by Nicole Deese
ALSO BY NICOLE DEESE
Love in Lenox Novels
A Cliché Christmas
A Season to Love
Letting Go Series
All for Anna (Book 1)
All She Wanted (Book 2)
All Who Dream (Book 3)
Other Titles
A Summer Remade
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Nicole Deese
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Waterfall Press, Grand Haven, Michigan
www.brilliancepublishing.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Waterfall Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503937703
ISBN-10: 1503937704
Cover design by Jason Blackburn
To Tammy Gray,
my favorite truth-teller.
I love you.
CONTENTS
START READING
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
But a tiny spark can set a great forest on fire.
—James 3:5
CHAPTER ONE
Desperation undermines wisdom. Her grandfather’s legendary words crash-landed in the space between Rayne Shelby’s heart and head, though they did nothing to combat her frantic thoughts.
Before today, she’d prided herself on her ability to remain levelheaded in a crisis. She’d learned how to pacify self-righteous politicians, calm disgruntled lodge guests, and regularly appease a man who could flatten her future with the snap of his micromanaging fingers.
But this particular crisis had pushed her internal panic meter from a steady five to an off-the-charts fifteen.
She’d exhausted every option possible to fix her mistake.
Except for one.
The one that would brand her a traitor to her family name.
Event preparations inside the Great Room at Shelby Lodge were in full swing, a production she’d witnessed since early childhood, long before her role as event coordinator, and years before her father had won his first election. Pressed linens, patriotic decor, and shipments of gourmet foods had all arrived on time and without issue, which made the missing delivery—the special order she’d forgotten to place—all the more glaring.
Rayne’s gaze flickered between the clock on the mantel and the shadowy tree line of the farmland beyond the parlor window. The countdown to Governor Shelby’s fund-raising dinner mocked the rising staccato of her pulse and pummeled her good-girl conscience into submission. She had only minutes to make a decision that could result in a domino effect of undesirable repercussions.
If she got caught.
A distinct cadence of footsteps echoed in the hallway off the lobby, the acoustics almost as unforgiving as her uncle Cal. Almost. Her father might govern their state, but it was her uncle who governed their family. Rayne fastened a smile on her face just in time to meet his disapproving scowl.
“Why wasn’t I notified that Delia changed the dessert menu for Saturday night?” Cal’s charcoal eyebrows pinched together. “Who signed off on that?”
“I did.” Rayne’s quiet assertion did little to slow her skipping heartbeats. “Delia felt apple cobbler would be a better choice than mixed berries because—”
“You know I abhor apples.”
Admittedly, the thought had crossed her mind, but Delia had been cooking at the lodge for twenty-seven years, a year longer than Rayne had been alive. The woman knew food the way Rayne knew every nook and cranny of her late grandfather’s estate. “I apologize if I overstepped. It seemed like such a small detail to bother you with.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and stiffened his broad shoulders. Cal’s salon-retouched onyx hair, russet eyes, and pointed features looked as authoritative as his daily three-piece suit. But it was the dominant cleft in his chin that reminded Rayne of her grandfather, and of the dime-size dimple in her own chin.
“Attention to detail is the Shelby signature, Rayne. It’s what separates us from the masses. If I select berry cobbler for your father’s dinner guests, know it’s for a reason. Everything I do for this family is for a reason. I shouldn’t need to remind you how important this event is to your father’s career.”
No, she didn’t need a reminder of the dinner’s importance. How could she forget, when her own future depended on its success? Cal’s imminent departure to manage her father’s upcoming political campaign would give her an opportunity, one she’d waited for since pigtails were her hairstyle of choice. For Rayne, the promotion to oversee Shelby Lodge after Cal stepped away from his post had nothing to do with a boost in salary or a flashy new title. She’d never desired status or prestige. She’d simply craved a place to belong—within her family and within the community her grandfather had loved until his dying breath.
Shelby Lodge was such a place. Not only had it been her childhood home, but it remained the heartbeat of her dreams.
Cal tapped the toe of his Italian loafer against the polished hardwood, and the knot in her chest tripled in size. “Is there anything else I should be made aware of?” he asked.
Unable to meet his gaze, she paired a slight shake of her head with a lie that burned all the way up her throat. “Everything is in perfect order.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear. These guests are your father’s biggest supporters. They’re worth every extra effort on our part.” With a half pivot toward the exit, he glanced back over his shoulder. “I’ll be meeting with the mayor tonight to go over security protocol. If your father’s secretary contacts you, make sure you reroute her to my cell.”
“Certainly.”
Cold dread flooded her abdomen as she watched him leave. Her time was up. She had two choices: One, chase after Cal and confess she’d forgotten to place the order he’d specifically requested. Or two, chase after her dream, cross into forbidden territory, and somehow convince her family’s enemy to keep their exchange a secret.
