Jackson Valley Shifters Complete Series: Bear Shifter Romance

by Candace Ayers

  Copyright © 2020 by Lovestruck Romance Publishing, LLC.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This book is intended for adult readers only.

  Any sexual activity portrayed in these pages occurs between consenting adults over the age of 18 who are not related by blood.

  A warm, happily ever after story about the heart of a family and the hearts that make up that family.

  It all starts when ten-year-old Chloe Holt gets it in her head to order a mom for herself and wife for her dad through a mail order bride website.

  What happens next, how each of the Holts find true love, is a story that spans a decade and three novellas.

  *Werebear’s Mail Order Mate*

  When a stranger shows up on Tanner Holt’s doorstep claiming to be his fiancée, his daughter is in big trouble. But the stranger might turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to them.

  *Country Star Werebear*

  A rough childhood has left Derek Holt feeling unworthy of love. Can the one woman who know him best convince him otherwise?

  *Quarterback Werebear*

  Chloe Holt has crushed on Wesley Reed since she was eight years old, but he vanished years ago without a trace. When the two meet again, can they get a second chance?

  Contents

  Werebear’s Mail Order Mate

  Country Star Werebear

  Quarterback Werebear

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  Other books from Candace Ayers…

  Jackson Valley Shifters

  Complete Series

  Candace Ayers

  Lovestruck Romance Publishing, LLC

  Werebear’s Mail Order Mate

  Book 1

  Tanner Holt is a bear shifter who neither wants nor needs a wife. For the wealthy rancher, his daughter Chloe, foreman Josiah, and ranch hands are all the family he needs.

  Chloe Holt loves her dad, but she needs a mom. So, armed with her dad’s credit card, the ten-year-old finds them the perfect wife and mother.

  She prays that the pretty lady with the kind eyes will give them a chance… and that her dad doesn’t ground her for life when he finds out!

  Heather Ayer is down on her luck and has just done the craziest thing. She applied to a mail order bride agency. Marrying a man she’s never met is crazy. Then again, maybe it’s the fresh start she needs.

  1

  The building was a brownstone affair; it looked perfectly innocuous from the outside, sitting within the tree-lined street, amidst rows of other replica houses. Heather double-checked the GPS on her mobile, not daring to walk up the stairs to the entrance just yet. The destination was confirmed to be correct, and eyeing the building again she spotted a small silver plaque by the buzzer, indicating that the building wasn’t residential.

  Heather couldn’t quite believe that she was actually here. Lately, she’d felt like she was having an out-of-body experience and that surely she was living someone else’s life and not her own. Up until a month ago, she had been engaged to her boyfriend of three years, living in a beautiful apartment on the Upper East Side, hosting dinner parties, and attending charity functions. She’d never stopped to think that her existence as it was might be transient, that the life she had planned for herself could at any moment veer wildly off-course.

  Despite the beautiful New York spring day, Heather felt like she was walking around beneath her own black cloud. The stairs up to the brownstone would lead her into the offices of a mail order bride service—the last place on earth Heather would of have imagined herself being just a short month ago.

  Taking a deep breath and summoning what little courage she had left, she slowly made her way up to the entrance, ready to meet her future.

  Sitting in the well-lit office of an immaculately dressed Mrs. Atkinson, Heather cowered beneath the woman’s searching inspection. She was no doubt taking in Heather’s expensive attire, but also her haphazard appearance and the dark shadows that rested beneath her eyes.

  “And you are how old, Ms. Ayer?” She asked, pen and clipboard out as she filled Heather’s details into a thick form.

  “Call me Heather, please. I’m twenty-nine.” Heather smiled at the woman and tried to look accommodating and warm. Mrs. Atkinson returned the smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “And what is it that you do, Heather?” The woman looked up from her clipboard expectantly. A silence filled the room. Heather hadn’t been gainfully employed for years. Since becoming Bertram’s girlfriend, she had dedicated her waking hours to accommodate his business, his weekend schedules, and his country club meetings and events. She had cooked, cleaned, and ferried clothes back and forth to the dry cleaners. Under the scrutiny of Atkinson’s glare, she felt embarrassed, but at the time she’d found her role fulfilling—happy in the knowledge that she was making his life easier and contributing in the small way that she could to his success.

  “Well,” Heather hesitated, drawing out the silence, “I am starting my own baking company. It’s in the initial stages, still ironing out the business plan… but Bergdorf Goodman and Bloomingdale’s have shown great interest. We’re just finalizing the details.”

  Mrs. Atkinson finally looked impressed, but Heather wanted the ground to swallow her whole. It had all been a complete fabrication. Worse, a dream. A dream that she had floated past Bertram, who had subsequently told her, in no uncertain terms, that no fiancée of his would work as a baker.

  “Well, that sounds lovely. We do like the women on our books to have passions and joy de vivre. What is it exactly that you’re looking for?”

