A Christmas Miracle for Daisy (Taming of the Sheenans Book 5)

by Jane Porter

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  Whitney had expected a big log cabin type mansion, one of those soaring custom homes featured regularly in Big Sky Design and Montana Living. She was sure there would be massive logs and lots of volume due to the soaring vaulted ceilings and expansive floor to ceiling windows. She’d pictured lots of wood and carved beams and a huge rock fireplace. She’d heard about the view, and had imagined that one would see the craggy peaks of the Absaroka Range from the living room windows.

  And it was all that.

  It was exactly that, but also so much more.

  After opening the front door and inviting her in, Cormac stood back and let her walk around and see the house for herself.

  She took her time touring the place, entering each room and getting a feel for the space before going on to the next room. Things were better in some regards than she expected, but also worse.

  The walls were up. Windows were trimmed. Trim and base stained. The electrical was done. Plumbing finished. Cabinets in most of the bathrooms. Sinks, showers, toilets and tubs in half. There were hard surfaces for floors. Light fixtures here and there. Theoretically he could have a moving truck with furniture pull up and move in. The stairs had been reconfigured so Daisy wouldn’t fall through the iron railing, and the slate steps removed for rich hardwood to ensure Daisy wouldn’t stub her toe or cut a shin. Windows had safety latches. Security cameras had been installed with the new electrical system. And while the kitchen was far from finished, he could set up a mini kitchen somewhere with a small fridge, microwave and hot plate, and they’d get by.

  So it was possible to live in the house.

  But Cormac was right. It wasn’t a home. It had the bones and certainly potential, but the rooms were so big, and the ceilings so high, and there was so much dark wood and stone everywhere. It was a bit like a fortress, and it’d certainly delight a boy’s soul…big and small.

  But no, it wasn’t warm. And no, it wasn’t really family friendly. “It could be beautiful,” she said.

  “But it’s not ready for Daisy, is it?” he said.

  “No,” she answered honestly as she glanced back at him. He was standing in front of one of the windows with the jaw-dropping view of the valley. Mountains ringed the home and the river shimmered far below. Pastures cut into hillsides before giving way to forests. “But I do know why you bought it. I know why it appeals to you. This is Montana at its best. You’re surrounded by nature, and look at all that sky…it feels almost spiritual.”

  “Funny you say that. Trey calls this place the cathedral.”

  “But you don’t want to live in a church. You want it to feel like a home.”

  “What was your plan for the interior? White, cream, neutrals?”

  She saw his expression and shook her head. “You love your cream and white, but it’s going to make this place feel cold, particularly once winter comes and all you look at for months on end is snow. This house needs color. Lots of red along with copper and orange, ivory and teal.” She could see his lip curling with distaste. “Color doesn’t have to be offensive. We’re not talking a circus palette.”

  “How about we put the color in Daisy’s room? Pinks and cream and that awful lavender shade she loves.”

  “Periwinkle?” Whitney laughed. She couldn’t help it. “And you can put color in a girl’s room without it being limp pastels. Give her a room with energy and spirit and let it reflect her personality.”

  “You’re not going to put red in there, are you?”

  “Why are you so afraid of red? It’s fire, passion, heat, life.”

  “She’s four, not fourteen.”

  “How much do you love her?”

  “More than anything.”

  “What do you want for her?”

  “To be happy. To feel loved.”

  “And when she’s fourteen, or twenty-four, who do you want her to be?”

  He frowned. “Happy.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Confident. Strong. Creative. Independent.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t know. You tell me. What am I getting wrong?”

  “You’re getting it exactly right. That’s what you should want your daughter to be. Confident. Strong. Creative. Independent.” She smiled. “That’s perfect. And I’m going to give you a house where you and she can be a family and Daisy can grow into a confident, strong, creative and independent young woman.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He took a key off his key ring and handed it to her, and promised to text her the code for the security system. “Use your company credit card to pay for purchases and I’ll sort out with accounting.”

  “No problem.”

  “And keep track of your time…not sure how you want to invoice me—”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to reimburse you for our time.”

  “I’m not working for you, Cormac. This isn’t a job. I’m not your employee. I’m not a subordinate. I’m doing this as a friend. It’s a gift for you—” She held up a hand to stop him as he started to protest, “—and a gift for Daisy, who is my goddaughter. And if you can’t accept my help as a gift, then I don’t want to do it.”

  “It’s going to take a lot of time.”

  “Yes, it will. It’ll be a labor of love, but it’ll be worth it. It’ll make me feel as if I’ve finally done something important for Daisy by helping give her a home.”

  *

  They weren’t far from the Sheenan ranch and Cormac suggested they swing by his family house so he could pick up any mail that might have collected over the weekend and give it to Trey in case Trey wasn’t planning on driving out to the ranch tomorrow.

  It was on the tip of Whitney’s tongue to tell him she’d just been here a week ago—not on his ranch, of course—but on this private lane. She’d been thinking about what Callan had told her ever since Thanksgiving but wasn’t comfortable bringing it up to Cormac. He was such a private person. Even when they’d dated he’d rarely talked about his family, or shared his feelings.

