Harlequin Heartwarming May 2016 Box Set

by Rula Sinara

  “Thanks, man. And don’t worry. Mum’s the word.”

  Torry got to his feet and made his way down the stage stairs. “I wasn’t worried.” He paused on the dance floor to add, “Except maybe about your sense of humor. Need I repeat, I have a contract?”

  Sam returned his smile. “I’m not nearly smart enough to write and deliver jokes night after night.”

  “And don’t you forget it...boss.”

  He left Sam mulling over an either/or decision: ask Finn for the rest of her story, or find a way to stop thinking about her.

  Her likeness flashed in his mind.

  An instant—that was all it took for him to realize the latter was next to impossible.

  He glanced at his watch. If you don’t lollygag, you’ll have time to head home for a shower and a shave before you go onstage tonight.

  Lollygag. One of his dad’s favorite words. It made Sam a little homesick, and he made a mental note to call home first thing in the morning.

  “Better come up with some kind of a script before you dial the folks’ number,” he muttered. He needed ready answers for his mom’s predictable questions: “Are you getting plenty of sleep? You’re not eating those horrid frozen dinners every night, I hope?” And his favorite, “Are you seeing anyone yet?”

  As usual, he’d tell her that he wasn’t.

  But he sure would like to be.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SAM LEANED INTO the deck rail, marveling at his view of the river. After witnessing the aftermath of the 2010 flood, he considered himself lucky to be on the fourth floor, safe from rising waters should the Cumberland overflow its banks again. He was mildly surprised at how quickly he’d adjusted to life in a nine-hundred-square-foot condo after spending most of his life on a sprawling ranch in the shadow of the Rockies.

  The hardest adjustment had been sleep patterns. Back at the Double M, he’d turned in early, bone tired from long days of hard labor. Got up early, too, ready to dig in to the demanding work all over again.

  Since injuring his leg, Sam rarely got to bed before three, either because he put so much effort into his lesson plans, lecture notes and handouts, or because of a performance that lasted until two. Lack of sleep was one of the only negatives to life in Nashville.

  Except for the occasional bout of homesickness.

  Fortunately, the cure was simple enough...

  According to his watch, it was six in the morning, Mountain Time. He could picture his folks at the kitchen table, fully dressed and with breakfast behind them, his dad thumbing through the morning paper while his mom scribbled her to-do list for the day.

  Sam refilled his coffee mug and carried it to the balcony, leaned back in his deck chair and propped both boot heels on the glass and steel railing.

  “You must have ESP,” his mom said. “‘Call Sam’ is at the top of my list today!”

  “Oh? What’s up?”

  “Let me put you on speakerphone, so Dad can talk with you, too.”

  “Hey, son. ’Bout time you touched base. Your mother cries herself to sleep every night, wondering if you’re all right. Sprained her wrist wringing her hands, too.”

  He heard a giggle, then a quiet slap. “Clay Marshall, none of that is true and you know it.”

  Sam chuckled. He’d always loved watching his parents interact. To the rest of the world, Clay Marshall seemed tough and gruff. But when he gazed at his wife of many years, the rough edges softened. Victoria’s eyes overflowed with indisputable adoration, too. If Sam could find a woman who looked at him that way, he’d—

  “Coming home for Thanksgiving and Christmas?” she asked.

  “Don’t think I can manage both.”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that. But I wouldn’t be your mother if I didn’t try. Besides, you know if I have a choice, I’ll take Christmas every time. The whole family will be here!”

  With the exception of Sam, the entire Marshall clan showed up for every holiday. A few of the family’s celebrations were so grand, they’d earned the attention of local media. The slower pace of Thanksgiving had always been more to his liking, but since moving to Nashville, he’d spent the week between Christmas Eve and New Year’s at the Double M. It gave him plenty of time to catch up with extended family.

  “Already booked my flight.” And God willing, he wouldn’t face weather or mechanical delays as he had in years past. “So what’s new?”

  “Same soup, different day,” his dad said.

  “Listen to him,” his mom put in. “We had another cougar running around here for weeks, giving us all nightmares.”

  “Yeah, but we took care of him, same as always.”

  He’d talked to Zach and heard all about it. “Too bad she took so many horses and cows before you got her.” But unfortunately, that’s life on the Front Range.

  “How’s Aggie?” his mother asked.

  During their few visits to Nashville, his parents had met his cantankerous landlady. “‘Same soup, different day,’” he quoted. Then he chuckled. “Still bragging that she’s a descendant of Andrew Jackson. If you want my honest opinion, the reason she never married is because she’d have to give up that famous last name.”

  “Hard to imagine any right-minded man popping the question. That woman would try the patience of a saint.”

  “Oh, now, Clay, that isn’t very nice!”

  “The truth hurts sometimes.” He quickly changed the subject. “How’s your leg, son?”

  “Fine.” It wasn’t, but they didn’t need to know that. Funny, the way his dad asked about it more often than his mom. Sam wondered how much of that was due to a fear of the answers...

  “Have you talked with your cousin Nate lately?”

