Sorrows and Lace

Sorrows and Lace

Lonely Lace Series

Book 3

Bonnie R. Paulson

Captiva Publishing

Bonnie R. Paulson

www.bonnie
paulson.com

Copyright © 2014 Bonnie R. Paulson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.       

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the purchase-point and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by Ashley Byland of Redbird Designs.

For my grandparents

Mary and Dean Farnham

A special thank you to my team:

BriLee Editing

M.R. Polish

Kammie Roylance

Jill Cooper

Cassie Krous

Connie Krous

Your input and help is invaluable and means the world to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you. My story thanks you!

Betrayal bit sharp through the alcohol-induced haze. Ronan tilted his crystal, hand-blown snifter, staring at the amber liquid inside. He’d been nursing the damn drink since Robbie MacAllister left.

Peering at the ornate, walnut grandfather clock, Ronan shut his eyes against the dizzying effect of the roman numerals blurring and blending.  Who the hell cared what time it was anyway?  He groaned and set his glass down harder than he anticipated, nearly sloshing the potent concoction over the side. 

He’d been offered an ultimatum. By a MacAllister. The very fact curdled his insides. No one had ever had anything he’d wanted enough to work for it. Everything revolved around the land. His life, his love, his actions, his happiness.

The ultimatum guaranteed he’d keep Lacey Caverns, if he got married within the month.

A month.

Shit.

Robbie dropped his feet from the edge of his ebony-inlaid walnut desk and rested his forehead on the cool surface. All he’d ever wanted was an heir. An honest-to-goodness child of his own. A family that he could have all to himself.

He lifted his head and raised the glass to his lips, taking a healthy mouthful and swallowing. He pulled the brim away and peered at the alcohol. “When did I switch to brandy?”
He pushed his tongue around in his mouth. Ronan had never been a fan of the over-sweet liquor.

Pushing up from his seat, he swayed to the left and then the right. Placing one foot in front of the other, Ronan stared at the mini-bar a mere six feet from his desk. On the floor, an empty whiskey bottle greeted him, light glinting off the rounded glass like it mocked hi
s liquor alternate. And his choices.

Damn MacAllisters. And damn his soon-to-be-ex-wife for trying to screw him over. Again and again.
And according to Robbie, succeeding.

Just the thought of the three babies he could’ve had brought tears to his eyes. He hung his head, chin to his chest.
That stupid…

A knock on his study door brought him around, brandy s
plashing over the brim of the glass, onto his fingers. “What?” He growled.

Tim, the physician’s assistant who stayed at Lacey Caverns in his own apartment, poked his
head around the edge of the door. “Mr. James, I’m heading into town. One of the women just went into labor and it’s my on-call weekend.”

Ronan waved his hand at the door and returned his gaze to his
sickly sweet drink. He glanced up. “Wait. Town?” Hell if he’d drink anymore of the sugary crap when he didn’t have to.

Tim cocked his head. “Yeah, she’s at the clinic, waiting for me.”

Slamming his glass onto the desk, Ronan strode toward Tim. “I’ll catch a ride. I have something I need to do and I’m not… in the condition to drive right now.” And Tim couldn’t say no. Hell, Ronan paid him more than twice his salary at the clinic to be available at all times for Ronan’s ranch hands. With a ranch as large as Lacey Caverns, more men were sometimes better. And, more often than not, more men meant more accidents.

“Okay. I’ll be out in the truck.
” Tim didn’t wait for his boss and disappeared down the hall.

Ronan glanced at the abandoned brandy as he grabbed
his favorite dark brown Stetson. Shrugging on the dark suit jacket, Ronan adjusted his plaid shirt over his dark blue jeans. He’d never been into dusters like Robbie, something about them seemed inconsistent. Ronan was a businessman and wore suits, even incomplete ones at times.

Boots thudding on the hardwood floors, Ronan blinked hard and steadied himself by running a hand along the
contours of the log walls.

He’d be damned before he’d hunker down in his own house and lick his wounds. Robbie had given him an out – and a pretty damn good one, at that – and Ronan wasn’t going to waste another minute. He’d find himself a damn wife that night, if he had to.

Which he had to.

