“They hate this town,” Hudson said, sitting back down in his club chair, an expanse of Montana wilderness visible through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. He picked up his beer and took a drink. “They showed up for our weddings, then turned around and flew home, grumbling all the way about Jones-stealing women and Rust Creek Falls not even being on the map.”
“Those Jones-stealing women are their daughters-in-law. Jeez,” Jensen said, sipping his scotch. “You’d think Mom especially would like some women in the family after five sons.”
Walker popped a walnut from the dish on the table into his mouth. “I tried—hard. I talked to Dad about how much I like Rust Creek Falls, that we can easily work from the Jones Holding satellite building we built in town, that we’re—wait for it—happy, and he just doesn’t get it. Or want to hear it.”
“Lost cause,” Hudson said, shaking his head. “I’m over it. You have to be. It’s the only way to move on.”
Family couldn’t be a lost cause, though. If you gave up, that was it. You accepted defeat. Jensen knew Hudson had always had a hard time dealing with the Jones patriarch; he was the cowboy in the family, the one who’d always gone his own way.
He knew his father had to be proud of the way the Jones brothers had forged their own identities and paths. And to bring this family together, Jensen would do whatever it took.
“Forty years is a big deal,” Jensen said. “That has to mean something.”
Walker shrugged. “Look, you want to plan some big shindig, I’m in. But I remember you getting disappointed more than a time or two, Jensen. Mom and Dad don’t care about anniversaries and family get-togethers. They never will.”
“I’m in, too,” Hudson said. “And I’m sure Autry will fly in from Paris with his family and that Gideon, who’s traveling on company business, will make an appearance. But it will end up being just us celebrating our parents’ anniversary. I seriously doubt Mom and Dad will show up.”
Jensen grumbled to himself, staring hard at the trees and woodlands out the window. Why was everything he wanted—woman, land, anniversary party—not going his way? Maybe whatever was in the water in Rust Creek Falls had a negative effect just on him. “I’ll figure something out,” Jensen said, taking another sip of his scotch.
Except he couldn’t figure anything out right now. Because from the moment he’d left Daisy’s Donuts this morning, feeling like the biggest jerk who ever lived, his mind had been a scramble. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about Mikayla Brown? Yes, she was lovely to look at and there was some kind of instantaneous chemical reaction between them that rarely happened—to him, at least. But the woman was very, very pregnant! About to have a baby.
And even if Jensen could overlook that one detail—one big detail—there was no way Mikayla was in the market for a casual weekend fling.
Yet he couldn’t shake the thought of seeing her for the first time sitting there and biting into that custard donut. The deep brown of her intelligent, kind eyes. The melodic sound of her laughter. Her calm voice. What the heck was her story? No wedding ring. Unmarried and pregnant in a small town like Rust Creek Falls.
“Since you’re so family oriented,” Hudson said, shaking him out of his thoughts, “you’re invited to the Stockton triplets’ party tomorrow afternoon. It’s not their birthday, but Auntie Bella can’t resist throwing a party for her brother’s adorable kids, so we’re celebrating the fact that all three triplets are potty trained.”
“A potty-trained party?” Jensen couldn’t help but laugh. “Should I bring superhero underwear as a gift?”
“Actually, yes,” Hudson said. “Two boys and a girl, if you forgot. And Katie is nuts about Wonder Woman,” he added with a smile. “Listen, Bella would love to see you and catch up, so I hope you can make it.”
Triplets. That had to be a handful. Three handfuls.
Made one baby seem not quite as...scary.
Which made him think of Mikayla again. For all he knew she was having quintuplets, though. So forget her, man, he told himself. She’s off-limits. She’s not looking for a good time. And that’s all you can take on these days. A good time. No commitments. No future. No hurt feelings.
“I’ll be there,” Jensen said. Which was what he wanted to hear his parents say when he made up some ruse to get them to their own party. Their own surprise party. He wanted to surprise them, wanted them to know their sons cared, even if they themselves had forgotten to show how much they did. And his parents did care, somewhere deep down where their feelings were buried—Jensen was sure.
He glanced at his watch. Guthrie Barnes had agreed to meet with him face-to-face to discuss the land deal. He had to be over there on the outskirts of town in fifteen minutes. He stood up and slapped down a fifty. “Drinks on me. See you tomorrow at the party.”
Walker raised an eyebrow. “This is Rust Creek Falls, Jensen. And Maverick Manor may be the most upscale place to get a drink in town, but two good scotches and a beer still won’t run you even close to fifty bucks.”
“For the till, then, for the owner to stock up,” he said, tipping the Stetson he’d bought specifically to make himself look more like a land guy than a businessman to Barnes.
In ten minutes, he’d parked the shiny black pickup he’d rented in front of the Barnes ranch house. He got out and surveyed the land, which stretched as far as he could see. The access road to the highway was two minutes away—perfect. And the location on the outskirts of town would allow convoys through and choppers to land out here without clogging up traffic in the center of town.
These hundred acres would be perfect for the crisis distribution center he was planning on. The man who’d been like a second father to him had died in a flash flood while volunteering not too far from here, and Jensen wanted to honor his memory, as did his brothers, in a way that would help the area and community. Davison Parkwell had been a very close friend of his father’s once, but the two had had a falling-out and his father had refused to talk to him, let alone about him, in the past five years. Walker the Second hadn’t even gone to Davison’s funeral. But Davison had been there for Jensen in ways his father hadn’t been, as a Boy Scout leader, a coach of his baseball team, a mentor. His dad had always been too busy, but Davison and his wife, who’d died years before him, hadn’t had children and they’d doted on the Jones boys, particularly Jensen and Gideon, the two youngest, in any way they could. Not with money, which they’d all had in truckloads, but with time. Whenever Jensen had had a problem, his heart and mind all messed up over a girl or a coach making him feel like dung or because he’d learned that all the Jones money couldn’t buy what really mattered in life, he’d sought out Davison Parkwell, who’d listened and comforted and had taught him that riding out in the country could soothe a lot of ailments. He’d been right. Saddling up and taking off always managed to clear Jensen’s head.
Maybe he’d go for a ride once he’d squared things away with Barnes. Anything to get his mind off Mikayla Brown, her brown eyes and her very pregnant belly.
But right now, Jensen was going to pay it back and pay it forward—just the way Davison would want. Victims of natural disasters, such as the Great Flood in Rust Creek Falls a few years ago, wouldn’t have to wait for supplies and food and fresh water or shelter; they’d have a place to go right here.
Jensen glanced at the run-down farmhouse at the edge of the land. Peeling paint. Rotting posts. A barn that looked like it might collapse any day. What the hell? Why wouldn’t Guthrie Barnes, clearly having financial issues, sell the land? Jensen was offering a small fortune. The old-timer had hung up on his assistant twice and told Jensen no on the phone once already.
Two old dogs with graying muzzles ran up to Jensen, and he gave them both a pat, waiting a beat for Barnes to come out. He didn’t. Jensen walked up the three porch steps, the middle of which was half-gone, and knocked on