Guarding His Fortune

by Stella Bagwell

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  The Lawman’s Romance Lesson

  by Marie Ferrarella

  Prologue

  The evenings were the hardest for Shania. Somehow, the darkness outside seemed to intensify the silence and the feeling of being alone within the small house she used to occupy with her cousin.

  Before she and Wynona had returned to Forever, Texas, the little town located just outside of the Navajo reservation where they had both been born, noise had been a constant part of their lives.

  Joyful noise.

  Noise that signified activity.

  The kind of noise that could be associated with living in a college dorm. And before that, when they had lived in their great-aunt Naomi’s house, there had still been noise, the kind of noise that came from being totally involved with life. Their great-aunt was a skilled surgeon and physician who was completely devoted to her work.

  Because Naomi volunteered at a free clinic at least a couple of days a week as well as being associated with one of the local hospitals, patients would turn up on their doorstep at all sorts of hours. When she and Wynona grew older, Aunt Naomi thought nothing of having both of them pitch in and help out with her patients. She wanted them to learn how to provide proper care.

  Between the volunteer work and their schooling, there was never any sort of downtime, never any time to sit back, much less be bored.

  She and Wynona had welcomed being useful and mentally stimulated because that was such a contrast to the lives they had initially been born into. Born on the Navajo reservation to mothers who were sisters, Shania and Wynona spent their childhoods together. They were closer than actual sisters, especially after Wynona lost her mother. She’d never known her father. Shania’s parents took her in to live with them without any hesitation.

  Shania herself had been thrilled to share her parents with her cousin, but unfortunately, that situation didn’t last very long. Nine months after Wynona had come to live with them, Shania’s father was killed in an auto accident. And then less than six months later, her mother died of pneumonia.

  At the ages of ten and eleven, Wynona and Shania found themselves both orphaned.

  The girls were facing foster care, which ultimately meant being swallowed up by the social services system. Just before they were to be shipped off, their great-aunt Naomi, who had been notified by an anonymous party, suddenly swooped into town. In the blink of an eye, the strong-willed woman managed to cut through all manner of red tape and whisked them back to her home in Houston.

  And after that, everything changed.

  Shania and her cousin were no longer dealing with an uncertain future. Aunt Naomi gave them a home and she gave them responsibilities as well, never wanting them to take anything for granted. They quickly discovered that their great-aunt was a great believer in helping those in need. Naomi made sure to instill a desire to “pay it forward” within them.

  They had found that their great-aunt was a stern woman, but there had never been a question that the woman loved them and would be there for them if they should ever need her.

  Shania sighed and pushed aside her plate, leaving the food all but untouched. Having taken leftovers out of the refrigerator, she hadn’t bothered to warm them up before she’d brought them over to the table. She could almost hear Aunt Naomi’s voice telling her, If you’re going to eat leftovers, do it properly. Warm them up first.

  Shania frowned at the plate. She really wasn’t hungry.

  What she was hungry for wasn’t food but the discussions they used to have around the dinner table when Aunt Naomi, Wynona and she would all talk about their day. Aunt Naomi never made it seem as if hers was more important even though they all knew that she made such a huge difference in the lives she touched. Each person, each life, Aunt Naomi had maintained, was important in its own way.

  When she and Wynona had moved back to Forever, armed with their teaching degrees and determined to give back to the community, for the most part those discussions continued. She and her cousin had been excited about the difference they were going to make, especially since both the local elementary school and high school, for practicality purposes, were now comprised of students who came not only from the town but also from the reservation. The aim was to improve the quality of education rendered to all the students.

  But there were times, like tonight, when the effects of that excitement slipped into the shadows and allowed the loneliness to rear its head and take over. Part of the reason for that was because she now lived alone here. Wynona had gotten married recently and while Shania was thrilled beyond words for her cousin, she had no one to talk to, no one to carry on any sort of a dialogue with.

  At least, not anyone human.

  There was, of course, still Belle.

  Just as she got up to go into her den to work on tomorrow’s lesson plan, Belle seemed to materialize and stepped into her path. The German shepherd looked up at her with her big, soulful brown eyes.

  “You miss her too, don’t you, Belle?” Shania murmured to the dog that she and Wynona had found foraging through a garbage pail behind the Murphy brothers’ saloon the first week they moved back. After determining that the dog had no owner, they immediately rescued the rail-thin shepherd and took her in.

  Belle thrived under their care. When Wynona got married, Shania had told her cousin to take the dog with her. But Wynona had declined, saying that she felt better about leaving if Belle stayed with her.

  Belle rubbed her head against Shania’s thigh now, then stopped for a moment and looked up.

  “Message received,” Shania told the German shepherd with a smile. “You’re right. I’m not alone. You’re here. But there are times that I really wish you could talk.”

  As if on cue, Belle barked, something, as a rule, she rarely did. It was as if Belle didn’t like to call attention to herself unless absolutely necessary.

