by Cora Seton
Boone’s heart sunk even further. Fearless leader? Fulsom didn’t understand his relationship with the others at all. Walker was his superior officer, for God’s sake. Still, Fulsom was waiting for his answer, with a shrewd look in his eyes that told Boone he wasn’t fooled at all by his hasty words. Their funding would slip away unless he convinced Fulsom that he was dedicated to the project—as Fulsom wanted it to be done.
“I understand completely,” Boone said, although he didn’t understand at all. His project was about sustainability. It wasn’t some human-interest story. “I’m with you one hundred percent.”
“Then I’ve got a shitload of cash to send your way. Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.” He felt rather than heard the others shifting, biting back their protests.
Fulsom leaned so close his head nearly filled the screen. “We’ll start filming June first and I look forward to meeting your fiancée when I arrive. Understand? Not a girlfriend, not a weekend fling—a fiancée. I want weddings, Boone.” He looked over the four of them again. “Four weddings. Yours will kick off the series. I can see it now; an empty stretch of land. Two modern pioneers in love. A country parson performing the ceremony. The bride holding a bouquet of wildflowers the groom picked just minutes before. Their first night together in a lonely tent. Magic, Boone. That’s prime time magic. Surviving on the Land meets The First Six Months.”
Boone nodded, swallowing hard. He’d seen those television shows. The first tracked modern-day mountain men as they pitted themselves against crazy weather conditions in extreme locations. The second followed two newlyweds for six months, and documented their every move, embrace, and lovers’ quarrel as they settled into married life. He didn’t relish the idea of starring in any show remotely like those.
Besides, June first was barely two months away. He’d only get out of the Navy at the end of April. They hadn’t even found a property to build on yet.
“There’ll be four of you men to start,” Fulsom went on. “That means we need four women for episode one; your fiancée and three other hopeful single ladies. Let the viewers do the math, am I right? They’ll start pairing you off even before we do. We’ll add other community members as we go. Six more men and six more women ought to do it, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.” This was getting worse by the minute.
“Now, I’ve given you a hell of a shock today. I get that. So let me throw you a bone. I’ve just closed on the perfect piece of property for your community. Fifteen hundred acres of usable land with creeks, forest, pasture and several buildings. I’m going to give it to you free and clear to use for the duration of the series. If—and only if—you meet your goals, I’ll sign it over to you lock, stock and barrel at the end of the last show.”
Boone sat up. That was a hell of a bone. “Where is it?”
“Little town called Chance Creek, Montana. I believe you’ve heard of it?” Fulsom laughed at his reaction. Even Walker was startled. Chance Creek? They’d grown up there. Their families still lived there.
They were going home.
Chills marched up and down his spine and Boone wondered if his friends felt the same way. He’d hardly even let himself dream about that possibility. None of them came from wealthy families and none of them would inherit land. He’d figured they’d go where it was cheapest, and ranches around Chance Creek didn’t come cheap. Not these days. Like everywhere else, the town had seen a slump during the last recession, but now prices were up again and he’d heard from his folks that developers were circling, talking about expanding the town. Boone couldn’t picture that.
“Let me see here. I believe it’s called… Westfield,” Fulsom said. Julie nodded, confirming his words. “Hasn’t been inhabited for over a decade. A local caretaker has been keeping an eye on it, but there hasn’t been cattle on it for at least that long. The heir to the property lives in Europe now. Must have finally decided he wasn’t ever going to take up ranching. When he put it on the market, I snapped it up real quick.”
Westfield.
Boone sat back even as his friends shifted behind him again. Westfield was a hell of a property—owned by the Eaton family for as long as anyone could remember. He couldn’t believe it wasn’t a working ranch anymore. But if the old folks were gone, he guessed that made sense. They must have passed away not long after he had left Chance Creek. They wouldn’t have broken up the property, so Russ Eaton would have inherited and Russ wasn’t much for ranching. Neither was his younger brother, Michael. As far as Boone knew, Russ hadn’t married, which left Michael’s daughter the only possible candidate to run the place.
Riley Eaton.
Was it a coincidence that had brought her to mind just moments before Fulsom’s call, or something more?
Coincidence, Boone decided, even as the more impulsive side of him declared it Fate.
A grin tugged at his mouth as he remembered Riley as she used to be, the tomboy who tagged along after him every summer when they were kids. Riley lived for vacations on her grandparents’ ranch. Her mother would send her off each year dressed up for the journey, and the minute Riley reached Chance Creek she’d wad up those fancy clothes and spend the rest of the summer in jeans, boots and an old Stetson passed down from her grandma. Boone and his friends hired on at Westfield most summers to earn some spending money. Riley stuck to them like glue, learning as much as she could about riding and ranching from them. When she was little, she used to cry when August ended and she had to go back home. As she grew older, she hid her feelings better, but Boone knew she’d always adored the ranch. It wasn’t surprising, given her home life. Even when he was young, he’d heard the gossip and knew things were rough back in Chicago.
