by Candis Terry
Dedication
For my readers,
because to me you are all like Christmas morning.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
An Excerpt from Sweet Surprise
About the Author
By Candis Terry
An Excerpt from Various States of Undress: Virginia by Laura Simcox
An Excerpt from The Governess Club: Louisa by Ellie Macdonald
An Excerpt from Good Guys Wear Black by Lizbeth Selvig
An Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax
An Excerpt from Covering Kendall by Julie Brannagh
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND FEET somewhere above the flyover states of America, Chase Morgan leaned his head back against the first-class seat and waited for the little bottle of airline whiskey to warm his blood and numb his brain.
“Are you flying alone?” The breathy Marilyn Monroeesque whisper came from the flashy blonde parked in the seat next to him. The same flashy blonde who’d been trying way too hard to get his attention. Though his eyes were closed, it didn’t appear she was going to take the hint that he wasn’t the least bit interested in adding her name to his private Mile High Club membership.
He mumbled an incoherent response, turned his head toward the window, and tried not to think about the events of the past two weeks that had sent his well-planned life into a death spiral. He also tried not to laugh at the irony that had him zooming away from the snow-covered streets and the high life in New York right back to the land of sweat-stained shirts and dirty boots. Most of all, he tried to ignore the screeching voice of his CEO, which replayed over and over in his head like an annoying Disney movie theme song. Except in his case the catchphrase wasn’t “Let it go.” Instead it was “You can’t quit. You signed a contract.” Which promptly crescendoed with the ever-popular, “I’ll sue your ass.”
Two weeks ago, as a fit and healthy thirty-four-year-old, he’d been at the top of the Madison Avenue game. As a senior ad exec at Brite Minds Worldwide, he’d had an executive office overlooking the Empire State Building, clients others had fought to win over and lost, a Victoria’s Secret supermodel girlfriend, and a megamillions Super Bowl ad contract representing the world’s top-selling soft drink company waiting to be signed on the dotted line.
He’d had it all.
Until somewhere between his team’s campaign presentation that gave a nostalgic nod to mom’s apple pie, and handing his Montblanc platinum-line ballpoint to the corporate rep to seal the deal, his heart had decided to skip a beat. Then two. The next thing he knew, he’d woken up in the CCU at Mount Sinai. The twenty-four-hour stay where he’d been poked and prodded, scanned and X-rayed, revealed zip. Nada. There had been no blockage. No abnormalities. No disease. And, surprisingly, no damage from the health scare. At least none anyone could see on the exterior.
Nope.
All the damage had been done to the carefully planned life he’d dreamed about since he’d been a young boy pushing longhorn cattle on his family’s ranch in Stephenville, Texas.
Within forty-eight hours of his “episode,” his Victoria’s Secret supermodel girlfriend dumped him because he now “scared” her. Her exact words poked at him like a playground bully. “What if we’re having sex and -you . . . (gasp) . . . died?” His explanations that—most likely—the cardiac event had no lasting effects went unheard. The idea that he could possibly take his last breath while giving her the best sex of her life was just too much for her to handle.
Imagine how he felt.
He wasn’t sure she’d be the one he’d want to spend that last breath on anyway. By ten o’clock the following evening, she’d set her so-called broken heart aside and attended a red-carpet event on the arm of Hollywood’s newest romantic-comedy heartthrob.
Que sera, sera, sweetheart.
The multimillion-dollar Super Bowl deal he’d worked his ass off for over six months to acquire had been promptly handed over to a rival exec who’d been salivating in the wings, eagerly awaiting an opportunity to pounce like a jackrabbit in heat.
After several more series of tests, his new cardiologist had been unable to explain exactly why he’d had the arrest. Still, the doctor had been clear that while the test results might be inconclusive, stress had many vicious methods of release. One of them was a heart attack.
Stress?
Him?
Ha.
Most nights, after all the late hours behind his desk, he’d had to unwind with a glass of something strong in his hand and a woman on her knees in front of him. Most of his buddies would say that wasn’t so terrible.
Too bad it had almost killed him.
Chase closed his ears to the constant chatter of the flashy blonde in the seat next to him as he recalled the doctor’s grim advice.
Slow down. Way down. Or I can’t guarantee this won’t happen again. And next time, you might not be so lucky.”
In the ad-agency game of Whack-a-Mole, slowing down didn’t exist. If you stopped pedaling, the coyotes would eat you on their way out the door. Chase had given the whole issue a lot of thought. Hell, on doctor’s orders, he’d planted his ass on his sofa with nothing to do for a solid week but watch TV shows like Hoarders and Keeping Up with the Kardashians. By the time he’d finished cringing about what people considered most relevant in life, he’d decided to rethink his future.
Exactly nine days after he’d collapsed across the black granite surface of his executive desk, Chase walked back into the offices of Brite Minds Worldwide, prepared to take the stakes to a different level.
Veronica Cartland, CEO and resident ice queen of Brite Minds Worldwide, had shrieked, “You can’t quit! You signed a damn contract. We’re in the middle of the busiest season of the year. Christmas is looming, then the Super Bowl. We’ve got million-dollar deals lined up for weeks. I’ve been generous enough to let you off the hook for a couple of days. Quit, and I will sue your sorry ass.”
