C.J. Carmichael - A Lasting Proposal

He rested a hand on her shoulder as though that was the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

“You’ve never had sisters,” Maureen replied. “So you wouldn’t understand.”

“You were talking about trust—I know that. You were wondering how Cathleen could’ve trusted Dylan so much that she always believed in him—always believed he didn’t commit that murder.”

“Yes. So?”

“Well, it’s got me thinking that’s our problem, too. I hurt you and broke your trust. Now I need to earn it back again.”

“That’s one way to look at it, “she agreed. “Or we could just count our losses and move on.”

“But how would that get us any further ahead? Maureen, no matter who you end up with, eventually, at some point, he’s going to let you down. The right person, though, will try to make up for it when he’s made a mistake.”

The right person. Was it really as simple as that? And if it was, how was a woman supposed to know when she’d found him?

Dear Reader,

As I contemplate this last book of my trilogy, I remember how daunted I felt when I began to write it. My first obstacle related to the murders of Jilly Beckett and Rose Strongman, which occurred in A Second-Chance Proposal. I’d come to realize that the person I’d thought responsible really wasn’t. My readers deserved the truth…but what was the truth?

Next, I worried about Maureen, the firstborn of the Shannon sisters. With this character I knew I’d be addressing deeply emotional issues. Her sisters had always seen her as forceful and confident, but Maureen was plagued with insecurities about her failed first marriage and the strained relationship she had with her twelve-year-old daughter, Holly. I wanted Maureen to find peace and happiness in a new relationship with a special man. But the hero I’d selected—Jake Hartman—balked at just the wrong moment. For a while I feared all was lost.

I sat in front of my computer day after day, writing paragraphs, only to delete them an hour later. Less than three weeks remained before the deadline when insight struck. Suddenly, I knew whodunit and why. And that Jake really was the right man, the lasting man, for Maureen. From that point on, writing the book became joyful and very satisfying. I hope you’ll experience those same emotions as you settle in to visit with the Shannon sisters one last time.

Sincerely,

C.J. Carmichael

P.S. I’d love to hear from you! My mailing address is 1754-246 Stewart Green, S.W., Calgary, Alberta T3H 3C8. Please send an e-mail to: cjcarmichael@shaw.ca and by all means visit me at www.cjcarmichael.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This trilogy is dedicated to my editors,

Beverley Sotolov and Paula Eykelhof,

with my thanks and affection.

Thanks to those who assisted me in my research, in particular, Corporal Patrick Webb of the RCMP in Calgary, Constable Barry Beales of the RCMP Canmore Detachment and Lynn Martel, a reporter with the Canmore Leader.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fall, 1999

IT WAS A NIGHT OF ORANGES, golds and blood, blood red. The sun had not quite set on the Thunder Bar M ranch outside Canmore, Alberta. Yet already clinging to the foothills on the eastern horizon was the harvest moon, heavy and florid. Aspens, dripping in their amber foliage, framed the old log ranch house. At the center of it all raged a bonfire. Prongs of orange flames and spears of thick, black smoke lashed out at the darkening sky.

Two groups, mostly men, stood on opposite sides of the blaze. The oilmen versus the ranchers—a centuries’ old animosity.

Max Strongman knew that the men on the other side of the fire saw him as a sellout. He was married to the woman who owned this land. Today he hoped to finalize a deal on her behalf with Beckett Oil and Gas to explore, develop and produce the black gold upon which the wealth of Alberta was based. The CEO of the company, Conrad Beckett, stood beside him with his teenage daughter, Jilly.

There were others. Max’s grown son, James. Harvey Tomchuk, Max’s retirement-age accountant. Several executives from the oil company, too, as well as lawyers and investment representatives from the nearby city of Calgary.

A deal was imminent, despite Beckett’s unexpected posturing as they’d discussed terms a few hours earlier. Max hoped that good food and plenty of expensive wine would nudge the executive in the right direction. Inside the ranch house, his wife and the caterer had huge beef ribs marinating in a smoky-red barbeque sauce, next to salads, breads and more. When the fire died down a little, he would start cooking.

Or so he’d planned. But fifteen minutes ago a gang of men had marched up the lane from the public access road. His wife’s son, Dylan McLean, a dark-haired, fiery-tempered man with strong opinions on the heritage of the land his great-grandfather had homesteaded, led the entourage. With Dylan was his cousin, Jake Hartman, a towering blond mountaineer. They were at the forefront of the group of neighboring ranchers and local environmentalists who opposed the deal Max had worked out with Beckett.

This problem Max didn’t need right now. The deal just had to go through! He’d staked his future and his son’s on this land. Together, they would earn millions—

A movement distracted him. Mick Mizzoni, editor of the Canmore Leader, had just stepped forward to whisper something to Staff Sergeant Thad Springer of the local Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment. Rumors of trouble had drawn both men tonight.

But it was Mick Mizzoni who concerned Max the most. The journalist had been against him from the first day Max had been elected as the mayor of Canmore. Undoubtedly Mizzoni was itching to portray him unfavorably yet again.

Max couldn’t let that happen. He had other plans for this land—beyond the oil wells—that required he keep town council and public opinion on his side.

He needed something, anything, to make the protesters appear unsympathetic. Earlier in the day, he’d talked the situation over with the woman he loved, and with his son. They’d agreed that for now all he could do was try to appear more calm and rational than the other side. But was that really his only option?

A fifteen-minute tirade by one conservationist ended. Then an experienced trail guide got up to give his spiel. Would they never shut up? Max could see Beckett growing increasingly anxious. Conrad had his arm around his daughter, and the girl had started shooting some pointed questions to her dad about his company’s environmental standards.

Maybe it was time for Max to have his say. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket.

A second later, a streak of silver flashed against the carbon sky. Loud pops sounded as a firecracker blazed in a celebratory arc above the crowd, fizzling out just meters above their heads.

After the unexpected explosion came a short second of silence. Then a father’s anguished cry filled the void.

“Oh, my God! My daughter’s bleeding—she’s been shot!”

Crimson blood appeared almost black in the fading light. The liquid seeped over Jilly’s chest, over-flowing to her father’s arms.

There was another second of silence as Conrad Beckett’s words, and the image of the wounded girl, penetrated the stunned minds of the surrounding men.