by Lia Riley
“Please?” He fidgeted. “It’s a surprise.”
“I never thought I’d say it but I might be a little surprised out.”
“You’ll like this one,” he murmured.
“Okay.” She closed her eyes and waited.
The mayor finished giving his speech and the crowd began to count down, “Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . .”
Wilder kissed her, soft, gentle, and with a sweetness that made her rise up on her tiptoes as he slowly withdrew.
The people around them began to clap as the holiday lights turned on, illuminating the big tree. A woman shouted, “Atta girl.” Quinn grinned at Natalie’s voice.
“What was that for?” she asked dreamily as the choir broke into “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
“Thought it was obvious. For having the most kissable lips in the town.” He gave her chin a playful chuck. “And look up.”
Overhead was a sprig of mistletoe dangling from a red velvet ribbon.
She grinned. “Something tells me this holiday is going to be extra holly jolly.”
Epilogue
IT HAD BEEN a long, hard winter but Wilder barely noticed. Quinn had moved in and over the months his heart swelled alongside her growing belly. June arrived in all its sunny glory and he’d taken the day off work as the fire investigator for the Eastern Sierras to attend something that a year ago would have sent him running in the opposite direction.
A baby shower.
What a difference three hundred and sixty-five measly days made. Quinn sat in a lawn chair behind the cottage holding a green hand-knit baby blanket.
“This is absolutely adorable,” she said.
“I had to pick green since you won’t find out if it’s a boy or a girl.” Grandma tried to grumble but it was hard to do when a huge smile tugged the corners of her mouth. He and Quinn married on Valentine’s Day, a simple wedding at city hall. Her dad, had given a soft, wistful smile at the sight of her white dress, as if grasping the magnitude of the day. Mom had sent a dozen pink roses and a tersely worded card chastising her for not having a blowout celebration, but with Sawyer and Annie, Archer and Edie, Kit, Margot, Grandma, and Atticus in attendance, everything felt complete. It felt like a family and they wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Archer and Edie were getting married in a few weeks and everyone was buzzing because Archer had picked Kit to be his best man and Edie had asked Goldie Flint, who was back from her travels, to be her maid of honor. Her cousin, Quincy Bankcroft, was allowing his home, The Dales, a historic mansion and the biggest home in the county, to be the reception site.
Bets were being exchanged at Haute Coffee and The Dirty Shame Saloon as to how long into the ceremony it would take before Kit and Goldie were dueling with pistols. The current average estimate was eight minutes and twenty-six seconds.
“Everyone! Everyone! Guys! Come quick, you have to see this.” Atticus tore from the forest edge, Sawyer and Archer tagging after him. Wilder had foregone their trip down to the falls in favor of games like “How Fast Can the Plastic Baby in the Ice Cube Melt?” “Guess the Baby Food,” and the homemade “Pin the Sperm on the Egg” that Grandma brought.
That was the only one that sent Wilder into the house for a beer.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Annie asked, jumping to her feet. She was going to be Edie’s matron of honor, and Quinn had been leaning on her as a big sister, gleaning everything from labor tips to must-have baby gear.
“It’s so cool.” Atticus took a puff from his inhaler. “The mystery is back.”
“Mystery?” Annie glanced to Sawyer with a quizzical expression.
“Sorry to break in on all your fun, ladies, oh, and gent.” Archer tipped his hat at Wilder. “But this is well worth a gander.”
“Gander?” Edie said, lacing her fingers with his. “Have you turned old-timer on us?”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Grandma said, hobbling forward.
“Right this way.” Wilder offered Quinn his arm.
The baby shower party walked through the forest. The sound of the falls grew louder and louder. Upstream, not far from Wilder’s hot spring, were three perfect circles of wildflowers.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Grandma said.
“Fairy rings!” Annie clapped her hands. “Just like in the old tale. I’ll have to do a story on it for the Bugle.”
Wilder frowned, puzzling over the sight. This is where he’d left the cracked corn out. Perhaps the very same night that Sea Monkey started growing inside her.
