Robert Donovan, Daisy’s father, always rang the doorbell. Somehow his daughter had managed it so that she considered herself part of the backdoor squad. Very recently, indeed—and Squint wasn’t sure why his poor mushy heart suddenly wished he had his own back door that she could make herself at home through anytime she liked.
But he’d never been one for settling down, never had a “real” home that wasn’t on wheels, so he shoved that thought out of his brain, a useless organ that did little to assist him with rational thinking where Daisy was concerned. Out of habit, he shifted the Saint Michael medal he wore, trying to figure out his next move.
“I wonder where Mackenzie and Suz are?” Squint peered into the living room for the house’s owners and their husbands, Justin Morant and Cisco Grant—Frog to his friends, though his wife, Suz, had let everyone know that she wasn’t kissing a Frog, hence the Cisco. Squint was a nickname, too, given to him for his shooting skills, which were far better than Cupid’s as far as he was concerned. Maybe it was time for him, too, to change his moniker back to his real name. Was it more likely that Daisy would fall for “John” rather than “Squint”?
Suz had not been easy for Cisco to catch, but catch her he had, and they’d celebrated that love for a second time last Christmas Eve. This was February—and who would have thought that only two months after Cisco’s wedding, John would have made love to Daisy Donovan, the woman who drove everybody absolutely nuts in Bridesmaids Creek. And he hadn’t just done it once—she’d sneaked into his bed many times, all under cover of night.
He had been completely aware she wasn’t about to let a sign of their new relationship hit the public domain, especially not since she’d mooned after Cisco for months and months. John was aware that Daisy felt as if she was settling by making love to him, and not as in settling down—just settling. Making do.
He was done with that. He’d tried to “win” her fair and square, by Bridesmaids Creek standards, which meant either running the Best Man’s Fork, or swimming the Bridesmaids Creek swim in order to win the love of your life. This was a no-fail charm, according to BC legend. But Daisy’d had three chances at the magic, and no time had he ever won her. Apparently the magic didn’t work so well for him. A man had to push forward, even if his dreams were in ruins. He’d learned the hard way when he’d served in Afghanistan with Sam and Cisco that with life you have to keep going.
And he would keep going now. In fact, to make certain there were no more loose moments, he was making sure Daisy was parked here for good—then he was leaving town for the rodeo circuit. It was the only way. The second option would be to just cut out his heart and throw it to the wolves somewhere—that would end the pain of knowing that Daisy was only making time with him, even though she’d admitted that she’d never loved Cisco in the slightest. She’d only been after him to keep him from Suz.
Which hadn’t worked. Suz and Cisco now had darling twin girls, and the magic of Bridesmaids Creek had cast its happy spell on them.
“Ah, cookies,” Dig Bailey said. “It’s great to be home.”
John took that in without comment. The Hanging H had never been Dig’s home, and never would be.
I should have taken Daisy to her house, and left her and her gang behind. Then I could start to forget the colossal mistake I made when I fell into her sexy brown eyes the day I met her.
“I missed the cocoa,” Carson Dare said, helping himself to some that was staying warm in a heated pitcher.
John could barely think about cocoa. He tried hard not to watch Daisy settle her delicately shaped, feminine assets on a stool at the island. It was terribly difficult to keep his eyes off her.
The first time he’d ever seen Daisy Donovan—at times known as the Diva of Destruction of Bridesmaids Creek—he’d been captivated by her long dark hair spilling from her motorcycle helmet, her heart-shaped lips, big expresso eyes that practically bewitched his soul, never mind the short black leather skirt that swung when she walked. She’d been wearing black combat boots and her shapely legs had transfixed him, making his brain a pile of ham salad.
Life hadn’t changed a whole lot since then.
“Chocolate chip cake,” Clint Shanahan said, sighing happily as he helped himself to a piece.
Red Holmes joined him and cut a slice for himself. “There’s no place like home, just like Dorothy said.”
“Listen, you fellows should probably follow the yellow brick road right on out of here,” John said sourly. “I didn’t see a kitchen’s open sign on the back door.”
They all stared at him.
“We’re from this town,” Gabriel Conyers said. “We know when we’re welcome. Do you?”
Point well taken. John was the outsider, though employed at the Hanging H for the past three years.
“Besides which, you just want to get Daisy alone,” Carson said, “and we’ve determined amongst ourselves that we’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“True,” Dig agreed. “She may not choose us, but we’re not letting you weasel her, either.”
Too late, fellows, the weasel’s already been to the henhouse. Several times.
“I’m going to the bunkhouse.” Since Justin and Cisco weren’t here, it was highly likely they were there. Although John was a bit surprised that Suz and Mackenzie weren’t around with their plethora of babies. Between them, they had six now at the Hanging H—all girls destined to break young men’s hearts.
Something he knew too well about. John shoved his hat on his head, glared at Daisy’s gang, and without bothering to look at Daisy, went out the back door. Unable to stop himself, he went around to the front, his boots crunching through the snow piled around the front porch. He wanted just a moment to take in the house, maybe even take a photo on his phone—because he was about to leave forever. There was no point in waiting until V-Day, because Cupid’s Arrow Delivery Service wasn’t going to bring him an arrow with Daisy’s name on it. This was the only real home he’d ever known. Permanent home, to be more precise. When you’d grown up in a beat-up trailer following the rodeo from town to town, home didn’t feel as if it had a stationary place. His parents had raised three children that way, and they’d grown up fine.
He supposed he and Daisy, the daughter of the richest man in Bridesmaids Creek, didn’t have a whole lot of common ground, anyway—which was why she’d never particularly gone for him, except under cover of darkness. John’s father and his grandfather and his father before him had been clowns and barrel men, with the occasional bullfighter gig thrown into the mix. His mother was a cowboy preacher, her three boys sitting in the front pews without fail.
Maybe that was why the Hanging H meant so much to him. It was permanent. Well, it had almost not been permanent, thanks to Daisy and her greedy father, Robert. John raised his phone, snapping a photo of the snow-laden house. It was tall and white in Victorian splendor, its heavy gingerbread detail charming and old-world. Four tall turrets stretched to the sky, and the upstairs mullioned windows sparkled in the sunshine. The wide wraparound porch was painted sky blue, and a white wicker sofa with blue cushions beckoned visitors to sit and enjoy the view. A collection of wrought-iron roosters sat nearby in a welcoming clutch, and the bristly doormat with a big burgundy H announced the Hawthorne name, which Suz and Mackenzie had been before their marriages. Their parents had built this farm up years ago, as well as the business they’d started here—the Haunted H, a popular carnival and play place for families.
Nothing had changed, which was comforting. And Robert Donovan hadn’t managed to take over the Hanging H, though he and Daisy had given it plenty of effort.
Sometimes John felt as if he’d been in lust with the enemy. He was just so drawn to Daisy, it was as if all that bad-girl-calling vibe shook him down to his knees.