Maybe Nurse Shelley would be available for nuptials.

~~~

Tim slammed the door shut and rounded the vehicle. He tilted his head at Ronan. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. She wasn’t having her contractions too close when she called. If you need a ride, I won’t be ab—”

“I can get a ride, Tim.
I’ll call one of the guys and have them come get me. Good luck.” Ronan patted the PA’s shoulder. Ronan’s soft side only displayed itself when he had a significant amount of alcohol on board. And if memory served, he’d had at least a bottle, but maybe more? Hell, he couldn’t remember much of the last couple of hours.

Except for Robbie’s visit. He couldn’t forget that.

Would never forget that.

Spring slowly but surely made its way to the northern Montana town. Weeds disguised as flowers poked from cracks in the concrete. Evening sunlight dimmed as the sun dipped beneath the mountains just past Lacey Caverns and Lonely Rivers. Ronan’s shadow stretched in front of him, leading the way.

The cooler air did wonders for his balance. He stared at the planking of the sidewalk. The town of Colby had never changed to cement except for patches like in front of the clinic and the bank – which he owned. If he had spurs on his boots, no doubt they’d clink with each echoing step on the wooden boards toward the saloon.

Okay, so it was a bar, but the sign still read saloon and as far as Ronan cared, saloon made it appear a little classier. He’d hate to tell his kids one day that he met their mother in a bar. So tacky. Saloon sounded at least a step above. And the James clan was nothing, if not a step above.

He pushed through the dark wood door. Smoke combined with the stale stench of beer and cheap wine slapped him in the face. Guaranteed the bar wouldn’t have his grade of whiskey, but they’d have something that resembled it, helping replace the aftertaste of brandy clinging to his mouth. Ronan would consider paint stripper the cloying sweetness was so strong.

The swarthy bartender and owner of the Saloon arched his bushy black eyebrow when he focused on Ronan. Conversation died down like the parting of the Red Sea until only the jukebox in the far back corner crooned a Tim McGraw classic.

In his inebriated state, Ronan took a moment to place the song –
Indian Outlaw
. The lyrics slammed him back to the last time he’d seen Kelsey and out of habit, he searched the room for her.

He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t remember why he’d come to town. The music, the ambience, the decided-change-of-class in his surroundings added to his confused drunk
en state.

All eyes on him, Ronan ignored the majority of the occupants in room. He moved toward the stools and one of the patrons caught his eye.
Sitting at the bar, with his shoulders hunched, Big Red ignored Ronan’s entrance, making him stand out worse than his Salish heritage in a roomful of Caucasian men and women.

The final notes of the
upbeat song faded, releasing Ronan from his stupor. He changed course and approached the man who had never liked him, had actually threatened to kick his ass if Ronan ever hurt his sister.

The Redbird
s took family loyalty to a level even the James clan couldn’t reach.

Big
Red – whose name was actually Thomas Redbird, III – knocked back the shot sitting in front of him and tapped the scarred wood that passed miserably for a countertop. He belched then said. “Hit me, Gus.”

Gus pulled a white-ish towel from the pint glass in his hand. He
waved the towel in the air somewhat close to the vicinity of his customer’s face. “No way, Red. You owe me too much as it is.”

Red didn’t even
glance from the ringed napkin in front of him. “I’ll pay you as soon as I can. I need this.” His mumble barely reached Ronan who had moved to stand inches from his side. The odor of unwashed body wafted over him. Stomach roiling, Ronan swallowed. 

Disbelief marred Gus’s already-less-than-credible features. “
Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

Ronan held up two fingers.
“What he’s having and move his tab to mine. You can send me the bill tomorrow.” He didn’t spare another glance at Gus who owed Ronan – or rather Ronan’s bank – more money than the damn business was worth. The bartender scuttled to the other side of the bar to the higher shelf items. Nobody in town would dare serve their crappy products to a James. It was always the best available. Always.

“Great.” Red mumbled. He turned on the stool, away from Ronan and
slid to his feet. “Never mind, Gus. I’d rather not.”

More brazen with an Irishman’s amount of alcohol on board, Ronan grabbed Red’s elbow and
pulled the larger man his way.

Red’s long
black ponytail swung as he spun. He pulled his fists up, his stance wobbly. “C’mon, Ronan. I’ve wanted to kick your ass for a while now. Let’s do this.” He squinted at Ronan, intent on doing damage.

Unsteady as well
, Ronan’s normal confidence in holding his own during a fight lacked definite luster. He held up his hands. “Hey, I just wanted to buy you a drink. Old time’s sake. No big deal. You don’t have to.” He slid onto the stool beside Red’s abandoned seat and picked at the questionable basket of pretzels waiting beside the belligerent man’s empty glass.

Frankly, Ronan didn’t give a damn if Red joined him or not. His reason for coming to town and the saloon resurfaced in his memory. He needed a wife. Searching the inhabitants of the bar proved Colby didn’t have much to offer for bride contestants in the
Ronan’s New Wife
game.

Gus placed two shots in front of Ronan and
nodded. He moved to the other side of the bar, distancing himself from his debtor which Ronan preferred.

Thick smoke haloed above them. Ronan tried ignoring the sticky counter-edge beneath his forearm. The entire place made him want to gag. No wonder Gus couldn’t pay him more than the absolute minimum each month. The place was a dump.

Another moment passed.

Red reclaimed the seat at Ronan’s side. He grunted and downed the shot, returning to his slumped position.

Defeat wasn’t something Ronan had a lot of experience with, but from the rumors around town, Big Red and his family had faced a lot.

News of Kelsey ran scarce and rarely reached Ronan. His list of confidants and friends were few in town… hell, anywhere. People from the James clan didn’t need anyone but their own kind.
That’s why they paid for information. It ensured accuracy and less heresy.

Not to be outdone
by the burly man, Ronan tilted back his head and drained his shot. The bar’s best alcohol scraped the bottom of the list of the worst, in Ronan’s opinion, but shitty whiskey was better than the best brandy any day. He swallowed the ounce of hard alcohol and wished for a jug.