The supplemental food attracted the deer and their trampling had created circles in the snow. Now that the late-spring wildflowers were coming into bloom, they were growing thicker in the places that had been so friendly to them all winter.
He glanced at Quinn. “The deer?” she murmured, putting two and two together.
Everyone wandered, exclaiming, trying to guess how it happened.
“Looks like whoever the hermit of Castle Falls was, he also had a good heart,” Quinn said, bending down and picking a pale purple blossom. “And your mom was right all those years ago.”
“How’s that?” he asked.
“No act of kindness, however small, is ever wasted,” she said, tucking the flower into his buttonhole.
He put his arm around her shoulders and rested his head against her. The flowers waved in the light breeze and all around them good things were taking root.
Can’t wait for more of Lia Riley’s Brightwater series?
Keep reading for an excerpt from the hilarious second book in the series,
RIGHT WRONG GUY
Sometimes two wrongs can make a right. . .
BAD BOY WRANGLER, Archer Kane, lives fast and loose. Words like responsibility and commitment send him running in the opposite direction. Until a wild Vegas weekend puts him on a collision course with Eden Bankcroft-Kew, a New York heiress running away from her blackmailing fiancé . . . the morning of her wedding.
Eden has never understood the big attraction to cowboys. Give her a guy in a tailored suit any day of the week. But now all she can think about is Mr. Rugged Handsome, six-feet of sinfully sexy country charm with a pair of green eyes that keep her tossing and turning.
Archer might be the wrong guy for a woman like her, but she’s not right in thinking he’ll walk away without fighting for her heart. And maybe, just maybe, two wrongs can make a right.
Available Now from Avon Impulse!
An Excerpt from
RIGHT WRONG GUY
ARCHER KANE PLUCKED a dangly gold nipple tassel off his cheek and sat up in the king-sized bed, scrubbing his face. Overturned furniture, empty shot glasses, and champagne flutes littered the hotel room while a red thong dangled from the flat screen. He inched his fingers to grab the Stetson resting atop the tangled comforter. The trick lay in not disturbing the two women snoring on either side of him. Vegas trips were about fillies and fun—mission accomplished.
Right?
“What the?” A dove dive-bombed him, swooped to his left, and perched on the room-service cart to peck at a peanut from what appeared to be the remnants of a large hot fudge sundae. Who knew how a bird got in here, but at least the ice cream explained why his chest hair was sticky and, farther below, chocolate-covered fingerprints framed his six-pack. Looked like he had one helluva night. Too bad he couldn’t remember a damn thing. He should be high-fiving himself, but instead, he just felt dog-tired.
He emerged from beneath the covers and crawled to the bottom of the bed, head pounding like a bass drum. As he stood, the prior evening returned in splintered fragments. Blondie, on the right cuddling his empty pillow, was Crystal Balls aka the Stripping Magician. The marquee from her show advertised, “She has nothing up her sleeve.” Dark-hair on the left had been the assistant . . . Destiny? Dalla
s? Daisy?
Something with a D.
How in Houdini they all ended up in bed together is where the facts got fuzzy.
A feather-trimmed sequined gown was crumpled by the mini bar and an old-man ventriloquist’s dummy appeared to track his furtive movements from the corner. Archer stepped over a Jim Beam bottle and crept toward the bathroom. Next mission? A thorough shower followed by the strongest coffee on the strip.
Coffee. Yes. Soon. Plus a short stack of buttermilk pancakes, a Denver omelet, and enough bacon to require the sacrifice of a dozen hogs. Starving didn’t come close to describing the hollow feeling in his gut, like he’d run a sub-four-hour marathon, scaled Everest, and then wrestled a two-ton longhorn. His reflection stared back from the bathroom mirror, circles under his green eyes and thick morning scruff. For the last year a discontented funk had risen within him. How many times had he insisted he was too young to be tied down to a serious committed relationship, job . . . or anything? Well, at twenty-seven he might not be geriatric, but he was getting too old for this bed-hopping shit.
