Chapter One
Ethan
I don’t want to be the monster.
Even as I think the thought, I still feel compelled to take the steps down into the cellar. My breath is coming in pants and my heart is pounding so hard in my chest that it’s physically painful.
Just as a scream pierces the air, Bingo sticks his cold nose to my fingers. My black and white Border Collie wakes me from the restless sleep I was in. I’m grateful for the unanticipated wakeup call that yanks me from the usual nightmare.
A glance at the clock has me cursing. I overslept on today of all days. The day I’m supposed to go fetch my mail order bride. Just the thought makes my head hurt.
After one failed marriage, I had no intention of ever bringing another woman into my life. I figure me and Bingo are meant to be bachelors. But my grandad had other plans.
The man left a stipulation in his will that each Scott brother must marry in order to get their portion of the ranch. Smart old bastard knew the place won’t make it without every single one of us stepping up to the plate, so that’s what we’re doing. Eight brothers all getting hitched over the next few weeks.
I’ve never belonged anywhere. Never been a part of anything, really. Except the Scott Family. I can’t lose this—the feeling I get when I step onto this parcel of land and know I have a real home—so I’ll suck it up and do what it takes to keep belonging.
I rush through a quick shower and grab my keys, the flowers I’m supposed to take, and a mug of black coffee.
The moment I try to start the ignition I know something is wrong with my SUV. My brother isn’t going to let me hear the end of it about the gas-guzzling vehicle that’s given me nothing but trouble.
It’s too late to try to figure out what’s wrong with the damn thing so I get out and jog around to the side of my property where I left my Gator.
Gators are utility vehicles commonly seen around the ranches in the area. They’re often used to haul equipment and navigate difficult terrain. For now though, I use it to drive to my brother’s place. The eight of us spread out across the land years ago when Grandpa divided it into parcels.
Logan’s home is closest to mine, so he’s the one I go to. Fortunately, he and his new wife, Audrey are already on their front porch.
I sprint across their lawn, avoiding the mixture of ice and snow on the ground. Pausing at the bottom of the steps, I finally take a second to draw in a deep breath before saying, “I’m supposed to pick up my wife today, but my damn SUV won’t start. Loan me the keys to your truck.”
“Warned you not to buy it.” The bastard smirks at me before tossing me his keys.
I scowl at him and start toward his driveway where he’s parked his Chevy. The sound of my name stops me, and I turn around to glance at my sister-in-law who has her little six-month-old baby girl strapped to her chest.
Audrey gives me a tentative smile. That’s to be expected when my reception to her on her wedding day wasn’t all that warm. “Good luck, Ethan.”
I see the daggers Logan is shooting my way, daring me to give his mail order bride any trouble. He’s damn protective over her and her daughter despite the fact that they’ve only been married a few days. “Thanks. I think I’m going to need it.”
Truth is, I’m not going to need it.
I want a marriage in name only. I figure our wedded union will last just a few days. By this time Monday morning, I’ll have gotten her to agree to start the divorce proceedings. It’s the perfect idea. I’ll get my share of the land and I’ll make sure she gets a generous amount of alimony for a while.
I haven’t told my seven foster brothers about this genius plan of mine. The way I see it, they wouldn’t approve. At least, Logan and Ranger won’t. They’re both happily wedded to their brides.
But I’m not like them. I’m dirty and tainted and never going to be worthy of a woman. The sooner I can help her along to that conclusion, the better it’ll be for everyone.
The drive from Courage County, where the Scott Ranch is located, to the Asheville airport where my woman will be arriving seems to take longer than normal. At one point, I reach for my phone to let the matchmaking service know that traffic is slowing me. There’s already a message from them on my phone, informing me that her flight won’t arrive for a couple more hours.
With a sigh, I drum my fingers on the wheel. I already talked to the family lawyer and there are no exceptions to the marriage requirement. Even the fact that I’d been married before didn’t count. Nope, this divorced cowboy is still expected to find a bride.
Valentine.
The name is soft and sweet, and I wonder what she looks like. The thing about the agency is they don’t let you exchange pictures. Instead, you’re matched based on compatibility profiles and an interview with the matchmaker. You never even see or talk to your match before the meeting. I guess it’s just as well. I reckon it keeps people from wondering if they could have had a better option.
As I’m pulling into the Asheville airport, snow flurries are starting to float in the air. I hope the coming snow holds off until I can get Valentine to the wedding venue.
Before I can worry more about that, motion near the front of the terminal catches my attention.
There are three guys, and one has a baseball bat. They’re advancing toward two figures. It only takes me a second to realize they’re going after women, and my blood boils. I won’t stand by and watch while these women are harassed or intimidated.
Throwing the car into park, I leave it running while I hop out. Just as I approach the group, one of the men swings the baseball bat at the old woman. She shrinks down and the young woman wraps her in her arms, fully prepared to shield her from the blow. This shit isn’t happening on my watch.
***
Valentine
Be patient. He’ll be here soon. I can practically feel Stella sitting beside me in the Asheville airport and squeezing my hand as I hear the words.
My broken heart scrapes the inside of my chest as it beats harder. Grief is making it difficult to breathe, and for a moment it feels like my throat is closing. Stella was the only adult who ever cared about me. Last year, she took me in after I ran away from my foster home at seventeen.