  “Haven’t been back here in a while,” he said.

  “Does it look different?” she asked, curling her legs up under her. It had been a bright blue sky earlier in the day but clouds were gathering on the horizon and with dusk approaching it felt cold and a little bit gray. But that was weather in Montana. Rapidly changing, always interesting.

  “No. And I guess it won’t ever really be different because the land itself doesn’t change. The same hills, the same rocky faces, the same cluster of trees. I think that’s why I wanted a house with a view, but not all the land.”

  “Well, you got a great view,” she said as he reached the old rustic log cabin home. It wasn’t a handsome log cabin house like the Carrigans’, or an impressive estate like Cormac’s new place. It was just a house in the middle of a huge working cattle ranch.

  “I don’t see a car,” Cormac said, parking in the driveway and turning the engine off. “I don’t think Shane’s here.”

  “You said he’s a writer?”

  “Yeah. He’s apparently working on a book about the short-lived copper mining boom.”

  “Has he had anything published?”

  “A couple of books. Histories, biographies.” He opened the car door. “Want to come with me, or wait here?”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  He led her around on a quick tour, pointing out where Trey had jumped from the loft to tackle Troy and ended up missing Troy and broke his arm instead. Inside the barn he went to the stables, which were empty of horses.

  “They’re all gone,” he said, strangely disappointed.

  “Wouldn’t Trey keep one here?”

  “Maybe it’s in the pasture.”

  He shared another story about the time a teenage Brock got into a fight with his dad. The fight was pretty bad, they were pummeling each other good and even though Brock was a big guy, Dad was giving it to him and Brock was taking a beating. Mom came out with a rifle
and told them to break it up. Dad didn’t get off Brock so Mom fired at him, putting a hole through the heel of Dad’s cowboy boot.

  If Whitney hadn’t known about Bill Sheenan’s affair with Beverly, she would have found the story almost funny. Instead it struck her as painfully sad. “Was that a good shot or a lucky one?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but it worked. Dad climbed off Brock and that was the end of that.”

  “I can’t imagine your dad was happy with her.”

  She winced the moment the words left her mouth but Cormac didn’t notice.

  “No,” Cormac said. “Dad didn’t say a word to Mom, and Brock just got in his truck and took off.” Cormac frowned. “That may have been the weekend that he moved out. Brock was the only one who really stood up to Dad, and he paid the price.”

  “Your dad was kind of a tough guy.”

  “He loved us. But he and my mom—” he broke off, shrugged. “Let’s find the mail and go. I don’t like being here. It kind of gets me down.”

  “If no one wants to live here, why don’t you sell it?”

  “We’ve talked about it. But Trey loves the land.”

  “And yet his wife won’t live here.”

  “That’s between them. I don’t care what they do as I don’t need the money…in fact, no one needs the money. So it’s up to Trey. And speaking of Trey, let me grab the mail and I’ll drop it off at his house this evening.”

  But the copper bucket where Shane was supposed to put the mail wasn’t on the front porch, or the back. Cormac tried the back door and it was open. “I’m going to have a quick check inside,” he said.

  “You think it’s okay?”

  “I’m not going to do anything.”

  Whitney followed him in. The kitchen was tidy, the counters empty except for the small drying rack that held a cup and the coffee pot.

  Cormac glanced around, didn’t see the copper bucket, and headed on down the hall. He glanced into the dining room and then stopped.

  Whitney stopped behind him. At one end of the table sat a laptop computer with a printer to the right on the antique sideboard. The rest of the dining table was covered with piles of books, file folders, and stacks of neatly printed pages. Bulletin boards hung from picture hooks on the walls with the old fashioned paisley wallpaper.

  “What is this?” Cormac asked, entering the dining room.

  “Looks like he’s made this his library or study.”

  “Study of what?” Cormac retorted, his gaze sweeping the room.

  The books were neatly stacked and the papers on the table appeared organized, but the bulletin boards were filled with newspaper articles and photographs, and Whitney could read the screaming newspaper headlines from where she stood. Tragedy in Marietta. Local Family Slain in Home Invasion. A Slaughter of Innocents. Montana Manhunt.

  The titles were deliberately provocative and she knew they’d been crafted for the shock value but seeing them cover the walls made her sick. She swallowed in revulsion even as Cormac moved around the room, studying the boards.

  “This is that home invasion on the Douglas ranch,” she said. “McKenna’s family.”

  “Yes.” Cormac turned to the table, picked up a few books, put them back down and then leafed through a number of the pages in the print out pile. “It’s a draft of a book,” he said, glancing up. “He’s written a book about the home invasion on the Douglas ranch.”

  Whitney’s gaze returned to the horrifying headlines and then the stacked pages. “Has anyone ever written a book about the murders before?”

  He shook his head. “The crime has never been solved.”

  “Why is he doing it?”

  “I don’t know. And I definitely don’t know why he’s doing it while living at our house.”

  It was quiet in the SUV after leaving the Sheenan ranch house. Whitney knew Cormac well enough to know it wasn’t the good kind of quiet, either. He was upset, and trying to keep it in. She didn’t blame him. She was upset and it wasn’t even her house, or her family.

