The Book Babes Boxed Set (Texas Ties/Texas Troubles/Texas Together)

by Jean Brashear

  “That’s love, Siobhan. Not flowers and starlight and the easy days. It’s the days when you want to wring his neck for dropping one more shirt on the floor or forgetting to call to say he’d be late for dinner. Or when he just gave you the worst gift of your life, but you remember that he took the time, and he tried.”

  She smiled at her daughter. “Then sometime later you beg him never to pick out clothes for you again.”

  They laughed together. Siobhan leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I just wish I could be sure.”

  “What you need to be sure of, even more than Mitch, is the steadiness of your own heart, sweetie. You need to believe in your own strength. Women don’t marry perfect husbands, not often. Most of us have to grow them.”

  Siobhan raised up. “What would Daddy say about that?”

  Ava smiled. “He’d say he was perfect, he just had to teach me to see it.” She stretched her arms above her head, yawning with the big meal and the now-lazy day. “But I’m the one telling the story, so I’m telling it my way.”

  “I’ll ask Daddy later.” Siobhan’s eyes twinkled.

  Ava set the swing to rocking again. “You do that. Then call me so I can set things straight.”

  Her daughter shook her head. “You two are hopeless.”

  “Yeah,” Ava leaned her head back, staring but not seeing anything beyond Tom’s face. “But we’re having a great time.”

  * * *

  Sylvie stared at the screen, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, legs curled beneath her on the chaise. She’d thought renting only comedies would keep her from sinking into the holiday blues, but she’d never liked out-and-out slapstick, so she’d chosen light, romantic comedies of the forties.

  Big mistake. Even the most chaste kiss reminded her of Gabe and what she’d given up.

  Maybe she should have accepted Ellie’s invitation, but she just wasn’t up to a crowd scene. In past years, she and Gabe might have been anywhere—with friends or on a trip or even, one memorable year, an impossibly untraditional Thanksgiving picnic.

  Anywhere was fun with Gabe. If he were here right now, he’d be teasing her out of this funk. Or telling stories that made her smile. Or simply holding her with that sure, quiet strength of his…

  She hit the power switch and rose quickly. No more thoughts of Gabe or might-have-beens. She’d made her choice. Gabe deserved better. No one would understand, but it was love that made her give him up.

  Sylvie crossed the pale expanse of creamy marble floor overlaid with the pale green hand-tied treasure of a rug that Gabe had—

  Clenching her fist, she choked back the lump in her throat. No more of Gabe. Blindly, she stared past pale ivory sheers on the wall of windows, looking from her perch floors above treetop, out at the obscenely sunny day. She resisted the urge to check her watch one more time, to see how many more hours she had to pass before she could open the gallery tomorrow.

  When the doorbell rang, she started. Frowning slightly, she almost didn’t answer, but she knew she wouldn’t turn down any distraction. Peeking through the peephole, Sylvie sucked in a breath.

  Gabe. With a picnic basket.

  Sylvie turned her back on the door, heart beating fast.

  “Sylvie?” His beloved voice. “I know you’re in there. I’m prepared to wait as long as it takes.”

  Turning around, she pressed her forehead against the door, palms open flat against the wood.

  “I have provisions. I can outlast you. Now open up.”

  “Go away, Gabe,” she said softly.

  “I can’t hear what you said, but I’m not leaving. Open the door, Sylvie. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

  Still friends? Still the heart of my heart. Could she and Gabe ever be just friends?

  Right now, the edge of Sylvie’s desperation was pushing her in a direction she knew was wrong…into the temptation of losing all the endless hours…days…minutes she’d invested in getting over Gabe.

  His voice was very close. “I know holidays are hard for you. Please.”

  One hand gripping her hair, Sylvie swung the door open. “Damn you, Gabe. Nothing’s changed. Go away.”

  He stepped inside, quickly, before she could close the door. He stood there, so strong, so solid…so real. He wore her favorite tweed jacket over a polo shirt and worn jeans.

