by Helen Lacey
She touched his check and then gently moved his face in the direction of the tables. “Um, I think they might have figured it out already.”
Kieran spotted Marco and Johnny standing with his mother, Liam and Kayla, and they all looked delighted. He laughed, looped an arm around her waist and walked her off the dance floor.
“So, when’s the wedding?” Liam asked and patted him on the shoulder.
“No idea,” Nicola replied and showed off her ring to Kayla. “But soon.”
Marco tugged on Kieran’s coat. “Does that mean you get to live with us now?”
“It sure does, kid.”
The little boy grinned happily. “And does that mean you’ll give Aunt Nicola a baby now?”
He laughed, seeing Nicola’s embarrassment and loving her for it. A baby. A child with Nicola. Weeks ago, the idea would have made him run a mile. But now, he wanted it. He wanted the whole package—marriage and kids and sticky fingers and pet hair and chaos. He wanted to feel every emotion, every joy, every single day.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said and kissed her.
The boys whooped and laughed, and his mother hugged them both.
Kieran felt the rightness of it though to his bones. Nicola had always been his. He had always been hers. The years they’d been separated slipped away, and now they were exactly where they were meant to be...together.
Marco was jumping up and down, and Johnny came forward and held out his hand. Kieran took it, and the boy unexpectedly hugged him. And then Marco hugged Johnny, and Nicola hugged them all, and he experienced so much love for all three of them he wondered if his heart might actually burst.
My family...
His family to cherish. His family to protect. His family to lay down his life for if he had to.
“I love you so very much,” he whispered close to her ear, his throat tightening, his hands trembling at the realization that he’d finally found his home.
She held on to him, her hands keeping his steady. “I love you back. We love you.”
And that, he thought as the kids laughed and he kissed her, was the best news he’d ever heard.
Epilogue
“So, where’s your mom?” Nicola asked as Kieran grabbed her hand and walked her around the back of the house and through the small orchard. “I thought she’d be here today.”
The boys were racing on ahead, searching for adventure. Or misadventure, she thought and grinned, watching as they circled a different tree each and laughed. It was four days after Kieran had spectacularly proposed at the rodeo, and Nicola had never been happier in her life. They’d spent time together as a family. At her house. At the restaurant. And he’d taken the boys fishing and Marco had felt safe and relaxed under Kieran’s care. He was so incredible with the kids it made her heart sing every time she thought about it.
The wedding was planned for mid-November, which was just a few weeks away, but she didn’t want to wait any longer. Neither did the boys. They insisted that she and Kieran marry straightaway, and even though she knew their request was half fear, half excitement, she wasn’t going to disappoint them. Her dad had expressed some early concerns about their intentions but, in the end, he agreed that she and Kieran had been waiting for this for fifteen years—which was like an overlong engagement. Connie had stepped in to help with all the preparations, and Nicola was amazed how quickly something could be planned with the right people arranging things. She had a dress fitting planned for the following Tuesday, the flowers were ordered, the family’s hotel was catering, and now they were walking around the garden, making final decisions on where the tent and reception area would be situated.
“I wanted to do this with just us,” he replied and looped an arm over her shoulder.
It was a chilly afternoon, but Nicola was as warm as toast, wrapped up in his love. She nodded and pointed to a spot as they circumnavigated the house and ended up around the front again. “I think the tent should go there.”
He nodded, looking at the flat lawn. “Good spot.”
“And the band there,” she said, gesturing to the left. “We’ll have to set up a parking area, as well. I’ll talk to Connie about seating arrangements, and you still need to give her a list of anyone you want to invite who isn’t on the list we made up together.”
He smiled at her obvious enthusiasm. “Are you sure you’re okay with this happening so fast?”
“Positive,” she said and nodded and motioned to the boys, who were chasing one another. “They’re so excited. And they adore you. So do I,” she added and pressed close into him. He was warm and welcoming and familiar, and she looped her arms around his waist beneath his sheepskin-lined jacket, snuggling close. “Is Sean coming back for the wedding?” she asked.
He nodded. “He’s agreed to be a groomsman alongside Jonah.”
“That’s good,” she said. “And I’m so happy your nieces will be flower girls.”
“It was good of you to include them. It would have meant a lot to Liz. And Grady and Marissa were delighted for the girls to be a part of the day. And of course, Liam is the best man.”
She shook her head playfully. “Not a chance. You’re the best man I’ve ever known.”
He laughed, and the sound warmed her blood. “That’s very sweet.”
“It’s the truth,” she said, loving him, needing him, wanting him. “Every moment I spend with you I realize that more and more. I love you, Kieran. And it feels so good to say. So good to feel.”
He turned her around, grasped her chin and titled her face to meet him. “No regrets.”