  As he drove, she darted a couple glances at Cormac but his profile remained hard, his jaw set.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked after a few minutes.

  He didn’t immediately answer but his hand tightened on the steering wheel. She studied the broad hand with the prominent knuckles. She’d heard stories about his fighting prowess. Apparently all the Sheenan were fighters, with Trey being the fastest, and dirtiest.

  “Are you going to say anything to your tenant?” she persisted after another minute of silence. “To let him know we were there?”

  His gaze finally met hers, his expression fierce. “To let him know that we know what he’s writing?” He shook his head. “I want him out of there. I want him out of the house now.”

  Whitney chose her words with care. “If he has a lease agreement, I’m not sure you can legally evict him for something like this.”

  “McKenna is my sister-in-law.”

  “No, I get that. I do. That was really weird, and creepy, and I wasn’t even raised here and was bothered by all those clippings and photos, so I can’t imagine what it feels like for you to see it. Never mind how your brother, Trey, would react. I can’t help but think he’d flip out—”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Cormac interrupted grimly. “McKenna was thirteen when it happened. She’s spent her entire life trying to come to terms with what happened and this guy is living in our house, writing a book about how her family was tortured and murdered?”

  “What if he could help solve the murder?”

  “Then maybe he should go to the detectives who’d worked the case and see if they can’t reopen it.”

  “That’s something that will probably happen after the book comes out.”

  “I don’t want this guy making a penny from McKenna’s loss.”

  “I get that, but try to look at this from a big picture point of view. Try not to make this personal. You own lots of media. You understand the nature of media. It’s selling the news. Getting people to watch, buy, tune in. This guy is writing what looks like a true crime book. Vincent Bugliosi, Truman Capote, Ann Rule…they all made careers out of writing stories about serial killers and unsolved murders. It’s a profitable market for publishers. A legitimate market.”

  “That’s fine. But this Shane guy doesn’t have to do it in my family home. This is where I was raised. It’s where my mom died—” he broke off, shook his head, swallowed. His voice dropped, deepening. “I don’t want him here anymore. I want him out.”

  They drove without speaking for a good ten minutes. It was an uncomfortable quiet, too, with Whitney staring out the window and Cormac chewing relentlessly on his lip, working it over.

  Finally he broke the Whitney silence. “I don’t have a lot of good memories of growing up in that house. I’ve never liked going back to visit. But having this guy in there is just a total slap in the face. Everyone around here knows that Trey and McKenna go back a long, long way…all the way back to high school. And for this man to talk to Trey on a daily basis and live in the house and hang photographs of the crime scene on the walls of my parents’ dining room—” his deep voice cracked. “It’s just wrong.”

  Whitney reached across, and touched his forearm, a squeeze of comfort, before pulling it away.

  He was a complicated man. And he and she had a complicated relationship. But when the chips were down, she’d be in his corner.

  So maybe the unthinkable had happened.

  Maybe they had become friends.

  Chapter Fifteen

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  It was nearing eleven and Cormac hadn’t gone to bed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He was too upset still about what he’d seen at the ranch house today. It had taken every bit of his patience to stay calm with Daisy tonight, too, when she had a tantrum about nothing and all he wanted was some calm and quiet to think. Her tears frustrated him and he hung on to his temper…just barely.

  He paced
the suite, feeling trapped.

  Sometimes he didn’t want to be the single dad. Sometimes he didn’t want to be the ambitious guy. Sometimes he just wanted to run away from it all…

  His hands balled at his sides. He wanted to hit something, and just bust it wide open.

  If he had a sitter for Daisy he’d go to that twenty-four hour gym in Bozeman and get on the treadmill and run until he couldn’t take another step and then once he caught his breath he’d square off with a punching bag and pummel it until his arms gave out.

  He needed the release. He needed to let his aggression fly.

  He missed his mom.

  Going to the house made her seem so real and he’d wanted her to be there today, when he’d entered the house. He’d wanted to see her in the kitchen turning to smile at him as he came through the door.

  He’d never told her goodbye.

  He’d never said what he’d needed to say to her. That he loved her. That he’d always love her. That she was a great mother even though she sometimes looked so sad…

  And then to find that the writer, Shane, had hung bulletin boards all over the dining room and covered those boards with clippings from the murder at the Douglas ranch.

  It was too much. It was.

  It was still too much and it ate at him, the fact that Shane was in their house doing this. But Whitney was right. You couldn’t just throw a guy like Shane out on the streets. He’d know his rights and probably wouldn’t hesitate to fight back, coming at them with a lawyer, suing for unlawful eviction. And that was the last thing any of them needed.

  But he had to do something, didn’t he?

  Cormac paced again, and still wound up, grabbed his phone and shot Whitney a text. You up?

  She answered a couple minutes later. Everything okay?

  I don’t suppose you’d want to have a beer and talk.

  Her answer was immediate. I’d rather do wine at this hour.

  I have a bottle of red here. Come over. He swallowed hard and then added. Please.

  Will be there in ten.

  She actually arrived fifteen minutes later and apologized for it. “I forgot about parking,” she said when he opened the door.