Morgan

by Chris Keniston

  “Not so fast. Yes, the project is unique. But our getting involved? No.” Except he had to admit the more he mulled over the possibilities, the more intrigued he was by the whole idea. Of all the jobs his family’s business had taken on through the years, the true restoration projects had always been his favorite, and something told him Neil would be all over the designs for this place like white on rice. But a project of this size would keep most of his brothers away from Oklahoma for months. His mother would have a cow if she couldn’t keep an eye on most of her chicks for that long. And that didn’t even begin to cover the fit she’d throw if she knew it was in what she’d deemed forbidden Texas Farraday country. Not to mention juggling their crews. “Besides, why us? Why not some of your regular teams from your other shows?”

  “Oh.” She sat back straight.

  “You don’t even know what kind of workmanship we do. We could be the worst contractors this side of the Mississippi.”

  “I doubt that.” Her impish grin returned.

  “For what it’s worth, we’re not, but that doesn’t change the question. Why not use crews you’ve worked with before?”

  “Well, for starters,” she twisted around to face him again, “all of those crews are in LA or Vancouver, not Texas.”

  He would give her that one. Just thinking about moving crews from Oklahoma was a logistics nightmare; dealing with California or Canada could only make it worse. “And?”

  Valerie leaned forward. “What do you mean ‘and’?”

  “You said for starters. Where’s the rest?”

  “Oh.” She flopped back in her seat. “Nothing much.”

  “I doubt that. You’re very deliberate in your wording. I don’t see any reason why this would be any different.”

  “Well, if you must know,” her hands clasped in her lap, “looks are important on television. A little baby fat puts even more pounds on in the camera’s eye.”

  He nodded slowly. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard about the camera adding poundage to a person. Apparently there was some truth to it.

  “And my teams aren’t related.”

  “What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “Haven’t you ever watched the home remodeling shows?”

  “A few.” Not in their entirety. He watched an episode or two with his mother, but nothing he could specifically remember.

  “Well, the most popular ones are usually married couples—”

  “That should let us off the hook,” he cut her off, “we’re all single.”

  “Or brothers.”

  It was a family business.

  “In this case they want a new twist, so construction cousins would fit the bill.” Her arms folded across her chest. “And not a fat, ugly one in the bunch.”

  He couldn’t help the chuckle that erupted. “Nice of you to say so, but you haven’t met all my brothers.”

  Immediately, her hands dropped to her sides, brows tented high on her forehead, her jaw dropped, her mouth hung slightly open, and her eyes rounded in what could only be described as utter shock. “You have ugly brothers?”

  This time Morgan laughed outright. “I didn’t say that.”

  Valerie huffed the way his mom did whenever one of her sons got the better of her in a family squabble.

  “Besides, we’re not cousins. As you said, we’re brothers.”

  “Technicality. Home base is Texas so you’d be pitched as the Oklahoma cousins, even though the ones doing the construction would be brothers. Then there’d be a few cameos from the Texas Farradays. Showing off the work, that sort of thing. Not all reality TV is strictly OTF.”

  “OTF?”

  “On the fly. Some, actually most, is very much scripted and planned. So the idea really is perfect.” That look in her eyes of sheer satisfaction was back.

  And they were back to square one in the battle of wills. Already he could see the arch ahead for the entry to Connor’s place and his uncle’s only a short distance beyond that. He hadn’t realized they’d been on the road that long. A part of him wished he could miss the turn and keep going, continue battling it out just the two of them. After all, wasn’t the best part of a disagreement the making up?

  There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that Morgan Farraday was more than interested in her plan. Well, maybe not the TV stardom portion of it, but definitely resuscitating that old town. She could see it in the twinkle of his eyes every time he looked at what was and pictured in his mind what could be. A man like him didn’t work to earn a paycheck, men like the Farradays were motivated by something deeper, stronger. If it wasn’t family, or community, maybe it was art or history, something. She wasn’t sure which it was for Morgan, but as sure as she was standing in the middle of West Texas, that man wanted a part of it. She could feel it in her bones, if she could just get him to stop fighting it.

