A Baxter's Redemption

He’d do his job. He’d give her the advice her father wanted her to have, and he’d provide legal counsel should she require it. But after that, Isabel Baxter was on her own.

CHAPTER TWO

HAGGERSTON WAS A TOWN that landed like a splatter in the middle of open prairie, cut through by a highway, and left on its own in the patchwork of Montana’s fields and pastures. It was large enough to have the main amenities—a supermarket, a hardware store, a veterinarian clinic—but small enough that everyone still knew each other.

Isabel had been born here, and when she left home to go to college, she never thought she’d return. Not like this. She’d always imagined her homecoming to be a triumphal entry—a successful, beautiful woman come back for a quick weekend where she showed off her husband and kids. She’d be the topic of local gossip, word of her arrival spreading faster than the flu.

She had the gossip part down, she realized wryly, but not the way she’d hoped. Life had a way of turning full circle and swallowing a person whole.

When she’d graduated from Yale and moved to New York for her first job—a desk job in a marketing company—life had seemed shiny and exciting. And it was. For a young woman with family money, New York had a lot to offer.

One rainy evening after work last year, Isabel had headed out to catch a cab home. As she’d stepped out into the street to hail one, a bike had swerved around her and pushed her into oncoming traffic. She didn’t remember the car hitting her at all, but she did recall waking up in the hospital, in agony from head to toe. Her face had been badly cut, and from that moment on, she knew that her life would never be what she’d imagined.

After that first surgery, she could remember feeling like a heavy weight was on her chest, refusing to let her inhale. It was like being smothered from the inside, and when the doctors told her that she’d nearly died on the table, she knew she wouldn’t have another surgery. Vanity wasn’t worth dying for, but the adjustment to becoming ordinary when she’d been used to being stunningly beautiful was a difficult one. No one jumped to open doors for her anymore. No one checked her out in the street—unless one wanted to count the double takes from passersby when they saw the scars. They weren’t looking with admiration. They stared in pity, then dropped their gazes.

So when her father suggested that she might come back to Haggerston for a while, that old yearning to finally be a part of the family business—maybe even take it over—resurfaced. New York was a big and scary place for a woman who’d lost her beauty, and she’d already been passed over twice for a promotion at her marketing job. She’d gotten her education, had four years of work experience under her belt, and she was no longer the beauty queen who’d left town eight years ago. Perhaps a shot at Baxter Land Holdings wasn’t as out of the question anymore. So she packed up her things to make the move.

It was then that she’d seen the ad for a tiny house for sale. It was beautiful—a miniature home on wheels like a trailer, but built to look exactly like a house, complete with sloped roof and a small porch on the front. Inside, it was arranged with artistic precision. The front door opened onto the wee sitting room, behind which were the kitchen and bathroom. Overhead was a sleeping loft, with long, narrow windows spilling light under the sloping roof. The entire inside was made of natural wood, softened by wax, and was at its most beautiful in the afternoon light.

Everything had to be carefully arranged so that not an inch was wasted, and that was part of what made Isabel fall in love with the tiny house. It forced her to reexamine her life and the items that she’d collected along the way and pare them down to the essentials.

Who was she underneath the makeup, the fashion, the money... What mattered most?

So she’d bought the house, hooked it up behind her SUV and began the long drive from New York to Montana.

Within a week after her visit with her dad, she’d been set up. Finding a place to park her little house had been easier than she’d imagined. Outside Haggerston, a local man had a piece of property with electricity and water all ready to hook up, and he charged her a miniscule rent for the pleasure of living on his land. It had a view of green pasture where horses grazed on one side, and on the other, the foothills sloped lazily toward jagged mountains. Just standing there, breathing in the pristine summer air made everything seem possible again.

Isabel pulled two grocery bags full of fresh produce out of the trunk of her car and was heading back to the house when the sound of an engine rumbled into the drive. She turned back, squinting against the afternoon sun. A black pickup truck pulled in, dusty from the road. It came to a stop next to her white SUV, and her father’s lawyer—James? Was that it?—grinned down at her out the open window.