  She wanted to bury her face in his shoulder and let him hold her until the hurt went away.

  Solemn gray eyes studied her, as hungry for the sight of her as she was for him. Perhaps eighteen inches separated them, and it was all Sylvie could do not to cross the gap.

  Gabe lifted his hand, watching her carefully as he reached toward her.

  If I let him touch me, it’s all over. I’ll never be able to send him away again. Sylvie stepped back, out of reach, ignoring the quick flare of pain in his gaze. “Why are you here, Gabe?”

  He drew in a deep breath. She’d never seen Gabe nervous. He lifted the basket in his hands. “It’s just food. You have to eat, right? You haven’t, have you?”

  A long silence. “No,” she finally admitted. “But nothing’s changed.”

  “No.” Steady eyes held hers. “Maybe not. But you still need to eat.”

  “I might have been at Ellie’s.”

  “But you weren’t. I checked.”

  “Oh.”

  Lifting the basket lid, he produced champagne first. “Just a picnic, Sylvie. Surely that much can’t hurt.”

  Oh, but it can, Gabe. Because it doesn’t change anything.

  But she didn’t say that. Instead, she drew upon the savoir faire Ellie said she admired and took the bottle from him. “You’re crazy, Gabriel Winthrop,” she smiled as coolly as possible.

  He didn’t return it. “Maybe I’ve been sensible too long.”

  Sylvie looked into the eyes she loved most in the world and lied through her teeth. “Darling, we’re both mature adults. It was fun while it lasted. It doesn’t matter anymore.” She turned to head into the kitchen.

  To her surprise, a Gabe she’d seldom seen grabbed her arm and spun her around, eyes gone fierce, jaw tight. “It matters, Sylvie. You matter. I don’t believe you can let this go so easily.”

  If only I could. She remained silent.

  “How can you throw away what other people would kill to have?”

  “We need a break, Gabe. I need a break. Things change. People change.”

  She turned away before she broke down, forcing herself to ease the death-grip on the bottle and walk calmly to get the corkscrew. Once she would have opened it effortlessly; now her fingers wouldn’t obey her mind.

  Then he was at her side, taking command as he always did so competently. Sylvie watched the hands that had brought her such pleasure and mourned the loss of their touch on her body.

  “We’ll play this out a little longer, sweetheart.” His low voice reached past her composure without effort. “But I didn’t make my fortune by giving up what I wanted.” He handed her a glass and stepped back, holding his up in a toast.

  “To love,” said the voice she missed hourly…minute by minute of too many days.

  She forced her shoulders to straighten even more, proposing an alternate to his. “To starting over.”

  Gray eyes studied hers intently. Gabriel Winthrop III, corporate raider, modern-day pirate, smiled a secret she couldn’t divine. “To victories, however obtained.”

  Sylvie couldn’t help smiling back. “En garde.” She touched her glass to his and sipped.

  Before he could tempt her into compromises he’d thank her later for not making, she turned away toward the basket. “So feed me, Gabriel.”

  * * *

  That night, Michael sat at Leonard’s desk, catching up on patient files. Monroe snored at his feet. Sure, it was Thanksgiving night, but it wasn’t like he was all that busy with his personal life. Might as well get some work done.

  His presence here had nothing to do with a blue-eyed vixen who was worried about a puppy she wo
uldn’t claim.

  His phone rang, his personal cell, not the one he carried for the practice. He glanced at the display—

  And quickly took the call. “Cavanaugh.”

  “Dr. Cavanaugh,” said the private detective he’d hired. “You had a good Thanksgiving?”

  “It was fine. You’re working on a holiday?”

  “Yeah, well…two divorces and no kids. I work a lot.”

  Michael’s chest squeezed. “Do you have news for me?”

  “I do. Pretty sure I’ve found your brother.”

  “You—” Michael swallowed hard. “Seriously?”

  “I need to check out a few things for you, but I’m sure enough to make this call.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Well, that’s the funny thing. He’s only about an hour away. Tiny town to the southwest called Sweetgrass Springs. He’s a rancher, and his family goes back there for generations.”

