Regency England. She didn’t care that it sat on a ranch in Montana. It would do wonderfully.
“It’s gorgeous!” Avery Lightfoot said.
“More than gorgeous—three floors! It’s stunning, Riley!” Savannah echoed.
“I guess it’s nice,” Nora Ridgeway pronounced quietly, “but it’s so remote.”
Riley refused to let her enthusiasm be dampened by Nora’s reaction when Avery and Savannah were so thrilled. She couldn’t help but smile at the friends who’d stepped out of their lives to join her on this adventure. She wished she could take credit for the idea, but it had been Nora who instigated the decision—albeit accidentally. Classmates at Vassar, they’d scattered after graduation, but they’d kept in touch regularly and six months ago they’d met for their own private five year reunion at the Sanctuary Spa in Santa Fe, New Mexico. During the first couple of days they’d swapped stories of their career triumphs and bemoaned the lack of decent men in the world. Forty-eight hours in, however, they’d begun to speak their minds.
Savannah picked up the dog-eared copy of
Pride and Prejudice
which Nora had found tucked in the dresser in her room and carried with her to the patio where they sat. “Am I the only one who’d trade my life for one of Austen’s characters’ in a heartbeat?”
Riley remembered the hush that had fallen. They were seated in a flagstone courtyard around a clay chiminea as dusk eased into darkness and the air took on a chill. “You want to live in Regency England?” Nora had asked sharply. “And be some man’s property?”
“Of course not. I don’t want the class conflict or the snobbery or the outdated rules. But I want the beauty of their lives. I want the music and the literature. I want afternoon visits and balls. Why don’t we do those things anymore?”
“Who has time for that?” Riley’s job at the ad agency kept her working until all hours. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a full day off of work, let alone visited anyone.
“I haven’t played the piano in years,” Savannah said wistfully. “I mean, I was never any good—”
“Are you kidding? You were fantastic,” Avery said.
“I don’t think I could stand all those long walks through the countryside,” Nora said. “Have you noticed how much time those women spend walking in the movies?”
Riley knew Nora loved city life, but she was as burnt out as the rest of them. As a teacher she felt she should go where she was needed and she taught at in an area of Baltimore that resembled a war zone. She couldn’t imagine Nora was happy no matter how much she claimed the work fulfilled her.
“So why don’t we do it?” Avery said in the lull that followed Nora’s comment.
“Do what?” Savannah asked.
“Create an Austen life. A beautiful life, with time for music and literature and poetry and walks—and maybe even balls.”
“How on earth would you do that? And why would you want to?” Nora took a long drink from her mug of herbal tea.
“We’d pool our resources together. We’ve all saved something, right? We’d buy some big old house on a huge plot of land and start a Jane Austen bed and breakfast. The women who visited would step into Regency times and take a break from their crazy lives, just like we want to do.”
“That’s… genius,” Riley said. “Isn’t it genius?”
“It kind of is,” Avery said.
“Where would you find the house and land?” Nora asked. Riley noticed that although she was distancing herself from the plan she seemed awfully interested in the answer.
“I might know of a place,” Riley said, and they were off and running.
By Cora Seton
Chapter One“Y
ou did what?”
Ethan Cruz turned his back on the slate and glass entrance to Chance Creek, Montana’s Regional Airport, and jiggled the door handle of Rob Matheson’s battered red Chevy truck. Locked. It figured—Rob had to know he’d want to turn tail and head back to town the minute he found out what his friends had done. “Open the damned door, Rob.”
“Not a chance. You’ve got to come in—we’re picking up your bride.”
“I don’t have a bride and no one getting off that plane concerns me. You’ve had your fun, now open up the door or I’m grabbing a taxi.” He faced his friends. Rob, who’d lived on the ranch next door to his their entire lives. Cab Johnson, county sheriff, who was far too level-headed to be part of this mess. And Jamie Lassiter, the best horse trainer west of the Mississippi as long as you could pry him away from the ladies. The four of them had gone to school together, played football together, and spent more Saturday nights at the bar than he could count. How many times had he gotten them out of trouble, drove them home when they’d had one beer to many, listened to them bellyache about their girlfriends or lack thereof when all he really wanted to do was knock back a cold one and play a game of pool? What the hell had he ever done to deserve this?
Unfortunately, he knew exactly what he’d done. He’d played a spectacularly brilliant prank a month or so ago on Rob—a prank that still had the town buzzing—and Rob concocted this nightmare as payback. Rob got him drunk one night and egged him on about his ex-fiancee until he spilled his guts about how much it still bothered him that Lacey Taylor had given him the boot in favor of that rich sonofabitch Carl Whitfield. The name made him want to spit. Dressed like a cowboy when everyone knew he couldn’t ride to save his life.
Lacey bailed on him just as life had delivered a walloping one-two punch. First his parents died in a car accident. Then he discovered the ranch was mortgaged to the hilt. As soon as Lacey learned there would be some hard times ahead, she took off like a runaway horse. Didn’t even have the decency to break up with him face to face. Before he knew it Carl was flying Lacey all over creation in his private plane. Las Vegas. San Francisco. Houston. He never had a chance to get her back.
He should have kept his thoughts bottled up where they belonged—would have kept them bottled up if Rob hadn’t kept putting those shots into his hand—but no, after he got done swearing and railing at Lacey’s bad taste in men, he apparently decided to lecture his friends on the merits of a real woman. The kind of woman a cowboy should marry.
And Rob—good ol’ Rob—captured the whole thing with his cell phone.
When he showed it to him the following day, Ethan made short work of the asinine gadget, but it was too late. Rob had already emailed the video to Cab and Jamie, and the three of them spent the next several days making his life damn miserable over it.
If only they’d left it there.
The other two would have, but Rob was still sore about that old practical joke, so he took things even further. He decided there must be a woman out there somewhere who met all of the requirements Ethan expounded on during his drunken rant. To find her, he did what any rational man would do. He edited Ethan’s rant into a video advertisement for a damned mail order bride.
And posted it on YouTube.
Rob showed him the video on the ride over to the airport. There he was for all the world to see, sounding like a jack-ass—hell, looking like one, too. Rob’s fancy editing made his rant sound like a proposition. “What I want,” he heard himself say, “is a traditional bride. A bride for a cowboy. 18—25 years old, willing to work hard, beautiful, quiet, sweet, good cook, ready for children. I’m willing to give her a trial. One month’ll tell me all I need to know.” Then the image cut out to a screen full of text, telling women how to submit their video applications.