“Hi,” he said with an easy smile. “This isn’t what I expected.”

She glanced back at the little house. No, she doubted that her living arrangements were what anyone expected from her, but at this point, she didn’t care. Life hadn’t been what she’d expected, either, so she figured they could all be mildly surprised together and then get on with things.

“How did you find me, exactly?” she asked. She hadn’t given him her address—she hadn’t given it to her father, either, for that matter.

“In Haggerston? Nothing’s as secret as you think,” he replied with a shrug. “I asked around a little. Didn’t take much.”

She didn’t doubt that for a minute. Haggerston was nothing if not efficient in its gossip. James opened the truck door and hopped out.

“What can I do for you?” she asked. She turned and climbed the three steps up to the tiny porch and opened the front door. Inside, she had everything arranged already—two wood-framed leather chairs on one side, an oval table between them that doubled as a place to eat and a place to visit. Across from the little table was another compact chair, this one upholstered in gold and burgundy, with a Tiffany lamp perched on a plant stand next to it. Afternoon sunlight slanted through a window, brightening everything into a cheery glow.

James ambled after her, pausing on the porch to peer inside. “Does your father know about this?”

She turned to eye him curiously. “Do I need his permission?”

He smiled wryly. “Sorry, that was just curiosity.” His gaze moved around slowly. “It’s kind of neat.”

“Thanks.” She moved toward the kitchen space. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I take it you don’t remember me.”

“You’re my father’s lawyer,” she said, giving him a funny look.

“I mean from before.”

“No. Should I?” Her parents had always had a hundred business contacts, and she’d never been able to keep them straight. Perhaps James was the son of one of them. Although he didn’t come from money if his suits were anything to go by, so maybe a nephew. She pulled open the small fridge under the counter and began to unpack her groceries into it—peaches, pears, nectarines.

“I’m James Hunter.” He paused. “Jim Hunter. They called me Jim. We went to high school together.”

“Oh—” She stopped herself before she could pretend to remember. She certainly hadn’t been friends with a Jim Hunter, and she’d remember a guy as good-looking as this lawyer was. He was tall, broad and muscular, with green eyes and the faintest hint of freckles across his cheekbones as if he’d stepped off the farm and into a suit. His jaw was strong, and he met her gaze with easy directness. She shut the fridge and rose to her feet.

“It’s okay. We didn’t run in the same circles.” He smiled wanly, and for the life of her she wished she could remember him, put him into context.

“I’m really sorry,” she said with a sigh. “I stayed pretty busy in high school.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat. “I came to bring by those documents your father mentioned. I have a check for you here, and a few pages for you to sign.”

He put a folder onto the tabletop.

“Have a seat,” Isabel said, sinking into the chair opposite him.

“Thanks.” He sat down and opened the folder. He slid a check toward her, and she scanned the amount. It was the contents of her trust fund, enough to invest in a small business of her own. She folded it in half. “I just need you to sign here stating that you’ve received the money, then here and here and initial here.”

Isabel looked over the papers, then signed in the designated spots. She put down the pen with a click and looked at James speculatively. “Why are you really here?”

James didn’t appear surprised at the question, and he met her gaze easily. “What do you mean?”

“You could have called me into your office,” she replied. “You were holding the check. If I wanted the money, I’d have come to you.”

“I’m the family lawyer, remember?” he replied. “This is my job.”

“You’re my father’s lawyer. There is a difference.”

“No, I’m here for you, too. If you need any legal advice, I’m here to help. Everything will be billed to your father.”

Isabel laughed softly. “The one thing my father taught me was that nothing in life is free. There are always strings attached. What are the strings here?”

James shrugged. “He’s your dad. He worries.”

“So you’re the official spy?” she clarified. “He’s just signed over a large chunk of cash, and you’re here to make sure I don’t do anything silly?”

James dropped his gaze. She’d hit the nail on the head, and on her first try, at that. She would have been more impressed with herself if she weren’t so annoyed with the situation.

