Love is a Battlefield (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 1)

by Whitney Dineen

  Not one to fool around, I uncork the bottle of merlot and pour a plastic cupful to help take the edge off. By the time I down my second, I feel ready to continue the investigation of my new home. The bed is a rollaway from the lodge. From a glamping standpoint, that will have to be one of the first things changed. Every photo of glamour camping I’ve seen pop up on designer sites for resorts has a king-size bed.

  Housekeeping did leave several pillows and an extra blanket, which is nice. There’s a stack of plush towels, as well. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I finish my third glass of wine. If you count the glass I had at dinner, I’ve consumed nearly a bottle by myself, which I know because my head is spinning. I’ve never been a big drinker, but I’m pretty sure that’s about to change.

  Before going to sleep, I need to turn off some of the lanterns in the main room, so I don’t burn myself down in the middle of the night. The cabin looks a great deal less welcoming in the dark shadows left behind.

  If I were at home, I’d turn on the TV and lull myself to sleep with old episodes of Love It or List It, but that’s not an option here.

  Opening my suitcase, I grab a book that I picked up in the gift shop. Taking it back to my little bedroom, I crawl under the covers fully clothed. I toy with the idea of opening a window for the fresh air but ultimately decide it would be too much of a risk. There’s no telling what might crawl inside while I slept.

  The quiet is hard to adjust to. My nighttime lullaby in New York is the sound of sirens and horns in the streets below. When I’m in the hotels I’m decorating, the constant string of binging elevators as well as other guests roaming the halls soothes me. After several minutes of no new noises, I finally feel comfortable enough to open the cover of my book. Mail Order Bride is not my normal kind of reading material, but right now I don’t need political intrigue or medical dramas. There’s enough excitement on my plate without adding more.

  I’m just getting to the point where Felicity Huffleman is about to board the train in Boston for the Oregon Territory when I realize I have to tinkle something fierce. Dammit. Drinking all that wine wasn’t the best move.

  Faced with walking outside to use the outhouse or being innovative and trying to find something in here, I hurry to the kitchen in hopes of locating a receptacle. Don’t judge me, any sane person would do the same.

  The only semi-appropriate thing I see is the bowl holding the fruit. I hurriedly dump the bananas and peaches on the countertop and drop squat right there on the kitchen floor. We won’t discuss my aim. I’m definitely going to have to work on that this month.

  I’m not sure what to do with a bowl of urine. If I throw it outside, I’m liable to be attacked by the wildlife, so I opt to go to bed and deal with it in the morning.

  Unconsciousness is about to claim my brain when the sound of creaking boards jolts me awake like I just downed a Red Bull with a double espresso chaser. Holy crap. Something is out there trying to get in. I could shut the bedroom door and move the bed against it, but I fear the smart thing to do is to get up and figure out how to deter a wild animal from breaking in.

  According to the advice I’ve been given, the best way to get rid of most beasts is to make an inhuman amount of noise to scare them away. Before I do that, I press my ear against the front door, listening for the sounds that woke me. There’s some scratching and another creak of a board before the noise stops. I’m about to go back to my room hoping that whatever it was decided to leave. That’s when I hear a sneeze. A very human-sounding sneeze.

  “I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it!” I yell.

  “Girl, you better not have a gun or you’re liable to shoot yourself.”

  “Billy, is that you?” I ask, opening the door a sliver.

  He’s lying on the porch with a thin blanket over him. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

  “What are you doing out here? I thought you were up by the falls.”

  “I normally am, but you didn’t look so good this afternoon. I decided to make sure you got through your first night okay.”

  I’m so touched by his thoughtfulness my throat constricts with emotion. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that.”

  He pulls his blanket up under his chin and orders, “Go on back to bed and quit threatening to shoot folks. It’s not very neighborly.”

  “I’ll do that, Billy. And thanks again.”

  He merely grunts in response.

  If I told anyone back home that I’m sleeping in a cabin in the middle of the woods with a homeless man acting as my guard against all things that go bump in the night, they’d never believe me. I barely believe it, yet there’s a bowl of pee on the kitchen floor to prove the nature of my current circumstances.

  Knowing Billy is out front ready to warn me of danger makes me comfortable enough to risk opening the window a bit. I mean, seriously, if he can sleep out in the open, I should be able to handle a little fresh air.

  I close my eyes and within minutes start a mental list of everything that needs to be done to turn this place into a Grade A glamping site. If I can accomplish everything in a week—which I know sounds insanely fast, but I’m highly motivated—I may be able to get through the rest of the bet in relative comfort.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Mothers

  “When are you going to tell Addie that you’re leaving?” Ruby asks during morning coffee.

  After swallowing the bite of chocolate croissant, Libby answers, “I’m not going to tell her.”

  “You can’t just leave and not let her know.”

  “Really, why’s that?”

  “Because she’ll flip her biscuit when she finds out,” Ruby decides.

  “So according to you, my options are to tell my daughter that I’m abandoning her and watch as she loses her ever-loving mind or sneak out of here with her none the wiser. Hmm … whatever should I do?”