  “Sounds solid.” He frowned. With so few details to go on, he’d wondered if his mother’s first husband had abused her or something.

  “Sure seems to be. I can nose around some, talk to people. If you’re thinking about contacting him, it’s better to be armed with all the information you can get, so you know what you’re dealing with.”

  Every instinct urged Michael to get in the car and drive over there right now—

  But he knew nothing about this man, understood less than nothing about why his mother had abandoned him. “Is his father still alive?”

  “Gordon McLaren? Yeah.”

  McLaren. Ian McLaren was his brother’s name. Gordon McLaren was the man his mother had fled. Should he tell her that he’d found her other son and first husband or wait until he’d met them?

  “Wiser not to rush in, if you’re willing to pay for me to dig deeper,” the man said as though reading his thoughts.

  Michael remembered how he’d felt when his mother had dropped her bombshell. How would those two men feel when they learned about him, the son who’d had her all his life?

  Not a quick or easy conversation—and he was stuck here for now. Even taking a half-day away would be very difficult.

  Leonard, I need you to get back here. But Leonard should be with his dad. Michael would give a lot for even one more hour with his own.

  “You can check out more without giving anything away?”

  “I’m good at what I do, Doc.”

  “I don’t much like this waiting.”

  “But it’s the right thing to do. The sensible thing.”

  Michael inwardly sighed. He was almost always sensible.

  Damn it.

  “Get back to me as soon as you can—but be careful.” Ian deserved that, at the very least.

  “Will do. ’Night, Doc.”

  Michael disconnected. And stared sightlessly at the wall.

  Texas Troubles: Book Babes Trilogy Part Two

  Jean Brashear

  Chapter One

  ‡

  December

  The abandoned pup Michael Cavanaugh hadn’t meant to name snoozed in his crate in Michael’s veterinary office—well, his friend Leonard’s office, but his for now. He hunkered down, watching the quick panting of puppy dreams, and resisted the urge to open the crate and take the dog out. He had appointments lined up back to back, no time to play.

  But Ajax was tough to resist. Michael turned to his three-legged canine buddy Monroe, curled up in a bed beside the crate. At the ranch last night, they’d slept curled together, Ajax being comforted by the older dog.

  He had no business adopting this puppy. There were all kinds of families who would be delighted to take on the taffy-colored ball of fur.

  But Ajax was meant for Laken Foster. She just hadn’t accepted that yet.

  Michael smiled. She’d found one excuse or another to visit every day. She’d spend hours talking to Ajax, cooing—tough-as-nails Laken, cooing—to the little guy. It was only Laken who didn’t realize he was already her dog. She clung to the fiction that she didn’t have a place for him, that her hours were too long…

  Meanwhile, she fell a little more in love every day.

  Maybe she would flake out. That was more likely than not. If so, he was more than a little in love with the pup himself, however unwise that might be. He’d let the fiction run a while longer. Leonard had asked Michael to remain over the holidays, in case they turned out to be his last with his dad. Michael had nothing better to do.

  Except wait for more information from the private detective who had located the brother he’d never met, Ian McLaren of a tiny burg called Sweetgrass Springs, about an hour from Austin. Michael had looked up every scrap of information he could get on the internet, since he couldn’t approach his brother yet. Not until he understood the situation better.

  All he knew from his mother was that Ian was six years older than him. That Michael’s mother had abandoned Ian when he was five.

  That she’d never said a word about Ian or her first marriage to Michael or Michael’s dad. Only after his father’s death had the truth come out.

  Ian would have every reason to hate him. Michael had had their mother in his life since birth. Ian had had her for five short years.

  Man, he could not imagine how that would feel.

  Which was why he must proceed carefully. His mother refused to discuss it, so Michael had no clue how to approach his brother. They might have nothing in common, but even if they did, how could Ian possibly feel anything positive toward the brother who’d stolen his mother? Even if Michael had had no say in it?