“Not one,” she said on a sigh. “Only that we didn’t do this a long time ago.”
He kissed her mouth softly, lingering at the corner, his hand coming around her nape seductively, with a promise of what was to come. “I guess we both had to work out a way to get back to one another. But I promise you, Nic, I will love you and cherish you and always keep you in my heart. And whatever we face, we’ll do it together.”
She sighed and touched his face. “That’s what you should say,” she said and smiled when he frowned a little. “Your vows...you said you were wondering what you should say. And that was perfect.”
He kissed her again, deeper, with every ounce of love she knew he felt. “Okay.”
“I feel like I’m dreaming. It’s all happened so fast. So much change.”
He grasped her chin. “Feel like a bit more—hmm?”
“Huh?”
“Change,” he explained and smiled. “Well, you see, my mom is moving out.”
“Moving out?”
“From here. She wants to live in town. She has friends there, and she reckons this place is too big to have only her rattling around in it. So, I was thinking, this would be a great place to raise our family.”
Nicola’s heart stopped. Their family. They were the sweetest words she had ever heard.
“Live here?”
She looked at the boys, still racing around, laughing and having a wonderful time. They looked so happy. She glanced around, taking in the huge home, the perfectly landscaped gardens, the wide driveway, the barn and stables, the acres of pastures crisscrossed with white fences. From the orchard to the pool to the tennis court around the back, the place reeked of luxury and wealth.
But that was not what drew her to it. It was a home. Despite their own rocky marriage, Gwen and J. D. O’Sullivan had raised their children here with love, and it showed in every nook, every garden, every hall and every room in the big house. And Nicola could think of nothing better than raising a family in such a place.
She smiled warmly. “Yes.”
“Yes?” He grinned. “No argument? No discussion?”
“Nope,” she replied. “I think it’s a great idea.”
“Really? But your brother’s house...”
“I shou
ld never have stayed there,” she admitted. “You were right when you said it was filled with memories of all they had lost. In a way, I was selfish, thinking about how it would be easier for me by living there, not disrupting the boys’ routine.”
“You’re the least selfish person I’ve ever met,” he said gently.
“I’m not, really,” she said and sighed. “Being surrounded by the memory of Gino and Miranda, their belongings, even driving their old car. I took the easy way out. But no more. I want to sell the house and put the money into a trust for the kids.”
“Of course,” he said gently. “And how about we find a spot here on the ranch and create a kind of memorial for them, somewhere the boys can have a special place to remember their parents.”
Tears plumped at the corners of her eyes. “That’s a lovely idea. And I would love to live here with you and raise the boys in this wonderful place. Just the four of us. Or five or six,” she added. “In case anyone else comes along.”
She watched as he swallowed hard, his smooth throat closing over. She knew it was a hard subject for him. Maybe the hardest they would face. Finally, he spoke. “You really want children?”
She nodded. “Yes... I’d like to have a child with you. Are you okay with that?”
He squeezed her hand. “Even though I can’t guarantee that I won’t be insecure at times?”
She knew how hard it was for him to feel and say that. And she loved him more for having the courage to face his fears. “So...that’s a yes? We’ll have kids if we can?”
He smiled. “Well, I did promise Marco I would give you a baby...and a person should always keep their promises.”
She laughed, loving him so much she could barely breathe. “I can’t wait to marry you and have your baby and live in this beautiful house.”
He hauled her into his arms and twirled her around.
She laughed and, once her feet were back on the ground, she nodded and called for the boys to come closer. “You tell the boys. I mean, they already think you hung the moon. Once they find out they’ll be living here permanently, they’ll think you’ve given them the stars, as well.”
He called the boys over and began to tell them about the house. And Nicola knew she had all she’d ever dreamed of. And more. They were a family. Which was everything.
* * * * *
Don’t miss Jonah Rickard’s story, THE SECRET SON’S HOMECOMING, the next installment in Helen Lacey’s miniseries THE CEDAR RIVER COWBOYS on sale July 2018.
And for more CEDAR RIVER COWBOYS, don’t miss these great titles:
THE COWGIRL’S FOREVER FAMILY
MARRIED TO THE MOM-TO-BE
and
THE RANCHER’S UNEXPECTED FAMILY
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Soldier, Handyman, Family Man
by Lynne Marshall
Chapter One
The attractive brunette juggling a cardboard box and a plastic trash bag filled with who knew what needed help. Mark Delaney had first noticed her yesterday when her bobbing ponytail had proved to be very distracting. Now, seeing disaster about to happen, he sprang from the ladder, where he painted the underside of The Drumcliffe Hotel roof trim, nearly rolling an ankle. Then he jogged across the street attempting to hide the limp.
“Need help?”