Like in the Garden of Eden, there was only one place that had been off-limits to Rayne since childhood: Ford Winslow’s Orchard and Farm.
&n
bsp; The property neighboring Shelby Lodge.
Rayne angled her head, hoping to catch a clearer view of her neighbors—one in particular. She rubbed slick palms down the seams of her skirt and waited for old Ford Winslow to make his exit. The exhaust from his work truck puffed out in thick black plumes, much the way she’d pictured the inside of his soul to look.
She spied the farm from the gravel turnabout on Ramsey Highway, just a quarter mile out from the shared property lines. The golf cart she’d commandeered for her mission seemed less conspicuous than her Audi and much easier to conceal under the generous maple tree overhead.
From this vantage point, her family’s forty-three-room redwood estate resembled a fairy-tale illustration. Storybook beauty shadowed by the Rockies and surrounded by two hundred acres of grassland. The prize-winning ambience of Shelby Lodge, located in Shelby Falls, Idaho, had made the lodge one of the most prestigious getaways in the Northwest. Their clientele ranged from business executives and politicians, to the wealthy and retired, to international aristocrats looking for a quiet place to holiday amid nature’s finest. But Rayne’s plans for the future of Shelby Lodge were less about catering to pampered travelers and more about bridging the gap within their local community.
Rayne clamped her bottom lip between her teeth, hoping the sting might dull the stab of guilt in her chest for what she was about to do. No, what she had to do.
If she didn’t come up with one hundred and thirty-six thoughtfully unique, locally made, and perfectly packaged gifts for her father’s guests, her uncle would have one hundred and thirty-six reasons to kick her promotion to the curb.
Swift movement to her right snapped at her attention. Someone with faded gray hair and a dog on his heels ducked inside the pickup truck. Ford Winslow: the man responsible for scheming against a grief-stricken widower eighteen years ago.
Thankfully, the solution to her blunder didn’t need to involve him—not directly anyway. Trespassing couldn’t really be equal to treason, could it? Even if the patriarch of her family would rip her argument to shreds, she hoped God operated on a more case-by-case basis.
Ford pulled away from the Second Harvest warehouse at the rear of the farm and rolled up the long drive and then turned in the direction of town.
Rayne waited until the glow of his taillights faded out completely before creeping her tires onto the quiet highway. When she was just a few car lengths away from the entrance, her potential redeemer sauntered into view.
She smashed the brake to the floorboard.
With the exception of a rebellious August night long ago, Rayne had steered clear of everything and everyone associated with Ford Winslow and his farm. Yet the sight of Levi Harding never failed to poke a few holes in her family allegiance. In nine years, her memory of the one and only time she’d broken the rules and interacted with the lonely-eyed boy hadn’t faded. But neither had the memory of her uncle’s controlled fury when he’d hauled her into his study at nearly three in the morning and lectured her on every transgression Ford had committed against her family—against her grandfather.
And despite the depth of connection she’d felt for Levi at the Falls in those stolen moonlit moments, her grandfather’s legacy would always come first in her heart.
She followed him with her eyes and wondered yet again how Levi could willingly partner with a man like Ford for all these years—working as his apprentice, building a home on his property. She’d never understand it. Sure, her uncle Cal was difficult to work for—even on his best day—but he wasn’t a crook.
He wasn’t a con man.
Levi peeled off his overshirt and blindly tossed his plaid button-up into the air, briefly exposing the hard, tanned planes of his stomach. Her throat went dry as the crumpled fabric landed on a workbench midway between the warehouse and the barn. A slight shake of his head pulled her attention upward, and she zeroed in on his summer-streaked hair. Sweat and sunshine bounced off a perfect blend of shimmery golds and bronzy browns and ignited a memory long ago buried.
She blinked it back.
“You can do this,” she muttered to herself. “You have to do this.”
Without another moment to second-guess, she punched the accelerator.
Hot dust billowed from underneath the tires as she cranked the steering wheel to the left and hoped her grandfather’s proverb held an exception . . . that sometimes wisdom meant making the most of a desperate situation.
Especially when her greatest dream was at stake.
CHAPTER TWO
The crunch of unfamiliar tires rolling down the drive caused Levi to pause his mental checklist. But it was the driver of the glorified Power Wheels who had him questioning his sanity. Even before her face came into focus, her hair exposed the secret of her identity.
Shelby hair was as distinct to the eye as a gasoline leak was to the nose. A shade so dark it haloed blue. Like a bruise. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped the sweat from his brow and moseyed in her direction.