  “We’re here.” He hopped out of his truck and muttered a muffled curse.

  It took her a few seconds to compute what he’d actually said. The reaction was so unlike the behavior she’d observed from any of the Farradays since her arrival.

  Next he kicked the door shut with his foot and holding his hands in front of him, lips tightly pressed together, he circled the hood and used both hands to open her door. “Sorry about that. I’ve been meaning to get that trim fixed.”

  “I’ve heard worse.” Way worse. The odd way he held his hands had her glancing over. The moment she spotted the trickle of blood easing between his finger-tight grip on his other hand, she realized why he’d cursed. “You cut yourself.”

  He shrugged. “Not the first time.”

  The steady thin flow of red told her it was a bigger deal than he was letting on. Without any thought, she pulled her new Egyptian cotton scarf away from her neck and grabbed his hand. A quick glance and she hurriedly wrapped her scarf around his hand, tugging back at it when he tried to pull it away.

  “That’s a nice scarf. I’ll wash it off inside.”

  “You need pressure.” She gripped the hand. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you need stitches.”

  He stopped trying to pull his hand back. “It’s nothing.”

  “Hold it up.” Gripping his wrist, she lifted his hand. “Needs to be higher than your heart to slow the bleeding. Let’s get you inside, clean it up and then see if you need stitches.”

  One side of his face lifted in a lazy smile and he dipped his chin. “Yes, ma’am, but it’s really not that bad.”

  “Men. If I pull my hand away, can you apply pressure and keep your hand where it is until we get inside?”

  Twinkling eyes smiled at her. “I think so.”

  “And stop making fun of me. This is serious.”

  To stop from smiling, he bit down on his lower lip, but the laughter in his eyes gave away his amusement with the situation.

  “Men,” she muttered again. “Never mind. I’ll hold it. Let’s go.” Leaving her purse in the car, she squeezed his bleeding hand between hers and stomped to the front door.

  “I wasn’t making fun of you. I just find the idea of my hand bandaged in a scarf that probably costs more than my boots…entertaining. I really can do this.”

  “What you can do is open the door with your good hand. Please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Morgan nodded, turned the knob and shoved the door open.

  The entry opened to the large and empty living room to the right. Valerie had expected to find his aunt still resting on the sofa. “Let’s get to the kitchen.”

  “Good idea. Smells delicious.”

  Even though he couldn’t see her face, she still rolled her eyes at him.

  “I wonder if Aunt Eileen is in her room.” Morgan shifted right, changing their trajectory.

  Valerie gave his arm a light tug. “Oh no you don’t. You can check on Eileen in a minute. First, let’s see how you’re doing.” Opening a nearby drawer, she pulled out a couple of dishrags, hoping the ones she’d chosen didn’t turn out to be any of Eileen’s favorites. “I don
’t suppose you know where the bandages and antiseptics are kept?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  If his hand was as bad as she thought, she might have to go through the house in search of what she needed or someone who knew where it might be. On a whim, she opened the doors on the two nearest upper cabinets, surprised to find one filled with almost everything she needed. Mostly filled with bottled medicine and over the counter cough remedies, she did find some antibacterial cream and a box of assorted Band-aids.

  First aid items and dishrags ready on the counter, she glanced up at her patient in time to catch Morgan following her actions with unexpected tenderness in his gaze. Blinking hard, she returned to the task at hand, slowing when she felt his arm tense. “Does that hurt?”

  He shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Not really?” She shook her head again and continued unwrapping. Morgan had been right about one thing—she’d spent way too much money on the boutique scarf. On the other hand, the cotton fabric was proving to be an excellent bandage. The wound fully exposed wasn’t nearly as large a gash as she’d thought at first glimpse.

  “Told you it was nothing.”

