were called to relocate to the Morgan Ranch near Union Junction. The first thing the brothers had all agreed on in years was that none of them was too happy about finding themselves the keeper of a large ranch. Five thousand acres as well as livestock—what the hell were they supposed to do with it? This was Pop’s place. Light-footed Pop and his far-flung dreams, buying houses and land like he was buying up parts of earth to keep him alive and vital.
Pop was the true jackass.
Selling the ranch had been the first thing on Gabriel’s mind, and he was pretty certain his brothers had the same idea. But no, Pop was too wily for that. Knowing full well his four sons weren’t close, he’d come up with a brilliant plan to stick them all under one roof on acres and acres of loneliness where no one could witness the fireworks.
Pop was in Europe right now, in a new stone castle he’d bought in Pzenas, no doubt laughing his ass off at what he’d wrought. Oh, he couldn’t buy just any old French countryside farmhouse—he’d bought an eighteen hundred Templar’s commandery for a cool four million. It wasn’t in the best of shape but just his style, he’d told his sons in the letters they’d each received outlining his wishes. Three floors, ten bedrooms, eight baths, plenty of room should they all ever decide to visit. It even had its own chapel, and he’d be in that chapel praying for them every day.
Gabriel doubted the prayers would help. Pop would be praying for family harmony, and truthfully, some growth in the family tree, some tiny feet to run on the floors of the stone castle, sweet angelic voices to learn how to say Grandpop in French. Grand-père.
Like hell. Family expansion wasn’t on Gabriel’s mind. He was looking for peace and quiet in this rural town, and he was going to get it. He’d live in the house just as his father had decreed, for the year he’d specified, take his part of the bribe money—money was always involved with Pop—and leave no different than he was today. Except he’d be a million dollars richer.
Easy pickings.
Gabriel would take the money. As for the unspoken part of the deal…. The pleasure of putting one over on his father, spitting in his eye, so to speak, would be a roundabout kick from one jackass to another. Pop hadn’t said his sons had to be close-bonded Templar knights; he’d just stated they had to live in the house for a year. Like a family.
He could do that—if for no other reason than to show the old man he hadn’t fazed Gabriel in the least.
“Hi!”
He turned to see a woman waving to him from a car window. She parked, got out and handed him a freshly baked cherry pie.
“Welcome to Union Junction, stranger.” Her blue eyes gleamed at him; her blond hair swung in a braid. “My name’s Mimi Jefferson. I’m from the Double M ranch, once known as Malfunction Junction. I’m Mason’s wife. And also the sheriff.”
“Hello, Mimi.” He’d met Mason months ago through Pop’s business dealings, and Mason’s wonderful wife had often been mentioned. “Thanks for the pie.”
“No problem.” She glanced at the farmhouse. “So what do you think of it? Hasn’t changed much since you were last here.”
Pop had made some additions to the house, rendering it more sprawling than Gabriel thought necessary. He’d added more acreage, too, but that was his dad’s agenda. Always the grand visionary. “I haven’t been inside.”
She smiled. “It needs work.”
That he could see from the outside. “I noticed.”
“Should keep you real busy.”
He nodded. “Seems that was my dad’s plan.”
She laughed. “Your father fit in real well here in Union Junction. I’m sure you will, too.”
He didn’t need to, wouldn’t be here long enough to put down deep roots.
“By the way, I believe the ladies will be stopping by with some other goodies. We figured your dad left the fridge pretty empty when he went to France.”
“The ladies?”
“You’ll see.” With a cryptic smile, she got into the truck. “I’ll tell Mason you’ll be by to see him when you’ve settled in.”
That meant it was time to head into the old hacienda of dread and bar the door. He had no desire to be the target of gray-haired, well-meaning church ladies toting fried chicken. “Thanks again for the pie.”
She waved at him and drove off. Gabriel dug into his pocket for the key marked Number Four—he supposed that was because he was the fourth son or maybe because his father had four keys made—and headed toward the wraparound porch. It groaned under his weight, protesting his presence.
Then he heard a sound, like the growing din of a schoolyard at recess. As a code breaker for the Marines, he was tuned to hear the slightest bit of noise, and could even decipher murmured language. But what assaulted his ears wasn’t trying to be secretive in any way. He watched as ten vehicles pulled into the graveled drive. His jaw tensed as approximately twenty women and children hopped out of the cars and trucks, each bearing a sack. Not just a covered dish or salad bowl, but a bag, clearly destined for him.
He was going to go crazy—and get fat in the process.
“We’re the welcoming committee.” A pretty blonde smiled at him as she approached the porch. “Don’t be scared.”
She’d nailed his emotion.
“I’m Laura Adams,” she said. “These ladies—most of us—are from the hair salon, bakery, et cetera, in town. We formed the Union Junction Welcoming Committee some time ago after we received such a warm greeting when we arrived in this town. Many of us weren’t raised in Union Junction. Our turn to do a good deed, you might say.”
Except he didn’t want the deed done to him. She smelled nice, though. Her voice was soft and pleasant and he liked the delicate frosting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Big blue eyes gazed at him with a warmth he couldn’t return at the moment.
The porch shook under his feet with the sound of more approaching women. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Laura, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain to himself. She opened her pretty pink lips to say more, introduce all her gift-bearing friends, when suddenly something wrapped itself around his thigh.
Glancing down, he saw a tiny towhead comfortably smiling up at him. “Daddy,” she said, hugging his leg for all she was worth. “Daddy.”
For the first time in his life, including the time he’d temporarily lost part of his hearing from an underwater mine explosion near a sub he’d been monitoring, he felt panic. But the women laughed, and Laura didn’t seem embarrassed as she disengaged her daughter from his leg.
“Oh, sweetie, he might be a daddy, or he will be one day. Can you say Mr. Morgan?”
The child smiled at him beatifically, completely convinced that the world was a wonderful, happy place. “Morgan,” she said softly.
So he’d be Morgan, just like Pop. He could remember people yelling his father’s name, cursing his father’s name, cheering his father’s name. It was always something along the lines of either “Morgan, you jackass!” or “Morgan,