Usually he had enough sense to keep his distance from flammable substances, but something told him Rayne Shelby was about to challenge his look-but-don’t-touch policy. She parked her toy a few paces away from where he stood, his work boots planked as wide as his shoulders.
The raven-haired beauty slid to the edge of her open-air seat, and for a fraction of a second, her heels hovered above the ground, her flowery skirt rising to midthigh as she slipped off the bench onto his land—as good as his land, anyway. He didn’t avert his gaze, not even when a stiff breeze threatened the integrity of her skirt length for a second time.
After a quick tug to her hemline, she caught his eye and walked toward him—no, not walked, glided. And then, as if the two were perfect strangers, she stretched out her hand.
“Um, hello. You may not remember me, but I’m Ray—”
“I know who you are.” The sting of rejection was funny that way. It left a lasting impression—much like the aftermath of their first encounter.
“Oh . . . right, I wasn’t sure if . . .” Thin fingers tucked an unruly strand of hair behind her ear as her words trailed into silence.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Shelby?”
“I was hoping we could . . .” Her gaze roamed his property as if searching for a safe place to land. “Talk business.”
Though her statement surprised him, he kept his face as neutral as his tone. “I’m afraid Ford’s out for the rest of the day. Care to leave a message for him?”
Even from three feet away, he sensed her shudder at the mention of Ford’s name.
“Actually, I was hoping I might speak with you. About Second Harvest.” She glanced over her shoulder like a lost puppy looking for her pack leader.
“Second Harvest?” Interesting. His refined farm-to-table co-op generally contracted local merchants and farmers from the area. Not Shelbys. And though he wouldn’t mind reaching into the wallets of some of her deep-pocketed friends, his leeriness prevailed. “What is it you’d like to know?”
“I’m looking to purchase a bulk order of local items.” Her cognac-colored eyes scanned the sign near the warehouse doors. “Maybe some lavender-infused soaps? Or perhaps some specialty lotions?”
Oh, how he enjoyed guessing games. “How many do you need?”
Again with the over-the-shoulder glance. Hopefully there weren’t more of her kind on their way. He wasn’t exactly prepared for a Shelby ambush. “A hundred and thirty-six.”
He blinked, waiting for her to correct herself.
She didn’t.
“Do you understand how a co-op works, Ms. Shelby?”
“Please, call me Rayne. And yes, I understand. I’m prepared to pay for whatever inconvenience my purchase may cause your customers.”
He cracked a smile. “You having a bathing crisis?”
Her eyes snapped to his. “Excuse me?”
“A hundred and thirty-six bars of soap seems extreme.”
“I’m not having a bathing crisis.”
; “Just a regular crisis, then?”
“Are you not going to sell me the soap?” The falter in her sweet voice snagged his attention.
“Still deciding.” He crossed his arms and debated how long she’d stick around to find out. Although, if her track record of avoidance held true, he could be looking at another nine years of silence.
“Please, I have to . . .” On the tail end of a sigh, she sucked in her bottom lip and seemed to reconsider her plea. “I need to purchase them.” The way she emphasized the word unnerved him. Whatever her crisis, it wasn’t nearly as shallow or vain as he’d first suspected.
“I don’t make business deals in the heat, or while standing in the middle of my driveway.”
Her eyebrows arched and dipped succinctly. “So where do you—”
“There’s three offices on this property, but my laptop’s in there, along with my current inventory figures.” He hitched a thumb in the direction of Ford’s house, and her reaction upstaged his imagination. Whatever brave front she’d pulled on before Power-Wheeling it over here had vanished, along with the pretty flush of her cheeks.
“I won’t bite, but if you’d rather take a seat over there on the shaded porch swing, I’ll make a compromise.”
Her gaze dragged back to his. “No, we can go inside. It’s fine.” Though her tensed upper body and hard swallow told a different story.
She hiked her duffel bag of a purse onto her shoulder and strolled toward the house, navigating each porch step in her heels as if to avoid a scattering of hidden land mines. Once at the top, she waited for Levi to hold the door open and invite her inside.
Good thing he was 80 percent gentleman.
He held the screen and allowed her to pass into the cluttered living area ahead of him. Ford’s books and mechanical trinkets lay strewn over every shelf, table, and chair. His boss might not be the tidiest man alive, but he was definitely one of the wisest.
“Don’t be shy about shoving that stuff over. Ford wouldn’t mind.” Not that she cared what Ford would or would not mind.
Rayne bent to push a pile of Ford’s treasured theological reference books aside, and then froze. Her gaze seemed to fixate on a cedar frame propped on the fireplace mantel—a twenty-year-old photograph of William Shelby, his hair the same shocking black as his granddaughter’s. But Levi doubted Rayne’s interest was on her grandfather’s hair, not when his arm was slung around the shoulders of a midforties Ford.
