Copyright
ISBN 1-59310-713-7
Copyright © 2005 by Cathy Marie Hake. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
Scripture quotations marked nasb are taken from the New American Standard Bible, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
One
Brandon Stevens spied his target and broke out in a cold sweat. He’d completed over a hundred missions, but none had ever affected him like this one. As a Navy SEAL, he’d done demolition work, rescues, reconnaissance. . .but of all the places he’d been, none ever seemed this foreign. The map in his pocket had proven to be accurate, so he hoped this would be one of those in-and-out operations that went off without a hitch.
A detailed sweep of the area showed little activity. Good. He slid out of the jeep, strode determinedly toward the entrance, and spotted his target behind the glass door. The minute he stepped inside, a motion detector went off.
It played “Here Comes the Bride.”
For an instant, Brandon almost yielded to the temptation to bolt. Instead, he resolutely stepped forward to stop the stupid thing from pealing that song. His athletic shoes sank into the deep plush carpeting the color of a Bazooka—the bubble gum, not the weapon. Silvery mirrors reflected billows of satin, lace, and fluff. Sensing a presence, he wheeled to the side.
“Welcome to Della’s.” A shapely woman rose from behind a mannequin and smoothed the shoulder of the tuxedo it wore. “May I help you?”
“Yeah. Gloves. I need gloves.”
“This way, please.” Her dark brown hair flowed in a cascade of curls clear down to her waist as she pivoted toward a gleaming display case.
“Military, marriage, magician, or mime?” She looked at him expectantly. A man could get lost in her deep chocolate eyes.
“Milit—oh, no. They’re not for me.” He crammed his hand into the rear pocket of his jeans and yanked out a piece of paper. Smoothing out the crinkles, he read, “Size six, elbow-length, white satin gloves.”
She beamed at him. “It’s always so nice when a man knows what his bride wants.”
“No, no. That’s not it. They’re for my niece.”
Laughter bubbled out of the woman. “Someone’s going to owe you a big favor for running this errand.”
“No kidding!” He grinned back at her. “The school play opens tonight. My niece is Cinderella, and my sister-in-law can only find one of the gloves.”
“Mindy Stevens!”
“How did you know?” He held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me. She probably got that fancy blue gown from over there.” He cast a glance at the far wall of the shop where racks held a veritable rainbow of gowns.
“Yes. Here. Size six.” Drawing a pair of shimmering gloves from a box, the gal laid them across the case. “They’re washable satin, so Mindy’ll be able to use them later for the prom.”
“If they can find them,” Brandon said in a wry tone.
A frown creased her face.
“That didn’t come out right.” Brandon prized loyalty, and he’d just made a flippant remark, which could be misconstrued. “Annette’s doing a great job with Mindy. It’s not easy for her, everything considered.”
The sales gal shook her head. “The stitching on the hem of these is flawed.”
“Not a problem. The audience won’t see that.” He reached for the gloves. So did the woman. Stubborn little thing wouldn’t let go.
“I sell only the best.” She tugged.
“I’m in a hurry.” He pulled. For all the missions he’d been on, the battles he’d fought, this one rated as the strangest—a ridiculous tug o’ war over a slippery woman’s glove! “Listen, lady, just sell it to me.”
“Absolutely not.” She grabbed hold of the glove with her other hand, too. “I refuse to take advantage of you.”
“You’re cheating.” He tapped her left hand.
“Two gloves, two hands.” Merriment danced in her eyes as she tried to tow the gloves closer to herself. The satin didn’t allow her much of a grip.
Tightening his hold on the fabric fingers and twisting for better grip and traction, Brandon could feel her losing the battle.
“You’re fighting for something you don’t even value.”
“Wrong. I value family. Mindy needs these.”
“These are smudged and wrinkled.” She let go.
Brandon scowled—first at her then at the limp, crumpled white fabric.
“I have more in the back room. Please give me a minute.”
Brandon watched her walk away and set the ruined gloves on the display case. She’d better have another pair. The small town of Granite Cliff didn’t have anywhere else that would carry fripperies like this. His sister-in-law had been in a full-on, tears-in-her-eyes dither when she begged him to go out and buy gloves for Mindy. A silver anniversary cruise resulted in Annette’s unexpected pregnancy, and Brandon would rather be caught in enemy territory without a weapon than deal with upsetting a forty-five-year-old woman with morning sickness. Come to think of it, he was in hostile territory without a weapon. . . .
“Excuse me.” The clerk peeped at him from behind a curtain leading to the back room. “How tall are you?”
The only time in his life that his height had been an issue was when he wanted to join the SEALs. They didn’t have an official height requirement, but a more compact build was definitely the norm. “Six foot. Why?”
“I wouldn’t normally ask, but you’re in a hurry. I could go next door to the pet shop and borrow a ladder—”
“Say no more.” He strode to the storeroom. “Point the way.”
She motioned toward the top of a well-organized series of shelves. “Top tier, second row from the left, third box.”
