Chiseled - A Standalone Romance (A Super Sexy Western Romance)

by Naomi Niles

  "No," William answered decisively, putting my mind at ease. "He's going to prison, but he's protected himself from the maximum sentence. With a list of crimes as long as his, he’s still going to be put away for a long time."

  "Good." I couldn't hide my hatred for the man we had trusted to be our employee. If I could go back in time, I'd run him out of town the moment he stepped foot in Riverbend.

  Bethany was done with her phone call and came into the kitchen looking happy and relaxed. Her blue eyes sparkled, and she had the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen. Everything looked brighter and more colorful since my near-death experience, and I took in every moment, refusing to take it for granted.

  "What are you men grinning about in here?" she asked.

  We told her the news about her father, and she took it well. I admired her courage in the face of all that had happened. To be nearly murdered by the father you had looked for and thought you were building a relationship with must be devastating, but Bethany never flinched or shed a tear.

  "Does this mean you'll get your stolen cattle back?" she asked. Leave it to her to be concerned about our ranch, not herself.

  "No, I'm afraid the law doesn't quite work that way," William explained, "But at least we got the money back, thanks to you."

  Everyone at the table agreed and started praising her. She had saved us all from losing the ranch by getting our money back, and we were all grateful.

  "Not that it matters," Mama said sadly. "We may have been able to get out of debt, but the ranch will still have to close. We can't operate without proper insurance, and since ours was cancelled, no one else will take us on without charging more than we can afford to pay."

  Standing up at the head of table, I grinned at Mama and said, "I forgot to tell you, I got a call from our insurance agent today."

  Mama stared at me with baited breath. In fact, every set of eyes at the table were fixated on me. With an ornery wink, I said, "She's a very nice lady. I think she has a son who goes to Tom's school."

  "Colton Emerson Hutchinson," Mama called out in her most fearsome tone – and I knew I'd better get to it.

  Smiling at my family, I continued, "She said that thanks to the police report, they are lifting the charges of fraud against us and reinstating our policy effective immediately."

  "Oh, thank Jesus in Heaven." Mama whispered a little prayer. Then she glared at me asked, "Are you messing with me?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "The ranch is really safe? We're no longer falling into debt? We have proper insurance? None of my boys are going to jail for fraud or arson? Hutchinson Ranch is fully operational once more?"

  "Yes, and it will be for a long time," I said, firmly. It had been a turbulent summer, filled with mighty lows and even better highs, but we'd made it through and we were all going to be okay.

  Mama squealed with delight and leapt up from the table, wrapping her arms around me in a giant hug that nearly squeezed the breath out of me.

  "You did it! I knew you could do it!" she cried.

  "Of course he did," Bethany beamed once Mama had let me go, "Colton can do anything he wants to; the only question is, what's next?"

  No sooner was the question out of Bethany's lips than I knew the answer with certainty. I had kept my mother's engagement ring in my pocket every day since she had given it to me, and I'd just been waiting for the excitement of our ordeal to settle down. I realized now, I didn't want to wait any longer. I wanted to start living my life with the woman I loved, and what better time to do it than with my whole family around me?

  Getting down on one knee, I took Bethany's hand in my own. "I've only known you for a few weeks, but in that time, I've experienced a whole lifetime with you.

  “I've shared with you the stories of my childhood, the fears and worries of my adulthood, and the hopes for my future. You've gotten to be a part of my family, and they love you as one of us. You saved my life, not just physically, but in every way possible. I was just a shell of a man, not really living, until I met you and you brought me to life with your smile, your mind, and your beauty. I don't want to go back to that empty life without you.

  “So, even though we've only known each other six short weeks, I want to ask you to spend every week for the rest of our lives together. Bethany Foster, will you be my wife?"

  Bethany's blue eyes filled with tears as I slipped the ring onto her slender finger. She clasped her other hand around it, as if to protect it, and asked me softly, "You want me to marry you and live here on the ranch with you?"

  "I don't care where we live. We can go anywhere you want to go, as long as we're together."

  "Would you give up living with your family here on the ranch that you love, just for me?"

  "Of course. I love my brothers and Mama, and I love this ranch, but I love you even more. If you want to have a career as an artist in the city, then I support you in it. We can leave tomorrow if you want."

  "Actually, there's no need." Bethany beamed at me with a mischievous smile. "I just got off the phone with my mother. She's been selling my paintings online and making a big profit off of them. There's a real market for my work through an internet gallery, and I think I could make a career for myself that way. I want to give it a try."

  "So, what are you saying?" My heart was pounding with excitement, but I needed to be clear before I got carried away. Was she really saying what I thought she was, or was it just my imagination?

  Bethany took my hand and squeezed it. "I'm saying, yes I'll marry you, but only if we can live here on the ranch. I love it here, almost as much I love you."

  "You city girls drive a hard bargain, but okay," I agreed with a playful grin. I pulled her into my arms and gave her the kiss I'd been dying to give her since I put that ring on her finger.

