HEALING BEAU
Alicia Hunter Pace
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2015 by Jean Hovey and Stephanie Jones.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-8203-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8203-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8204-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8204-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © [cover art credit. Inserted by the editor.].
For Linda Howard. Thank you for taking the trips to Merritt and Beauford and for liking what you found there. It means the world.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
More from This Author
Also Available
Chapter One
If ever a Southern belle had been born who could ignore a ringing bell—whether it be door, phone, wedding, or ice cream truck—it wasn’t Christian Cauthen Hambrick. There were lots of good reasons to ignore that doorbell: It was after midnight. There were no vacant rooms at Firefly Hall, her ancestral plantation home turned B&B. She still needed to leave instructions for the breakfast cook about Mrs. Shelley’s peanut allergy and Mr. Cranston’s desire to start the day with a Bloody Mary and a ham sandwich. But the main reason Christian wanted to avoid the door was that seeing Beau Beauford tonight had put her heart through the wringer twenty-eight times—once for every year she’d loved him and he hadn’t loved her back—and she was in no mood for midnight visitors asking for rooms she couldn’t give them.
Yet, even as she enumerated these reasons for ignoring the ringing bell, she walked briskly toward the door, past the fine antiques, the family silver tea service, and the three Christmas trees decorated with ornaments collected by various Cauthens and Hambricks for the past hundred years. Maybe more.
Merry Christmas.
For so many reasons, among them that she had a reputation to maintain as an innkeeper, Christian did not have the luxury of being rude. So she forced a smile as she reached for the brass doorknob.
But when she opened the door, that smile died and her expression morphed into surprise. There was a time when finding him outside this door would have made hope pulse through her, but time had taught her not to hope.
James Mason Beauford, III. Beau didn’t have the talent of his oldest brother, country superstar Jackson, or the athletic ability of the twins—Gabe, the Tennessee Titans star wide receiver, or Rafe, the recently retired world championship bull rider. But he was the most beautiful and the smartest of all the Beauford brothers. Even they said so, and there were some big egos wrapped around those men. With Jackson’s dark hair and the twins’ Carolina blue eyes, it was almost as if the Beauford genes had finally gotten it together and saved the best combination for last.
“Christian.” He smiled that smile—the one that had been turning her inside out all her life— though she couldn’t imagine how he managed it, considering the fiasco the evening had been.
“Hello, Beau.” She looked over his shoulder to where one of the Around the Bend Elegant Events vans was parked. “Where’s that tricked out Porsche SUV Jackson bought you?”
He shook his head and gave out a half laugh as he stepped inside. He always stepped in the door without being asked, probably because he always knew he was welcome.
“You mean the symbolic fatted calf? It’s back at Beauford Bend.”
“You’re hardly the prodigal son.” The smile that bloomed on her face this time was real.
It was true. The Beauford brothers had been orphaned when their parents and little sister were killed in a fire when Beau was eight. Through sheer iron will and with what she made on her events business, etiquette classes, and charm school for young ladies, their great-aunt Amelia had finished raising those boys without selling the family plantation house. Tough times. But by the time Beau and Christian had graduated from high school, Jackson had hit it big, and his first gold record was in the books. He’d had things all mapped out for Beau—Vanderbilt University, then law school and a nice, clean, safe life.
But other ideas had been swirling around in Beau’s head—secret ideas. He’d run away to join the Army not an hour after making the valedictorian speech at the Beauford High School commencement, while everyone—including Christian—had waited for him at his graduation party at Beauford Bend.
After that, Christian had changed her own plans to attend Vandy and accepted a basketball scholarship at the University of Tennessee instead. Eventually, Beau had become a Ranger, and no one at Beauford Bend (or Firefly Hall, though she tried hard not show it) had ever gotten past the near-paralyzing fear, wondering where Beau was and if he was hurt or alive.
Until now, when he was finally home, a little worse for wear, but out of the path of bullets, bombs, and bad men.
“Maybe not the prodigal son, but close enough,” Beau said.
“True.” Christian moved toward the sofa in front of the fireplace, knowing Beau would follow. How many times had they sat here? Playing games while their mothers had coffee, reading together, Beau helping Christian with her chemistry and physics—and talking, talking, always talking. They were the best of friends, but he had never gotten around to saving a dance for her—something she had intended to change at that graduation party. She’d figured it was then or never. Turned out, it was never. “The prodigal son returned of his own free will, didn’t he?”
“I’m here of my own free will.” He stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles.