“What the hell are you doing?” he muttered to himself.
The facts were Mr. Brightwater wasn’t looking his best. His second cousin, Kit, gave him that nickname after he graced the cover of a “Boys of Brightwater” town calendar last year to support the local Lions Club. He’d been February and posed holding a red cardboard heart over his johnson to avoid an X rating, although as his big brother Sawyer dryly noted, “Not like most women around here haven’t already seen it.”
In fairness, Brightwater, California, didn’t host a large population. For a healthy man who liked the ladies, it didn’t take long to make the rounds at The Dirty Shame, the local watering hole. Vegas getaways meant variety, a chance to spice things up, although a threesome with Crystal and Donna—Deborah? Deena? Dazzle?—was akin to swallowing a whole habanero.
He reached into the shower and flicked on the tap as a warm furry body hopped across his foot. “Shit!” He vaulted back, nearly going ass over teakettle, before bracing himself on the counter. A bewildered white rabbit peered up, nose twitching.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He squinted into the steam with increased suspicion. Hopefully, Crystal’s act didn’t also involve a baby crocodile or, worse, a boa constrictor. He hated snakes.
The coast was clear so he stepped inside, the hot water sending him halfway to human. There was a tiny bottle of hotel shampoo perched in the soap dish and he gave it a dubious sniff. It smelled like flowers but would do the job of rinsing away stale perfume and sex. He worked a dollop through his thick hair, shoulder muscles relaxing.
He’d always prided himself on being the kind of good-time guy who held no regrets, but lately it seemed like there was a difference between dwelling on past mistakes and reflecting in order to avoid future ones. Did he really want to live out these shallow morning-after scenarios forever like some warped version of Groundhog Day?
The hair on the back of his neck tingled with the unmistakable sensation of being watched. He swiped suds from his eyes and turned, nearly nose-to-nose with the blank stare of the old-man ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Fuck,” he barked, any better word lost in shock.
“Great Uncle Sam don’t like it when menfolk cuss,” the dummy responded in a deep, Southern drawl. Other than the puppet on her hand, Dixie-Dorothy-Darby wore nothing but a suggestive smile.
“Uh . . . morning, beautiful.” Thank God for matching dimples, they’d charmed him out of enough bad situations.
“No one’s ever made me come so hard.” The puppet’s mustache bobbed as he spoke and more of last night’s drunken jigsaw puzzle snapped into place. Desdemona-Diana-Doris had gone on (and on) about her dream of becoming a professional ventriloquist. She’d brought out the puppet and made Great Uncle Sam talk dirty, which had been hilarious after Tequila Slammers, Snake Bites, Buttery Nipples, and 5 Deadly Venoms, plus a few bottles of champagne.
It was a whole lot less funny now.
“Hey, D, would you mind giving me a sec here? I’m going to finish rinsing off.” When in doubt, he always referred to a woman by her first initial, it made him sound affectionate instead of like an asshole.
“D?” rumbled Great Uncle Sam.
Damn. Apparently an initial wasn’t going to cut it.
Okay think . . . Dinah? No. Two rocks glinted from her lobes—a possible namesake. “Diamond?”
Great Uncle Sam slowly shook his head. Maybe it was Archer’s imagination, but the painted eyes narrowed fractionally. “Stormy.”
And so was her expression.
Not even close.
“Stormy?” he repeated blankly. “Yeah, Stormy, of course. Gorgeous name. Makes me think of rain and . . . and . . . rainbows . . . and . . .”
“You called it out enough last night, the least you could do is be a gentleman and remember it the next morning!” Great Uncle Sam head-butted him.
Add splitting headache to his current list of troubles.
Archer scrambled from the shower before he got his bare ass taken down by a puppet. You don’t fight back against a woman, even if she is trying to bash your brain in with Pinocchio’s demented elderly uncle.
“Get the hell out.” Stormy’s real voice sounded a lot more Jersey Shore than genteel Georgian peach farmer. She wasn’t half bad at the whole ventriloquist gig, but now wasn’t the time to offer compliments.