Knowing you were necessary enough to be threatened with a lawsuit just because you planned to leave a company felt good, even if your girlfriend found you completely replaceable within a twenty-four-hour time period. Chase had merely smiled at Veronica’s outburst, stuck his hands in the pockets of his Armani trousers, and rocked back on his heels. Veronica was young, and beautiful, and the most single-minded, self-centered bitch he’d ever met. She was brilliant at what she did. But if you let her down, she’d serve you up as au jus on her steak tartare.
Not once had she asked if he felt better or if the attack had left any long-term effects on his body or psyche.
To her, he wasn’t human. He was the machine behind the ebony desk that brought in the revenue so she could afford her Fifth Avenue penthouse view over Manhattan, her custom-designed wardrobe, and the baubles inside the door of the revolving jewelry box also known as Tiffany’s.
To him, he didn’t want to provide the U.S. government database with yet another statistic, as his own father had done when he died of heart failure at the age of forty-two. Chase wanted to be around for a long time. And though it pained him to give up the dream, the luxury, and everything he’d worked his ass off for, he’d walked out of the building on Madison Avenue with his head held high but still as unemployed as the guy panhandling on the corner of 24th and Park Avenue.
That
same night, after fielding concerns from his siblings, his cousin, Abby Morgan, had called from her hometown of Sweet, Texas, when she’d learned of his health scare. In her soft Southern twang, she’d coerced him into coming for a visit. Shucking his wool coat for a little warm sunshine and fresh air at this wintry time of year sounded like a good idea. Of course, he’d intended it to be on the sands of a tropical beach. Still, he’d always adored his cousins Abby and Annie and thought maybe dropping in for a couple of days to say hello wouldn’t be a bad idea.
The truth of the matter was that a quick stop in Sweet took him one step closer to home. The home he hadn’t been back to in well over a decade. The home where the brother and sister he loved still resided. The home where his father had died and taken Chase’s heart with him to the grave.
Sweet, Texas, was less than a four-hour drive away from the home he’d once loved so much.
The question was: Would he find the courage to return?
Next thing he knew, he’d been standing in the TSA line at LaGuardia on the first day of December, with a boarding pass in hand. No hurry to go anywhere. No hurry to get back to New York. For the first time in almost ten years, he’d be spending the Christmas holiday somewhere other than Manhattan. He’d avoid the freezing snow, the gargantuan tree lighting in Rockefeller Center, the extravagant window displays, and the harried shoppers.
Thank God.
Back in Stephenville, when he’d been a boy tearing open his presents on Christmas morning alongside his brother and sister, he never imagined he’d develop such an aversion for the holiday or that his chosen career would make him view the celebration from behind such a cynical pair of eyes.
But that’s what had happened.
When the flashy blonde in the seat next to him ran her manicured finger down his arm, and sang, “Wakey, wakey, hot stuff,” he pretended to be asleep. He didn’t normally turn down an attractive offer with absolutely no strings attached.
Times had changed. And he had a lot of thinking to do.
Because for the first time in his life, he didn’t have a dream, and he didn’t have a plan.
LAST-MINUTE BOOKINGS AT the Magic Box Guest Ranch in Sweet, Texas, were rare. Last-minute bookings for the first week of December were unheard of. Most visitors preferred to time their vacations for midspring, so they could try to catch the beauty of the bluebonnets that blanketed the meadows, or even the newborn calves and foals that frolicked in the fields while their mothers grazed nearby. Most chose springtime to avoid the blistering heat of a Texas summer.
Faith Walker glanced up at the western-star clock above the bookcase in her office and wondered exactly when her one-and-only guest for the next ten days would see fit to arrive.
Had it not been for her sister Paige calling in a favor for their good friend Abby Morgan, who was busy working on her wedding plans to marry Jackson—one of the notorious and good-looking Wilder brothers—Faith would have rejected the reservation. With only three weeks until Christmas, she already had plenty on her plate to do for her annual fund-raiser to support the summer camp she provided for underprivileged children.
The first year she’d taken over for her uncle Charles had been when he’d become ill. He’d given her the freedom to do as she saw fit, so she’d opened the gates of the Magic Box Ranch to the children for a week. At the time, it had been merely a cattle ranch with an enormous main lodge house and a few ranch-hand cabins. The private lake and running creek added extra charm and opportunity for some kid-style fun. When her uncle passed and left her the place, she’d changed things up quick—giving to those who couldn’t always give to themselves. Namely the children. Especially those who wanted to reach for the stars but didn’t know how or have the means. Those in particular held a special place in her heart.
The Country Christmas fund-raiser she held the week before the big holiday had become something of a tradition around Sweet the past few years. With the generosity of the close-knit community, it had become quite successful too. Which was only one of the reasons she was in a big hurry to get on with her plans to make it even bigger, better, brighter, and more successful than last year. Time was a wasting. She didn’t have the luxury to babysit yet another high-powered, snooty executive who wanted to play cowboy for a week while being pampered with the ranch’s famous gourmet feasts and personal massage therapist.