“I’m not interested in spying on you,” James said after a momentary silence. “I’m a lawyer, and contrary to family opinion, I do have a few limits on what I’ll do. I’ll tell you what I told your father—I’m happy to give you some legal advice. I’ll even pass along any advice your father has for you, if you’re willing to hear it. But after that, my duties are complete, and the rest is none of my business.”

He rose to his feet and collected the papers together once more.

“Look, James—” Had she offended him? “I don’t mean to take this out on you. We’ve got a complicated family dynamic.”

“Tell me about it.” His tone was grim, but he shot her a wry smile. “Don’t worry about me, Ms. Baxter. I’ve got a hide like an elephant.”

“And a memory to match,” she replied with a low laugh.

“It doesn’t take a stellar memory to remember you,” he replied, pausing at the door. “Everyone knew Isabel Baxter.”

Isabel smiled wanly. “Well, as you can see, those days are gone. I’ll have to face life just like everyone else now.”

James regarded her thoughtfully. “You’ll do okay,” he said. Then he pulled the door open and stepped out onto the small porch, then he paused and took a business card out of his pocket. “That’s my contact information. If you need anything, give me a call.”

Isabel watched as James made his way back to his truck and slid into the seat. He raised his hand in a wave, then slammed the door.

James Hunter—Jim, he’d been—had done well for himself. And in a way that no one could dismiss. He’d worked hard, become a lawyer, and if he weren’t one of the best, her father would never have put him on retainer. No one would brush off his success as a by-product of his good looks. Isabel had worked hard for her degree, too, but she still felt like her self-confidence had been pulled out from under her. She knew how to face these challenges as a beautiful woman, but how was she supposed to get over the hurdles without a brilliant smile, a flirtatious laugh or a lingering look that would leave the men weak-kneed? Those had been her tricks, because under that surface confidence, she hadn’t really believed that she could succeed based on her intelligence alone. She’d wanted to, of course—she’d desperately wanted people to take her seriously—but she’d never really believed they would. Somehow, the patronizing smiles and pats on her hand were more believable than the whisper inside her that said, “I could do this...”

“How do women manage?” she asked herself aloud, and her fingers fluttered up to the scars along her left cheek.

She’d never felt more powerless in her life.

* * *

JAMES DROPPED HIS briefcase on his desk and pulled off his suit jacket. Jackson, Hobbs and Hunter was a small law firm, consisting of James, Ted Jackson, who made a habit of doing far too much pro bono work, and a transplanted lawyer from another town west of Haggerston named Eugene Hobbs. Eugene was tall, gangly and looked like a fourteen-year-old, but his thirty-five-year-old brain was a steel trap.

The office building was on the corner of Preston Street and Main, a three-story building that overlooked Saint Mary’s Catholic Church’s parking lot on one side and a string of little shops along Main Street on the other. James enjoyed the view of the parking lot, as strange as that seemed to his law partners. He watched kids learn how to ride their bikes in that parking lot, people come and go from the church, teenagers get their first driving lessons with white-knuckled parents. Looking over that parking lot helped him to think and put his mind onto different paths. This afternoon, the church parking lot was empty, except for one small hatchback car that belonged to the priest. It wasn’t helpful.

James turned on his computer and checked his email. A smile twitched at the corners of his lips when he saw a forward from his younger sister, Jenny. She was always sending him little jokes—this one about driving in England. He was about to reply when Eugene stuck his head around the door.

“Hey, you’re back,” the gangly man said. “Did you get Ted’s email about billable hours?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Eugene came into the office and looked out the wide window at the parking lot. “So how’ve you been? I haven’t seen much of you the last few days.”

“I’ve been busy with the Baxters,” James replied.

“They keep you hopping.”

“It’s called a retainer,” James quipped.

“I heard that Mr. Baxter’s daughter is back in town.”

James shrugged, unwilling to say too much. “Yeah, she’s back.”

“I’ve seen the pictures of her during her beauty queen days, but I haven’t seen her in person yet. Are the scars as bad as they say?”

James considered for a moment, thinking back to Isabel and the white lines that tugged at the left side of her face. But it wasn’t just the scars that had altered Isabel—there was something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but she’d changed. “Yes,” he admitted. “She looks a lot different.”

