by Cora Seton
“I never agreed to be on a website,” Nora said. “I didn’t agree to any of this. Don’t we have to sign a contract or something before he can put me on his page?”
“I don’t think it works that way, but he did say he’d bring contracts today,” Clay said.
“Nora.” Walker’s quiet voice cut through the conversation.
“What?” She turned to face the big man.
“It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Well, aren’t you an angel of light and hope? How the hell is that helpful right now?”
“The truth always helps,” Walker said doggedly. “You need to be ready for what’s coming at you. It’s going to be hard, but it’ll be worth it in the end.”
“You don’t know that. He doesn’t know that.” She turned to the others. “Why are we staying here? This is ridiculous.”
“The goal hasn’t changed,” Walker insisted.
Clay instinctively knew what he meant, but he wasn’t sure Nora would. When Riley had confessed to her friends the extent of what Fulsom was demanding of the men—and, by default, of them, too—a month ago, Avery had stormed down the hill to Base Camp and called Boone out on the carpet to read him the riot act. Walker was the only one who could calm her down. He’d done so in this very way: by cutting through the crap and getting to the heart of the matter. Climate change wasn’t some future issue. It was here now. To stay. They lived in a world worth fighting for; they’d all agreed on that. It was time to go all in or leave the game.
“Do you know how many people are going to see this?” Nora challenged Walker.
He nodded. “You’ll be safe,” he assured her. “We’re here with you. He won’t come.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
None of them answered her. They’d all seen too much hatred, violence and war to make those kinds of promises to anyone. But this wasn’t the Middle East, or Asia, or Africa. This was Chance Creek.
“Move down to Base Camp,” Walker said.
Clay held his breath. Would she agree? Come on, Nora, he willed her. He’d love it if she was that close all the time. Fulsom would love it, too. It would make filming the show easier. Not that Clay gave a crap about that right at the moment.
“Never.” Nora shoved the tablet back into Jericho’s hands. “Fulsom promised. So did you. We get to stay in the manor. We get to keep our Regency life. We’ll be extras in your show, but that’s it. That’s enough. More than enough.”
Several emotions warred within Clay. Regret that she was right; they were asking too much of the women. Desire for her to want him as much as he wanted her. Anger at Fulsom for making something that should be so easy into something so damned difficult. If he could woo Nora the right way, they’d be dating by now. Instead she was backing away, ready to flee up the stairs to her room.
“Nora, think about it. Twelve months gives us more time,” he began, but she interrupted him.
“Twelve months of being filmed won’t help anything,” she retorted. “You tell Fulsom he doesn’t get to tell us what to do. We agreed to six months, not twelve. And I want my photo off his site.” She left the room in a swish of her skirts, and a moment later her footsteps pounded up the central staircase.
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Savannah said to the men.
“I think so, too,” Avery added.
With the women closing ranks against them, there wasn’t much they could do but head back outside. When they reached the back porch, the kitchen door shut with a resounding thud behind them, and someone turned the lock.
“That went well,” Jericho said.
“I can’t do this for a year,” Nora told her friends a half-hour later, when she finally calmed down and returned to the parlor, where the other two were waiting until it was time to walk down to Base Camp and hear what Fulsom had to say. As bit players they’d agreed to allow the camera crews access to their lives, but none of them had expected to figure as prominently in the show as Fulsom was showcasing them. She sat next to Avery on the couch, while Savannah kept her seat at the piano, running her hands lightly over the keys. “And I can’t believe Fulsom put us on his website.”
This was so much worse than she’d imagined when they’d agreed to stay at Westfield while the show was filmed. Even if her stalker didn’t come after her, she’d know he was watching the show. She didn’t think she could stand that.
When neither of her friends answered, she demanded, “Well? Do you want to be filmed for a year?”
“What’s the alternative?” Avery asked. “We tried looking for another place once before and it didn’t work. We all know we want to live here. Besides, Walker’s here.”