They both knew that was only partially true. While he could have theoretically gone somewhere else, he wasn’t a soldier anymore and never would be again. While the back injury he’d sustained in Afghanistan wasn’t debilitating, he couldn’t be a Ranger anymore, and if he couldn’t be
a Ranger, he was done with the military—something that had practically made Jackson, who lived in constant fear for Beau’s safety, giddy with joy.
“Do you want a drink?” Christian asked. “I got a bottle of good bourbon when I found out you were coming home.”
He grinned, crinkled his eyes, and tossed his head as if he were a model and a photographer had shouted at him, “Look boyish.”
“Not you, too? I thought this was the place I could count on not to roll out the red carpet for the returning hero.”
“I only bought a fifth, not the distillery. And I didn’t put it in a baby bottle.”
“Actually, I’d love a drink, but I can’t. Pain pills.” Beau closed his eyes and shook his head. “Though I could use it after tonight. That was something, wasn’t it?”
And indeed it had been. The Beaufords had been so intent on welcoming Beau home like he was a prince and the empire’s last hope, that the welcome had gotten lost in in the tension and the coddling. Jackson had been so caught up in presenting Beau with the keys to the SUV and the live-in medical staff he’d hired, that he hadn’t even noticed how uncomfortable all the attention was making Beau. And the twins hadn’t been much better, buzzing around, making sure Beau had a comfortable place to sit, and acting ready to pounce the second that he might seem to need something. It was surprising that no had tried to put him in a wheelchair and cover his legs with a plaid blanket.
Christian reached for the remote and turned on the gas logs in the fireplace. “Is the pain very bad?” This was something she’d been dying to know but hadn’t wanted to contribute to the fuss by asking.
Beau shrugged. “Not as bad as it was, and it’ll get better. But the plus side of landing on the wrong side of a parachute jump is I’m always going to have a rain predictor. At least that’s what they tell me.”
Christian nodded. That meant the pain was worse than he was letting on. She knew from Beau’s sisters-in-law, who were her best friends, that with time and physical therapy, Beau would be able to do most things. But most didn’t work for Beau. It never had. He wanted all. And she knew better than to speak in platitudes or show sympathy that his life as a special ops soldier was over. If she had a talent, other than the ability to sink a basketball from mid court, Christian knew when to say nothing at all. This was one of those times.
Beau motioned to the fireplace. “Time was, wood was burned in the fireplace.”
She nodded. “Time was, this was a private home, my daddy was alive, my mama hadn’t moved to Florida, and keeping the fireplace clean wasn’t my problem.”
Beau nodded. “Safer anyway.” He reached out and took her hand—the way he’d been doing for twenty-eight years. “Aren’t you wondering why I showed up here in the middle of the night? After we just saw each other at Beauford Bend?”
No. She hadn’t wondered, though she knew what he hadn’t come for—her.
“Not really. It doesn’t much matter.”
“It never did, did it? You’re always just glad to see me. It’s good to have something like that to count on.”
Something like that. Not that, precisely, but something like that.
“Okay, why are you here in the middle of the night?”
He shifted in his seat, and the pain that must have shot through his spine flashed briefly across his face.
“Because I’m exhausted. I need to sleep, and I need a room to do it in—and not just for one night. Christian, can I move in here?”
• • •
Beau knew he ought not to be holding Christian’s hand. Even now, she was holding very, very still as if hoping if she didn’t move he wouldn’t let go. But he needed an anchor, and they were a long way from thirteen when Christian might or might not have had a crush on him. At the time, Jackson had told him she did and warned him to never lead her on. Beau hadn’t believed it, but—foolish as it was now—he’d always heeded Jackson’s advice. If, at thirteen, he’d known Christian’s friendship was too precious to risk losing, it was practically a religious vow now. There were times when her unwavering support were all that had kept him going when the jungle was too dark, the desert was too hot and hopeless, and too many men had died by his hand—evil, soulless men who’d had to die, but who haunted him nonetheless.
Here in the lights from the fire and the Christmas tree, that life was far in the distant past, and Christian looked so pretty with her long, strawberry blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and shining, almond-shaped brown eyes looking intently into his. There had been a time when she’d been too tall, with feet that she couldn’t seem to get control of. Her transformation into a goddess who moved like a dancer must have occurred a long time ago, but he hadn’t noticed until tonight at that disaster of a welcome home party at his childhood home.
Looking at her almost made the Christmas trappings bearable. Damn, he hated Christmas. Lights. Bells. Music. Food. Gifts. And it didn’t stop for days on end.
“Why, Beau?” Christian asked. “Why do you want to stay here when you’ve got your own suite of rooms at Beauford Bend?”