  Ruby tips her head back and forth thoughtfully. “Point taken.”

  Brogan

  I can’t wait to find out how Addison did on her first night by herself in the woods. I’m not quite sure what to expect when I get up there, but I purposely don’t take the golf cart in case she tries to make a run for it.

  I pound on the door and wait for her to answer. Either she’s not in there or she died of fright. My money is on the latter.

  I wonder if I should go in and check on her and am considering doing so when I see a large buck standing in the clearing next to the outhouse. He’s magnificent to behold and not the least bit afraid of me.

  I walk over to him to see how close I can get before he meanders off. “Hey, buddy, are you looking for food for your family?” I ask. Yes, I’m one of those people who engages animals in conversation. I even answer for them sometimes using an array of cartoony-sounding voices.

  He bends down and nibbles at the plant beneath his feet, which I take to mean that’s exactly what he’s doing. As much as I love the ocean, I really miss this close contact with wildlife.

  I could probably get near enough to touch him, but I don’t. Even though deer are generally placid, there are a number of reasons not to make friends with them, especially the bucks.

  “You have yourself a nice day,” I tell him.

  I’m about to walk back to the cabin when I hear a frantic call. “Brogan, is that you?”

  “Addison?”

  “I’m in the outhouse.” She sounds panicky.

  “Why don’t you come out of the outhouse?”

  “I’m stuck.”

  “What do you mean you’re stuck?” I have a vision of her having fallen through and for the life of me can’t imagine how she could have done that.

  “I can’t get the door open,” she says.

  “Are you done in there?” I ask as I walk over.

  “I’ve been done for at least an hour.” She sounds irritated per usual.

  “You’ve been in there for an hour?”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

 
; Thank goodness I came over to check on her. I was tempted to give her another night, thinking that fear might help to soften her sharp edges.

  “Move away from the door,” I tell her.

  “Where exactly do you want me to go?” she asks sarcastically. “I’m in an outhouse, not a mansion.”

  It’s clear Addie is as sweet as ever. I reach out for the door handle and give it a hard pull. She’s right, it’s not opening. That’s when I notice the hinge on top has lost a screw or two. The lack of support is causing the bottom of the door to dig into the dirt. Once I lift the handle, the entire door moves above ground level, and it opens easily. Any day is a good day when you don’t have to knock over an outhouse.

  Addison is standing there looking wild with relief. Instead of thanking me, she storms past with her arms out to the sides like she’s relishing the open space. Then she turns around in a circle like a little kid pretending to be an airplane before dropping to the ground.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m claustrophobic,” she whispers in response.

  “Really? Why?” I ask, even though I know there’s no rhyme or reason to why people fear things.

  “It might have something to do with that time two horrible boys closed me in the trunk of a car.” She glares at me like her eyes are lasers and she’s trying to dismember me with them.

  I instantly flash back to the occasion she’s talking about. James and I used to think the trunk of a car was the perfect place to hide when we played hide and seek around a campsite. Addison obviously saw one of us do it and thought she’d try it herself. I remember slamming the lid down on her.

  “I’m really sorry about that, Addie, I was actually trying to be helpful. James would have looked in there otherwise,” I say sincerely. “How was I supposed to know my dad took his car keys fishing with him?”

  “I was in there for ages!” she screams. “I could have suffocated.”

  “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have suffocated,” I tell her. I researched that for a book once and learned that some people have survived as long as two weeks in the trunk of a car. Addie was in no jeopardy of dying after only three hours. Of course, no one needs to tell me this isn’t the time to share that information with her.

  “I was terrified.” She sounds like she’s reliving the experience in her mind.

  “Again, I’m truly sorry. Hopefully by saving you today, I partially made up for it.”

  She appears to be carefully weighing her response. Instead of accepting my apology, she says, “I need you to show me how to make coffee.”

  “I’d be happy to, but you know it’s not a particularly hard concept.”

  “It is when there’s no coffee pot.”

  How can Addie not remember how our parents made coffee all those summers our families camped together? I lead the way into the cabin and nearly trip over her open suitcase. “What is your suitcase doing here?”

  “Where do you think it should be?”

  “In the bedroom maybe?”

  She follows me in and pushes it off to the side. “I’ll put it in the bedroom once I get a lock on the door.”

  “You thought putting your suitcase up against the door would keep someone out?” I ask incredulously. Addison Cooper does not particularly seem to be grounded in reality.

  “It would have given me enough time to wake up and defend myself,” she snaps.

  “With what?” I seriously want to know. I mean, there are no weapons to speak of up here.

  She walks into her bedroom and comes out with the fire poker and a kitchen knife. “With these.”

  “Have you ever stabbed anyone before?” I try to get a visual of Addie getting the jump on someone. She’s certainly ornery enough, I’m just not sure she has the necessary agility.

  “There’s always a first time,” she says in such a way that suggests she’s thinking about making me the recipient of her first assault.

  I walk into the kitchen corner and pull a pan out of the cabinet. After filling it with well-water from the sink, I put it on top of the camp stove. “I thought you preferred tea,” I say while we wait for the water to boil.