Nora wanted to scream. Didn’t Avery realize her crush on the large man was doomed to fail? Chatterbox Avery was nothing like dour Walker. He wouldn’t stand for her cheerfulness, and she’d grow to hate his taciturn ways. Why didn’t love bloom between people who stood a chance at making each other happy?
“Do you really want to leave Clay behind?” Savannah asked.
Nora looked at her sharply. “Are you having second thoughts about Jericho?” A few weeks ago Savannah had been just as adamant as she was that she couldn’t be with a man who was rushing into marriage for the sake of a TV show.
“If we can stand being on the show for six months, we can stand it for a year,” Avery said without waiting for either of them to answer. “Besides, Fulsom said we can live the way we want and run our B and B. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is they’re going to intrude in our lives for twelve months. And Walker’s going to marry someone in order to keep Base Camp, remember?” And my stalker will know exactly where to find me, Nora thought but didn’t say out loud. She knew how melodramatic that sounded. What kid was going to track her down half a country away?
“Maybe Walker will marry me.”
Nora snorted. “Don’t count on it.” She realized her mistake the moment the words left her mouth. “Avery, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Yes, you did!” Avery glared at her. “I don’t understand why none of you think he could fall for someone like me.”
“It’s just—” Nora looked helplessly at Savannah.
Savannah rescued her. “He’s nothing like you. You two are as opposite as night and day.”
“That doesn’t mean we couldn’t work together.”
“Fine.” Nora threw up her hands. “You want to stay? Stay.”
“Not without you two. You both promised!” Avery turned from one to the other. “Come on, we’ve been through all this before. We can’t give up now. I swear I’ll do whatever I can to cover for you so you don’t have to be on-screen very much. I’ll keep all the attention on me. Maybe I’ll finally score an acting job, or at least get some interest going in my screenplay.”
“That won’t work,” Nora told her. “Fulsom’s already put us front and center on his website. We’re stars in his show, like it or not, unless we leave now.”
“I don’t like what’s happening any more than you do,” Savannah said softly, “but I made myself a promise I would stay and see this through. I gave up on my music once before, and I don’t see how I’ll ever get a chance to pursue it seriously if I leave Westfield. I’m going to do whatever it takes to get my shot. Like Avery said—this television show might be my lucky break.”
“You’re both going to stay?” Nora asked. She didn’t know why she was surprised. Walker was right; nothing had changed. None of them wanted to leave the manor, or each other. All three of them had gotten tangled up with the men here. Besides, Riley was here—for good. But a twist in her gut reminded her she had far more at stake than the others did. None of them had a stalker. Was she truly safe here?
Walker and Clay seemed to think so—and they should know, she reasoned.
Clay’s last words finally penetrated her brain. Twelve months gives us more time. Her heart gave a funny double-thump. He was right. If
they had a year to get to know each other, maybe that would be enough. Despite her best intentions, a flurry of images passed through her mind. Dating Clay. Getting to know him. Laughing with him, talking with him, kissing him…making love to him. Flustered, she busied herself straightening the long skirts of her gown.
Avery nodded. “I’m staying.”
“I am, too,” Savannah said. “Come on, Nora. You can survive this.”
“But—” Nora stopped herself. Walker was right. Her stalker would be an idiot if he pursued her here where she was surrounded by Navy SEALs. She had to stop making a mountain out of a molehill. She couldn’t let that teenager ruin her life. There was a man here—a good man—who wanted to be her husband. Didn’t she owe it to herself to find out if she wanted to be his wife?
“All right. I’ll stay—for a year.” She checked the time and stood up, ready to face Fulsom. “If it kills me.”
