A Coulter's Christmas Proposal

“So am I.” Eli couldn’t conceive of a world in which his brother wasn’t sitting a horse, chasing cattle or riding rodeo. It was impossible to comprehend. “I guess we’ll know when he gets here. Which is … when?” He looked at each of the four in turn and registered the worried glances they exchanged. “Don’t tell me he isn’t coming home.”

“We’re not sure,” Cade said with a sigh. “Zach and I went to see him in the convalescent center in California. Brodie agreed to come home only after Zach promised to find a way to break the will if Brodie didn’t want to stay on the Triple C after he’d checked in with us.”

“Not that I can actually do that,” Zach put in, thrusting his hands through his hair to rake the heavy black strands away from his face. “The will is airtight. None of us can sell the land without all four agreeing.”

“Even if one of us wanted to sell,” Eli mused aloud. “Or even if one of us had enough money to buy out one of the others.”

“Hell,” Cade said with disgust. “If any one of us had enough money to buy out the others, we could use it to pay off the inheritance taxes.”

“How much are they?” Eli asked.

“A little over two million dollars,” Zach said succinctly.

“Holy …” Eli whistled, long and low, an audible expression of shock.

“So … I’m guessing by your reaction that you don’t have that much sitting in your bank account,” Cade said dryly.

“I wish.” Eli shook his head. “My savings took a hit when I spent a year interning with Lucan, but even before that, I couldn’t have swung two mil. How are we going to come up with that much money?”

“We’re hoping each of us will find a way to maximize what Dad left us and raise part of the money. Cade sold cattle and earned enough to meet the first payment. I’m projecting income off the Lodge over the next six months will bring in enough to make the second payment,” Zach told him. “If you can find a way to generate income from whatever you find when you open Mom’s studio, then we’re three-quarters of the way to resolving the tax situation. And if Brodie comes home …”

“Wait.” Eli held up his hand. “Haven’t you and Cade already been in Mom’s studio?”

“No,” Cade said, his deep voice quiet. “The studio is yours, just like the Lodge is Zach’s. I thought it only fair that you be the first to go in.”

“And I agree,” Zach said, his voice just as quietly convinced.

Eli lifted the bottle to his lips and drank, giving himself time to wash away the emotion that blocked his throat. “I didn’t realize you literally meant you were leaving first contact to each of us.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to be the first person entering the studio where his mother had been working moments before she died. Nonetheless, he thought grimly, he’d do what needed to be done. “I’ll do that tomorrow after I’ve seen the attorney. I’m assuming it’s still locked. Do one of you have the keys?”

Cade nodded. “I picked them up from the attorney right after I talked to you. They’re up at the house.”

Eli looked over the faces of the four seated at the counter. “Is that where we’re all staying? At the house?”

“I’m officially using my old room,” Zach told him with a grin. “But I spend a lot of time at Cynthia’s place in town.”

Eli glanced at the pretty blonde, surprised when color bloomed in her cheeks. She met his gaze without flinching, however, and he guessed she didn’t care that he knew she and Zach were semi-living together, even though she blushed at Zach’s statement.

“And I’m down at the cabin with Mariah,” Cade put in. “We’re all in and out of the house on most days, though, since I’m still using Dad’s office to run the Triple C, Zach’s using his old room on occasion, and Mariah’s been doing the housework.”

Eli nodded. “Sounds good. You two want to open the studio with me?”

“Yeah,” Zach responded, his expression somber. “I’m there.”

Cade nodded when Eli looked at him, his eyes equally grave.

“Good.” His brief acceptance closed the subject. “On another subject, I met a woman at the party tonight. She told me she’s writing a book about Mom.”

“Geez,” Zach groaned.

“Was her name Amanda Blake?” Mariah asked.

“Yes.” Eli raised an eyebrow. “Do you know her?”

“She’s been in the café where I work and I’ve waited on her. She seems nice enough.”

“No matter how nice she seems,” Cade growled, “I don’t want her poking around in our lives.”