Having already given her staff the time off for the holidays, she’d had to make phone calls last night to put everyone on standby. With the exception of old Bull Crothers, who kept an eye on the livestock year-round and lived in one of the ancient bunkhouses her uncle Charles had built for the ranch hands years ago, the place was pretty much deserted.
Her sister Paige, who still considered herself a newlywed after a year of marriage to Aiden Marshall, worried about her being alone so much. Faith didn’t mind it at all. The quiet months gave her time to recuperate after a busy season bustling with the spoiled-executive elite she catered to. Their sometimes outrageous demands never ceased to amaze.
Caviar at midnight? Sure.
A hot-stone massage to soothe away the stress because a rabbit ran out in front of you on the trail? No problem.
The Magic Box Guest Ranch provided whatever the guest needed. With a few exceptions. Texas might be a part of the Wild Wild West, but they did not provide ladies of the night for a gentleman’s entertainment. And they didn’t do wee-morning-hour runs to the drive-thru liquor store to hunt up a bottle of some kind of cognac no one in Texas had ever even heard of. But that was mostly because the drive-thru liquor store was closed.
With the lodge house currently quiet except for the incessant panting of Doc Holiday, her faithful, patient, and uniquely relaxed for the usually hyper breed, Border Collie, the sound of tires on the gravel road that led to the house was easy to pick up.
“Oh joy, Doc. Looks like we’ve got company,” Faith said to the dog, who cocked his head as if to say, “Company? Now?” Which would be followed by Doc’s never-ending ear-tipping request for “Bacon?”
“Come on, buddy. Off-season or not, we need to give this guest an extraspecial welcome, being that he’s related to our good friends Abby and Annie.” Doc gave a dog grunt as he got up off his pooch pillow and followed her into the registration and activities office.
Moments later, the door opened and a cool breeze blew in alongside a man who’d be likely to make most females’ mouths water. He was tall, dark, and athletically lean, with sexy-as-sin green eyes set in a face that would fit perfectly on one of those man-candy calendars eighty-plus-year-old Arlene Potter kept on the living room wall in her little rock bungalow on Bluebonnet Lane.
For a brief flash of insanity, Faith wished she’d bothered to put on a little blush and mascara that morning or brushed her hair instead of sticking it up in a ponytail and hiding the rest beneath a ball cap.
With a hard blink, she resumed business mode to deliver the same courtesy everyone else received when they walked through that door—a Texas-sized helping of good old Southern hospitality.
Except, what could you really say to someone who’d shown up at a dude ranch looking like he’d just stepped out of a Times Square billboard?
“WELCOME TO THE Magic Box Ranch.”
Chase dropped his suitcase by the door, where he was greeted by a woman a bit on the shorter side and definitely a little on the healthier side of the women he usually met up with in NYC. Not that she was fat. And he wouldn’t exactly call her plump. But from where he stood just inside the door, he could tell she filled out the black T-shirt and pair of Wranglers with luscious curves unlike the waifish, famished-looking creatures he’d seen strut the catwalk at Fashion Week.
Her sun-streaked brown hair was pulled up in a ponytail that stuck out through the hole at the back of a pink-and-black “Cowgirl” ball cap and shadowed a sweetheart face. A worn and scuffed pair of brown boots finished off a look that touted her as a workingwoman and not just someone who sat behind a desk filing papers.
; He’d become so accustomed to city women who dressed for the masses that he’d forgotten about the women he’d grown up knowing. Those who mostly wore jeans and boots, denim and cotton. Those who dressed not with the hopes that their photo might end up on ET’s Hottest Fashions of the Week, but of necessity and common sense.
When she came around the desk to shake his hand, he got a better view. And it was a nice one.
“My name’s Faith Walker,” she said through plump, kissable lips that revealed the slightest hint of dimples when she smiled. Her dark gray eyes were direct, no-nonsense, and would most likely cut through the layers of BS someone tried to spoon-feed her.
Faith was what he and his friends back in the day would call a hot damn real woman.
He came forward, shook her extended hand, and smiled when he discovered she had a firm grip. None of that three-fingered loosey-goosey thing he’d run into with women before.
“Chase Morgan.” Surprised by the impulse to reel her in closer, he reluctantly let go of her hand.
“I’m going to apologize right from the start, Mr. Morgan.” She flashed him those dimples, then went around to the business side of the desk and began tapping on a computer keyboard. “We really don’t get guests this time of year. So the place is empty, and I’m afraid you won’t have others to share conversation or company.”
She punched the RETURN key and looked up. “However, you will still receive the same amenities we offer the rest of the year, with the exception of the pool, which we closed for the season last month. The hot tub is available, though, as are the trail rides, fishing pond, and a whole lot of front-porch sittin’. We offer fine dining you can either enjoy in the privacy of your cabin, or you’re welcome to eat here at the main lodge. If y’all have any specific dietary needs or you have a certain meal request, please feel free to let me know, and I’ll be sure our chef accommodates you.”