“Third box up, or third box down?” He headed back toward the goal.
“Both, actually, if you don’t mind. I’d like a backup in case there’s another flawed glove.”
“Good thinking.” His shoulder pulled as he reached upward. Brandon gritted his teeth against the pain. Stupid rotator cuff. The surgeon stated it would never be the same—and that cost him his place with the SEALs. “Here.”
“Wonderful. Thank you so much!”
As she walked ahead of him to the register out front, Brandon resisted the urge to sweep his hand through her hair. She’d backed into something and had tinsey bits of shimmering stuff winking at him from those luscious curls.
❧
“Thank you for shopping at Della’s.” Though that was her customary line when handing a patron the purchase, Della couldn’t resist adding, “I’d normally say, ‘Come back again,’ but I have a funny feeling you’d rather be shot.”
A deep laugh rumbled out of the hunk as he accepted the gloves. “I’ve been shot more than once. This was less painful.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You do that, ma’am.” His ringless hand dwarfed the pale pink and silver bag, and his head tilted back. He sniffed. “Besides, this place smells a whale of a lot better than a hospital.” A rakish grin crossed his rugged features, transforming somber, gunmetal gray eyes into pools of silver. He winked. “And you
can take that as a compliment, too.”
The wedding chime to the door sounded as he left. Della leaned against the counter and sighed. “Now why can’t I order one of those for me? Tall, dark, handsome. . .deep voice, rough hands, great sense of humor, loves his family.”
She straightened the business cards in the sterling holder and looked around. Five years after opening her bridal shop, she still loved her job—but every once in a while, she suffered a few pangs. This was one of those days. A friend had just come in, thrilled to tell her all about last night’s romantic supper and marriage proposal. Della loved hearing all the details. Once again, Della received the honor of being invited to serve as a bridesmaid. Selling the bridal gown, bridesmaids’ gowns, and arranging for all the announcements, etc. would bring in a tidy sum for the shop, too. All told, it was fabulous news.
Except for the fact that all of the Mr. Rights are getting snapped up, and I’m not interested in Mr. Leftover.
The door chimed again. Vanessa Adams from Whiskers, Wings, and Wags next door tugged on the hem of her bright red T-shirt. “I’m running over to Pudgy’s for a sandwich. Did you want me to bring anything back for you?”
A low-calorie fruit salad in the refrigerator awaited her. Feeling the need to be self-indulgent, Della cast caution to the wind. “Want to share a mile-high pastrami?”
Vanessa laughed. “Sure.”
“Oh! While you’re there, will you please grab their catering brochure?”
“I didn’t know they had one.”
“They do. I’m putting together a wedding reception for someone who wants to do it like a giant picnic.” She didn’t mention the catering company the bride chose just went belly-up, so Della volunteered to make all-new, last minute arrangements. Navigating through disasters while making everything seem effortless was just part of the business.
“A picnic? Really?”
Della smiled. “No one makes better potato salad than Pudgy’s.”
“Mmm. I’ll pick up a pint of it now, and we can. . .uh. . . taste test it. Yeah.” Vanessa gave her a sassy grin. “That’s it. Taste test it. Just to be sure they haven’t changed the recipe, you know.”
“Oh, the things I suffer for the sake of my patrons!” Della giggled. “In fact, a new company contacted me this morning—a confectioner. They have all sorts of decadent things like mint truffles, candied almonds—”
“As your friend and retail neighbor, it’s my duty to help you taste test them, right?”
Della tapped a finger on her chin. “I’ll have to think about it. As I recall, the only samples you get are pet food. I’m afraid you’ll reciprocate!”
Vanessa groaned. “You heard about that?”
“About what?”
“My son thought the doggie chews were beef jerky. I caught him with a half-eaten piece yesterday.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yeah, and my husband was no help at all. Nathan hooted about it then asked Jeff how it tasted. I told him if he took a bite, I wouldn’t kiss him for a week.”
“As if you’d ever carry out that threat.” Della shook her head. Van and Nathan were married just a year and a half ago. They were head-over-heels in love, and Della often saw them together on the baseball team. They called themselves a match made in heaven, and Della had to agree—they were one of the happiest couples she knew, and Vanessa adored Nathan’s little son.
Della had been a bridesmaid in that wedding, too.
“Nathan’s minding the store for me now. You’ll notice I didn’t suggest roast beef sandwiches.”
“That’s so gross!”
“You’re being prissy again.” Vanessa laughed. “Have you ever actually gotten dirty?”
“I’ve gotten hungry. Are you going to stand there, talking all day, or are you going to get the pastrami?”
Vanessa left, and Della spritzed cleaner on a case and polished the glass. She didn’t mind Vanessa teasing her. Vanessa loved her for being just who she was. Their friendship started back in high school when Vanessa played the zany mascot and Della received the homecoming crown.
Growing up in a home like hers, Della didn’t have a chance to be anything other than prissy. When she was less than a year old, her mother died. Her dad and two older brothers made a pact not to fall into the trap of turning her into a tomboy. As a result, she’d been their little princess—with enough frills, lace, and pink to smother a multitude of girls.