  She kissed me back, opening her mouth to me and clinging to my chest as we passionately shared our love in a wild embrace. I could hear my family clapping and cheering around us, but it was like a distant dream. All I could focus on now was this beautiful woman in my arms, and how she had agreed to be my bride.

  Epilogue: Bethany

  I applied my brush to the canvas, adding subtle highlights to the blonde curls of the two-year-old girl as she sat atop the large horse with her father's hands holding her protectively by the waist to keep her steady.

  She had hazel-green eyes flecked with gold, just like her father, but her mother's pretty features. Her baby-soft cheeks were flushed as she giggled with glee, and her chubby hands gently stroked the horse’s mane.

  "I don't know who's enjoying this more: Hannah or Whiskey," Colton joked as the horse whinnied happily under our daughter's loving attention.

  "If I had to guess, I’d say you were," I teased back.

  He was a wonderful father, always doting attention on our daughter. He was the kind of dad every little girl deserved. I never got to have that when I was a child, but that no longer mattered. My need for family was completed through Colton, and watching him be a good father to our daughter was all that I needed to heal that wound.

  His eyes sparkled with merriment as he held Hannah on Whiskey's back, and he said with chagrin, "I think you're right. You're not painting me into that portrait, are you?"

  "Don't worry, I have enough paintings of cowboys and ranch landscapes. This one is just of Hannah and the pure joy of a girl on her daddy's horse."

  Kissing Hannah on the cheek, Colton said to me, "With a model this pretty, this is sure to be your highest grossing painting yet."

  "I'm not selling this one," I said. Colton looked surprised, but relieved. "This one is personal."

  "Good," he sighed, confirming my suspicions. "You know, I never considered myself to be anti-feminist, but I have to confess, it's beginning to hurt my male pride the way you make more money selling your paintings than I do herding cattle."

  He was obviously joking, but I wondered if there wasn't an ounce of truth in there too.

  "It's not a fair comparison," I said in an attem
pt to soothe him. "All the profits you make on the ranch are split between your four brothers, and then you take your share and invest it back into the ranch."

  "We needed the new breeding equipment and calf warmers," Colton said defensively. "And, we had to build a new barn and replace the pasture fencing."

  "I know. I'm not complaining," I said, and Colton settled down instantly. "You just need to take that into account whenever you feel like I'm making more money than you are."

  "Okay, but it would help if you'd stop having record-high sales on that online art gallery of yours." He winked at me playfully.

  "I can't help it if everyone wants a piece of the Hutchinson Ranch to hang on their wall." I giggled. It was amazing how well my paintings of the area and the handsome men who worked it were selling, and I was grateful to have found such success doing what I loved.

  Most of all, I was grateful to have found a place where I truly belonged and a family that filled my days with joy and love.

  Colton worked hard running the business of his family's ranch, but he made a point of spending plenty of time with me and Hannah. Margie was a doting grandmother and a huge help to me. My friends from the city joked that it was a mistake to live in the same house as your mother-in-law, but Margie was true blessing to me and a good friend.

  I used to think of her as the mother I always wanted, but things had gotten better between Jillian and me.

  Perhaps it was finally having money (I gave her a percentage of all my sales, since putting the paintings up on the internet gallery site had been her idea in the first place). Or perhaps it was that I lived far enough away that we weren't in each other's way anymore, but close enough that she could hop on a plane and visit any time she wanted to – just so long as she didn't stay more than a few days.

  Colton's brothers had become the siblings I’d always wished for as a child, and I was never lonely; even when I wanted some privacy, it was hard to be alone. I could see why Colton joked that family wasn't always what it was cracked up to be, but in the case of the Hutchinson brothers, I welcomed the intrusion, and even reveled in it. Hannah thrived under the attention of four adoring uncles, too.

  She was tired of playing on Whiskey's back, and Colton took her down and set her gently on the ground. She toddled off on chubby legs, chasing after a bug she spied crawling in the grass. While our daughter played, Colton walked over to me to peek at my painting.

  "She's as beautiful as her mother," he beamed. I flushed under the praise.

  "Only she's a lot better off growing up out here in the country, away from the smog and the traffic of the city."

  "So, you don't regret giving up your internship and a chance to work in prestigious museum or have your art displayed in a fancy gallery, just to live out here with me in the manure and the mud?" he asked.

  "Never," I assured him with a kiss. We were still as passionate with our embraces as we had been when he first told me loved me almost three years ago. "I love living here on the ranch, having picnics by the lake, and picking fresh green beans from the garden. It's the perfect place to raise our daughters."

  Colton's eyes grew wide, and I realized he had caught my slip of the tongue.

  Putting his hand on my enormous belly, he grinned widely and said, "Daughters? So we're having another girl?"

  "Yes," I nodded, my eyes sparkling.

  Whooping with excitement, Colton pulled me into his arms and kissed me happily.

  I had come to this ranch looking to be a professional artist and to find my family, and that's exactly what I had done – only not at all like I had expected.

