The Cowboy Earns a Bride (Cowboys of Chance Creek Book 8) (33 page)

“I’m in; I’m just saying,” Zane said.

Mason suppressed a smile. Zane always knew what he was thinking.

“Good luck with all that,” Colt said.

“Thanks,” Mason told him. He’d anticipated that inheriting the Hall wouldn’t change Colt’s mind about staying in the Air Force. He focused on the other two who were both already in the process of winding down their military careers. “If we’re going to do this, it’ll take a commitment. We’re going to have to pool our funds and put our shoulders to the wheel for as long as it takes. Are you up for that?”

“I’ll join you there as soon as I’m able to in June,” Austin said. “It’ll just be like another year in the service. I can handle that.”

“I already said I’m in,” Zane said. “I’ll have boots on the ground in September.”

Here’s where it got tricky. “There’s just one other thing,” Mason said. “Aunt Heloise has one more requirement of each of us.”

“What’s that?” Austin asked when he didn’t go on.

“She’s worried about the lack of heirs on our side of the family. Darren has children. We don’t.”

“Plenty of time for that,” Zane said. “We’re still young, right?”

“Not according to Heloise.” Mason decided to get it over and done with. “She’s decided that in order for us to inherit the Hall free and clear, we each have to be married within the year. One of us has to have a child.”

Stunned silence met this announcement until Colt started to laugh. “Staying in the Air Force doesn’t look so bad now, does it?”

“That means you, too,” Mason said.

“What? Hold up, now.” Colt was startled into soberness. “I won’t even live on the ranch. Why do I have to get hitched?”

“Because Heloise says it’s time to stop screwing around. And she controls the land. And you know Heloise.”

“How are we going to get around that?” Austin asked.

“We’re not.” Mason got right to the point. “We’re going to find ourselves some women and we’re going to marry them.”

“In Afghanistan?” Zane’s tone made it clear what he thought about that idea.

Tension tightened Mason’s jaw. He’d known this was going to be a messy conversation. “Online. I created an online personal ad for all of us. Each of us has a photo, a description and a reply address. A woman can get in touch with whichever of us she chooses and start a conversation. Just weed through your replies until you find the one you want.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Zane peered at him through the video screen.

“I don’t see what you’re upset about. I’m the one who has to have a child. None of you will be out of the service in time.”

“Wait a minute—I thought you just got the letter from Heloise.” As usual, Austin zeroed in on the inconsistency.

“The letter came about a week ago. I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up until I checked a few things out.” Mason shifted in his seat. “Heloise said the place is in rougher shape than we thought. Sounds like Zeke sold off the last of his cattle last year. We’re going to have to start from scratch, and we’re going to have to move fast to meet her deadline—on both counts. I did all the leg work on the online ad. All you need to do is read some e-mails, look at some photos and pick one. How hard can that be?”

“I’m beginning to think there’s a reason you’ve been single all these years, Straightshot,” Austin said. Mason winced at the use of his nickname. The men in his unit had christened him with it during his early days in the service, but as Colt said when his brothers had first heard about it, it made perfect sense. The name had little to do with his accuracy with a rifle, and everything to do with his tendency to find the shortest route from here to done on any mission he was tasked with. Regardless of what obstacles stood in his way.

Colt snickered. “Told you two it was safer to stay in the military. Mason’s Matchmaking Service. It has a ring to it. I guess you’ve found yourself a new career, Mase.”

“Stow it.” Mason tapped a finger on the table. “Just because I’ve put the ad up doesn’t mean that any of you have to make contact with the women who write you. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But you need to marry within the year. If you don’t find a wife for yourself, I’ll find one for you.”

“He would, too,” Austin said to the others. “You know he would.”

“When does the ad go live?” Zane asked.

“It went live five days ago. You’ve each got several hundred responses so far. I’ll forward them to you as soon as we break the call.”

Austin must have leaned toward his webcam because suddenly he filled the screen. “Several hundred?”

“That’s right.”

Colt’s laughter rang out over the line.