As much as he and the others had complained about being saddled with a follower like Riley, she’d earned their grudging respect as the years went on. Riley never complained, never wavered in her loyalty to them, and as many times as they left her behind, she was always ready to try again to convince them to let her join them in their exploits.
“It’s a crime,” he’d once heard his mother say to a friend on the phone. “Neither mother nor father has any time for her at all. No wonder she’ll put up with anything those boys dish out. I worry for her.”
Boone understood now what his mother was afraid of, but at the time he’d shrugged it off and over the years Riley had become a good friend. Sometimes when they were alone fishing, or riding, or just hanging out on her grandparents’ porch, Boone would find himself telling her things he’d never told anyone else. As far as he knew, she’d never betrayed a confidence.
Riley was the one who dubbed Boone, Clay, Jericho and Walker the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a nickname that had stuck all these years. When they’d become obsessed with the idea of being Navy SEALs, Riley had even tried to keep up with the same training regimen they’d adopted.
Boone wished he could say they’d always treated Riley as well as she treated them, but that wasn’t the truth of it. One of his most shameful memories centered around the slim girl with the long brown braids. Things had become complicated once he and his friends began to date. They had far less time for Riley, who was two years younger and still a kid in their eyes, and she’d withdrawn when she realized their girlfriends didn’t want her around. She still hung out when they worked at Westfield, though, and was old enough to be a real help with the work. Some of Boone’s best memories were of early mornings mucking out stables with Riley. They didn’t talk much, just worked side by side until the job was done. From time to time they walked out to a spot on the ranch where the land fell away and they could see the mountains in the distance. Boone had never quantified how he felt during those times. Now he realized what a fool he’d been.
He hadn’t given a thought to how his girlfriends affected her or what it would be like for Riley when they left for the Navy. He’d been too young. Too utterly self-absorbed.
That same year he’d had his first serious relationship, with a girl nam
ed Melissa Resnick. Curvy, flirty and oh-so-feminine, she’d slipped into his heart by slipping into his bed on Valentine’s Day. By the time Riley came to town again that last summer, he and Melissa were seldom apart. Of all the girls the Horsemen had dated, Melissa was the least tolerant of Riley’s presence, and one day when they’d all gone to a local swimming hole, she’d huffed in exasperation when the younger girl came along.
“It’s like you’ve got a sidekick,” she told Boone in everyone’s hearing. “Good ol’ Tagalong Riley.”
Clay, Jericho, and Walker, who’d always treated Riley like a little sister, thought it was funny. They had their own girlfriends to impress, and the name had stuck. Boone knew he should put a stop to it, but the lure of Melissa’s body was still too strong and he knew if he took Riley’s side he’d lose his access to it.
Riley had held her head up high that day and she’d stayed at the swimming hole, a move that Boone knew must have cost her, but each repetition of the nickname that summer seemed to heap pain onto her shoulders, until she caved in on herself and walked with her head down.
The worst was the night before he and the Horsemen left to join the Navy. He hadn’t seen Riley for several days, whereas he couldn’t seem to shake Melissa for a minute. He should have felt flattered, but instead it had irritated him. More and more often, he had found himself wishing for Riley’s calm company, but she’d stopped coming to help him.
Because everyone else seemed to expect it, he’d attended the hoe-down in town sponsored by the rodeo that last night. Melissa clung to him like a burr. Riley was nowhere to be found. Boone accepted every drink he was offered and was well on his way to being three sheets to the wind when Melissa excused herself to the ladies’ room at about ten. Boone remained with the other Horsemen and their dates, and he could only stare when Riley appeared in front of him. For once she’d left her Stetson at home, her hair was loose from its braids, and she wore makeup and a mini skirt that left miles of leg between its hem and her dress cowboy boots.
Every nerve in his body had come to full alert and Boone had understood in that moment what he’d failed to realize all that summer. Riley had grown up. At sixteen, she was a woman. A beautiful woman who understood him far better than Melissa could hope to. He’d had a fleeting sense of lost time and missed opportunities before Clay had whistled. “Hell, Tagalong, you’ve gone and gotten yourself a pair of breasts.”
“You better watch out dressed up like that; some guy will think you want more than you bargained for,” Jericho said.
Walker’s normally grave expression had grown even more grim.
Riley had ignored them all. She’d squared her shoulders, looked Boone in the eye and said, “Will you dance with me?”
Shame flooded Boone every time he thought back to that moment.
Riley had paid him a thousand kindnesses over the years, listened to some of his most intimate thoughts and fears, never judged him, made fun of him or cut him down the way his other friends sometimes did. She’d always been there for him, and all she’d asked for was one dance.
He should have said yes.
It wasn’t the shake of Walker’s head, or Clay and Jericho’s laughter that stopped him. It was Melissa, who had returned in time to hear Riley’s question, and answered for him.
“No one wants to dance with a Tagalong. Go on home.”
Riley had waited one more moment—then fled.
Boone rarely thought about Melissa after he’d left Chance Creek and when he did it was to wonder what he’d ever found compelling in her. He thought about Riley far too often. He tried to remember the good times—teaching her to ride, shoot, trap and fish. The conversations and lazy days in the sun when they were kids. The intimacy that had grown up between them without him ever realizing it.
