by Erin Wright
Miller Brothers in Love
A Long Valley Western Romance Boxset – Books 1 – 5
Erin Wright
Wright’s Reads
Copyright © 2018 by Erin Wright
These books are a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of these books may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Table of Contents
Welcome to Long Valley, where the cowboys are *damn* fine…
Accounting for Love – Book 1
Blizzard of Love – Book 2
Arrested by Love – Book 3
Returning for Love – Book 4
Christmas of Love – Book 5
Author’s Note
Author’s Note II
Overdue for Love
Overdue for Love Excerpt
A FREE Story For You…
Stampede of Love Blurb
Stampede of Love Preview
The story doesn’t end…
Also by Erin Wright
About Erin Wright
Welcome to Long Valley, where the cowboys are *damn* fine…
When I first started writing Accounting for Love, I’ll be honest: I had no idea what I was in for. I’d ghostwritten a series for another author (no, I can’t tell you who or what, sorry), and had fun with that, but it’s a totally different ball of wax when you have to also edit, and buy blurbs and covers, and promo the books, and stay active on social media, and send out a newsletter every week, and still give enough attention to your cat that she doesn’t feel neglected.
Which is, of course, a losing proposition because Jasmine the Writing Cat is always going to feel neglected unless I am actively petting her at that very moment, but I do try.
A picture of her? Of course! I’d love to share.
Yes, she is the cutest cat on the face of the planet, and no, I’m not biased.
But anyway, once I embarked on this journey, there was no going back. I began to fall in love with my handsome cowboys and all of their many flaws. I became best friends with my girls, cheering them on when they made the right choice and beating them about the head when they didn’t.
In short, I created a world that I never wanted to leave, and it’s my fondest wish that when you join me in Long Valley, you’ll feel that same way.
In the end, more blood, sweat, and tears went into this series than I can possibly begin to catalog (or expected to shed!) but I have to say, damn, it was all worth it.
Oh, before I forget:
All of my books are standalones, meaning that they have a beginning, a middle, and an end, and never have godawful things like cliffhangers. Also, all of them make sense by themselves, even if you’ve never read another book by me.
However, I strongly suggest that you read them in order. They build on each other, in a way, because they move through time chronologically. If a brother finds love in one book, then he’s (obviously) still in love with that person in the next book. In fact, in the next book, they might be getting married or having babies or whatever.
And after all, you have all five books in your hot little hands, so why not read them in order, right?
Last but not least, if you enjoy this series, then at the end, I have a free book offer and info on other books in the Long Valley series (and my spinoff series, Firefighters of Long Valley) and as always, everything is available on all storefronts. I will never publish on only one storefront – I believe strongly in making my books available to all. It’s the librarian in me. :)
So be sure to check all of that out once you’re done.
With that, let’s dive into the world of Long Valley.
Okay, that was the last picture of Jasmine the Writing Cat, I promise. Accounting for Love for realsies now…
Chapter 1
Stetson
July 2016
Stetson Miller looked around his father’s cluttered office. Well, it was Stetson’s office now, although he was sure it’d feel like his dad’s office until the day he died.
Died like his father had.
Stetson pushed the thought away. His office, his father’s office…none of that mattered now. Not with the office, the house, and the whole damn farm about to be stolen from him.
Desperate to do something, even if it was wrong, Stetson turned towards his father’s desk, ready to start filing papers or straightening up or something.
Shit.
Piles were everywhere – piles on top of piles. He was pretty sure piles were having little baby piles every time he turned his back on ‘em. He picked up a sheaf of papers with a heavy sigh, thumbing through the jumbled mess. Hmmm…they appeared to be his heating bills for the cow barn this past winter…
Stetson looked up from the papers to stare at the rows of drawers to his right, all labeled in his father’s spiky, neat handwriting. Cow Expenses, the far right drawer label read, a little newer than the other labels. Not quite as yellowed. Not quite as faded. Stetson went to shove the papers inside when he noticed another drawer labeled Heating and Cooling Expenses.
He paused, eyes darting between the two drawers. The receipts really could go in either one…
Stetson dropped the papers on top of a precarious pile of receipts with a muttered curse that would have his mother spinning in her grave. He pulled his hat off and chucked it in the corner, shoving his hands through his hair.
This was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. Since when was a farmer supposed to like paperwork? Everyone knew that real work was done out in the fields, not in an office. Bucking hay, building fences, castrating cows – now that was a job well done.
Pushing papers around was for pansies. People who couldn’t hack it out with the real men.
Stetson’s eye fell on the letter in the center of his father’s desk. It sat there alone, unsmudged, no scribbled phone numbers or coffee spills on it. It mocked him with its pristine state of being, in such stark contrast to everything else in the office.