“Me, either.” Zach’s voice was clipped. “She drove out here and talked to us. As soon as we heard what she wanted, we told her we didn’t have any comment. After she left, I looked her up online. Her credentials checked out—she’s a reporter and editor for an art magazine in New York City. I read a couple of her articles online and the woman can write, but that doesn’t change a thing. I don’t want her writing a book about life on the Triple C.”

Zach didn’t add that he didn’t want a writer telling the world about Joseph Coulter’s alcoholism and the hell that life became on the ranch after their mother died. Eli agreed. He and his brothers had walked away from the chaos their father had created. None of them wanted their personal pain documented and exposed in a book for outsiders to read.

“I thought her name was familiar,” Eli said, his memory jogged by Zach’s comments. “She contacted my agent last year about an interview but I was in Spain and told him to put her off. She apparently has solid credentials and, given her background, knows where to look for all the details about Mom’s art career. I seem to remember she has a sister who married the owner of a major gallery in New York, so she’s got connections. My agent gave me that bit of information when he was trying to talk me into doing a phone interview with her. Regardless of her background, it’s nobody’s business but ours what happened after Mom died,” Eli agreed grimly. “I don’t want anyone nosing around, stirring up trouble.” No matter how much he’d been drawn to her, he added silently. Circumstances meant Amanda Blake was off-limits.

“Your mother’s art has skyrocketed in popularity over the last ten years or so,” Cynthia put in. “It’s not surprising there’s interest in her life story. I’m wondering if there may be a way to use Ms. Blake to control what the public learns about your lives after your mother died.”

“Are you saying you think we should cooperate with Amanda Blake?” Zach asked, a frown creasing his brow.

“I’m only suggesting you might want to consider telling her just enough to deflect her curiosity and keep her from digging more deeply into your family history.” Cynthia laid her hand on Zach’s arm.

Eli mentally shook his head as Zach seemed to calm under Cynthia’s touch. The subtle influence the pretty blonde had on his brother was flat-out amazing, especially given Zach’s fiercely independent nature.

“Maybe we should think about whether we could find a middle ground,” he commented aloud. “If she’s going to be asking questions in Indian Springs, then finding a way to distract her with some information—not all the truth, but enough to satisfy her—might not be a bad idea.”

“Maybe,” Cade responded, clearly not convinced. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Good enough,” Eli said.

Beside Zach, Cynthia yawned. “Sorry,” she apologized. “We’ve been up since dawn, making sure all the details for the Lodge opening were taken care of, and I think the lack of sleep just caught up with me.”

Eli glanced at his watch, mentally calculating how long it had been since he’d slept in a real bed. Too long, he thought. “I’ve been catnapping in airports and on planes for a few days myself. I think I’ll head up to the house.” He popped the miniature piece of chocolate cake into his mouth, pushed back the stool and stood. “What time do you want to meet me with the keys at Mom’s studio, Cade?”

“Why don’t you give me a call on my cell when you get back from talking with Anderson?”

“Sounds good.” Eli looked at Zach. “Does that work for you?”

“Sure. I’ll be here at the Lodge. Cade can call me after he talks to you.”

“Great.” He looked at Cynthia and Mariah. “Nice to meet you, ladies. I’m guessing I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

“There’s a very good chance,” Mariah told him.

“Come have lunch, or dinner, here at the Lodge,” Cynthia said. “Jane keeps an open kitchen for the family.”

“Sounds great. Good night, all.” Eli glanced back to raise a hand in response to the chorus of good-nights and was struck by the picture of the two couples. There was a sense of rightness about his brothers, seated next to the women they’d chosen. His brothers loomed, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, next to their future brides with their blond hair and smaller female bodies. He’d never thought any of his brothers would marry, let alone look so perfectly content paired with a woman. But there was no mistaking the way the couples seemed to fit.

He was happy for his brothers but he knew he’d never join them. The concept of caring so much for a woman that he’d never want to leave her, would commit to spending the rest of his life with her, was as alien as the probability that invaders from outer space might land a UFO in the ranch pasture. And about as likely to happen, he thought. Just thinking about the remote possibility that he’d ever need a woman that badly made him want to run for the nearest exit.