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for myself, I should be feeling happy for Wyn.” Dropping down beside the German shepherd, Shania ran her hands along the dog’s head and back, petting the animal. “You really are brighter than most people, girl,” she laughed.

  As if in agreement, Belle began licking her face.

  And just like that, the loneliness Shania had been wrestling with slipped away.

  Copyright © 2019 by Marie Rydzynski-Ferrarella

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Austen Playbook by Lucy Parker.

  Coming soon from Carina Press and Lucy Parker,

  Lucy Parker presents opposites attract, as she brings the West End to the English countryside via a Jane Austen–themed whodunit.

  Read on for a sneak preview of

  The Austen Playbook,

  the next book in Lucy Parker’s

  London Celebrities Series.

  The Austen Playbook

  b
y Lucy Parker

  Chapter One

  A year ago

  After twelve years of performing in the West End, Freddy Carlton had racked up her fair share of unfortunate experiences. Bitchy co-stars. Costume malfunctions. Having to stage-snog people with whom she’d had bad dates and even worse sex.

  She’d never forgotten her lines during a public performance.

  “Peanut, it wasn’t that bad.” Crossing her long legs, her older sister Sabrina pushed the basket of hot chips across the table. She’d been trying to stuff food down Freddy’s throat for the past half hour. The conviction that most ills could be assuaged with carbs ran deep in their family. “You covered really well. Barely a pause.”

  Freddy put down her sangria and rubbed her eyes. “Yes. It really saved the day when I quoted a Bruce Springsteen song in the middle of a play set in 1945.”

  In the instant under the lights when her mind had just...blanked, and her stomach had dropped to her shoes, some safety valve in her brain had stepped in and supplied a line. Unfortunately, it had fixed on the last song she’d been listening to in her dressing room to wind down before curtain.

  She supposed she should be thankful she hadn’t trotted out a line from the second-to-last song the radio had infiltrated into her subconscious. She might have responded to her soldier lover’s romantic declaration with an obscene rap.

  “Oh my God.” She pushed aside her glass and briefly dropped her forehead to the table. “Press night. I quoted Springsteen in front of a thousand people on press night.”

  She’d never really screwed up on stage before. Certainly never so bizarrely. She usually confined any major hiccups to rehearsal. She had a reputation for reliability. Affability. Just tell Freddy where to go, what to do, who to be, and she’ll do it. She’d even throw in a smile.

  Generally, the smile was genuine. She loved the stage, she loved her family, and she loved life. With the glaring exception of tonight’s debacle, her career was on the up. She ought to be skipping through the streets.

  Not lying awake at night, not partying too much in the extremely brief gaps between productions, and not feeling physically sick before auditions.

  “People may not even have noticed.” Sabrina pushed back a strand of wildly curling hair. They’d both inherited their father’s ringlets, but where Freddy was dark brown, like every Carlton in recent memory, Sabs had popped out a bright redhead. An early beginning on her lifelong tendency to stand out in the crowd. “And given how shite the actual dialogue was, I thought your improvisation was a massive improvement.”

  “Sabrina,” Akiko protested from the other side of the booth, her heavy silver jewellery glinting in the light as she shifted. Her makeup was equally sparkly, the smooth bob that curved under her chin was currently dyed cobalt blue, and she looked more like a rock star than an academic. She’d been Sabrina’s best mate for over two decades, and Freddy literally couldn’t remember life before her comforting presence. “I thought the script was very good.” Akiko ran her fingers over the tines of her fork. She always fiddled when she was blatantly lying.

  “Akiko, I love that you’re a nicer person than I am, but there’s politeness and there’s absolute bollocks.” Sabrina patted Freddy’s arm. “I’m assuming that—Jesus, I can’t even remember the name of tonight’s play, and it was only an hour ago. Seriously, kiddo, stop beating yourself up. A forgotten line is the least of that script’s worries.”

  “You’re not being very respectful about your late grandmother’s work,” Akiko said, and Sabrina wrinkled her nose.

  “I think enough people fawn over our infamous granny, don’t you? Dad’s one step away from erecting a ten-foot solid-gold statue of her on his balcony. And based on the script tonight, I’m baffled by the accolades. The ‘greatest British playwright of the twentieth century’? What, were the only other plays between 1900 and 1999 written by the typewriting monkey at the zoo?”

  “The play I stuttered my way through tonight is Masquerade.” Freddy took a chip from the bowl Sabrina was waving in front of her again and bit it in half. They were venturing into territory that made boulders appear in her stomach, so she might as well pile some greasy spuds on top. “It’s one of the earliest Henrietta Carlton scripts.”

  Their grandmother had written Masquerade at the age of twenty, several years before she’d hit the big time as both a playwright and an actor.

  “Her writing inexperience shows in Masquerade. Hugely. It’s nothing like The Velvet Room.” The script that had catapulted Henrietta into the history books. “Which I assume you’ve still never read.” Freddy swallowed down another chip with a mouthful of sangria. The director of Masquerade wanted his cast to follow a healthy diet during the run. Nailing it.