  Sam heard a smile in his mother’s voice, and unless he was mistaken, it meant she was about to disclose a big secret. More accurately, what she considered a secret. During their last phone call, Nate had told him that he’d asked Eden to marry him...and she’d said yes. But why spoil his mother’s fun?

  “We talked a while back. Why?”

  “He and Eden are officially engaged, and they’re planning a June wedding. Though why they want to be like every other couple out there is anybody’s guess. At least they won’t have to worry about a venue. A very good thing, since they still haven’t chosen a date.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I’m not supposed to know, so if he confides in you, mum’s the word.”

  Sam heard his father’s good-natured groan. “The boy knows better than that, Vicky.”

  He considered telling them that he’d bought into Mark’s club, then thought better of it. The announcement would be less confusing when delivered in person.

  The sound of chair legs squawking across the hardwood told him his dad was on his feet. The man was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. Laughing to himself, Sam said, “I’d better get to work and let you guys do the same.”

  “Call soon,” his mom said. “And remember, you haven’t heard a thing about the wedding!”

  He promised to keep Nate’s news to himself, even though in his opinion, secrets—even small ones—took folks into dangerous territory.

  Long after hanging up, Sam remained on the balcony, watching the September breeze rustle going-gold leaves as sunlight flickered on the water’s surface. The shrill call of a bald eagle drew his attention skyward. No doubt it was one of those released along the river a few years earlier. The bird circled as it descended. It had probably hoped for a fat white bass but bagged a crappie.

  “Better than nothin’, I guess,” he muttered, getting to his feet. He’d barely had time to lock the slider when the phone rang.

  “Hey, young’un!”

  He’d recognize Nate’s teasing voice anywhere. “Your ears were ringing, huh?”

 
“Uh-oh. Who’s been talking behind my back?”

  “Just spoke to my folks.”

  “Ah. Does Aunt Vicky still think she’s the only one who knows about the wedding?”

  “Evidently, ’cause she made me promise to play dumb if I talked to you.”

  “I’m not touching that line!” Nate laughed. “Mothers. I think they’re all cut from the same cloth.”

  For a reason he couldn’t explain, Finn’s mother came to mind. Not all of ’em, he thought.

  “So what’s up, cousin?”

  “I was scrolling through my contacts,” Nate said. “When your name went by I said, ‘Give that boy a call.’”

  Nate was ten months older than Sam, but to hear him talk, years separated them.

  “You guys took down another cougar, huh?”

  “Yeah. That’s something those foster kids living in Eden’s grandparents’ house will remember for a long, long time.”

  He’d met Eden’s boys twice. Once during a summer visit to the ranch, and again after the fire that nearly killed Nate.

  “Will Eden keep her job after you two swap I do’s?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Sam knew if he waited, Nate would explain.

  “We cut a deal. Her greedy landlord sold Latimer House, so she moved them into her grandparents’ place. It beats being homeless, but the house lacks the space they need for classrooms and whatnot. Sooner or later, they’d outgrow it, and those boys need stability. So I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Soon as we’re married, the whole kit and caboodle of ’em will move into my house.” Nate chuckled. “They’re over here most of the time anyway.”

  “Mighty generous of you, cousin.”

  “Nah. It’s the right thing to do. They’re good kids, for the most part.”

  For the most part? Something in Nate’s voice told Sam it was best to let that one slide. At least for now.

  “How do their parents feel about you and Eden assuming the mom-and-dad roles in their kids’ lives?”

  “Most are out of the picture, either in prison or dead. Eden and I are working with the state to become legal guardians.”

  “For all of them?”

  “All but the one.”

  No doubt he was referring to Thomas, the kid who’d set fire to Nate’s barn, nearly killing himself, Nate and four of his horses. If Sam closed his eyes, he could still see how pale and weak his big, burly cousin looked after his release from the hospital. The only time he’d seen him in worse shape had been after the accident that had ended his major league career. Sam would have worried a whole lot more about Nate...if not for Eden.

  Sam didn’t ask what had become of the boy. That, like news of the partnership, could wait until he got back to the Double M, and they could talk in person.

  “Real reason I called,” Nate said, “was to ask if you’ll be my best man.”

  “Of course I will! Does that mean you guys have set a date?”

  “No, not yet. But you’ll be one of the first to know when we do.” Nate paused. “Speaking of dates and stuff, are you seeing anybody?”

  “Nah.” Finn’s image flashed in his brain, and he slapped a hand to the back of his neck. “No time for stuff like that.”

  Nate laughed, but his tone changed when he added, “What was it you told me when I said that?”

  “When the right one comes along, you’ll make time.”

  “It was good advice then, it’s good advice now.” There was a moment of silence on the line. “What do you want in a woman anyway? Perfection? If that’s the only reason you’re still single, well, you’re old enough to know there’s no such thing.”

  “Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Well, that goes without saying.”

  “To be honest, I never gave much thought to what kind of woman I’m looking for. A hard worker, I guess. Independent. Good sense of humor. Five foot two or three, big brown eyes, dark curly hair...” The words stuck in his throat. He’d just described Finn.

  “Whoa, dude. That’s pretty specific for a guy who hasn’t given it any thought. You sure you aren’t seeing somebody? I wouldn’t tell a soul. Not even Zach. Trust me.”

