by Karen Rock
“Wait till you hear the bombshells our brothers are about to drop.” She wrenched open the door. “We’ve got to be first.”
“Still competitive?” He waved a hand, ushering her inside ahead of him.
“No.” She huffed out a breath. “I just think I deserve to be heard first for once.”
“I agree.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose.
“Oh, and Heath.” Jewel held up both hands and waved all her fingers once she stepped inside. “Cades five, Lovelands five. Guess we both won.”
Heath lowered her face and captured her lips in a searing kiss. “No guessing about it. Happy Thanksgiving, darlin’.”
* * *
Look for A Rancher to Remember,
the next book in Karen Rock’s
Rocky Mountain Cowboys miniseries,
available in April 2019!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Kissed by the Country Doc by Melinda Curtis.
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Kissed by the Country Doc
by Melinda Curtis
PROLOGUE
THERE WERE DAYS when Ella Bowman Monroe felt like life couldn’t get any better—when her house was clean, when her little girl was clean and when she was surrounded by her large family of boisterous in-laws. On those days, this orphaned widow felt like singing as loudly as Grandpa Monroe.
Today wasn’t shaping up to be a singing kind of day.
Chalk it up to her grandfather-in-law’s funeral on this snowy January afternoon, the reading of his will and the Spanx she’d wiggled into that were so tight every breath was a struggle.
“Mom,” two-year-old Penny whispered from her lap. “I go.” And her daughter didn’t mean she wanted to leave. The ripe smell of dirty diaper mushroomed around them in the dining room of the Monroe Philadelphia compound like an alien force field.
To Ella’s right, her husband’s cousin Sophie spared Penny a glance and a nose tweak. “No more artichoke quiche for you.”
To Ella’s left, Sophie’s twin brother, Shane, waved a hand in front of his nose. “Penny la Pew.”
Penny giggled and grinned, glorying in their attention. “Kiss,” she whispered, leaning to kiss first Sophie and then Shane, and then twisting to kiss Ella.
The smiles, teasing and kisses would have been normal—so very normal—except for the elderly lawyer wheezing through the legalese of the will and the black-clad Monroes ringing the formal dining-room table. They nodded at appropriate wheezes as if well-versed in legalese.
Near the head of the table, Ian Monroe, Ella’s father-in-law, turned his somber face her way, his expression one of reluctant farewell.
Because his father just died.
No. That wasn’t grief.
Ella had been on the receiving end of reluctant farewells before, most notably when she’d been transitioned out of one foster home and into another, repeatedly. Ian’s expression wasn’t rooted in grief. It was rooted in regret. The remorse of goodbye. She was suddenly certain of it. It made little sense—why now?—but she couldn’t see past Ian’s regret or her fear.
The Monroes were the only family she had. The only family Penny had. This couldn’t be goodbye.
Don’t panic. Don’t pass out. Breathe.
Ella breathed deeply, despite the Spanx.
And then nearly gagged.
She’d inhaled too much eau de poopy pants.
Thankfully, the elderly lawyer with the rasping voice finished reading the first part of Grandpa Harlan’s will and signaled a break. Ella carried Penny out of the lavishly decorated dining room and toward the bathroom down the hall, fighting the feeling that she was about to be excommunicated.
Two years ago, Ella had been an interloper in Ian’s eyes, a woman who’d “trapped” his son, Bryce, into marriage by becoming pregnant a month after their first date. The Monroes were old money, old traditions, old school. In the Monroe world, nobody fell in love at first sight. You dated. You were vetted by the family and a private investigator. And after several years, you had a lavish wedding ceremony at the country club.
But she and Bryce had tumbled into love at a charity ball. He’d swerved to avoid a passing waiter, bumped Ella, knocked her off her feet and into the shrubbery. She’d laughed—because what else could she do in her rented designer dress? He’d hurried to set down his drink and before he even reached to pull her up, their gazes collided and it was...love. It had hummed in her veins. He’d felt it, too. They’d both froze. They’d both laughed. And then Bryce had helped Ella out of the shrubbery and never let go.
When Ella had told Bryce she was pregnant, he hadn’t blinked. He’d dropped to one knee, professed his love and enthusiastically asked her to marry him, as if her unplanned pregnancy was the best news in the world. A weekend trip to Vegas, and they were married, much to the chagrin of the family. But in time, Ella had won them over. She’d won them over before Bryce had died in a car accident a month before Penny was born.
The memory put an ache in her chest.
Ella was a Monroe now. It said so on her driver’s license. No one could take this family away from her. She was expected at holidays and birthdays and any old day. She was included on trips to the family lake house and family business updates. She was a Monroe.
She. Was. Family.
So why had Ian’s expression shaken her?
Because for fifteen years I had no family.