Chapter Four
‡
At two minutes before nine o’clock, Clay waited with the rest of the ranch’s inhabitants in the bunkhouse for Fulsom to make his entrance, his leg bouncing up and down with his impatience to get started. Thirteen people in all were arrayed on the folding metal chairs that Jericho had set up for the meeting. More if you counted the camera crew that had arrived ahead of Fulsom and were even now discreetly filming the proceedings. The participants had grouped themselves by sex, Clay noted. He, Jericho and Walker sat closest to the door. The six other men, recruited by Boone some weeks ago, were arranged nearby. The women sat on the opposite side of the room, their Regency-era gowns incongruous next to the casual, modern clothes of the men. Nora perched on the edge of a metal folding chair, as upright and proper as any heroine in a Jane Austen novel, her hands clutched together in her lap. Savannah and Avery sat close beside her. Win Lisle, who’d come for Savannah’s cousin’s wedding—the first Regency wedding the women had thrown—and never left, sat in a chair equidistant between the two groups. She was the odd person out in this crew. She hadn’t been friends with the women before she arrived, and she wasn’t ex-military like the men.
Clay tried to catch Nora’s attention, but after one quick glance from under her lashes, she kept her gaze firmly on the floor in front of her chair. At least she was here, and so were the other women. He had half-expected them to pack up and leave.
The door suddenly flung open, and Fulsom strode in on a gust of cool, soft air. He paced to the front of the room as if taking the stage at a speaking engagement and stared out at the assembled group.
“Sex!” he boomed suddenly, and more than one person in the room jumped. Nora’s gaze flashed to Clay, color flushed her cheeks and she quickly looked away. Somehow gratified, Clay returned his attention to Fulsom, thinking maybe things would work out after all. Like he’d said to Nora, they could use the longer timeline to their advantage and get to know each other much better before speaking of marriage again. He knew where he stood, but Nora was cautious, and he respected that. Just thinking of ways he could change her mind got him a little hot and uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and focused on Fulsom.
As usual, every silver hair on the man’s head was in place, but he didn’t look old. He radiated energy and his face remained unlined. It was easy to see why he’d become such an icon. “There. I said it. It’s out in the open now.”
Clay had to hand it to Fulsom. He had balls. Not only did he not shy away from controversy, he actively courted it.
“People want sex,” Fulsom went on, pacing again. “They want to hear about it, read about and see it on their televisions. So that’s what we’re going to give them: lots and lots of sex.” Clad in black jeans, a black T-shirt and boots so trendy Clay was surprised they were allowed out of Hollywood, he made a stark contrast to the rest of the people gathered. Beside him stood Renata Ludlow, the show’s director. She, too, was dressed in black, but far more formally than Fulsom. Her black pencil-skirt, black stiletto heels and stark white dress shirt were tailored in a mannish fashion, and her obviously dyed-black hair was scraped back severely into a tight chignon, but her scarlet lipstick and nails, and the extra button she’d left open to show off her lacy bra, added a hint of femininity.
“I thought we made it clear none of us are baring our private lives on-screen,” Jericho called out. Usually it was Boone who stepped in to act as moderator between Fulsom and the inhabitants of Base Camp, but with Boone away on his honeymoon, Jericho must have decided to take his place.
“Or our private parts,” Angus McBride called out in his thick Scottish accent, eliciting some laughter from the others. He was one of the recruits who’d joined the group recently, but he’d already become a favorite of everyone at Base Camp. He could always be counted on for a laugh, and the man worked like a draft horse, and was as strong as one, too.
“It’ll be a family friendly show, of course,” Fulsom said. “But I expect romance, flirtation, public displays of affection, weddings…” He looked around to make sure they were all paying attention. “And babies. In fact, I expect babies any minute now,” he said with a nod toward Jericho.
“Don’t look at me,” Jericho protested. “Boone’s the one who should be working on that.”
“It’ll be your turn soon enough.” Fulsom surveyed the others. “It’ll be everyone’s turn. Last night we launched the companion website to the show. The reaction has already been… gratifying.” He let that sink in. “Thousands of visits to the site overnight. Dozens of comments, and you know what people are focusing on? Matchmaking. They’re already trying to predict who is going to end up with whom. This show is going to be a hit. It’s got sex appeal a mile long, and while our audience is focused on the girl–boy stuff, we’ll cram so much information about sustainability down their throats they’ll be able to give symposiums on it by the end of the season.”