Daddy and the boys would go fishing and send her off to Miss Mannerly’s Etiquette weekend. She took flute and piano lessons while her brothers tore up the lawn playing tackle football and practicing golf swings. The one “girly” thing she welcomed was dating—but they’d made utter pests of themselves and scared off most of the men after the first date.
Thanks to her overprotective brothers, the closest she would ever come to a groom was right now—when she fixed the mannequin’s cuff links.
Two
“Mmm. She’s a beaut.” Brandon whistled. “Do you know how old she is?”
“Not sure.” Nathan Adams pulled to a stop. “She’s pretty tacky. What do you think?”
Brandon continued to stare at the ornate building. “I want her.” Hopping out of the truck, he started thinking aloud. “We’ll need a safety inspection first—she’s made it through several earthquakes, so the foundation may have shifted. Assuming the foundation’s safe, all the wood will have to be termited as soon as we pull off anything that’s not salvageable.” Even in his enthusiasm, Brandon meticulously noted each hazard and knew precisely where Nathan moved. “We’ll need to contact Jim Martinez about supplying us with reproduction gingerbread and hardware.”
“I already commissioned the foundation survey—I wouldn’t pursue the project if there were problems with it.”
“Great. Let’s take a look inside.”
“We have clearance, but there’s no key.”
“As if that matters.” Brandon hustled up the stairs and quickly jimmied the lock. When his boss crooked a brow, Brandon chuckled. “Your tax dollars paid for that training.”
Floor by floor, they walked through the old, rambling building. “Looks like it started out as a hotel then turned into a boarding house.” Nathan stared out from a gabled window on the third floor. “I was thinking it would make a great bed-and-breakfast sort of place.”
Brandon nodded. “The downstairs is cramped. Knock down a few walls, and you’ll have big spaces that’d be great meeting or reception rooms. It’ll be a good investment. Rent the place out for weddings and business seminars.”
“My plate’s already full with the high school expansion.” Nathan turned. “Do you want this project?”
“Yep.”
“One condition.” Nathan locked eyes with him. “You’re to be the brains, not the brawn. You have carte blanche to make decisions regarding architectural alterations, landscape, and decorating—but I’ll fire you on the spot if you lift anything heavier than a hammer.”
Brandon snapped off a salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Now that’s the kind of training my tax dollars can go for.”
Brandon knocked the edge of his fist against a door-frame. “Someone did a slapdash job on repairs. I’m going to want to yank out the garbage and do it right.”
His boss studied the window frame. “Replacing the woodwork with Victorian moldings won’t be cheap.”
“Nope. But you can have it done right, or you can have it done right now.” Brandon wanted this job so badly, he could taste it—but only if he could do a quality retrofit. He stared at his boss. “I do things right.”
Nathan nodded. “That’s why I offered you the job.” He headed back down the stairs. “By the way—I already signed the papers for the property. You can start assembling a team.”
“Hoo-ah!” Brandon passed Nathan on the stairs and shot him a look over his shoulder. “That’s military, too.”
“Why do I have the feeling you’re going to import a bunch of your SEAL buddies to do the
grunt work?”
“Don’t I wish. They do it right. First time. Every time.” He shook his head. “Can’t, though. Training schedule’s a bear. I could probably round up some Seabees who just got out. They’re great.”
“Can’t argue with that. I’ve got another reason I’m okay with it, too.”
Brandon shot him a quick look. Nathan’s tone warned he’d be delivering unwelcome news.
“The high school expansion is on a tight schedule. You’ll be working with a skeleton crew, and I plan to pull them from your site on a few key dates.”
“Good planning can make up for that—especially on a site this small.”
Nathan paused on the last step. “I do everything above-board. Nothing under the table.”
Most of the construction businesses in the area employed “day labor” which consisted of undocumented workers from across the border who were paid cheap wages that didn’t show on the records. Doing so kept down the costs on a project, but it was illegal. Brandon hadn’t risked his life serving his country for the past six years only to turn a blind eye to its laws. “Every man on the site is on the book. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Good. Since that’s out of the way, I have something important to discuss.”
“Important, huh?”
“Think that shoulder of yours would let you play baseball?”
After the surgery, the doctor told Brandon it would be six months before he’d recover. Within three months, Brandon exceeded every goal the physical therapist set. Even then, they still gave him a medical discharge. He could have fought it, but it boiled down to whether his pride was more important than his team members’ safety. Brandon made the only possible decision. He’d been lucky to fall into a job that he enjoyed with a decent boss.
He resisted the urge to rub away a twinge along his incision. “I do what I want. I don’t consult my shoulder.”
“No use overtaxing it, though.”
Brandon walked around a rotting area on the floor. “Back to talking about taxes? No way. So what’s this about baseball?”
“Church league. We’re down a few players, and—”
Love Worth Finding Page 1