  “I do, but I didn’t sleep well last night. Coffee will give me more of a kick.”

  “You know what would really give you a kick?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “A swim up at the falls.”

  “Maybe you can show me how to get up there later,” she suggests.

  Could she really be game to swim in the great outdoors again? “It would be my pleasure,” I tell her. And believe me, the thought of her in a teeny tiny bikini is quite a pleasant thought indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Mothers

  Libby puts her phone down and announces, “The airline just called. They have a seat in first class for me if I leave today.”

  “You’d better take it. That’s a pretty long flight,” Ruby says.

  “Remember that time we flew to Austria senior year in college?” Libby asks.

  “Do I ever. My dad got us tickets for an early graduation gift but neglected to mention they were for middle seats on opposite ends of the plane. What a nightmare that was. I sat between two hefty businessmen who both felt entitled to all the armrests. I gave my dad an earful when I called home. Looking back, I sounded like an ungrateful brat.”

  “It was a great trip though. Who knew we were such great yodelers?” Libby jokes. “But seriously, I’ve reached the point where I can no longer do those overseas flights in coach. And as long as Tom keeps racking up those air miles, I might as well use them.”

  “We should take another trip like that now. What do you say to Venice or Rome?”

  “We could send the kids there for their honeymoon and go with them!”

  Addison

  I have no intention of swimming in the falls with Brogan. Billy said his campsite was up there and I’d like to find out where. He was gone when I woke up this morning, so I didn’t have a chance to thank him properly for keeping an eye out on things.

  Brogan pours hot water into a tin mug before handing it to me.

  “I thought you were making coffee.”

  He points to the bag floating in the water and says, “Housekeeping seems to have left you quite a supply of coffee bags.”

  While my coffee steeps, I ask, “What do you do up here to pass the time?”

  “I hike, fish, lie in a hammock and read a book …”

  “You have a hammock?” I ask excitedly. Rocking in a gentle breeze in a hammock was one of the few things I enjoyed about camping as a kid. Hanging suspended in a cocoon between two trees was a heavenly break from the stress of spending time with the Cavanaugh brothers.

  “You should put that on your list of supplies to turn this into a glamping site,” Brogan suggests.

  “I definitely will. But, I’m going to have to go up to the lodge to get access to the internet. I don’t want you thinking I’m breaking the terms of our bet.”

  “You don’t need to go into the lodge for internet coverage. You can get it as soon as you leave the woods.”

  “How am I supposed to work outside?” I demand.

  “The same way you work inside,” he tells me. “Sitting on your butt with a laptop.”

  “You expect me to sit out in the middle of nowhere to design a glamping site?”

  “What better place? Plus, if you’re up at the lodge you’d be enjoying amenities without trying.”

  “How do you figure? I’m hardly going to order a steak and a pedicure while I’m working.” Although, I could …

  “There will be electricity and air conditioning,” he says.

  Somehow this bet has evolved from me sleeping in the cabin to becoming a wilderness warrior. “I can’t see my computer screen in the sunlight,” I inform him, confident that I’ve won the battle.

  “Lucky for you there are covered picnic areas all over the place.” He sips his coffee and smiles so brightly my heart skips a beat. Why did Brogan Cavanaugh have to
grow into such a gorgeous hunk of a man? Thank heavens he’s so irritating or I might actually get ideas about him.

  I open the refrigerator and pull out a bowl of blueberries and a yogurt. There’s no furniture in the living area yet so I sit down on the floor to eat.

  “I’d love some breakfast, thanks for offering,” Brogan says while pulling a basket of eggs out of the refrigerator.

  “How was I supposed to know you didn’t eat breakfast before coming up here?” I say petulantly.

  “Good thing I didn’t, or you’d still be stuck in the outhouse.”

  “Glamping sites need real bathrooms,” I decide.

  “If real bathrooms mattered to a person who wants to camp, they’d stay up at the lodge.”

  “I don’t think you’re the target audience for glamour camping.” With a snort, I add, “I’m sure you’d be just as happy peeing in the woods and sleeping out under the stars.” At least we had tents when we went on our absurd family camping excursions.

  I’m being quite a trooper if you ask me, but I put my foot down on sleeping outside without a shelter over my head. That’s never going to happen.

  After breakfast we head out to find the falls. I don’t remember Oregon being humid when I was a kid, but today is positively moist. As a result, so am I.

  “Would you mind walking a little slower?” I yell at Brogan’s back.

  He reduces his speed slightly. “I’m anxious to get into the water. It’s a bit steamy out here today.” He points to my citron green sundress and says, “I hope you have on your swimming suit under that.”

  “I’m not going to swim,” I tell him.

  “Why in the world do you want to go up there if not to cool off?”

  “I’m trying to get a feel for the whole area so I can create the best space I can,” I tell him. “It’s part of my process. I spend a couple days getting to know the region where my project is located before I start to design it.”

  He stops walking so he can examine me closely. “That’s impressive,” he finally says.