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  TORCH ME

  By Naomi Niles

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Naomi Niles

  Chapter 1

  “Page six, no byline, and you write two blogs a day for the website. That’s the offer: take it or leave it.” John’s tone was his normal gruff and he was frowning, or so I thought. He was a newspaperman from the sixties whose jowls, nose, and chin had formed a sort of cup holder effect around the stogie eternally clenched between his teeth. When the law prohibiting smoking indoors went into effect, the glowing red tip had disappeared, but the cigar was a permanent fixture. I’m fairly sure it was cemented in. “Well?” he barked, waking me from my reverie about his smoking habits.

  “That the best you can do?” I wasn’t very good at negotiating. Hunger did that to you.

  “Are you wastin’ my time, Ms. O’Reilly?” His tone was growing impatient.

  I sighed. “Call me Gwyne. Okay, okay… yes, I’ll take it.” I could see the tug-of-war rope between us was fraying.

  “And…?” he led me on, motioning his hand to continue.

  “Thank you?”

  “Good girl. Now get outta here and let me get some work done. You can see Martha, the old bag by the door. She’ll fill you in and get you set up.”

  I nodded walked out of his office. “Shut the damned door!” he bellowed behind me and I scrambled to do as told.

  The office was a museum of days gone by. Warner ran one of those businesses that was being dragged kicking and screaming into modern times. He had refused to get rid of ancient equipment—not because he was lazy, but because he figured someday people might come to their senses and things would go back to the way they used to be. He, and now I, yearned for the days when running a newspaper had been an honorable profession and not a servant to political blackmail or a shill for the local Wal-Mart.

  John didn’t know it, but I would have taken the job without pay. His was the era I wanted: when journalistic integrity wasn’t just a catch-phrase and you didn’t hide sloppy reporting behind your First Amendment rights. As I looked around, there was a 1930s hot lead Linotype resting in the corner. ‘Resting’ was exactly the right term because although it was made from cast iron, much of it had given up and needed to lean against another part for support. The brass keys, the molds into which the molten lead had been injected to form letters, were scattered about the keyboard and on the copy tray. Forms of lead type lay against the pedestal legs: a front page frozen in time.

  I found Martha, just as John had promised, crouched at her desk near the door. She wasn’t hard to pick out – she was the only person sitting in the room. My guess was that she was the only one besides John who ever came into the office, digital publishing being a remote sort of job. John probably only kept her as ringleader to keep the reporting circus in formation… and to give himself someone to shout at when things didn’t go right. She had to be close to eighty years-old; certainly her eyeglasses were. They sat on the end of her nose with the expected chain around her neck. I never understood the chain part because the glasses never left the nose; it was, perhaps, jewelry or a statement of having lived beyond retirement age.

  “So, you’re gonna give it a try?” she asked me, peering over those ancient glasses.

  “I thought I might. You are Martha, right?” I knew she was, but wanted to pay her the respect of acknowledging her name. She nodded.

  “That’s me. Been here since the old days when John bought the paper. Course it’s nothing like it used to be; course nothing is. Including me.” She smiled and I saw a mouth full of teeth that were yellowed dentures. I noted the Styrofoam coffee cup next to her keyboard. It was a pretty good bet.

  “John says you’ll be the one to get me started,” I mentioned to her. “Nice picture,” I said, nodding to the small, filigreed frame on the corner of her desk.

  She nodded. “That was my daughter when she was a little girl. Just nine years-ol
d.” Her words were a little choked and I wondered why.

  “Grandkids?”

  “No, Sissy never made it to her 10th birthday. Her father was killed in Vietnam. I’m all that’s left. But don’t go getting all misty eyed on me; I’m used to it. Oh, I won’t say there hasn’t been the muscled body next to me a time or two through the years, but I don’t think I was meant to be married again. That’s for sops who don’t have any identity of their own. You’re not married, are you?”

  “Me? No, not married.”

  “Good. You’ll be better off if you keep it that way. Who the hell wants to clean up after some slob who can’t pee straight and blows his paycheck at the bar? Nah, not for me.”

  I could tell that Martha had definite opinions about marriage, and men in general. I wondered why she had put up with John all these years, but then again, maybe it wasn’t such a sacrifice. The pair of them could’ve stepped out of a Raymond Chandler mystery; they had that Perry Mason feel. “Sorry about your little girl, and about your husband, Martha.” I let a few moments lapse out of respect and spoke again. “So, what do we need to do to get me set up? I’ve already got some ideas and I’m sort of anxious to get started.”

  “You’ll get over that, soon enough,” she observed as she opened the drawer of the massive wooden desk and extracted a couple of file folders. “Your name is…?”

  “Gwyne O’Reilly.”

  “Okay, Gwyne O’Reilly, here you go,” she said, handing me a small stack of papers. “You need to fill these out to get paid, these to satisfy the government, and this one tells you when to get your damned story in here so we can get it up in time. In all my years, I never thought newspapering would be about hittin’ a key on the keyboard and the whole damned world would see it. But, who am I to complain about changing? When I was your age, I was filled with spit and vinegar myself. I thought I was gonna change the world. Turns out, the world changed me,” she observed sardonically.

  “I know what you mean. Is this it? This is all I have to do?”