Thirty-one days. The bank had given him thirty-one days to bring his loan current. He didn’t need to re-read the letter to know what it said. Every word was imprinted in his brain, like a branding iron on his gray matter.
And it had been thirty-one days.
The month had passed in a blur, with Stetson considering and then discarding every idea he could think of, their outrageousness growing as the days passed.
He could sell his truck.
Except, what farmer didn’t have a truck? How was he supposed to haul hay or workers or rolls of fencing out to the pasture? How was he supposed to farm? And to add insult to injury, selling his truck wouldn’t actually solve the problem. That’d bring in $30,000, maybe. On a good day. Not $176,900.
Then came an even worse idea: He could ask Wyatt or Declan for a loan.
Which of course meant admitting that he’d screwed everything up from day one. Admitting that he was on the brink of losing the family farm.
The derision, the sneer on Wyatt’s face when he heard the news…Stetson didn’t need to actually tell his oldest brother the truth to know what Wyatt’s reaction would be. It was the same reaction that Wyatt had for almost every piece of news Stetson had to relay – good, bad, or indifferent.
And this news was definitely not indifferent.
No, he couldn’t tell his brothers. He couldn’t admit how much things had gone downhill since th
eir dad died. They’d never forgive him.
Not, of course, that any of this was his fault. It was all the damn bank’s fault. Why, his dad was hardly even cold in the ground. They didn’t need to be circling like vultures overhead, just waiting for a chance to shred him to pieces. They could at least give a guy a chance to get his feet underneath him.
Stetson picked up the letter, unsullied by even a dirty fingerprint, and stared down at it unseeingly. Then, with a precision worthy of a surgeon, he began tearing it into strips. Long, straight, neat strips.
“When that asshole banker gets here, I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind!” Stetson growled to himself, tearing the letter into smaller and smaller pieces. Each tear of the paper was satisfyingly precise. “I’ll teach him how not to be a bastard. I’ll teach him with my fists, that piece of shit—”
A clearing of a throat cut Stetson off at the pass. He froze, hoping that if he just stood there long enough, no one would notice him. He’d blend into the background, like a cowboy version of a chameleon, and avoid the wrath of his housekeeper.
She cleared her throat again.
Dammit.
Stetson let the pieces of the letter flutter to the ground – his one act of defiance that he dared to do in front of his formidable housekeeper – and then turned to the doorway.
There Carmelita stood, her fists planted on her hips, shooting him glares that Stetson could only be grateful didn’t actually kill.
Behind his fiery, rotund Hispanic housekeeper stood…a woman?
Stetson stared.
She stared back.
Time stood still as Stetson’s mind scrambled to put the information in front of him together into a coherent whole. The hated banker, the one he was going to beat into the ground with his fists was…a woman.
“That low-down snake!” Stetson erupted, staring at the female banker. “That piece-of-shit bank president sent in a woman to do his dirty work? Is he hiding behind your skirts? Huh? Why doesn’t he come in here like a real man and face me?”
Carmelita’s face, unhappy to begin with, turned a bright shade of red that Stetson hadn’t seen since he’d gotten the oh-so-grand idea at age six to dye the white sheets in the guest bedroom a deep red. He’d used them as a cape to jump off the roof – he was gonna fly like Superman.
He wasn’t sure which had hurt worse: His broken leg or being on the receiving end of that stare.
“This lady is going to look at your books,” Carmelita ground out, staring Stetson down, which considering she had to crane her neck upwards to do, was quite the feat. His righteous indignation began to seep out of him like a balloon with a pinprick in it. “And you will treat her like a lady!” she thundered.
With that, his housekeeper moved to the side, letting the tiny woman through. Even with heels on, the banker barely came to Stetson’s shoulder.
“Hi,” the woman said, extending her hand toward him. “I’m Jennifer—” She stopped abruptly, Stetson noted with pride. Probably because he was looking down at her hand with all the respect he might give a rotting fish.
Good.
Maybe he couldn’t punch the banker, and maybe he couldn’t use choice words to tell her exactly what he thought of her chosen profession – stealing farms from hard-working, red-blooded Americans – so he’d do the next best thing: He’d put her in her place.
“I know who you are and why you’re here,” Stetson said flatly. “Let’s get some things straight. First, you’re not staying here. This is not a guest house; you can get a room in town. Second, this is my home, and I’ll not have it invaded by…” he waved his hand in the air, “bank people. You can use the office and the bathroom. The rest of the house and farm is off limits.”