Shaking his head in amazement, he walked down the hallway, crossed the dimly lit lobby and left the Lodge.

Lanterns were spaced down the length of the porch and their muted light spilled down the walkway to the parking area. Once Eli stepped into his truck and drove away from the Lodge, however, he was instantly surrounded by dark night. The truck’s headlamps cut a swath of light across the gravel road ahead of him, illuminating the grassy shoulder on either side. But beyond the pickup’s beams, only moon- and starlight eased the darkness. The cluster of ranch buildings loomed ahead, bulky black shapes relieved only by the single porch lights above the doors of the bunkhouse and ranch house.

Eli swung the pickup in a wide arc and parked in front of the house. Switching off the engine and grabbing his bag from the passenger seat, he stepped out of the truck.

The solid thunk of the pickup door closing was loud in the still, quiet night. Eli paused, turning in a half circle to sweep the skyline, taking in the bulk of black buttes rising against the starlit backdrop. A quarter moon gave scant light, but it was enough to sketch the ranch and its surroundings in black shadow and silver highlights.

Home. The word came unbidden, settling into his consciousness and deep into his bones, calming a restlessness he hadn’t known lived within him.

He’d traveled a lot of miles since he’d left the Triple C, Eli thought. But in none of the places he’d landed had he ever felt this deep connection. It was as if a fraying line between his heart and the land was suddenly solid again, pulling taut and strong, anchoring him to this place.

He stood silent for a long moment, breathing in the scents of sage and fresh air, before he shook himself and stirred to walk to the house.

“Too damn tired,” he muttered as he crossed the porch and pushed the unlocked door inward. “I’m imagining things.”

He flipped the light switch to the right of the door and lamps came on in the living room.

The room was quiet, homey with the soft glow of lamplight over the deep-cushioned leather sofa and chairs, the polished wooden floors and the fireplace with its heavy oak mantel.

The last time he’d seen the room had been the morning he’d driven away from the Triple C. Joseph Coulter had stood in the center, fury on his face, and told his four sons that if they left, they couldn’t come back until they knew he was dead.

Eli couldn’t help but wonder if his father had known he was predicting their future.

And he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell had made the old man leave everything he owned to the sons he’d spent years hating.

It was a question with no answer.

Eli hit the switch, shrouding the big room in darkness once again, and climbed the stairs, memory making him sure-footed as he moved down the upstairs hallway to a room near the end.

When he flicked on the light here, he felt as if he’d stepped back in time. Nothing about his old room had changed. A poster of Van Gogh’s Starry Night was tacked on the wall above the desk. Next to it was a poster from the Daniels County Fair, listing Brodie as a rodeo competitor.

He dropped his bag on the heavy nineteenth-century oak chair next to the bed. Unbuttoning his shirt, he shrugged out of it, hung it over the back of the chair and sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots and socks. Standing once again, he unsnapped his jeans and shoved them down his legs and off before laying them over the chair seat.

The scent of clean sheets and fabric softener reached him as he pulled back the sheets. He suspected either Mariah or Cynthia had put fresh sheets on his bed and he made a mental note to thank them tomorrow. Then he snapped off the light, slid between the sheets and closed his eyes.

The Technicolor image of thick-lashed hazel eyes, dark hair and smooth skin instantly flooded him. He wondered hazily if Amanda Blake’s soft eyes and lush mouth were going to haunt him from now on, but then sleep caught him, pulling him down into soft, welcome blackness.

Chapter Three

Despite the weariness that had sucked him into sleep the night before, Eli woke just after eight o’clock the following morning. He’d forgotten to close the blinds and he squinted against the bright sunlight that poured through the windows before tossing the bedcovers back and rising.

He showered and shaved, then headed downstairs to make coffee in the quiet kitchen. The refrigerator yielded a plastic container of fried chicken and he ate three pieces while standing at the sink, staring out the window. From his vantage point, he could see the backyard, with the tall old maple tree in the far corner, the fence that marked the house area’s boundaries, and the pasture that stretched toward the buttes rising not far away.

Once again, he felt the tug of familiarity and a sense of homecoming.