“Don’t know what you’re finding so funny, Colton,” Mason said in his best imitation of their late father’s voice. “You’ve got several hundred responses, too.”

“What? I told you I was staying…”

“Read through them and answer all the likely ones. I’ll be in touch in a few days to check your progress.” Mason cut the call.

*     *     *

Regan Anderson wanted a baby. Right now. Not five years from now. Not even next year.

Right now.

And since she’d just quit her stuffy loan officer job, moved out of her overpriced one bedroom New York City apartment, and completed all her preliminary appointments, she was going to get one via the modern technology of artificial insemination.

As she raced up the three flights of steps to her tiny new studio, she took the pins out of her severe updo and let her thick, auburn hair swirl around her shoulders. By the time she reached the door, she was breathing hard. Inside, she shut and locked it behind her, tossed her briefcase and blazer on the bed which took up the lion’s share of the living space, and kicked off her high heels. Her blouse and pencil skirt came next, and thirty seconds later she was down to her skivvies.

Thank God.

She was done with Town and Country Bank. Done with originating loans for people who would scrape and slave away for the next thirty years just to cling to a lousy flat near a subway stop. She was done, done, done being a cog in the wheel of a financial system she couldn’t stand to be a part of anymore.

She was starting a new business. Starting a new life.

And she was starting a family, too.

Alone.

After years of looking for Mr. Right, she’d decided he simply didn’t exist in New York City. So after several medical exams and consultations, she had scheduled her first round of artificial insemination for the end of April. She couldn’t wait.

Meanwhile, she’d throw herself into the task of building her consulting business. She would make it her job to help non-profits assist regular people start new stores and services, buy homes that made sense, and manage their money so that they could get ahead. It might not be as lucrative as being a loan officer, but at least she’d be able to sleep at night.

She wasn’t going to think about any of that right now, though. She’d survived her last day at work, survived her exit interview, survived her boss, Jack Richey, pretending to care that she was leaving. Now she was giving herself the weekend off. No work, no nothing—just forty-eight hours of rest and relaxation.

Having grabbed takeout from her favorite Thai restaurant on the way home, Regan spooned it out onto a plate and carried it to her bed. Lined with pillows, it doubled as her couch during waking hours. She sat cross-legged on top of the duvet and savored her food and her freedom. She had bought herself a nice bottle of wine to drink this weekend, figuring it might be her last for an awfully long time. She was all too aware her Chardonnay-sipping days were coming to an end. As soon as her weekend break from reality was over, she planned to spend the next ten months starting her business, while scrimping and saving every penny she could. She would have to move to a bigger apartment right before the baby was born, but given the cost of renting in the city, the temporary downgrade was worth it. She pushed all thoughts of business and the future out of her mind. Rest and relax—that was her job for now.

Two hours and two glasses of wine later, however, rest and relaxation was beginning to feel a lot like loneliness and boredom. In truth, she’d been fighting loneliness for months. She’d broken up with her last boyfriend before Christmas. Here it was March and she was still single. Two of her closest friends had gotten married and moved away in the past twelve months, Laurel to New Hampshire and Rita to New Jersey. They rarely saw each other now and when she’d jokingly mentioned the idea of going ahead and having a child without a husband the last time they’d gotten together, both women had scoffed.

“No way could I have gotten through this pregnancy without Ryan.” Laurel ran a hand over her large belly. “I’ve felt awful the whole time.”

“No way I’m going back to work.” Rita’s baby was six weeks old. “Thank God Alan brings in enough cash to see us through.”

Regan decided not to tell them about her plans until the pregnancy was a done deal. She knew what she was getting into—she didn’t need them to tell her how hard it might be. If there’d been any way for her to have a baby normally—with a man she loved—she’d have chosen that path in a heartbeat. But there didn’t seem to be a man for her to love in New York. Unfortunately, keeping her secret meant it was hard to call either Rita or Laurel just to chat, and she needed someone to chat with tonight. As dusk descended on the city, Regan felt fear for the first time since making her decision to go ahead with having a child.