The kind old lady let me live with her. Sure, it was never on any official paperwork and I’m probably listed as a runaway somewhere. But Stella, who did palm readings from her living room and believed she could communicate with the spirit of Patrick Swayze, welcomed me with open arms. I spent my days booking clients for her on social media and reminding her to take her diabetes medication. I thought we’d be together for years to come.
But not long after I moved in, the terminal cancer diagnosis came. That’s when she told me that Jared wanted me to get married to a good man.
Jared was Stella’s husband and though he’d been dead for twenty years, she still had a rum and a Coke with him every Friday afternoon in her parlor. Or so she said. I never saw his spirit, but she insisted he was there.
Still, I recognized what the sweet lady was doing when she gently encouraged me to fill out the mail order bride form in the weeks before her passing. She was trying to help me find my next home. Only this time, I’m hoping it’s forever.
The thought has me smoothing my hand across the papers in my lap. It’s the printed profile about Ethan Scott, my cowboy husband. He’s a rancher living in Courage County, North Carolina.
I picked him because his name tastes like an orange on my tongue. Sweet, tangy, slightly acidic.
Stella was one of the few people who never made fun of me. When she learned that I can taste words and see music as colors, she called it a gift. Told me it means I’m special. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I hope my husband doesn’t think it’s strange.
The automatic doors to the airport open with a whoosh, letting in a small family and a blast of cold mountain air. It’s not this chilly in Charleston, South Carolina during February. Some years, we start getting spring flowers as early as Valentine’s Day weekend. I love the weather in Charleston and the way it always smells of the Atlantic even in the middle of winter.
My phone rings and I smile when I see my best friend’s picture. Zoey is three years older than me, but we became fast friends when I moved in. She lived across the street from Stella in a house that her grandmother left to her.
“Are you at the airport?” Zoey asks as her little Chihuahua barks animatedly in the background.
“My flight got in nearly two hours early so I haven’t seen him yet.” She knows how nervous I am about this. Zoey thinks the whole thing is romantic. But of course, she does. She’s a romance writer and she’s on a writing retreat with her friends in Lake Tahoe this week. “Are you at the lodge?”
“Almost. First though, I stopped to moon the local sheriff. I’m so humiliated! He was hot, Val, like really hot.”
I laugh at the mental image of my best friend who has no experience with men mooning someone, let alone the sheriff. “On the Jackman scale?”
Hugh Jackman is our mutual crush, and we rate every man’s attractiveness according to our favorite movies of his.
She sighs deeply. “Wolverine. Sexy beard, tousled hair. I didn’t see a six-pack but I’m sure it was underneath the uniform. And I made a complete fool of myself in front of him.”
Wolverine level is pretty much the highest rating on the scale which means the man was definitely hot. Before I can ask her about it, a noise catches my attention. It’s a woman telling someone to leave her alone.
I glance up from the conversation. Zoey is still talking but I’m watching a silver-haired woman with a shopping cart covered by a tarp get harassed by three men. They aren’t much older than me but they’re clearly trying to corner her.
Years of being bullied at my various schools and in the foster homes come rushing back to me. Bile climbs my throat as anger burns in my stomach.
I tell Zoey that I’ll have to call her back and I love her. Even as I’m talking to her, I’m not looking away from the scene. I pocket my phone and leave my belongings behind in the airport terminal.
“Hey!” I shout when I’m out the door. Other airport visitors are coming and going. They’re ignoring the whole thing as if it’s perfectly fine for the woman to be tormented just because she’s homeless.
The men turn to me. I know I’m outnumbered, and this isn’t a great situation. The same people that are ignoring the homeless woman’s distress are just as likely to ignore mine. But I can’t leave her alone in this. Not when I spent so much of my childhood wishing someone would defend me.
“She said to leave her alone,” I say, straightening my spine. Each man has at least six inches on my five-foot frame, and one of them is carrying a baseball bat. Still, I work to make myself look bigger and more menacing than I am. Does that just work with bears? Or does it work with people too?
“What do you care?” A man with a scar on his cheek demands.
I step around the cart next to the little old lady. I can feel her trembling beside me. Poor thing is only dressed in a thin t-shirt that’s ill-fitting, a pair of what look like men’s long swim shorts, and tennis shoes that have seen better days. “She’s my friend, and you can’t pick on my friends.”
They aren’t exactly mature words, but they were the first ones that popped into my head. They were what I said to the bully on the playground when I was in first grade. Right before I lost my front teeth. Fortunately, I was a late bloomer, and they were baby teeth.
The men exchange a look before one of them shoves her cart. She cries out as it rolls down the sidewalk, bumping into the curb, and spilling all of the contents into the pickup lane. “That’s all my stuff!”
“Well, go get it.” He gestures at the mess with the baseball bat and a leering grin that promises trouble if we make a move.
The silver-haired woman takes a step back and swallows.
I take her hand and squeeze it, not sure what to do in this situation. I glance toward a man in a business suit, hoping he’ll see and intervene. He avoids my gaze and continues walking by. “I want her stuff back.”
“And I want my wallet she stole!”
I glance at the woman who shakes her head with a wide gaze. Clearly, she doesn’t have it and even if she did, they can’t treat her like this. What they’re doing isn’t any type of justice. It’s an excuse to terrorize someone they see as weaker.
“She didn’t take it,” I answer but my voice shakes at this point.
The big one with the bat swings toward the woman and she hunches her shoulders. Without thinking about it, I wrap my arms around her body and cradle her against me as I brace for the coming impact.