Clay exchanged a look with Jericho. If that was true, then going through with the show—and meeting Fulsom’s demands—would be worth it. Pride welled up within him, a feeling he’d missed these past few weeks. It had been easy to lose sight of their initial objectives in the mad dash to get Boone to the altar, and to prep for the show. It was good to know they’d be able to get their message out to such a large audience, despite the trouble it raised with Nora.
“So I’ve got some good news and some bad news, folks.” Fulsom leaned forward. “We initially signed on to run the show for six months. We’ve extended that to a full year. It makes sense. We’ll follow Base Camp from spring to spring, seeing your struggles in every season. That gives us time to focus on each and every couple. The audience wants back stories. They want to watch you men woo your potential mates. They want to be in on the proposals and see each wedding. They want pregnancies—and at least one birth. Twelve months.” He let that sink in. “A wedding every forty days.”
Clay was glad he and his friends had warned the others about the change in time frame already, so there were no surprises there, but he wasn’t pleased with that last bit. “Why do they have to be spread out like that? Why not let them happen when they happen?” he called out. He needed all the time he could get to convince Nora he was the one for her.
“Extending the season is a risky bet. We can’t lose momentum.”
“But think about it—” Clay said. He needed to win this point. He’d drawn the short straw, after all. If he had to marry in forty days he’d have less time to convince Nora, not more.
Fulsom’s expression hardened. “One wedding every forty days,” he said, overriding Clay. “Without fail.” He scanned the crowd, looking for dissension. “Let me make myself very clear, folks. You miss a wedding, the show’s over and Montague moves in with his bulldozers. Got it?”
Clay nodded slowly in the sudden silence. Yeah, he got it. The silver lining he’d clutched so tightly to had just been torn away, revealing bigger storm clouds. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything less. So much for having more time to woo Nora. For a moment his foot stopped tapping.
The
n it started up again. He wasn’t going to lose Nora. No way. No how.
Fulsom turned to the women. “Surprisingly, your Regency lifestyle has caught the imagination of people across the country—even around the world. That’s a positive thing. But here’s a negative.” He pointed to each man in turn. “Nine men, since Boone is already married.” He turned to the women. “Four women, since Riley’s taken, too. Now nine men and four women could make for an interesting and controversial dynamic, but this is a prime time show, so we’ve got to keep it clean. Time to recruit more females. And they’d better wear bonnets.”
Clay began to protest, but thought the better of it. They’d known they had to recruit more women, but for Fulsom to demand the new female recruits join the others in their Regency exploits was unfair.
Fulsom turned to Jericho. “So who’s going to marry next?”
“Don’t look at me.”
“It’s me,” Clay said resignedly. “I drew the short straw.”
A murmur swelled among the women. “Drew the short straw?” he heard Avery echo. Savannah shook her head at him. Nora refused to look in his direction, but two spots of color blossomed high in her cheeks.
Fuck me, Clay thought, closing his eyes briefly while he cursed his choice of words. He’d set himself back further than Fulsom had.
“Drew the short straw, huh?” Fulsom guffawed. “We’d better re-create that for the show, and from now on that’s exactly how we’ll do it. Every time one of you marries, we’ll draw straws to see who is next. The audience will love that.”
Clay struggled to keep his cool. Every word that came out of Fulsom’s mouth made things worse. Nora had twisted her fingers into the folds of her dress and seemed to be engaged in a struggle to keep her seat. He had no doubt she’d like to slug Fulsom, and then turn on him.
“July tenth, folks! That’s our next wedding.” Fulsom fixed Clay with a hard look. “Don’t be late to the altar, son. I’ll have Montague standing by with his bulldozers, got it?”