  “Dr. Cavanaugh?” called his receptionist Candy. “You have a visitor. It’s that woman.”

  Michael had to grin; Candy was cute and bubbly and young. She was homespun and down to earth.

  Everything Laken was not.

  And vice versa. Candy was not a fan.

  More often than not, Laken wore icepick stilettos and expensive suits with tight short skirts that displayed her amazing body to a mouth-watering degree. He’d had to reel in his own tongue more than once. The woman was killer-hot. Intimidating to other females, with her take-no-prisoners attitude.

  But he’d glimpsed the softness she buried under the armor. Not that the sex-goddess body and the take-no-prisoners bravado didn’t turn him on in ways he could not afford.

  “Send her back—thanks.” He didn’t have to turn to picture Candy’s displeasure.

  He stared at the sleeping puppy and willed his randy flesh to settle down. The mere thought of Laken in one of her slick lawyer suits, her long, toned legs in deadly-high heels, was enough to force every ounce of blood from his head into dangerous regions.

  He was insane. There was nowhere for this to go. But if he didn’t have her soon, he thought he might go up in flames.

  The door opened. Immediately he felt her presence.

  “His picture is gone from the bulletin board.” Anxiety threaded her tone. “Has someone—? Is he…?”

  Michael rose and turned. “Have you lost your chance at him because you wimped, you mean?” Might as well call a spade a spade.

  Color rode her cheeks as her blue eyes looked anywhere but him. “No. You know I can’t.” She pressed her lips together and shrugged. “I just…wondered. He needs a good home.” But her fingers were tangled together. When he shifted, her gaze arrowed to the crate. Relief blossomed in her voice, quickly turning to concern. “What’s he doing in here? Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. We needed the room. He’s been discharged.”

  Her brow furrowed. “To whom? He has a new family?”

  He shouldn’t mess with her head this way, but it was impossible to resist. She was so damn stubborn in her refusal to admit that she was more than the role she played.

  “I’m fostering him for now,” he said. Though the only person he planned to relinquish the pup to was standing in front of him, still locked in a prison of her own making.

  “Oh. That’s good, right? Who could take better care of him, after all?”
/>
  Michael shook his head, smiling. “There are conditions. I already have a dog, after all.”

  Her gaze shifted. “Oh—hey, Monroe.” The aging boxer lifted his head, and his stubby tail wagged as he rose and stretched.

  Laken bent over him. “How are you today?” she cooed. “You hanging out with the little guy? Taking care of him?”

  Monroe did his three-legged crow hop over to her, tail wagging.

  She stroked his head. “Such a sweet boy.” Her face relaxed into fondness.

  Ajax woke and yapped, clamoring for his share of the attention.

  She kissed Monroe’s head, then crouched before the crate. “Can I take him out?”

  Michael bent over and opened the crate, withdrawing the puppy. “We have to take him out to pee first thing.” He extended the dog to her.

  She bit her lip. “Oh, well, I—”

  Michael shoved the puppy into her hands. “This way.” He led her outside. Monroe followed. As they made their way to the back door, he saw Laken cuddling the dog and murmuring to him.

  The puppy gnawed on her finger, and she smiled. Pressed a kiss to his nose.

  He reciprocated with enthusiastic puppy licks and whimpers.

  You are toast, and you don’t even know it.

  Outside in the patch of grass, Ajax immediately dropped and piddled while Monroe lifted his leg.

  “Will he learn to pee like a boy?” she asked. “Is there something wrong with him?”

  Michael grinned. “He’s young. He’ll alternate for a while yet.” Then he nodded as the young dog followed Monroe and lifted his leg—then fell over.

  Laken’s true laugh was lighter than the sex-bomb husky one she affected. This was a young Laken’s laugh, and he wondered what had made her change.

  “What conditions?” she asked.

  Michael was still caught by the glimpse of an innocent, carefree Laken. “What?”

  “You said you would foster him, but there were conditions. Like what? And who are the conditions for?”