“The gossip has been fierce,” Eugene said. “It doesn’t seem like people around town liked her much.”

James shrugged noncommittally. He had his own grudge with the Baxter beauty, not that it mattered. Life went on, and people who held on to their anger only punished themselves. According to Gandhi, at least.

“So what was the deal with her?” Eugene pressed.

“Oh, just that she was gorgeous and wealthy, and relied on her looks a lot.”

“I know the feeling. I rely on mine, too.”

“It’s because you look like Opie,” James said with a laugh. “Everyone opens up to you.”

“That’s what I mean.” Eugene’s face broke open into a wolfish grin. “It works for me.”

James laughed. Eugene wasn’t as young, or as simple, as he looked. At thirty-five, he still looked like a teen, a cowlick making the hair at the back of his head stand up straight, no matter how much product he applied to flatten it. The tiny lines forming around his eyes were incongruous.

“But you liked her?” Eugene asked.

James barked out a bitter laugh. “I can’t say that any of us liked her much. She used people—men, mostly. She knew how to get her way. But I’m not willing to carry a grudge from high school. If you saw her—what the accident did to her—you’d see what I mean. That’s punishment enough.”

Eugene’s phone blipped, and he pulled it out of his pocket, raised a finger and picked up the call. “Eugene Hobbs here.” He listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece and said to James, “Talk later, okay?”

James gave a thumbs-up, and Eugene headed back out into the hallway, leaving James in quiet. Isabel had left her mark all over this town—from being Miss Haggers ton three years running to breaking hearts. And though she hadn’t done much to James himself, she’d broken his cousin’s spirit, just before he left for war.

His office phone rang, and James answered on the second ring.

“James Hunter,” he intoned.

“Mr. Hunter? This is Bob over at Family Cheese.”

James closed his eyes and suppressed a sigh. What was wrong now?

“What can I do for you, Bob?”

“I’m afraid we have to let Jenny go.”

“You’re firing her?” James clarified, his stomach sinking. This wasn’t exactly a surprise—he’d dealt with this before. “What happened?”

“I’m sorry. We did our best, but she just lost it on a customer. Screaming, yelling. It isn’t working out. Can you come pick her up?”

Jenny had Down syndrome, and he’d become her legal guardian after their mother’s death in a car crash three years earlier. It had been hard enough to find a job again after the last time she’d “lost it on a customer” at a local diner. There was more to the story, of course. There always was, but no one wanted to hear it.

“Why did she get upset?” James asked.

“No reason that I could see,” Bob replied. “Look, I’ve got customers, so I’ve got to go. But you’ll need to come pick her up. She’s waiting outside on the bench.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he replied. “Thanks, Bob.”

Hanging up the phone, he pushed himself to his feet. Jenny was his only sibling, and he’d always been protective of her. In school, she’d never been picked on because everyone knew that if they messed with Jenny, they were taking on Jim Hunter, too. With Jenny’s big blue eyes and wide, laughing mouth, it was hard to imagine her getting angry, but she’d been having trouble keeping a job for the past year. He clicked his computer into sleep mode and rose to his feet. His jaw was tense, his gaze drilling into the wall ahead of him.

“Oh, James—” Eugene poked his head back into James’s office, then froze. “Okay. Sorry. Not a good time.”

James didn’t even bother reassuring his colleague. Right now, he had something else to do, and that old protective instinct was kicking in. No matter how many years slipped by, his role remained the same—Jenny’s big brother. He’d be the brick wall between her and an unkind world.

CHAPTER THREE

ISABEL TURNED IN a circle, taking in the large kitchen. It was more than she needed, but a full, professional bakery was hard to resist. For the last couple of years, she’d been mulling over a new idea for a small business—a chocolate shop. She’d call it Baxter’s Chocolates, and her father would be enraged at her use of the family name for another one of her business schemes, but it was her name, too. He wasn’t the only one with claim to it.

Gleaming ovens, a ceramic stove top with a huge stainless steel hood hovering above it, vast counter space and everything tiled in brilliant white. A double refrigerator loomed next to the owner, Roger Varga, who stood near the door, arms crossed over his chest as she poked through cupboards and into corners.