  “Maybe.” Wetting down one of the rags, she cleaned away the drying blood. Already the skin seemed to be closing up, only to have a trickle of blood reappear at the lack of pressure. Quickly she opened the seal on a large non-stick bandage pad, squirted a bit of the cream on it and placed it just tight enough over the injury. “It doesn’t look bad enough for stitches, but I don’t suggest you do any arm wrestling tonight.”

  Morgan bobbed his head. “No problem.”

  “I would like to tape it for extra pressure.” She gently pressed his treated wound up toward his shoulder, the easiest way to keep it above his heart and keep him for over-using it.

  “Thank you,” he lowered his hand, “but it’s okay.”

  Once again, she gently pushed it back to his shoulder. “It can be okay up here.”

  The back door swung open and slammed shut.

  “You’re back.” Sean Farraday hung his hat on a nearby hook. “How’d it go?”

  “Great.” Val smiled and pointed a thumb at Morgan. “Only a minor casualty.”

  Steel blue eyes narrowed under thick dark brows, carefully studying the scene before him. “What happened?”

  “Nothing really.” Morgan lifted his hand away from his chest to show his uncle. “Caught the loose trim on the car door just right and got a little cut.”

  “That artwork on the counter got anything to do with the little cut?” His nose twitched in the direction of the blood-stained yellow scarf.

  Even Valerie had to agree that the damage looked much worse than it was if the only thing to go by was the soiled scarf. “He should be fine if doesn’t overdo it.”

  “Oh, his aunt will make sure of that.”

  “Speaking of which,” Morgan glanced toward the living room, “how’s the ankle doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “I expected to find her parked on the couch for the next few days.”

  Sean shook his head. “More like parked in the barn. We’ve got another rejected calf. All hands are on deck keeping those two fed and loved on.”

  “Oh, how sad.” Valerie could only assume the mama cows had done the rejecting.

  The back door blew open and Aunt Eileen stomped her feet hard on the rear mat.

  “Ankle looks pretty good,” Morgan teased.

  His aunt’s face momentarily blanched before she plastered on a bright smile and nodded. “Yes, I am very fortunate. Could have been so much worse.”

  Val wasn’t sure but she could have sworn she noticed uncle and nephew exchange a curious glance. What they were saying to each other, she didn’t know.

  “Well,” Morgan stepped forward, looped an arm around his aunt, and kissed the top of her head, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Wish I could say the same about you. Why are you holding your hand like you’ve got a mean case of heartburn?”

  “The car bit him.” Head in the fridge, Sean pulled out a bottle of milk.

  Valerie had no idea milk still came in bottles, anywhere.

  At Eileen’s wide-eyed stare, Morgan chuckled. “Cut my hand. I’m fine now.”

  Eyes still rounded, Eileen reached for his hand, turned it left than right. Frowning, she lifted her gaze to meet his. “You tend to this?”

  Morgan’s head turned back and forth. “We have Florence Nightingale over here to thank.”

  “Hardy har har.” Valerie resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him like a little kid and instead faced his aunt.

  Eileen’s gaze shifted from Morgan’s hand to Valerie, then caught sight of the scarf before returning to Morgan. “Strikes me you owe the girl a new scarf.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I do.” He tipped his chin toward the back door. “How’s the horse doing?”

  “Good. You should take her a carrot.” At the sink, his aunt washed her hands. “Got a bunch in the pantry.”

  He nodded.

  “Bring Valerie. Show her the barn.”

  Barn? Valerie wasn’t all too sure about that. Didn’t they smell? Like, well, smell.

  “Follow me. I’ll introduce you to Cinnamon.”

  The path to the barn was well lit and easier to walk than she’d expected. Once inside, she was delighted to note that it didn’t smell anything like she’d expected.

  “You’re frowning.” He closed the door behind her.

  “Sorry. I was expecting it to smell…”

  “Stinky?” He smiled.

  “Yeah.”

  “Stalls are mucked often. Mostly the air is filled with the scent of hay and leather. And occasionally manure, but mostly hay and leather. Especially after a hard rain.”

  A few feet in, he paused at a Dutch door and turned the latch. “How’s it going, girl?”