Really warming up to the task of telling this woman what’s what, he continued, “Third, I’m not paying for the privilege of having my farm stolen from me. If you have to make a phone call, you’ll do it on your own dime. Use your damn phone, not mine. Fourth, Carmelita serves lunch at noon each day. Because I’m a good host, I’ll let you eat one sandwich with a glass of water, but that’s it. Finally, you’re gonna start at 8 and be gone by 5 every day. No exceptions.”
Drawing in a deep breath, he crossed his arms and glared down at her. Damn, it felt good to order the bank around. It was ‘bout time they got a taste of their own medicine.
Chapter 2
Jennifer
Jennifer stared up at the pissed-off farmer, towering over her, and had the most vivid – if short – daydream of stomping into his instep, kneeing him in the balls, and walking out the door. With that, she could go back to her boss, tell him that the farm had failed the audit and that the Miller Farm needed to be repossessed for lack of assets and income. It’s what her boss wanted her to report back, anyway. Jenn knew that.
But she pushed down her urge to knock the asshole of a farmer down a peg or two, and instead forced a smile onto her face. An unconvincing, stiff-as-dried-plaster smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“Thank you for the information. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I have work to do, since it appears none has been done in months.” She stared pointedly at a particularly precarious pile of file folders tottering on the edge of the desk and then back up at Mr. Miller.
Waaaay up at Mr. Miller. Dammit all, this guy was a giant. Were all Sawyer farm boys this tall? She was going to hurt her neck, craning it like this.
Not that she was going to admit that to this overgrown ape. She’d already had her fill of his condescending attitude and she’d only been in his presence for three minutes. She’d admit a weakness to him about the same time she’d chop off her right foot.
And anyway, it sure as hell wasn’t her fault that her father wasn’t cousin to Bigfoot.
“Whatever. I have work to do. Real work.” He stomped past her and out into the hallway, his footsteps echoing with anger as he stormed out of the house.
Jennifer turned back to the portly older woman still hovering in the doorway, and shot her a more genuine smile. “Thanks for your help,” she said.
“My Stetson should not have behaved that way,” Carmelita announced angrily, her cheeks a flaming red. “I will have a talk with him when he comes back in about his manners.” She too stormed down the hallway but her soft slippers didn’t clomp nearly as loudly as Mr. Miller’s boots had. Jennifer somehow knew that Carmelita was regretting her shoe choices that very moment.
Jennifer turned back to the office, surveying it with a groan. She’d audited some pretty disastrous offices before on behalf of the bank, but she was pretty sure that this one took the cake. In stark contrast to the rest of the pristine house that Jennifer had caught sight of as she’d followed Carmelita back here, this disaster zone really looked like it just deserved to be set on fire so they could start over again.
Why was it that offices run by men always looked like this? When women were the bookkeepers, the offices may not have been spick-n-span, but they were at least tolerable. But men’s offices…it was like they were allergic to filing paperwork. Or cleaning.
Which was, of course, why the bank was sending her out to audit the books to begin with. People who were on top of their paperwork and their filing and their bills didn’t tend to have their businesses taken away from them. That wasn’t always true, of course – sometimes a business ran into a string of bad luck that couldn’t be avoided – but usually, it was a hatred and/or a complete lack of bookkeeping knowledge that put people into this position.
She sighed. She knew from hard-won experience that getting grumpy about the state of an office at the beginning of an audit did her absolutely no good. It was time to get to work. She could complain about farmers’ inability to file papers into a drawer later over wine with Bonnie.
Just as Jennifer moved to sit down in the rickety old office chair that looked like it’d survived a WWII bombing raid, she heard the front door slam open, footsteps echo through the entryway and hallway, and then Mr. Miller reappeared in the doorway, his face as brillia
nt red as Carmelita’s had been. Avoiding eye contact, he snatched his cowboy hat off the filing cabinet in the corner – Jennifer hadn’t even noticed it in amongst the piles of papers everywhere – shoved it down on his head, and then stormed back out, the door slamming shut behind him.
Again.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry.
She sat down in the office chair with a snort-laugh that ended with a yelp of terror when she found herself staring up at the ceiling, her head cracking against the hardwood floor as the chair slammed backwards. “What the hell?!” she half-yelled, the words coming out of her before she could stop them. She usually tried not to swear at a customer’s place of business, but she also usually did not sit in chairs that fell over like fainting goats, either, so she figured she had a valid excuse just this once.
She rocked and rolled and finally heaved herself out of the chair and onto her feet, staring down at the innocent-looking chair with a baleful glare. She brushed her black skirt off, trying to get the bits of hay and mud and cow shit off her from her roll on the floor. That was definitely not how she wanted to start this audit. With a sigh, she hoisted the ancient office chair upright again, settling down into it gingerly this time, finding just the right spot to keep her precarious balance.
Yup, this was gonna be one fun audit, all right.
Chapter 3
