Wyatt's Stand (Colebrook Siblings Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

“You’re pathetic,” Wyatt told Grits, who ignored him.

“Pretty cute little guy,” his father commented, taking the mug Wyatt offered. “You decided yet whether you’re gonna keep him?”

“No.” Seemed he went back and forth about it a few times every day.

“Piper thinks he’s perfect for you.”

Wyatt stopped and shot him a
get real
look at the mention of his ex-high school sweetheart. “Dad.” Even though they’d only dated for a few weeks and there was nothing remotely romantic between them anymore, Piper had stayed close with him and his family over the years. As far as they were all concerned, she was an honorary Colebrook.

“Well you can’t just give him back now.”

“Yeah, I can.” He’d told Piper when she’d brought Grits over that he wasn’t ready to take on a new dog—that he might never be ready again. She’d steamrolled right over all his protests in that sweet yet steel-laden way Piper had, pulling out the sympathy card by telling him Grits was a rescue dog and needed a good home.

“Who knows what kind of person he’d wind up with if you let him go?”

Wyatt had only kept Grits up to this point because he didn’t have the heart to dump the dog somewhere after all the little guy had been through. “I haven’t decided what to do with him yet,” he said, watching Grits.

True, he was a sucker for animals, especially dogs, but he’d always owned or worked with German shepherds or Belgian Malinois. Big, strong working dogs that he trained to do important jobs like protect Marines and sniff out different kinds of explosives. Not fluffy little lapdogs that had once been bred as companions for royalty. That had all been before he’d lost Raider.

Now, everything was different. He didn’t want to get attached to another dog again. It was too damn hard when they died.

“What’s his story, anyway?” his dad asked, now scratching the dog’s chest. Grits was licking deliriously at his father’s scruffy chin, totally oblivious to how he was embarrassing himself.

“Piper said his previous owners had used him as a stud dog and kept him caged for pretty much his entire existence before he was rescued a couple months ago.” God, people were such—

“Assholes,” his father muttered, and Wyatt nodded in agreement.

The musical notes of Piper’s special ringtone pierced the air. “Speak of the devil,” Wyatt murmured, digging out his phone. “Hey,” he answered. “Dad and I were just talking about you.”

“Were you? All good things, I’m sure.”

“Always,” he deadpanned, fairly sure she was either calling to check on Grits or ask him about his VA appointment yesterday. She did it all the time, checking up on him. He didn’t mind it, even liked it to a point, but she tended to mother him.

Since no one would ever replace his mother, he’d made it clear he was okay with her being his honorary sister instead. Besides, she and his sister, Charlie, loved each other. And God knew, Charlie could use the female backup in this family, having been raised with three older brothers by a former USMC gunny sergeant.

“How are things with Grits? Are you falling in love with him yet?”

“Shockingly, no.”

She made a disparaging noise. “Whatever, you will. I know you too well. There’s no way you can turn your back on that sweet little guy now that you’ve spent time with him and you know he needs you.”

Wyatt scowled even though she couldn’t see him. “I hate it when you say stuff like that.” Damn guilt trips, tugging at the few heartstrings he had left and didn’t like anyone to know about.

“It’s because I know how to work you.”

Yeah, she did. And knowing Piper, she was betting on him caving and keeping Grits if they spent more time together. “That why you’re calling?”

“Actually, no.”

Something about her tone put him on edge. “Then why, what’s wrong?”

His father looked at him sharply, his coffee mug poised halfway to his lips.

“Is there a reason you ignored all my calls last night?”

“Yeah.” And he didn’t want to elaborate over the phone right now. He needed a few hours to decompress, then some sleep and maybe a trail ride before he felt like talking to anyone else about last night.

“Well, this was important.”

He’d been a little bit busy trying to keep his brother from being killed. “Stuff came up. I’ll fill you in later. So what did you keep calling me about?”

“Okay, I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just gonna say it.”

Wyatt waited, tension creeping into his gut. “What?”