Maybe what he’d felt last night hadn’t been only the result of a lack of sleep and the late hour, he thought.

The coffeemaker beeped, and he washed his hands, returned the chicken container to the fridge, then opened the cabinet over the coffeemaker. As he’d hoped, the cupboard held a variety of cups and mugs. He filled a thermal mug with strong black coffee and left the house.

It was just after 9:30 a.m. when he reached Indian Springs, and his meeting with the attorney lasted less than an hour. He left Ned Anderson’s office with an envelope filled with copies of legal documents and paused on the sidewalk outside.

He glanced at his watch and realized that it was too early for lunch, but despite the chicken he’d eaten earlier, his stomach felt empty. He was considering crossing the street to the Indian Springs Café when a small car pulled into an empty parking slot just in front of the eatery. Amanda Blake stepped out, a file tucked under her arm and a purse slung over her shoulder. She disappeared inside the café.

I wonder where she’s been and who she interrogated this morning.

With sudden decisiveness, he crossed the street and pulled open the door to the café.

The bells hanging on the inside of the glass panel chimed as the door swung closed behind him. He paused, scanning the room with its center tables ringed by booths lining the outer walls. Amanda was seated in a booth toward the back, her head bent as she studied the menu.

He wound his way around the tables and slid onto the seat opposite her.

Amanda looked up from the menu when someone sat down across from her, the list of pies immediately forgotten as she realized the man was Eli Coulter. “Good morning, Eli.” She hesitated only a second before continuing. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, clearly amused. “Here in Indian Springs—or here in your booth?”

“Both, actually.” Her fingers curled tighter on the edges of the vinyl-covered menu, reacting to his charm.

“I had to check in with the estate attorney this morning. His office is just across the street and when I left there, I saw you park and come in here.” He glanced around the half-full café, then back at her. “Since I was hungry, I thought I’d come over and join you.”

“You did?” Her voice rose in disbelief. She stared at him but his expression was innocently friendly. “Why would you …” She paused as the waitress arrived. Amanda placed her order for rhubarb-strawberry pie and coffee, waiting impatiently while Eli did the same and the woman left before she continued. “I had the distinct impression last night that you didn’t want to talk to me again. In fact, I assumed after our conversation that you’d be avoiding me like the plague. So why are you sitting at my booth?”

“Maybe I realized this morning that I might have been a little cranky last night and might need to apologize for being rude.”

An apology was the last thing she’d expected. She studied his face before slowly shaking her head. “While it’s nice to hear, I don’t believe for a minute that you didn’t mean what you said. Because your brothers clearly don’t want me writing about your mother either. Only they were a little more polite when they refused to help me,” she added. “So tell me the real reason you’re here.”

Amanda thought she saw surprise and brief admiration flash across his features before he answered.

“It’s not my practice to be rude to guests in my family’s company, and the apology for that is sincere. But that’s not what brought me in here. I saw you across the street and wondered who you’d been interrogating this morning.” He shrugged. “Chalk it up to curiosity.”

She rolled her eyes, annoyed with his reasons but pleased he’d been honest.

“I wasn’t interviewing anyone—I was at the library reading newspaper archives. Why do you and your brothers dislike reporters so much?” she asked bluntly.

“Because our experience with them hasn’t been good,” he told her.

She tilted her head, clearly puzzled, but didn’t demand he elaborate. Because she didn’t push, he decided to tell her.

“We were kids when Mom died, but for several weeks, reporters swarmed us every time we went into town. Dad made a rule that we had to stay together but it was hard to do. Eventually, each of us was confronted—none of us were safe. Three reporters for a celebrity gossip magazine caught me alone outside the drugstore and grilled me about the details of Mom’s death. By the time they were done, I was so confused that I had no idea what I’d told them.” Eli heard Amanda’s gasp of outrage but continued. “I was nine years old. What did I know about fielding reporters’ questions?” He shrugged. “They concocted a bunch of lies, wrote the story as if it were truth, and gossip columns in the arts sections of city newspapers picked up the story and spread it everywhere. Dad grounded me for the entire summer.”

“But that wasn’t fair,” Amanda exclaimed. “You were just a child.”

