“I’m here to apologize. I didn’t realize that you...” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication 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 Copyright
“I’m here to apologize. I didn’t realize that you...”
Veronica looked into Mike’s eyes and knew what had brought about his sudden and careful remoteness. Someone had told him about her. She regretted that it placed even more distance between them, and she was determined to put an end to it. “There’s no need to keep apologizing. My past is over. If we’re going to be crossing paths; you’ll have to start thinking of me as a regular person.”
If she’d surprised him with her bluntness, it didn’t show. She guessed there probably wasn’t much that surprised a former cop.
“All right,” he said finally. “Get in. I’ll close your door.”
Veronica couldn’t decide if that was courtesy on his part, or an eagerness to get rid of her. In any case, she drove away without a backward glance—except in her rearview mirror where Mike Delancey was perfectly framed, a tall figure standing in front of the beautiful Victorian reproduction.
He was not at all what her nicely developing future needed. Or was he?
Dear Reader,
I’m sitting in front of the computer on a cold and rainy December day, a cat in my lap and my husband at work in his basement studio. I like knowing that when you settle in your chair and open this book it will be a warm and sunny summer day. (Unless you live in Oregon, too.)
What a remarkable medium books are. They put me in touch with you despite time and distance, and allow us to connect as if we sat across from each other over a pot of tea. I also like the notion that if you hold on to your books, thirty years from now your granddaughter, heading off to work on the new international space station, might put one of my titles in her backpack.
Until then, I offer you this second book in the Delancey Brothers trilogy. I have to admit I’m fascinated by wounded people who carry on bravely, despite their pain. I hope you enjoy this look into the lives of Mike Delancey and Veronica Callahan. They live with me still.
Sincerely,
Muriel Jensen
Second to None
Muriel Jensen
To Diane and Wayne McVey for all the fun!
CHAPTER ONE
MIKE DELANCEY WALKED into the quiet kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He relished the few minutes of solitude the early morning ritual afforded him before his brothers rose, and peace became a distant memory.
Tate, older than Mike by three years, would be sharing ideas for promoting the winery even as he hurried down the stairs. And Shea, Mike’s younger brother, would wander down in a semi-comatose state, then come to life the moment he stepped into the kitchen. He would want to make eggs Provencal for breakfast and talk about the opening of the restaurant.
But all Mike wanted was his cup of coffee and a moment to call his own. He loved his brothers, and everyone else who lived on the Delancey Winery compound, but he was still finding the balance in his own life and sometimes needed a brief escape. He poured a cup of steaming French roast and pushed his way out the back door.
The sweet Willamette Valley air was cool and smelled of pine, June wildflowers and the commercial grasses and herbs that grew farther south. Mike stopped at the bottom of the porch steps to take a deep breath.
Tate, who’d come to French River from Boston, was fascinated by the freshness of Oregon air. After twelve years in Dallas, Mike was captivated by the beautiful views in all directions: the rippled hills of the winery, the purple mountains in the distance, the green everywhere, even in the dead of winter.
The compound, bequeathed to him and his brothers by their uncle Jack, was situated at the top of the winery’s terraced hill. When he and his brothers had first arrived here in January, there’d been an unobstructed view from here of the long rows of grapes, the road to French River and the farm across the road, which sat at the foot of still more hills with mountains in the background.
Now a Victorian-style house Tate designed stood in the way, and was quite a sight in itself. In another month or so, it would open as the Delancey Bed-and-Breakfast, and Mike, who was responsible for public relations for the winery, would take on additional duty as manager of the B-and-B.
Tate had sold his share in a Boston architectural firm to finance the renovation of the winery. That same boldness had been evident in the commercial buildings he’d designed over the years, so this foray into late-nineteenth-century ornament came as a surprise—to Tate more than anyone.
They’d all endured a long winter of adjustment to their new surroundings, to the rain, to the strange new responsibilities of a vineyard and its motley collection of buildings. But Tate had had the most difficult time. He’d fallen in love.
Colette Palmer, whose father had worked for Uncle Jack, had come to live at the winery two years earlier after her husband had died. Now her wedding to Tate was just two weeks away—but she hadn’t been an easy conquest.
Mike took a long pull on his coffee and headed for the broad stairway that led to double front doors. It was a good thing, he thought, that he wasn’t vulnerable to a woman’s charms. His life was too bizarre already: tough cop turned vintner and hotelier?
He set his cup down on the porch railing, pulled a key out of his pocket, unlocked the big oak doors with their stained-glass windows, and walked into the house.