“The Miller house just sold this morning.”

The bottom of his stomach dropped out. “
What
?” His dad was staring at him in concern now, but Wyatt didn’t look at him, too blindsided by this bombshell. “What the hell do you mean, it’s sold? It wasn’t even up for sale yet.” It couldn’t have sold. Everyone in town knew he’d set his sights on the place years ago, that he’d been waiting impatiently for the widow Miller’s estate to put it up for sale.

“The beneficiaries of Mrs. Miller’s estate suddenly decided to list it and someone jumped on it before the news went public. The deal went through this morning. A real estate friend of mine called to tell me. That’s why I’d been trying to reach you last night. I got wind that someone was interested and maybe making an offer, so I wanted to see if you could maybe make a counteroffer or something to prevent the private sale from going through. I never dreamed the deal would go through this fast, and all behind the scenes.”

Wyatt dragged a hand over his face, hit with twin arrows of despair and disbelief. “Are you sure it’s a done deal?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry—”

“Who’s the buyer?”

A tense beat passed. “Wyatt, you can’t—”

No. “Who is it, Piper?” His heart pounded, his fingers clenched around the phone. Panic clawed at him with icy talons. This couldn’t happen. He had to stop it. Undo it somehow.

She sighed. “The name is Austen Sloan and they’re over there now with the real estate agent—”

Wyatt hung up and snatched his keys from the counter.

“What’s going on?” his father asked, pushing to his feet.

“Someone just bought the Miller house out from under me,” he snapped, and stormed out of the cabin, ignoring Grits’s pleading barks as he rushed toward his truck.

Fuck this day. Fuck
everything
.

No matter what it took, he had to get that house back. It was the only way he had left to redeem himself.

Austen couldn’t stop smiling as she turned in a circle to take in the “front parlor” in her new house. Her
old
new house that needed a hell of a lot of work before it was in any kind of condition to live in.

But still. Hers, and it felt so damn good.

This was the first thing she’d had to be excited about since John died two years ago. He would want this for her, a home of her own and a fresh start. It was high time she got on with the rest of her life, and after months of searching, Sugar Hollow seemed the perfect place to do it.

Her real estate agent had just left, leaving Austen to savor the peace and satisfaction of finally having taken this huge, scary step. This day was years in the making, and now that she’d accomplished it, her emotions were mixed. Excitement, a little bit of anxiety, and of course some sadness.

Leaving her friends, her old life and all the memories that came with it had been the second hardest thing she’d ever done, but having found this grand old beauty of a house, she knew it was worth it. The house was a diamond in the rough and she intended to make it sparkle again.

Above her in the center of the eight-foot high ceiling, an antique plaster medallion framed an old light fixture that looked certain to start a fire if any electrical current flowed through its wires. Those were the least of her worries at the moment though, as outlined in detail in the inspector’s report she’d received before closing the deal.

The front parlor was actually in the best shape of any room in the house. All the intricate oak woodwork alone had made her heart beat faster when she’d first come to see the place. Elaborate filigree fretwork ran the length of the arched doorway separating the living room from the entry hall, and the jambs had scrollwork carved into them. She couldn’t wait to work on it.

Sure, there was a lot to be done, even in here. Apart from restoring all the woodwork, she’d have to rip out the old carpets to see if she could salvage the wood floors underneath—why did people always cover up wood floors in grand old houses like this?—and she’d need to repair some of the plaster on the walls and ceiling before she painted them. Still, this room was a fairly simple, manageable project to take on.

The rest of the house…not so much.

And lord, she didn’t even want to think about what she was going to have to do in the basement/cellar. It was definitely the kind of place where slasher movies were filmed, all dark and damp, filled with cobwebs and who knew what else. A part of her was terrified that she might have bitten off more than she could chew with this house, but she pushed it aside. The deal was done, no sense second-guessing herself at this point. She’d just have to tackle the project one room at a time, not get overwhelmed.