“He’d told us never to get separated when we were in town. I broke a rule.”

She frowned at him and opened her mouth to speak but he continued before she could argue further.

“The fallout from that story never really went away. When I followed my mother into the same field, her art and life inevitably came up. And just as inevitably, I kept being asked questions about that same damned story.” His smile was cynical. “Reporters’ articles never go away. They live forever on the internet. And that,” he told her with conviction, “is why I don’t trust reporters.” Or just about anyone else who seems interested in Mom’s life, he thought grimly.

Amanda was appalled. She could only imagine how being hounded while grieving his mother’s death had scarred the little boy Eli had been.

“No wonder you have a negative view of reporters,” she said. “I doubt it will change your mind but for the record, I’ve never pursued children to get a story. Nor would I,” she added firmly. “It’s unethical—not to mention immoral.”

A faint smile lit his eyes. “I’m glad to hear you say that. It’s good to know someone in the press has ethics.”

“I looked you up on the internet last night,” she told him. “I found a brief bio on your agent’s website, but beyond that, there wasn’t a lot of information.”

He nodded just as their waitress returned with their drinks and pie. He waited until she’d left before continuing. “I’m happy to let my agent field any requests for publicity. I gave a few interviews in the beginning but after being misquoted more than once, I avoid talking to the press.” He picked up his fork, pointing it at her. “For the record, this is not going to show up in your book, right?”

Amanda laughed. “You look so ferocious, threatening me with your fork.”

He glanced at the fork, then back at her, and shrugged. His green eyes lit with warmth and self-deprecation. “Not a very effective weapon, is it?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

And with that, the last of the wary animosity between them seemed to evaporate. In tacit acceptance of the truce between them, they chatted for the next hour over coffee, although each carefully kept their comments general.

Nonetheless, when they left the restaurant, Amanda found herself wishing he was an ordinary guy and not part of her research. She liked him, she thought as she slid into her car and watched him jog across the street to climb into a pickup truck. She had no illusions that their sharing a booth and chatting had permanently changed his view of her. It felt more as if he’d called a temporary truce, and she suspected that the next time they met, he would likely still be suspicious of her motives.

She’d never expected to meet someone like him on this trip and her attraction to him complicated matters. With a sigh, she started her car and backed out of the parking space.

Regardless of how much she was drawn to Eli Coulter, she still had work to do, she told herself firmly.

Despite her best efforts to concentrate solely on her research, however, thoughts of Eli smiling as he sprawled opposite her in the café booth kept intruding.

Eli spent the half-hour drive back to the ranch trying to figure out what it was about Amanda that made him tell her things he usually kept to himself.

Was it the warm interest in her hazel eyes that lured him into opening up and confiding in her?

He reached the ranch house, no closer to understanding the effect she had on him. He went inside and when he found the house empty, tossed the packet of legal documents on the table and left again to search for his brothers.

Just as he stepped off the porch, Cade rounded the corner of the barn and walked toward him.

“Hey,” Eli called as his brother neared. “Did you bring the keys?”

“Yeah.” Cade lifted his hand, a set of metal keys on a round metal ring dangling from his fingers. “Are you ready to do this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Eli told him, accepting the key ring and shoving it in his jeans pocket. “Where’s Zach?”

“He’s meeting us at the studio.”

The two men climbed into Eli’s truck and left the ranch yard, following the gravel road for a quarter mile before turning into a dirt drive that led off the road and beneath the thick green leaves of towering maple trees. Zach was already there, leaning against the front bumper of his pickup, arms crossed. He straightened as Eli parked next to him, joining Cade to follow Eli up the short walk to the single-story studio’s front door.

“I pulled the plywood off the doors and windows.” Zach pointed to a stack of wood on one side of the walk. “The Lodge had all the windows covered when we went in and we couldn’t see a damned thing. I figured ripping the wood off would save some time.”

“Thanks.” Eli fitted one of the keys into the lock. Stiff from years of being unused, metal grated against metal before the lock mechanism turned and slid free. Eli pocketed the keys and opened the door, shoving it inward and stepping over the threshold.