“Oh.” She tossed him a flustered glance, the box precariously slipping from her grasp. “Yes, please.”
He rushed in and grabbed it, surprised how light it was.
“My favorite English tea set’s in there.” She used her head to signal the delicate nature of the contents. “Should’ve thought this through more.” She stopped, took a breath and made an obligatory smile. “I’m Laurel Prescott, by the way, and you are?”
“Mark Delaney.” With his free hand, he gestured across the street. “My family owns The Drumcliffe.”
Her honey-brown brows, a few shades lighter than her hair, lifted. “Ah, so we’re neighbors.”
He deposited the box on the porch as she came up beside him, then noticed the eyes that were light hazel and shaped like large almonds. He liked that. “Guess so. When are you planning to open the B&B?”
Another inhale, this one deeper. “Good question. My goal is next week, but there are so many last-minute things I need to do, and of course hadn’t even thought of.” She shook her head rapidly. “Don’t know what I was thinking doing this final move the week school started.” She hoisted the trash bag over her shoulder. Something clanked inside. “Oh, yes, I do—I’d finally have a few hours to myself!”
He couldn’t help but laugh with her even if it was over impending hysteria. “Anything else you need carried in?”
Her downright attractive eyes sparkled, signaling he may as well have been sent from heaven. Which felt good for a change.
“Are you sure you have the time? I mean it’s obvious you’re in the middle of painting.”
He glanced down at his black T-shirt and jeans, both splattered with the eggshell paint his mother had meticulously picked for the trim. “I was ready for a break anyway.” Then he looked across the road where he’d left the lid off the paint can. “Just give me a second, okay?”
“Of course!” She continued up the steps to the grand Queen Anne‒styled Victorian house, which had been sitting empty, according to his mother, for ages. Some nice old couple used to live there when he was a kid, right up to the time he’d left home. He remembered once having the best apple pie he’d ever eaten in that kitchen.
He crossed the street heading back to the hotel. For the last several months, he’d seen crews inside and out bringing the gem back to its original beauty and then some. By the extensive upgrades, he knew his mother had been right about the old home being turned into a bed-and-breakfast. The workers had finished a few weeks back, making the steeply pitched roof with the dominant front gable and oddly shaped porch look picture-book perfect. Once a blah blue with ho-hum white trim, chipped and peeling from years of neglect, now the house was sage green with cream trim and forest green detailing between the cornices, and Mark had to admit it looked classy. Like her. That had been his first impression of his new neighbor last week when she’d stopped by to check on the finishing touches.
The lady was way out of his league, so today, w
hen she was dressed in work clothes—faded straight-legged jeans with slip-in rubber-soled shoes, and a stretched-out polo shirt that’d seen better days—it made him smile. She fit right in with his style. And for the second day in a row she’d worn a ponytail. Not that he was keeping tabs or anything, but man, the ponytail was distracting.
Mark replaced the lid on the paint can.
“Little early for a break isn’t it?” Padraig Delaney chided his middle grandson, while he had no doubt just finished a Monday morning round at the city course judging by his loud patterned golf slacks and a salmon-colored shirt. His daily routine at eighty-five kept his craggy face tanned and his blue eyes bright, not to mention the notorious toothy grin pasted in place. Which he was currently flashing since noticing where Mark had come from and the lady across the street waiting for him.
Mark smiled at his grandda with the Guinness-soaked voice and tendency toward magical thinking. They had an understanding since both had known how it felt to be young, far away from home, frightened and lonely—though one in peacetime and the other, well, in that hot mess known as the Middle East. Yet that was their unspoken bond, and nothing would break it.
Everyone knew Padraig Delaney’s history. As a young Irish immigrant in the 1950s, he’d been brought over to work the new and lush golf courses along the central California coast. Cheap labor for sure, but he’d also had the foresight to scrimp and save money and buy the small patch of land in Sandpiper Beach. As his jobs and responsibility advanced, he saved more and worked like the devil to build the humble hotel back in the late sixties and early seventies. If it weren’t for that hardworking dreamer’s spirit, who knew what the Delaney clan would be up to now? So he’d cut him some slack over playing golf every morning. The man had earned it.
As Mark always did, he also tolerated the supernosy man’s inclinations. “I’ll get ’er done. All of it. By the end of the day. Have a good game?”
“Every game’s a good game, Marky my boy, ’cuz I’m alive.”
Mark had heard a similar statement from his grandfather at some point every single day since he’d returned from Afghanistan last year. He understood it was a less-than-subtle message, but most of the time he couldn’t relate to it. Though today, glancing across the street to the lady with the ponytail, his personal outlook struck him as somewhat optimistic. “That it is, Grandda. That it is.” He stood, ready to set off again for the B&B and the woman who needed some serious help.