He threw on his Levi’s commando-style while Stormy eyed his package as if prepping to go Category Five hurricane on his junk. Scooping his red Western shirt off the floor, he made a break for the bedroom. His boots were by the door but his hat was still on the bed, specifically on Crystal’s head. Her sleepy expression gave way to confusion as Stormy sprang from the bathroom, Great Uncle Sam leading the charge.
“What’s going on?” Crystal asked as Stormy bellowed, “Prepare to have your manwhore ass kicked back into whatever cowpoke hole you crawled from.”
Hat? Boots? Hat? Boots? Archer only had time to grab one. He slung his arms through the shirt, not bothering to snap the pearl clasps, and grabbed the hand-tooled boots while hurtling into the hall. Yeah, definitely getting too old for this shit.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he called over one shoulder as the dove swooped.
He bypassed the elevator bay in favor of the stairwell. Once he’d descended three floors, he paused to tug on his boots and his phone rang. Pulling it out from his back pocket, he groaned at the screen. Grandma Kane.
He could let it go to voice mail. In fact, he was tempted to do just that, but the thing about Grandma was she called back until you picked up.
With a heavy sigh, and a prayer for two Tylenol, he hit “answer.” “How’s the best grandma in the world?” he boomed, propping the phone between his ear and shoulder and snapping together his shirt.
“Quit with your smooth talk, boy,” Grandma barked. “Where are you?”
“Leaving church,” he fibbed quickly.
“Better not be the Little Chapel of Love.”
“What do you—”
“Don’t feed me bullhickey. You’re in Vegas again.”
Sawyer must have squeaked. As Brightwater sheriff, he was into upright citizenship and moral standing, nobler than George Washington and his fucking cherry tree.
“Did you forget about our plans for this weekend?”
“Plans?” He wracked his brain but thinking hurt. So did walking down these stairs. Come to think of it, so did breathing. He needed that upcoming coffee and bacon like a nose needed picking.
Grandma made a rude noise. “To go over the accounts for Hidden Rock. You promised to set up the new purchase-order software on the computer.”
Shit. His shoulders slumped. He had offered to help. Grandma ran a large, profitable cattle ranch, but the Hidden Rock’
s inventory management was archaic, and the accounting practically done by abacus. In his hurry to see if an impromptu Vegas road trip could overcome his funk, the meeting had slipped his mind. “Let me make it up to you—”
“Your charm has no currency here, boy.” Grandpa Kane died before Archer was born and Grandma never remarried. Perhaps he should introduce her to Stormy’s Great Uncle Sam. Those two were a match made in heaven, could spend their spare time busting his balls.
He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot, okay?” Not okay. Grandma counted on him and he let her down.
“Funny, guess you’re probably too busy using women like disposable silverware.” Her tone sounded anything but amused. “Even funnier will be when I forget to put you in my will.”
Grandma’s favorite threat was disinheriting him. Who cared? The guy voted Biggest Partier and Class Flirt his senior year at Brightwater High was also the least likely to run Hidden Rock Ranch.
The line went dead. At least she didn’t ask why he couldn’t be more like Sawyer anymore.
Whatever. Archer had it good, made great tips as a wrangler at a dude ranch. His middle brother took life seriously enough and he hadn’t seen his oldest one in years. Wilder worked as a smoke jumper in Montana. Sometimes Archer wondered what would happen if he cruised to Big Sky Country and paid him a surprise visit—maybe he had multiple sister wives or was a secret war lord.
Growing up after their parents died in a freak house fire, they all slipped into roles. Wilder withdrew, brooding and angry, Sawyer became Mr. Nice Guy, always the teacher’s pet or offering to do chores. Archer rounded things out by going for laughs and practical jokes and causing trouble because someone had to remind everyone else not to take life so seriously. None of them were getting out alive.
He kept marching down the flights of stairs, tucking in his shirt. Grandma’s words played on a loop in his mind. “Using women like disposable silverware.”