On their way back down the wide hall, with the Spanx now stuffed into the diaper bag, Ella and Penny stopped at a section of the wall devoted to memorializing the dearly departed Monroes. There were Grandpa Harlan’s parents in 1950s faded photographs, Cousin Carl, who died storming Omaha Beach, Harlan’s four wives—the actress, the pilot, the politician and the oil heiress—and, of course, Bryce.
Ella’s heart hitched when she looked at her husband, at brown hair so dark it was almost black, at friendly bright green eyes, not to mention the smile he’d passed on to their daughter.
“Blow Daddy a kiss,” Ella told Penny.
Together, they sent air kisses toward Bryce’s handsome, worry-free face.
And then Penny wriggled free, running on her short sturdy legs toward the grand marble foyer outside the dining room. She wore a black dress with a white sash and her thin blond curls bobbed as she made her escape, clutching what looked like Ella’s black Spanx in her small fist. She ran in circles around the plush red-and-black carpet, waving the Spanx like a flag.
“
Mr. Quinby—” Ian’s voice drifted from the dining room “—we have no need of Ella. Please proceed.”
No need of Ella?
She wanted to protest, to charge inside and shout: But I’m a Monroe.
But... Was she?
Weak-kneed with doubt, Ella sank into an antique chair that was stiffer than her father-in-law’s voice, a chair where she could watch the proceedings like the outsider she was.
At least she’d been asked to attend. Other partners and spouses were barred from the reading.
“And now for Harlan Monroe’s personal message and family bequests.” Mr. Quinby tugged his tie, cleared his throat and cast a sideways glance toward the much younger lawyer behind him. He lifted a sheet of paper with hands that shook. “I’m going to read a letter from the deceased. One that was written over two years ago, notarized and kept with his will. He wrote...”
Two years... Could this have anything to do with Ella falling in love with Bryce? The timing couldn’t be a coincidence.
The old lawyer sucked in thready amounts of air. “‘If you’re hearing this, then I am dead. And if you want an inheritance, you’ll have to listen to my lawyer without any back talk.’” Mr. Quinby did a quick visual survey of his audience.
He was anxious for good reason. The Monroes were an expressive, explosive bunch. But this time, there were no outbursts, no questions, no challenges. Or, as Grandpa Harlan put it, no back talk.
The old lawyer heaved a sigh of relief and resumed his oratory. “‘I was born into a home with nothing but love. I was raised in hand-me-downs and nourished by leftovers. I played unsupervised and ran barefoot until it was too dark to catch a baseball or to fish. Those humble beginnings gave me an appreciation for life, a drive to succeed and, most importantly, a love of my fellow man. I was unable to give the latter to my children. It’s my fault my sons consider themselves superior to others, that they consider their wealth a form of entitlement.’”
That was Grandpa Harlan, calling a diamond-studded spade a diamond-studded spade.
“You, my girl, have gumption,” he’d told Ella the first time he’d met her as he’d grabbed onto her hand from his wheelchair. “Don’t let the Monroes take that away from you. You’ve got to greet every day with a happy song.” He’d given her hand a squeeze and then raised his arms in the air and goofed, “Are you ready, Hezzie?” It was a favorite line of his that had been popular when he was a young man. And then he’d burst into song, uncaring of his surroundings or the audience.
Grandpa Harlan hadn’t had a pretentious or self-conscious bone in his body.
Penny did a slow-motion, near-silent fall to her rump on the plush carpet, and then lay down on her back and pretended to make a snow angel. One hand still clutching black Spanx. She turned her sweet face toward Ella and whispered, “Mom. Mom. Mom.”
How could Ella worry about anything with a daughter like that? And yet, how could she not? She had no family apart from the Monroes. Without them, who would Penny have if anything happened to Ella?
Ella peeked in the dining room, her gaze connecting with Ian’s. Her father-in-law gave her that farewell look once more. It roiled the artichoke quiche in her stomach.
“‘I made my first fortune in Texas oil before I ever married,’” the lawyer went on. “‘I was also a lucky man who found love four times over. My wives were drawn to my sense of adventure and my charm.’”
Someone chuckled. Grandpa Harlan was a straight-shooter with a good heart, but he forgot to mention he had a wandering eye.
“‘My four sons were raised in the lap of luxury, never worrying about having a roof over their heads, where their next meal would come from, or how to pay for their college education.’”
So true. Those four millionaires had never balanced the need for rent money against the cost of a new pair of shoes.
“Hep.” Penny struggled to sit up—the Spanx was pulled over her head like a stocking cap half covering a bank robber’s face. “Mom, hep.”
Ella reclaimed possession of her undergarment and then her seat outside the dining room, hoping she hadn’t been noticed. Thankfully, all attention was being given to the lawyer reading Grandpa Harlan’s letter.
Freed, Penny lay back down and began to sing a soft, wordless song, while she made another snow angel in the carpet.