“What happened to the business that used to be here?” Isabel asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Roger stroked his fingers over a graying mustache. “Times are tough. They weren’t able to make the money they thought they could.”

She nodded, hiding the worry that built up inside her. That was her fear, too, that her chocolate business wouldn’t take off and she’d be left with another failed business on her hands. Of course, her father could always bail her out—he always had in the past—but this time, it was a matter of pride. This time, she wanted to make it on her own.

“I think the lease is a little high,” she said, angling her steps back over to where he stood. “It doesn’t do you any good to lease the place out for three months, then have it stand empty for another eight if I go under, does it?”

He paused, seemed to be considering her words. “What did you have in mind?”

“Half of the asking price.”

“I can’t do that.” He shook his head. “I’d rather have it stand empty. But I could go down to this—” He jotted a number on the corner of the lease papers.

Isabel considered for a moment. The number was fair, but she had a feeling she could get him lower. She shot him a smile, and only after she pulled the smile-brilliantly-at-your-rival routine, did she remember that she no longer had that card in her deck. She wasn’t going to dazzle him, and she sucked in a deep breath, covering her momentary discomfort by looking down. Could she even negotiate without her go-to feminine wiles?

Do I have a choice?

“How about this—” She jotted another number below his. “And I’ll make you something amazing for your next anniversary with your wife.”

“How amazing?” A smile twitched at the corners of his lips.

“Trust me. I know what impresses a woman. It will be chocolate, and it will melt her heart. Just be sure to tell everyone who made it.”

He laughed and shook his head and scratched the new number into the lease. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Baxter, but you have yourself a deal. Care to sign now?”

“Not yet,” she said with a shake of her head. “I just need to have my lawyer look over the fine print, and then I’ll drop it by your office.”

“Fair enough.” He shook her hand, and they walked together through the echoing shop and out the front door. The bell tinkled overhead, and Isabel glanced up at it. This was it—she could feel it in her bones—her shop. She’d mentioned this chocolate shop idea to her father before the accident and he’d liked the idea—in New York, at least. He’d suggested that it might keep her entertained until she got married and started having babies. That had been insulting, but he’d paid for her trips to France for chocolate-making classes. It had been a victory, of sorts. His one repeated warning had been, “But you don’t seem to have the sixth sense, Izzy. Entrepreneurs need to have that tingle that tells them where the money is, and you haven’t really got that...”

Was he right? Was this a dumb idea, or was her instinct better than either of them imagined? Well, this wasn’t his business. He bought and sold land with Baxter Land Holdings, but she wanted something different—Baxter’s Chocolates. Truffles, bars, nuggets and cream-centered confections. She’d perfected the art in her own kitchen—polishing up her skills on those vacations to Paris. Her friends thought she’d gone to France to shop, and she had done a fair bit of that, too, but her main reason had been for the private chocolatier classes she took from the best in the world. And after all that personal research and now her trust fund money, the time was ripe.

“Thanks so much,” Isabel said, shaking Roger’s hand firmly. “I’ll be in touch.”

This side street was quiet this time of day. A block away, Main Street was bedecked with hanging planters of fragrant hydrangeas, but Nicholson Avenue was bare. It ran from Main with some businesses on either side of the street—a little bistro across from the closed bakery—and then melted into a residential area of tiny houses from the fifties. Isabel sucked in a breath of fresh air and smiled to herself. This felt right. It was coming together, and after all the changes to her family, after her accident, she needed this.

“Is that you, Isabel?”

Isabel blinked and turned to see Britney teetering across the street toward her, one hand on her belly, the other outstretched to stop a pickup truck as she made a great show of pretending to run across the road, taking tiny steps and laughing at herself. Isabel smiled wanly. Had she ever acted like that? She wasn’t sure she’d like the honest answer.

Roger gave a final wave and headed off in the other direction, leaving Isabel alone on the sidewalk, waiting for Britney to make it across. When Britney stepped up onto the curb, she laughed and shook her head.