C.J. Carmichael - A Second-Chance Proposal

The sixteen-year-old’s stricken face burned against his eyes, as if branded there. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, but he felt his share of responsibility for leading the protest. Not that he’d had any idea a kid was going to be present.

The person he’d wanted to hurt—though not in a physical sense—had been his stepfather. The bastard had decided to allow several oil wells to be drilled on McLean property; or more precisely, he’d persuaded his wife that she should sign away her mineral rights for this purpose.

Dylan still cursed the day of their wedding. His mother had asked him to participate in the ceremony, but he never would have cooperated if he could’ve guessed the changes Max Strongman and his son, James, would bring to his life.

Even now his throat thickened with the resentments that had piled up over the years, the worst from those few weeks before his scheduled wedding to Cathleen. Was he wrong to blame Rose for allowing her new husband so much control over land that had belonged to her first husband, Dylan’s father? Dylan had been raised to consider the ranch his birthright, his and his cousin Jake’s. But Max had other ideas.

Oil, and the money he would earn through royalties, had been Strongman’s priority. Dylan could believe it, too, after years of watching his stepfather try to operate the three-thousand-acre ranch. Max had no appreciation for the beauty of the land and no respect for the creatures—either human or animal—who tried to live off it.

“The police never found the gun,” Cathleen said into the quiet. “And no one on the scene saw who shot Jilly.”

“Whether it was planned or not, the firecracker made an effective decoy,” Dylan added.

Poppy paused in between bites of bran muffin. A tangible change had come over her while she’d processed the information. The new wariness in her eyes was one Dylan understood all too well. Being a suspect in a murder case didn’t put him high on anyone’s popularity list.

Cathleen seemed to have picked up on Poppy’s altered mood, too. Typically, she addressed the situation head-on. “Some people assumed Dylan was guilty because he’d organized the demonstration. Plus, his differences with his stepfather were no secret. But no one ever found any evidence.”

She faced Dylan. “And since nothing new has turned up in the past two years, Kelly says she doubts anyone will ever be arrested.”

The look Cathleen was giving him now was almost sympathetic. “Even if Max is guilty, what can you possibly do about it?”

“I have no idea. But I’ve got to help my mother somehow.” He finished off the coffee and gave her a smile that he hoped belied the insecurities that kept him awake at night. “And I’ve got to clear my own reputation, as well. Cathleen, darlin’, I don’t expect you to marry a man with a sullied reputation.”

Poppy’s eyebrows angled upward with alarm. “Marry?”

“Oh, just ignore him.” Cathleen pushed her empty plate away. “He knows there’s no way in hell I’d be stupid enough to give him a second chance.”

Poppy snapped the dishrag, then folded it over the sink. “I’m going to my room to work on my cookbook for a while. Mind if I do up a vegetable pie for lunch, Cathleen? I need to make sure I’ve got the seasonings right….”

“Be my guest.”

Which, of course, she was. Damned strangest arrangement Dylan had ever seen. Not that his arrangement with the lady of the house was much better.

Getting up from the table, he prepared to load his own dishes into the dishwasher. Cathleen made no move to stop him. This was definitely a self-serve establishment.

“Any chance we could go visit my mother later this morning? Afraid I don’t have a vehicle, so we’ll have to use your Jeep. I sold my truck in Reno before I caught the plane to Calgary.”

“I suppose. But I have work to do, too. Don’t expect me to be your personal chauffeur for the duration of your stay.”

“I won’t.” Duration of your stay? Obviously, she was weakening. Now was the time to strike. “About this arrangement in the barn. I think you should know I kept Cascade awake with my snoring last night.”

Cathleen’s smile had a most unattractive edge of self-satisfaction to it. “Really?”

“I was wondering if I could bargain my way up to a box spring and mattress?”

She shrugged. “A few postdated checks ought to do the trick. I’ve got a queen-size bed available, in the southeast-facing room.”

“Great.” He’d get a mountain view, to boot. He had no idea why she’d changed her mind about his staying, but it was an encouraging first step. Right after the dishes, he’d make out a check, for whatever sum she demanded. Then he’d have to start working on a new strategy. One that would see him moving from the guest bed into hers.

It was a nice thought, if a trifle optimistic at the moment.

DYLAN HATED HIS MOTHER’S new house the moment he saw it. Cathleen held the steering wheel of her Jeep with both hands, even though she’d already turned off the ignition. He supposed she was giving him time to take it all in.

The modern, California-style stucco three-story, with its triple garage and red clay-tile roof, stuck out like a monstrosity. An affront to the neighborhood of rustic, A-framed structures built of natural products like cedar and stone.

“Looks like a bloody movie set. I’m surprised they don’t have fake palm trees lining the drive.” Dylan jumped lightly from the passenger seat, his right hand automatically reaching to his left shoulder, protecting his injury from the jolt.

“Hard to imagine anything more different from your home on the ranch, isn’t it?”

He just shook his head. The large, traditional log house where he’d grown up was practically museum quality. Generations of McLeans had taken loving care of the original structure, preserving architectural integrity during subsequent expansions and modernizing.

Dylan hung back, waiting for Cathleen to precede him along the brick path to the front entrance. A minute or so after she’d rung the doorbell, he leaned over her shoulder and pressed the buzzer impatiently several more times.

“I told you we should have called.”

Cathleen toed her brown riding boot against the edge of a raised planter. The row of small globe cedars planted within looked dry and spindly. That surprised him. His mother was a formidable gardener.

Still no one answered the door. Bored, Dylan opened the mailbox and began sorting through the letters and flyers.

“What are you doing?”

“Just passing time.” Leaning against the stucco wall, he noted the return address on one manila envelope, then replaced the package in the mailbox.

Cathleen stepped back impatiently. “Let’s go. She’s not going to let us in.”

“Not so fast.” Dylan hooked her at the waist, stopping her midstride. “Let me try the door.”

He put a hand to the pewter handle and it immediately swung open. He gave her a wink. “Well?”

“We can’t—”

As he pulled her over the threshold, a white cat made an attempt to dart outside. Dylan caught the feline with one hand, then nudged the door shut with the heel of his boot.

“Mom? I’m home!” His masculine voice was loud and incongruous in the sparse perfection of the two-story foyer. Archways led on either side to a living room and den. Ahead, polished wooden stairs coiled to the upper rooms.

He began to worry. Were the rumors right? Was his mother too ill to get out of bed? From what Cathleen and Jake had said, it didn’t seem likely that she was out.

About to march up the stairs, he paused at the sound of a door closing from one of the upper rooms. The white cat scampered out of Dylan’s arms and bolted around the corner.