  The question elicited another long pause. What did she want? She really just wanted someone to love her as she was without constantly belittling her or prodding her to change, to become someone else—a sleeker, more finessed version of Heather. It was doubtful that she would find her perfect match through a mail order bride service, but she would happily settle for companionship, she decided. If she wanted passion and romance, she’d read a book.

  “I’d really just like a kind man. I don’t care what he does for a living or where he lives. I also…” she paused and took another breath. This was important. “Well, the truth is, I can’t bear children.” Trying to speak the words without breaking down was still hard. But it was a fact, and one that Heather had lived with for a while now. The crashing waves of grief that had hit her when she first found out were slowly being reduced to small, daily sorrows that were now a part of her.

  “So,” Heather continued, “it would be nice if the man in question had a child—it doesn’t matter how old, or how many. I love children, and it would be nice to be around them.”

  Mrs. Atkinson scribbled rapidly on the notepad as she shot Heather a faux smile of sympathy. Heather tried to return it, but she knew from experience that women who had children, or didn’t want children, never understood the pain of being barren. There were suggestions about IVF treatments and stories about friends and relatives wh
o did this or that to successfully conceive. Eventually, they would run out of things to say, and Heather would end up feeling like a social pariah. Some women that she’d used to circulate with, part of Bertram’s social set, had treated her like she was contagious, as though infertility could be caught.

  “Well, many of the men on our books are divorcées or widows, so that is a possibility.” Mrs. Atkinson paused and sighed. “But, Heather, I must say, we’re unlikely to find you the caliber of man you may have been used to.” She pointedly eyed Heather’s Hermès bag. “Those type of men,” she cleared her throat and shuffled some pages on her desk, “Well, they tend to prefer women who are… let’s say, less curvy. Less, full, perhaps? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Heather’s cheeks flushed bright crimson. She looked at Mrs. Atkinson’s emaciated figure across the desk, and then looked down at her own full-to-bursting cleavage. She knew exactly what Mrs. Atkinson was trying to say. Despite Heather’s breeding and attractive appearance, the men who ruled Manhattan liked their women looking like polished supermodels. Women who only ate lettuce leaves, had the regulation honey-blonde highlights, and vampish manicures. It was a world that Heather had tried to fit into, ever since she was a young girl. Yo-yo dieting had been a constant companion throughout high school. It was made worse when she met Bertram who’d insisted on buying her a gym membership and a bathroom scale. She had even once tried to dye her deep chestnut brown hair platinum, but her hairdresser had point-blank refused and stormed out in a fury at her request.

  “I understand,” Heather’s tone was cooler this time, “I’m not looking for a Manhattan businessman—just a good, kind man, as I said. That’s all.”

  Back on the street, Heather felt shame wash over her. She berated herself for thinking that it was a good idea in the first place. It had been horrible. It made her feel incredibly small and embarrassed that she’d think a mail order bride service was a valid option for starting a new life. It was the two glasses of Merlot she’d had last night, at one in the morning, that had convinced her that this was an exciting, revolutionary plan to turn her life around. Instead, not surprisingly, it had destroyed what little confidence she had left. Never listen to the Merlot.

  She ducked into a small coffee shop at the end of the road to lift her dying spirits. It was late morning, between the chaos of breakfast and lunchtime traffic, and the atmosphere in the cafe was sleepy and welcoming. She went to order at the counter, admiring the plump and freshly baked pastries that adorned every available surface.

  “Can I get you one?” the woman behind the counter beamed at her.

  “Oh, no. I’m okay. They look incredible, though. Is that a frosted lemon curd?” Heather pointed to one of the more elaborate creations.

  “Yes! I spent all last week perfecting that recipe. It took me forever.”

  “It’s really tricky, isn’t it?” Heather replied, already feeling calmer and more herself.

  “Do you bake?” asked the woman at the counter.

  “A little.” Heather blushed, recalling the lie she’d told earlier. “I really love baking, but sadly my fiancé didn’t approve, so I’m a bit rusty.” Heather eyed the pastries, longing for soft pastry dough beneath her fingers, the slow and agile process of creating delicious treats from a few, simple ingredients.

  “If you love it, you should get back into it.” The answer of the baker was so simple and straightforward. Of course, she should do it if she loved it. Bertram may have crushed her confidence completely, but there were definite benefits to him leaving. Maybe it was time to think about what she really wanted, rather than what was expected of her.

  2

  Chloe pressed her finger down on the “delete” button, watching the letters disappear from the page. It was crap. Sighing deeply, she changed the font type, and then the font size, and started again.

  It was hard trying to sound like a grown-up. She knew exactly what she wanted to say. It was like writing thank-you letters, making sure you came across as polite, kind, and cheerful. But as a ten-year-old girl, it was difficult to write one while pretending to be a full-grown man.