Go big or go home
, John had always told her.

Well, she’d definitely gone big here, and this was home now, for better or worse. She would never go back to Pennsylvania. There were too many memories there, too many daily reminders of what she’d lost. It wasn’t healthy for her.

The old floorboards creaked under her feet as she walked through to the kitchen, where a mishmash of styles had all been slapped together over the decades. Thin beams of light filtered in between the boards covering the tall windows that overlooked the private backyard, illuminating the dust motes floating through the air.

Every visible surface was caked with a decade worth of dust, the paint was peeling and the electrical and plumbing systems would have to be gutted and redone from scratch. Not to mention she’d also need to put in a brand new HVAC system and new insulation in all the walls.

This grand old lady was in sad shape, and she was just the person to give it the TLC it deserved. She would restore it to its former beauty and then some—while updating it with all the modern conveniences it was lacking now. Underneath all the neglect and grime, this place had good bones. Beautiful ones.

Just standing in it filled her with excitement. She’d been lucky to come across it when she had. Apparently the family estate holding the property had been unwilling to sell it since the previous owner had died. The moment Austen had seen the place she’d fallen in love with it, and had called the agent she’d been in contact with about another property in the Sugar Hollow area.

The woman had called the lawyers responsible for the estate to inquire about its status and found out the estate was willing to sell. When they’d given a number, Austen had offered the full amount right away in cash, wanting to avoid a potential bidding war once word got out that it was for sale. An impulsive move totally unlike her, but as scary as it had been, she knew she’d made the right call. A few days later, the place was hers.

She completed her tour on the upper floor, stopping in each room to make notes of her general plan for it. Seriously, the current state of a few of the rooms scared her. What had the previous owners been thinking, decorating them like that?

The house was literally a time capsule, every decade since the 1880s represented somewhere in the decor. The 1950s-style kitchen was particularly heinous, with its peeling, checkered vinyl floors and mint green cabinets made with some kind of laminate and Formica countertops. The upstairs washroom was straight out of the 60s with a matching pink tub and sink—and not in a good way. It seemed any previous renovations to the house had been cobbled together in a half-assed way that made her inner carpenter shudder in horror.

“Don’t you worry,” she murmured to the house, feeling sorry for the state it was now in. “I’ll fix you up and make you better than new, and I promise to keep all the pretty details that make you so special.” Oh, it would be beautiful when she was done with it.

If her budget and stamina held out long enough to see it through.

At the foot of the grand wooden staircase that led from the foyer to the second floor, she paused to run a hand over the newel post. Hand carved out of oak, its fancy flourishes and scrollwork just begged to be cleaned up and refinished. Painting it white would make the whole space brighter, but she wasn’t sure if she could stomach covering up such lovely grained wood.

Once the boards were removed from the windows, this entire part of the house would be flooded with natural light that would make the woodwork glow. The stained glass details in the transoms and panels on either side of the front door would glow like jewels, throwing shards of colored light onto the hardwood floor she would stain and polish to a high gloss.

Stepping out onto the front porch, which was sagging a little in the center, she pried a board off one of the windows next to the door to get a better look at the glass. Not surprisingly, several panes were cracked and the casements would need to be replaced, plus the stained glass needed to be repaired and re-leaded. The plain windows she could fix herself but the stained glass bits would have to be outsourced.

She added more notes to her list and did a quick estimate. If everything came together in terms of scheduling and she could find good, reliable tradespeople to help her, she might be able to finish everything on budget in six to nine months.

Maybe. Because she was experienced enough to realize that building projects pretty much never ran according to schedule. Or on budget, for that matter. And she had only a tiny amount of wiggle room in her budget.

She turned at the sound of a vehicle coming up her driveway. A white pickup came barreling down the long, tree-bordered drive, its tires kicking up a cloud of dust behind it. A jolt of alarm shot through her when the driver screeched to a stop beside her truck, sending up more dust.