Instead, he thought of that moment—that awful, shameful moment when she’d begged him with her eyes to say yes, to throw her pride that single bone.
And he’d kept silent.
“Have you heard of the place?” Fulsom broke into his thoughts and Boone blinked. He’d been so far away it took a moment to come back. Finally, he nodded.
“I have.” He cleared his throat to get the huskiness out of it. “Mighty fine ranch.” He couldn’t fathom why it hadn’t passed down to Riley. Losing it must have broken her heart.
Again.
“So my people tell me. Heck of a fight to get it, too. Had a competitor, a rabid developer named Montague.” Fulsom shook his head. “But that gave me a perfect setup.”
“What do you mean?” Boone’s thoughts were still with the girl he’d once known. The woman who’d haunted him all these years. He forced himself to pay attention to Fulsom instead.
Fulsom clicked his keyboard and an image sprung up onscreen. “Take a look.”
Letting his memories go, Boone tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Some kind of map—an architect’s rendering of a planned development.
“What is that?” Clay demanded.
“Wait—that’s Westfield.” Jericho leaned over Boone’s shoulder to get a better look.
“Almost right.” Fulsom nodded. “Those are the plans for Westfield Commons, a community of seventy luxury homes.”
Blood ran cold in Boone’s veins as Walker elbowed his way between them and peered at the screen. “Luxury homes? On Westfield? You can’t do that!”
“I don’t want to. But Montague does. He’s frothing at the mouth to bulldoze that ranch and sell it piece by piece. The big, bad developer versus the environmentalists. This show is going to write itself.” He fixed his gaze on Boone. “And if you fail, the last episode will show his bulldozers closing in.”
“But it’s our land; you just said so,” Boone protested.
“As long as you meet your goals by December first. Ten committed couples—every couple married by the time the show ends. Ten homes whose energy requirements are one-tenth the normal usage for an American home. Six months’ worth of food produced on site stockpiled to last the inhabitants through the winter. And three children.”
“Children? Where do we get those?” Boone couldn’t keep up. He hadn’t promised anything like that. All he’d said in his proposal was that they’d build a community.
“The old-fashioned way. You make them. No cheating; children conceived before the show starts don’t count.”
“Jesus.” Fulsom had lost his mind. He was taking the stakes and raising them to outrageous heights… which was exactly the way to create a prime-time hit, Boone realized.
“It takes nine months to have a child,” Jericho pointed out dryly.
“I didn’t say they needed to be born. Pregnant bellies are better than squalling babies. Like I said, sex sells, boys. Let’s give our viewers proof you and your wives are getting it on.”
Boone had had enough. “That’s ridiculous, Fulsom. You’re—”
“You know what’s ridiculous?” Fulsom leaned forward again, suddenly grim. “Famine. Poverty. Violence. War. And yet it never stops, does it? You said you wanted to do something about it. Here’s your chance. You’re leaving the Navy, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me you didn’t plan to meet a woman, settle down and raise some kids. So I’ve put a rush on the matter. Sue me.”
He had a point. But still—
“I could sell the land to Montague today,” Fulsom said. “Pocket the money and get back to sorting out hydrogen fuel cells.” He waited a beat. When Boone shook his head, Fulsom smiled in triumph. “Gotta go, boys. Julie, here, will get you all sorted out. Good luck to you on this fabulous venture. Remember—we’re going to change the world together.”
“Wait—”
Fulsom stood up and walked off screen.
Boone stared as Julie sat down in his place. By the time she had walked them through the particulars of the funding process, and when and how to take possession of the land, Boone’s temples were throbbing. He cut the call after Julie promised to send a packet of information, reluctantly pushed his chair back from the table
and faced the three men who were to be his partners in this venture.
“Married?” Clay demanded. “No one said anything about getting married!”
“I know.”
“And kids? Three out of ten of us men will have to get their wives pregnant. That means all of us will have to be trying just to beat the odds,” Jericho said.
“I know.”
Walker just looked at him and shook his head.
“I get it! None of us planned for anything like this.” Boone stood up. “But none of us thought we had a shot of moving back to Chance Creek, either—or getting our message out to the whole country.” When no one answered, he went on. “Are you saying you’re out?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Jericho said, pacing around the room. “I could stomach anything except that marriage part. I’ve never seen myself as a family man.”
“I don’t mind getting hitched,” Clay said. “And I want kids. But I want to choose where and when to do it. And Fulsom’s setting us up to fail in front of a national audience. If that Montague guy gets the ranch and builds a subdivision on it, everyone in town is going to hate us—and our families.”
“So what do we do?” Boone challenged him.
“Not much choice,” Walker said. “If we don’t sign on, Fulsom will sell to Montague anyway.”
“Exactly. The only shot we have of saving that ranch is to agree to his demands,” Boone said. He shoved his hands in his pockets, unsure what to do. He couldn’t see himself married in two months, let alone trying to have a child with a woman he hadn’t even met yet, but giving up—Boone hated to think about it. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d done unexpected things to accomplish a mission.