  She looked out her window, keeping a careful eye on her father. He was standing in the paddock at the back of the ranch, walking one of the horses, a mare they’d recently bought who got spooked easily and was having trouble adjusting to her new stables.

  Chloe’s father was so patient with animals, and they loved him for it. All the animals on the ranch flocked to him, from the chickens they kept to the bison in neighboring fields. There was even a ferocious-looking grizzly bear that wandered the outskirts of the ranch at night time, but her dad always told her she was imagining things whenever she brought it up.

  He was a great dad. He always seemed so strong and solid. Whenever she’d scrape a knee or elbow, a few kind words from dad and his first-aid kit, complete with Batman Band-Aids, would set her straight. Up until recently, she’d never had to worry about anything when he was around.

  Even Chloe knew that couldn’t last forever. Lucille, her very best friend, had started her period. She told Chloe all about it in gory detail, and Chloe had almost passed out at the horror of it. Lucille warned her that she’d be next. Her dad wouldn’t be able to help her with that. Chloe was absolutely positive that those types of emergencies weren’t going to be helped by a Batman Band-Aid.

  The only other people around were the temporary ranch hands, and Josiah and Wesley, the two year-round ranch hands that made up their small family. Both men were loads of fun. Josiah was like a second dad and her resident sitter, always willing to play a game of Monopoly. Wesley was a really handsome sixteen-year-old who taught her how to ride horses. What would happen if she got her period in front of Wesley? She would die.

  It had started to become increasingly apparent to Chloe that what she needed was a mom. One that would braid her hair in the mornings, in the same complicated way that Lucille’s mom did, with French braids and ballerina buns. She had tried to educate her dad on these things, but he was next to useless—though she never told him that. Every day he tried, and every morning after dropping her off at the school gate, Chloe ran behind the pine tree and untied the lopsided attempt, leaving her hair loose for the rest of the school day.

  Chloe, with renewed determination, turned her attention back to the letter. She looked at the picture of the woman the agency had sent. She looked perfect. She couldn’t have children, so there would never need to be anyone but Chloe, and she could cook. She also had really, really kind eyes, and long, shiny hair. Her name was Heather. It was a nice name—it sounded like a woman who was good at giving hugs, someone who was nice and kind to animals.

  Before re-reading the letter, Chloe double-checked her list of requirements, the same one she’d given to the agency last week. It was scribbled down on a scrap of paper she kept in her jeans pocket at all times. Running through the list, Chloe confirmed that it was likely Heather would fulfill every single one. For some, like being in love with her dad, she would have to wait and see.

  Going back to the letter, Chloe wondered whether or not to include that fact that she thought her dad was sad without a wife. She was sure it was true. Sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t around, he would sit on the sofa in the evenings, staring out of the window. He looked so sad, like Chloe would have looked if Lucille wasn’t around. But maybe saying her dad was sad would drive the woman away? She decided to leave that out.

  It was an hour later when she finished. Finally, it was perfect. She retrieved her dad’s credit card from his desk drawer and typed in his information carefully. It was very expensive, but if they were charging that much, Chloe reasoned, then it was more likely that Heather would be the perfect mom.

  Chloe pressed “send” on the website and crossed her fingers tightly. This had to work.

  “Chloe, dinner!” her dad bellowed from downstairs. She hastily shoved the credit card back in the draw and shut down the computer.

  “Coming!” she yel
led back, giving the room one last glance over to make sure she hadn’t left anything out. It all looked okay. She turned to leave, not noticing her list of ideal attributes still lying just behind the computer screen.

  “What have you been doing all day, trouble? I haven’t seen or heard a peep from you,” her dad questioned her from his spot at the kitchen counter.

  “I’ve been busy, Dad. I had things to do.” Chloe stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the kitchen activity. “Dad, are we having pork chops again?”

  “Aw, come on Chloe—you know you love ‘em,” her dad turned to her with a wink.

  “No, Dad. I do not love them. Plus, we had them last night. I didn’t like them then, and I’m going to like them less today, because now they’re leftovers.” Chloe pursed her lips. This really stinks. She knew for a fact that Lucille never had leftovers, except on Sundays, and Sunday leftovers was okay.

  “Well, well, well, I can hear a princess causin’ her old man trouble.” Josiah popped his head around the screen door and shook his cap at Chloe. “That is no way for a young lady to behave!” He ran in and started chasing her around the table. Chloe squealed in delight and ran behind her father. He laughed and grabbed her, putting Chloe back in Josiah’s firing line. “Dad!” she yelled, “help!”

  Just then Wesley walked in, and Chloe abruptly stopped hollering. He towered above her, sun-bronzed skin, flashing Chloe a huge grin. “I heard a lot of yelling coming from in here,” he eyed Chloe. “You causing mischief, Miss Chloe Holt?”