  Valerie had to admit, she wouldn’t mind having the man coo at her in that low rolling tone. She took a step forward and then froze in place.

  “It’s all right. She won’t hurt you.”

  “She’s huge.”

  “Only sixteen hands.”

  “Hands?” she managed to mutter, still rooted firmly in place. She didn’t want to check but was willing to bet a year’s salary the horse’s teeth were huge as well. And painful.

  “Usually about four inches. Size is determined by measuring from floor to the highest point of the horse’s withers.”

  There was no point in asking what withers were. She might as well quit while she was still at a safe distance.

  He scratched the horse’s ear. The animal wiggled her lips, rolled her head and Val took a step back. “If you rub right down her nose, she’ll be your friend for life.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” What she really wanted was to turn and run.

  “I’m gathering that means you don’t want to give her a carrot?” Pulling one from his pocket, he laid it on his flat open palm.

  Valerie’s suspicions about the horse’s teeth were confirmed. She shook her head and asked herself for the first time in days, what in the heck was a city girl like her doing in a place like this?

  Chapter Seven

  “Mom will bust a gut.” Large platter of cornbread in hand, Morgan passed it to his right. “You haven’t told her we’re helping Adam this trip either, have you?”

  Neil shook his head.

  “See?” Morgan waved an arm at this brother. “How could we possibly explain being here for months on a project of that size?”

  “We could work in shifts.” Neil passed the bread platter to his aunt. “As long as one of us was home for a few weeks at a time, Mom probably won’t notice that this isn’t any old project in some random Texas location.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Joanna lifted a rib from her plate, “is why would having y’all here specifically be a problem for your mother?”

  That same question had crossed his mind more than once since coming to town when t
hey helped rebuild Chloe’s house. His gaze locked with his brother’s. Neil didn’t look to have a better answer to the question than he did. None of the brothers did.

  “It’s complicated.” His uncle Sean forked a spare rib onto his dish.

  Finn shrugged. “I always liked Aunt Mariah. She used to bring Grace and me candy whenever she and Uncle Pat visited. I loved those Pixie Sticks.”

  “Straight sugar,” Uncle Sean groused.

  Hannah held her hands up. “Okay, let’s assume you can get around your mother’s objections. Do you even want to get involved with the ghost town?”

  “I would like to at least have a look for myself,” Neil answered before Morgan could respond.

  “First of all,” Morgan waved a fork at his brother, “we don’t know anything about television production. Having cameras and crews around us could be a nightmare. Besides, don’t they say these shows are all staged?”

  Neil shrugged. “No clue.”

  Lips pressed tightly, Aunt Eileen tipped her head to one side and hefted a shoulder. “They do say that about a lot of the most popular shows.”

  “There you go.” Morgan turned back to his brother. “Who has time to refurbish and act? Then, despite Valerie’s enthusiasm over this project, neither of us knows how serious she is about having us involved.”

  “Why wouldn’t she be serious?” Joanna asked. “After all, you certainly fit the bill.”

  “What?” Morgan and Neil echoed.

  The three women at the table rolled their eyes.

  “You’re exactly what any producer would want.” Aunt Eileen blew out a long breath. “There are multiple places that the tall, dark, and handsome nature of the Farraday mold would be in high demand.”

  Sean coughed and cleared his throat.

  “Besides there.” Aunt Eileen glared at her husband, and Joanna actually blushed. Holding up two fingers, Eileen pointed to one. “Romance novel cover,” then the other finger, “and Reality TV stars would be top of the list.”

  Morgan had learned a long time ago that the Farraday genetics could often open doors for them, but when it came to the important things in life, a pretty face wasn’t worth the price of a postage stamp. It hadn’t helped a bit when Carolyn turned him down from bended knee to his empty bank account and finally understanding that the family money wasn’t his to spend as she willed. He swallowed the bad taste the memory left in his mouth and looked to his aunt. “Actually, Valerie mentioned our being related. The Oklahoma cousins to the Texas based clan. But mostly I think she likes the alliteration in the title.”