Cait London - Blaylock's Bride

to see more of the Blaylock family after reading

Midnight Rider and The Seduction of Jake Tallman.

Author’s Note: The research for the Bisque Cafe was

done at the Paint Cafe in Springfield, Missouri, where I

painted my first smiling, belly-up hippopotamus.

Prologue

“You’re safe here with me, little bit...here on Llewlyn land,” Boone said to the little girl holding his hand. The wind sweeping across Llewlyn land was chilly, Wyoming’s early September ablaze with fiery quaking aspens amid the fir and pine trees; fur thickened on the animals now, a natural preparation for winter. On the Rocky Mountains above Llewlyn Ranch, the bears were fat with summer berries and fish and honey stolen from wild beehives.

Boone Llewlyn lifted his head, letting the wind—filled with the scent of the land, of the pines and earth and fields—now through his shaggy gray hair and caress his leathered skin.

He was old now, bent by age and shame. Boone kept the little girl’s fragile hand cradled in his large, rough palm, his scarred heart filling with love.

This was his grandchild, Kallista May. Her green eyes and sleek silky hair came from his mother, that stubborn edge along her jaw from Llewlyn blood. At six, and dressed in her favorite red jacket and boots, she was too thin, and had seen too much of life’s dirty ways.

To remind Boone who had the legal claim to the little girl, her mother would come to tear her away soon, and Boone’s wounded heart would weep. The cruel game used the girl as a pawn, to assure monthly payments to her mother and to Boone’s son, her father.

Boone swallowed the emotion tearing through him. He treasured his inheritance, his parents, and the land that had been left to him. But in his thirty years away from this valley, he’d amassed a fortune and spawned two irresponsible sons...bigamists and careless, lazy men now—Boone couldn’t bear to have them near his land.

So he paid them all—his sons and their harem of wives, married illegally under different names—and in return, they kept his secret from the good people of Jasmine, the Blaylocks and the rest. He’d bought his sons free of bigamist charges, because he couldn’t have his grandchildren publicly named as illegitimate.

As a young man, he’d been in love with Garnet Marie Holmes, but she had wanted to stay in the valley. He’d turned to another woman and the world—and both had shamed him. Sara had been knowing, cultured and totally devoted to creating the picture of success that Boone had wanted then. Still in love with Garnet, he hadn’t asked for love or comfort, and had chosen his glittering, cold wife to suit his needs for power and money. When the babies came, they had less of her than Boone and still hunting his fortune, he’d left them to survive in her care. Sara had burned out her life long ago, mourned by no one. In his pursuit for money, he’d forgotten that a child was a precious gift, and that it took care to make a child feel proud and strong. And so his sons were weak men. Their wives were—Boone didn’t want to think of the greedy, immoral women his sons had chosen.

After a time, Garnet Holmes had turned away another suitor, Cutter Lomax. Because Boone wouldn’t lend money to Cutter and had stopped his land schemes, Cutter believed that Boone had caused the ruin of his life. After that, Cutter bitterly blamed the loss of Garnet on Boone, and a longterm feud began. Garnet soon married Luke Blaylock, a fine man, and together they’d had a beautiful family. Boone had always loved Garnet Marie, and wished her well; he couldn’t bear to let that dear sweet, honest woman—or the rest of the valley—see inside his black shame.

He had to protect the land from his sons. Llewlyn land was for his grandchildren, if they came back...

Boone studied the Herefords grazing in the field; he barely noticed the deer moving along the fence. He’d created legalities to protect himself and Llewlyn land, but he mourned his grandchildren...The Innocents whom he wanted to claim for his own. Yet he couldn’t shame his parents...or truth be told, himself. His pride and his shame had made him weak, though he loved his sons.

He held the girl’s hand and kept her safe—while he could, this tiny precious part of his blood, though she didn’t know it.

There were other Llewlyn children who didn’t know he was their grandfather, and when they came to him, dropped off by a careless parent, he treasured every moment. The children all believed him to be a friend of the family.

“You remember to come home, here to Llewlyn land, when you want... when you’re grown, and you remember how beautiful you are, how much I love you,” he said to Kallista May and watched her trusting, freckled face turn up to his. He knelt beside her, enfolding her in his arms, and wished he could protect her.

Ten thousand acres of Llewlyn land would belong to his grandchildren. If they decided to live in the valley, they would each have their portion. If they did not, trust funds would be set up for them, and every one—when the time was right—would know who they were, and the proud blood that ran in their veins.

He held the little girl closer; she was a Llewlyn, already proud and strong. He’d given her that, and if she needed him through the years, he’d come for her.... “You remember, Kallie-girl, to come back home, to Llewlyn land.”

One

“If there is one thing I don’t need, it is that sassymouthed, high-nosed female. Big Boone wanted her back. I don’t. I haven’t seen her for four years, and that’s fine with me. But I promised I’d get her here, just like the rest on his list—back on Llewlyn land, then she can fly off on her broom when she wants.” Roman Blaylock rubbed the cheek Kallista Bellamy had slapped four years ago, with enough power to send him reeling back against the shelves loaded with ceramic bisque, waiting to be painted.

High on the Rocky Mountains behind the combined ranches of Roman and Boone Llewlyn, a lone wolf opened his throat and bared his aching soul to the moon. The sound suited Roman’s brooding mood; he settled into the shadows of Boone Llewlyn’s sprawling front porch.

The sound of the shattering bisque echoed in the April Wyoming night as Roman scowled, recalling the scene four years ago. He remembered the shattered ceramic shop and the big dragon that had crashed down on his head. He’d caught the broken tail, uncertain what to do with the furious woman who had just shoved his chest again. As a piece of shattered bisque bumped down his cheek, he’d wanted to kiss her, wrap her so tight against him that all that heat would burn away the cold years stored inside him.

Kallista had glared up at him. “Go ahead. You beat your wife. What’s one more woman?” Her green eyes had ripped down his dusty denim-clad body to his Western work boots; then her gaze had burned a slow, insulting path up to his face. “You’ve just destroyed my shop and terrified your wife. You’ve been drinking...you’re a mess...and you are a bully. You are not shoving your wife around in my shop. Get out.”

He had forced himself to let go of the dragon tail. As it crashed, he realized that he was clutching a smaller dragon in his fist—when he uncurled his fingers, it smiled cheerfully up at him. As his usually mild temper soared, the dragon had shattered on the floor. The remnants of white bisque around his Western work boots had been symbolic of his dreams long ago. He’d pushed his face down the good twelve inches to hers and spaced out the words. “I do not beat my wife.”

Kallista had flipped back her long, sleek black hair and leaned forward to meet his glare with her own. “Debbie said you were rough and things between you were not good. I assume that meant—”

“Me? Rough?” The implication that he’d hurt his wife, perhaps sexually, was a hard slap to his pride.