“Complete with a hospital bed that I don’t need and my own personal physical therapist and masseuse? I thought Jackson was going to cut up my meat tonight.”
Christian tilted her head to the side and laughed that natural, easy laugh that lit up her whole face. “It was pretty surreal, wasn’t it?” She extracted her hand from his, undid her ponytail, and redid it. “And let’s not forget the SUV.”
“And do you know he actually apologized for that? Said he would have bought me a Porsche Spyder if I weren’t so tall and my back weren’t hurt. I don’t even know what that is, but I assume it’s some sort of low-to-the-ground sports car.”
“He loves you, Beau.” Christian’s voice was low and sweet, with no trace of chastisement. She was still wearing the off-white sweater she’d had on at the party. The little gold threads woven through it reflected off the Christmas tree lights into her dark eyes. “He loves you so much.” Her expression went all dreamy.
“I know he does. And I love him. And Gabe and Rafe, too. But there are just so damned many of them now. And soon there’ll be more.”
And that was more people—more family—who could die. He’d caused the death of his parents and baby sister. From the time when it happened when he was eight years old until he escaped at eighteen, he’d lived with the ghosts and the guilt. The guilt never truly went away, but it was sharper and fresher at Beauford Bend. Now here he was, hurt, with no plans, and some savings but no real money.
“The Beauford clan did grow rather quickly, didn’t it?”
That was the God’s truth, and all in less than a year. Jackson had married Emory, who was now pregnant; Rafe had discovered he had fathered two-year-old twins, moved the girls to Beauford Bend, and then married Abby, who had a two-year-old boy; then, last week, Gabe and his fiancée Neyland had eloped to Vegas instead of having the big shindig the women thought they should have had. Beau liked his new sisters-in-law. He did. But throw in Dirk and Gwen, Jackson’s head of security and Emory’s catering manager for the events business, plus their two kids, and it was too much, too many people who could die. He couldn’t afford any more attachments or any more ghosts. That might not be rational, but, then again, that’s why he’d left in the first place. But he wouldn’t say all that to Christian. Better to go with the too much noise and chaos factor.
“Apparently, Jackson decided the kids each needed a puppy, so there’re dogs and kids every damn where.”
“It won’t last forever. Rafe and Abby are building their own house on the property, and Gabe and Neyland are looking for a house in town.”
“But that’s not today.”
Christian studied her thumbnail intently. “Something tells me it’s not the noise and the dogs that are driving you from your home.”
Home? He supposed it was, but he’d never expected to return to Beauford Bend to live. He’d thought he’d die in the Army from a bullet or old age, but one stupid, bad
parachute jump and here he was. He’d recover, but he’d never be a hundred percent—and there was no such thing as a Ranger who wasn’t a hundred percent. Sure, the Army had offered him other jobs, but after ten years of being part of what he considered the most elite operation in the country, it was unthinkable to settle for less. No. Only the Best of the Best for Sgt. Beau “Charmer” Beauford. He was one big screwup—starting with the night his parents and little sister had died in that fire.
It had been end of their annual family beach vacation. As they had done for the last couple of years, Jackson and the twins were going to camp out that last night. But that year for the first time, eight-year-old Beau was going to be allowed to join them instead of being kept inside with his parents and baby sister. Then he’d gotten a cough and a runny nose, and his mother had told him he had to stay inside the beach house after all. Only Beau had had other ideas. He knew better than to let his brothers know he’d snuck out, so he’d rolled his sleeping bag out behind the tent and gone to sleep.
And he’d slept through the whole thing—the fire, the sirens, his mother throwing Camille from the balcony in a last-ditch effort to save her. Only there would never have had to be a last ditch effort if Beau had obeyed. He knew as well as he knew the sun was going to rise that his parents hadn’t escaped because they’d discovered his bed empty and had been searching the house for him.
When Beau had finally stumbled from behind the tent, his parents and Camille were dead and his brothers were clinging to each other—Rafe locked down and quiet, Gabe nothing short of hysterical, and Jackson looking wild and lost. It was only when Jackson grabbed him into his arms and started to cry that Beau realized they’d thought he’d been dead in the fire, too.
It was the last time Beau had seen Jackson cry, but Jackson had never stopped grabbing on to him—or trying to.
Being the recipient of undeserved love was a hard job. He’d run from it once when he’d persuaded Dirk to take him to the bus station on graduation night. And Christian was right. He wasn’t running from the noise, the kids, and the chaos now. Aside from running from the memories, he was running from the love. But he wasn’t about to tell her that, either.
Healing Beau (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 6) Page 1