“‘My four sons...’” Mr. Quinby cleared his throat, nervous once more, perhaps because he was delivering Harlan’s barbs without cover against return fire. “‘My four sons are too old to unlearn the privilege of the silver spoon, too busy to enjoy the priceless beauty of a mountain sunrise, too calloused to appreciate the comfort that comes from loyalty, or the joy that love for love’s sake can bring.’”
“Beautiful,” Ella murmured.
Maybe he wrote that after Bryce and I fell in love.
“‘To those coldhearted fools, I leave the Monroe Holding Corporation and all its entities on one condition.’”
Everyone leaned forward in their seats, even Ella.
“‘As for my grandchildren...’” The elderly lawyer ran a finger beneath his collar.
“Wait,” Holden, the oldest grandchild, said. He managed the Monroe assets. “What condition?”
“I’m getting to that,” Mr. Quinby said defensively. He rattled the letter. “It’s right here.” And then he spent a moment trying to find his place. “‘As for my grandchildren, there is hope for their moral fiber. But only if they break free of the influence of my four failures and learn there is more to life than the bottom line. Therefore, for the good of my grandchildren, as a condition of their inheritance, my sons will immediately fire said grandchildren and terminate their contracts with any and all entities under the ownership of the Monroe Holding Corporation. Also, it is my further stipulation that within the next thirty days, my grandchildren will vacate all residences, homes, apartments and penthouses that are owned by the Monroe Holding Corporation.’”
Yikes. All the grandchildren lived in corporately owned housing.
“‘In the meantime—’”
“He left us nothing?” Holden demanded. His gray eyes seemed colder than the ice frosting the pristine landscaping outside.
Mr. Quinby sat back warily, as if this had been the reaction he’d feared all along.
Ella sat back, too, thinking that everything was going to be all right. She wasn’t a Monroe grandchild. For her, nothing would change. Ian’s regretful expression from before must have been regarding his conditional inheritance and that of his children.
“I’m supposed to move out of my home?” Bentley was Bryce’s twin brother and designed luxury yachts for Monroe Shipworks.
“Grandpa is firing me?” Shane spit. He ran the family’s hotel chain based in Las Vegas. “From the grave?”
“Let him finish.” Sophie adjusted her glasses, presumably so she could better see the lawyer if he ever got the chance to continue.
“Yes, please.” The junior lawyer behind Mr. Quinby spoke up. His name was Daniel Something-or-other and he had a kind look about him. “Your questions will be answered if you just let Mr. Quinby finish.”
“Thank you, Daniel.” The senior lawyer cleared his throat, sounding like an old car reluctant to start on a chilly morning. He acknowledged Shane with a wave of his hand. “Technically, your father has to fire you—” his hand swung toward Bentley “—and your father has to evict you. That is, if he wants to inherit twenty-five percent of your grandfather’s assets.” He turned to Holden. “Harlan did, in fact, leave his grandchildren something.” Mr. Quinby ran his finger down the page slowly. “Ah! Here it is. ‘By each of them standing on their own two feet, my grandchildren, I hope, will discover their moral compass, which will guide them to the lives they should choose to lead. Not the ones that would most benefit the Monroe Holding Corporation. To that end, I leave the town of Second Chance, Idaho, to my grandchildren and great
grandchildren.’”
“You’re not really going to go along with this—this...farce?” Holden leaned forward, black eyebrows drawn low in disbelief. “Grandpa Harlan clearly wasn’t in his right mind when he wrote this.”
Several pairs of eyes swung toward Ian and his three brothers. Chairs creaked. Ella held her breath, worried for her husband’s siblings and cousins. Not because of the fortune they weren’t getting, but because their fathers might choose money over family.
Ella didn’t blame Bryce’s cousins and siblings for being upset. They’d been groomed since birth to work in one of the family businesses—oil, finance, luxury-yacht building, hotels or filmmaking. They didn’t have trust funds, but they’d been given everything they’d ever needed—the finest educations, mortgage-free homes and generous salaries. All with the expectation that they’d benefit from their commitment to the family someday. They just hadn’t expected that benefit to be a town.
Ella’s glance swung to Penny and then back to the others in the dining room. All the while, she was wondering: Who inherits a town? For that matter, who owned a town to begin with?
Harlan’s lawyer wasn’t finished yet. Quinby cleared his gravelly throat. “Again, I’d like to repeat to Harlan’s four sons that their inheritance is contingent upon the condition being met.” Meaning mass layoffs and evictions for their children.
No one in the dining room moved. No one seemed to breathe. Ella had been shuttled from foster home to foster home for many reasons. She’d never been moved along so someone could fatten their bank account. The thought was crushing.
“Dad?” Shane asked in a low voice. “Don’t say you’re considering this. That letter won’t hold up in a court of law.”
Daniel, the younger lawyer, jumped up. “I’ll remind everyone of the clause we read before the break regarding challenges to the will. If you challenge and lose—” he stared at Shane “—your share goes to charity. If you refuse to abide by the terms of the will—” his gaze swept Harlan’s four sons “—your share goes to charity.”