  “I trust you, and if there was something to tell...”

  He diverted the conversation back to the wedding, and while Nate elaborated on the plans, Sam came to an undeniable conclusion. It was time to figure out why he’d allowed a near stranger—no matter how gorgeous and appealing she was—to dominate so many of his thoughts, and take up such a big portion of his heart.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “MAN. IT IS pouring out there.” Mark shook rainwater from the brim of his Stetson as the door swung shut behind him.

  Torry slid a tall black stool to the center of the stage and leaned into the mic. “Weather dude says we’re in for a long, bad night.”

  His foreboding tone reverberated through the nearly empty club, inspiring a chuckle from Dirk, the Marks Brothers’ drummer.

  “Long as the river doesn’t rise again, I can handle it.” Mark hung the damp ten-galloner on a gooseneck mic stand, and bent at the waist to adjust knobs and dials.

  Sam remembered when more than thirteen inches of rain fell during a two-day period, breaking decades-old weather records and sending the Cumberland over its banks and into the streets. The whole town had become a murky water world, and the flood had damaged homes, businesses and historic buildings...including the Grand Ole Opry.

  “The leg’s bothering you, eh?”

  Until Torry mentioned it, Sam hadn’t realized he was massaging the thigh. “Nah. It’s fine.” In truth, it almost always ached to one degree or another. Complaining didn’t make it hurt less, so he’d taught himself to stay busy enough to ignore it.

  “Y’know, I don’t think I ever heard how it happened.”

  At first, Sam couldn’t talk about the accident that had taken him off the truck and put him into the classroom. Then he talked until people’s eyes glazed over. These days, he simply delivered the well-rehearsed speech that summed up the whole miserable event in less than a minute:

  “House fire was out of control when the truck rolled up, but neighbors said the owner was still inside, so I entered through a basement window and found the woman unconscious in her kitchen. I’d just handed her off to EMTs when the ceiling collapsed, trapping me in the grid work. When I came to, I was in the ICU, covered in bandages, and found out I’d lost a quarter of my calf and thigh muscles.”

  Torry’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”

  Sam summed up with his usual closing line. “The old lady is still kickin’, and so am I—not as high, but kickin’—so there’s a lot to be thankful for.”

  “Still, that’s rough, dude. Sorry you had to go through it. But hey, maybe with some practice, you could turn that limp into a wicked swagger.” Torry crossed the stage and demonstrated. “I mean, that’s what I’d do.”

  “Like this?”

  Torry cupped his chin, watching as Sam attempted the strut. After letting out an exaggerated sigh, he shook his head. “Well, at least you can sing.”

  “Speaking of singing...”

  Sam and Torry turned and met Mark’s glare of disapproval.

  “The show starts in half an hour,” the club owner said. “Are you guys ready?”

  They exchanged a puzzled glance. It wasn’t like Mark to snap the whip. In fact, he was more likely to goof off than anyone at The Meetinghouse. Sam wondered what had happened in the past few minutes to prompt the out-of-character grimness. It could be anything from concerns that the roof would leak to a breakup with his latest lady to a band member calling in sick.

  Sam made his way to the steps leading down from the stage. “We’re good to go,” he assured Mark.

  Rain sheeted down
the windows, and lightning flashes brightened the club’s dim interior. Standing beside Mark, Dirk glanced at the ceiling. “Good thing you reroofed the place after that last storm.”

  “Yeah.” He walked toward the bar. “C’mere, Sam. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Torry drew a finger across his throat and mouthed, Uh-oh as Sam followed.

  Mark climbed onto a stool and thumped the newspaper that lay open on the counter. “Take a gander at this article.”

  Sam settled on to a stool. “Which article?” he asked, picking up the issue.

  “The restaurant review column. That guy gave The Right Note five stars. Five. For a diner!”

  He scanned the piece, making note of the writer’s opinions on the menu, service, cleanliness and ambiance. Was there a diplomatic way to tell Mark that he agreed? Sam didn’t think so.

  “So you’re saying we should make some changes in food? Or keep our emphasis on folks who come in for the music?”

  “That pricey neon sign outside says Food and Entertainment to Feed Your Soul.” Mark leaned forward, lowered his voice. “If we improved the menu, we could easily double our profits.” He tapped the newspaper again. “But not unless we change this guy’s mind.”

  The “Eat or Run” syndicated column had earned an audience of millions—thanks to the writer’s blog and regular TV appearances. He could make or break bars and restaurants with one great or ill-timed review. While he’d praised the waitstaff and performers, he’d given the club’s menu just three stars.

  Mark moved to the other side of the bar and tossed the newspaper into the trash. “Here’s an idea... It’s no big secret that you’re smitten with Finn Leary. Why not see if you can turn that into something bottom-line good?”

  It was true that Finn had been popping into his head at all hours of the day and night, but he’d hardly label himself smitten.

  “What do you mean...something good?”

  “It’s pretty clear she’s taken with you, too. Maybe if you plied her with some compliments, she’d drop a hint or two about her customers’ favorite menu items. And we could rustle up some similar recipes.”