What if she’d made a mistake? What if her consultancy business failed? What if she became a welfare mother? What if she had to move back home?

When the thoughts and worries circling her mind grew overwhelming, she topped up her wine, opened up her laptop and clicked on a YouTube video of a cat stuck headfirst in a cereal box. Thank goodness she’d hooked up wi-fi the minute she secured the studio. Simultaneously scanning her Facebook feed, she read an update from an acquaintance named Susan who was exhibiting her art in one of the local galleries. She’d have to stop by this weekend.

She watched a couple more videos—the latest installment in a travel series she loved, and one about over-the-top weddings that made her sad. Determined to cheer up, she hopped onto Pinterest and added more images to her nursery pinboard. Sipping her wine, she checked the news, posted a question on the single parents’ forum she frequented, checked her e-mail again, and then tapped a finger on the keys, wondering what to do next. The evening stretched out before her, vacant even of the work she normally took home to do over the weekend. She hadn’t felt at such loose ends in years.

Pacing her tiny apartment didn’t help. Nor did an attempt at unpacking more of her things. She had finished moving in just last night and boxes still lined one wall. She opened one to reveal books, took a look at her limited shelf space and packed them up again. A second box revealed her collection of vintage fans. No room for them here, either.

She stuck her iTouch into a docking station and turned up some tunes, then drained her glass, poured herself another, and flopped onto her bed. The wine was beginning to take effect—giving her a nice, soft, fuzzy feeling. It hadn’t done away with her loneliness, but when she turned back to Facebook on her laptop, the images and YouTube links seemed funnier this time.

Heartened, she scrolled further down her feed until she spotted another post one of her friends had shared. It was an image of a handsome man standing ramrod straight in combat fatigues.
Hello
. He was cute. In fact, he looked like exactly the kind of man she’d always hoped she’d meet. He wasn’t thin and arrogant like the up-and-coming Wall Street crowd, or paunchy and cynical like the upper-management men who hung around the bars near work. Instead he looked healthy, muscle-bound, clear-sighted, and vital. What was the post about? She clicked the link underneath it. Maybe there’d be more fantasy-fodder like this man wherever it took her.

There
was
more fantasy fodder. Regan wriggled happily. She had landed on a page that showcased four men. Brothers, she saw, looking more closely—two of them identical twins. Each one seemed to represent a different branch of the United States military. Were they models? Was this some kind of recruitment ploy?

Practical Wives Wanted
read the heading at the top. Regan nearly spit out a sip of her wine. Wives Wanted? Practical ones? She considered the men again, then read more.

Looking for a change?
the text went on
. Ready for a real challenge? Join four hardworking, clean living men and help bring our family’s ranch back to life.

Skills required—any or all of the following: Riding, roping, construction, animal care, roofing, farming, market gardening, cooking, cleaning, metalworking, small motor repair…

The list went on and on. Regan bit back at a laugh which quickly dissolved into giggles. Small engine repair? How very romantic. Was this supposed to be satire or was it real? It was certainly one of the most intriguing things she’d seen online in a long, long time.

Must be willing to commit to a man and the project. No weekends/no holidays/no sick days. Weaklings need not apply.

Regan snorted. It was beginning to sound like an employment ad. Good luck finding a woman to fill those conditions. She’d tried to find a suitable man for years and came up with Erik—the perennial mooch who’d finally admitted just before Christmas that he liked her old Village apartment more than he liked her. That’s why she planned to get pregnant all by herself. There wasn’t anyone worth marrying in the whole city. Probably the whole state. And if the men were all worthless, the women probably were, too. She reached for her wine without turning from the screen, missed, and nearly knocked over her glass. She tried again, secured the wine, drained the glass a third time and set it down again.

What she would give to find a real partner. Someone strong, both physically and emotionally. An equal in intelligence and heart. A real man.

But those didn’t exist.

If you’re sick of wasting your time in a dead-end job, tired of tearing things down instead of building something up, or just ready to get your hands dirty with clean, honest work, write and tell us why you’d make a worthy wife for a man who has spent the last decade in uniform.