  “You should read it.” Akiko swirled the melting ice in her own drink. “I’m not that keen on just paging through a script like it’s a novel, but The Velvet Room is so poignant you forget you’re reading stage directions. Your grandmother grew into a cracker of a writer.”

  Sabrina lifted finely threaded brows. “All that, and a brilliant actress, too. Almost seems too much talent for one person, doesn’t it?” She tweaked one of Freddy’s fluffing curls. “Thank God our little Frederica came along to keep the end up for this generation. Four centuries of thespians in the family, with X-factor spilling out of their Shakespearean ruffs, and it almost ended with—”

  “A very talented journalist,” Akiko said loyally.

  “Some drunk ginger floozy from the telly?” Freddy suggested at the same time, in a tongue-in-cheek attempt to divert the stream of the conversation.

  Sabrina lifted her nose. “Excuse me, baby sister. I am perfectly sober. I can hold a cocktail.”

  “You can hold about six in each hand at the TV Awards every year.”

  “Entirely different situation.” Sabrina grinned. “Despite that piece of cheek, you wee shite, and even with a spot of Springsteen thrown in, I’m incredibly proud of what you can do. And I’ll even bone up on The Velvet Room, so I’m all set for your star turn in the West End revival next year.”

  Freddy felt her smile fade from the inside out. Her heart gave a hard thump of trepidation and shrivelled, and the shadow probably spread to her face. “There’s no guarantee I’ll get a role in it.”

  “Of course you will,” Sabrina said, and added with sisterly affection and zero tact, “Talent aside, you’re Henrietta’s granddaughter. Think of the marketing opportunities. Dad’s always got his eye on his investments, and this’ll be a triple coup. A performance royalty from the theatre, commission from your salary, and all the media appearances he’ll be able to milk out of you appearing in Grandma’s tour de force.” Her vivacious features slipped into that barbed wall of sarcasm that usually emerged when they were discussing their father. “Thanks to the offspring who isn’t a massive disappointment, Scrooge McDuck can pour another bucket of gold coins into that vault of millions he’s hoarding.”

  Freddy felt a tinge of colour rush into her cheeks, and that knot in her chest twisted. She put down the rest of the chip in her hand.

  Akiko folded her hands on the tabletop, studying Freddy with uncomfortably shrewd dark eyes. “You do want a role in The Velvet Room, Freddy?”

  “What, Henrietta’s masterpiece? The Carltons’ biggest claim to fame?” Sabrina waved at someone who’d just come into the pub. “Freddy’s always banged on about what a good script it is. She’s almost as bad as Dad on that subject. Although at least she likes it for its artistic merit, not the rewards it generates.”

  Akiko was still looking at Freddy.

  She weighed her words. “It’s an excellent play. It really does deserve all the accolades.” She hadn’t actually answered Akiko’s question, and from her expression, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Freddy appreciated the genius of The Velvet Room—but did she really, honestly, want to act in it?

  No. She could say it s
ilently, privately, in her own mind, but so far she hadn’t had the balls to say it aloud, even just to Sabrina.

  After a moment, she lifted a shoulder. “The most likely director for the new season of The Velvet Room was in the audience tonight. This performance wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, was it?”

  “You were probably just nervous,” Sabrina said, in a tone that suggested Freddy was eleven years old again and had just embarked on her first debut.

  Incidentally, when she had debuted at eleven, she’d remembered every one of her lines.

  “I’m sure press night is always terrifying,” Akiko said.

  Yes, it was, even after all this time. Doubly so when her family were in the front rows, as well as the dozens of critics, including the dude who’d called her “duller than a pair of safety scissors” in the Westminster Post.

  And the scrutiny would have been high tonight, because of the family connection. By choice, Freddy wouldn’t audition for any adaptations of her grandmother’s works. For several reasons, one being that enough of her career had been founded on nepotism. She hadn’t minded exploiting the connection in her teens, but unearned glory wore thin very quickly. With Carltons populating the theatres of London since the days of quills, bustles, and bubonic plague, she didn’t need to provide extra fodder for the critics to discuss the many and varied ways she had built a career on other people’s achievements.

  However, her father was her manager, he did think it was good business sense to capitalise on the link, and when the casting call had gone out for Masquerade this season, he’d been dead set on having her in it. And she’d caved, to avoid the argument. As usual.

  Akiko cleared her throat. “I’m not sure that unrelenting angst is really your thing, Freddy. I could see the natural glass-half-full sass itching to come out at every woe-laden moment.”

  As usual, she’d hit the nail on the head. No, weepy philosophical introspection was not Freddy’s cup of tea, it had become increasingly apparent, and the admittedly mediocre script for Masquerade was so wreathed in despair and gloom that she’d had to listen to P. G. Wodehouse audiobooks in rehearsal downtime to keep up her spirits.