The Cowboy's Triplets
Autore
Tina Leonard
Letto da
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19
Chapter One
“A dark night for Peter D. Callahan is being alone in his room.”
—Jeremiah Callahan, who knew his toddler son all too well.
“The Diablos are running.” Pete Callahan turned from the frost-speckled window, letting his words sink into the sudden silence. His five brothers and Aunt Fiona looked at him.
A shiver touched Pete. The shadowy, misty mustangs running like the wind across the far reaches of the ranch meant magic was in the cold night air. According to legend, the Diablos only ran as a portent of something mystical to come. The Diablos were real—and magical in themselves—but Pete didn’t believe in mystical magic, the oogie-boogie kind of magic. Nor did he believe in pushy old beloved aunts trying to rule from the grave, as his aunt Fiona was hinting she would.
Jonas Callahan ignored his brother’s inopportune comment and resumed gently badgering their dear aunt. “You’ve suggested your time is running out,” Jonas said to Fiona, who shrugged, dismissing the light sarcasm in his tone. Fiona was holding court in the massive library at Rancho Diablo in New Mexico. His brothers lounged around the room in various states of stubbled beards and dirty jeans, fresh from working the ranch. They were trying to assuage her worries, let her know that they were there for her in all matters—though if anybody did not need help, it was their cagey aunt.
“I am seventy-nine,” Fiona said. “Please speak to me with respect. You make me sound as reliable as a vintage bedside clock.”
“You’ve just told us that you’re leaving Rancho Diablo to one of us based on a dream you had,” Pete said. “We’re more interested in your health than in your will, Aunt Fiona.”
“Oh, poppycock.” She sniffed, clearly put out with her six nephews. No doubt she thought they were trying to mollify her, coddle her to get into her good graces. It annoyed Pete.
“You all want Rancho Diablo because it was your parents’,” Fiona said. “Let’s be honest about our motivations.”
If that wasn’t calling the kettle black.
“Aunt Fiona, I speak for all of us—” Pete gestured toward his sprawling brothers who were only too content to allow him to beard their celestial-minded, determined aunt “—when I say that we don’t believe in dreamscapes, incantations, voodoo or rubbing the venerated bellies of mystical bunnies dating from the time of Lewis Carroll. So our motivation is simple. We love you. Most of us live here at Rancho Diablo because we love you, as much as you seem inclined to look for an ulterior motive. The ranch is our livelihood, but it isn’t everything.”
Murmurs of assent rose from his brothers. His aunt gave him a disapproving, sour look. She was a tiny woman, a petite bundle of dynamite in a prim navy-blue wool dress. Her only concession to the bitter cold was what she called her bird boots—knee-high, lugged soles, fur-lined. White hair was pulled severely back from her face in an elegant updo she called a bird’s nest. It did have the same sort of peculiar order of a mourning dove’s nest, but it was attractive. There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on the diminutive woman, which made people at first meeting assume she was fragile.
She was not.
“Nevertheless,” Fiona said, her eyes bright behind her glasses, “I am following my dream.”
“You do that.” Pete crouched to stoke the fire. He wondered if it would be easier on their beloved aunt if he had gas-lit logs installed in the seven fireplaces throughout the huge ranch house, and decided she’d resent the implication that she couldn’t take care of her home herself. The smell of cookies hung in the air, lingering with the fragrances of Christmas and home, which was, Pete thought, how their wily aunt managed to lure her nephews to the house so often, although they would have surreptitiously checked on her and Burke anyway. Home-baked cookies and other to-die-for gastronomic delights—they simply had it too good, courtesy of Fiona.
“Since Pete doesn’t care about his stake in Rancho Diablo, that leaves it to the rest of you to see which of you will take over the ranch. When I’m gone, naturally. Which might be any day now.” She held a tissue to her nose. “This is the third cold I’ve had this month. My immune system is so weak.”
Jonas straightened. “You said nothing about feeling weak.”
“Not that you would care, Doctor.” She rubbed her glasses clean and replaced them on her pert nose. “Burke, please bring the brandy. We are all in need of a bit of fortification. Except Pete, who is always above the fray.”
Her faithful butler went to do her bidding. Pete sighed and sat down on the leather sofa, where he had a premier seat to stare out the window at the frozen landscape. Guilt was a familiar parenting tool, and she’d been employing it with greater frequency of late. The problem was, he knew all about Fiona’s Secret Plan, so he had plenty of guilt heaping on him from all sides. It sucked being the responsible one. “I’ll take the damn brandy,” he said as Burke offered him a snifter. Right now, he could use a stiff one.
“The terms of the deal—which have also been written into my revised will—are thus. The first of you who gets married to a suitable woman, has a family and settles down, will inherit Rancho Diablo. You may not sell the land or house, of course, without all six of you being in agreement. That is what was revealed to me in my dream.”
Pete sighed. Their stubborn aunt was hatching more mayhem for their lives. He knew she was serious about this plan, and the mischievous side of him thought she was cute and downright smart to try to pull this on his brothers, who richly deserved the trap Fiona was springing on them. They’d fall for it, too, in his opinion, though they should know better. Nobody left ranches worth millions of dollars in land value alone to relatives based on a dream, not to mention expecting them to compete for it, especially not using the tool of marriage. None of them even had a serious girlfriend. Pete scowled at his brothers.
The problem was that the plan was sound—but the material Fiona had to work with was sadly lacking.
There was Jonas, the eldest, a successful surgeon who surely had his pick of hot doctors and nurses. He kept himself busy amassing a reputation as a hard-working, best-in-class cardiac guy. Jonas was a typical girl-magnet: tall, dark as the ace of spades, square-jawed. All good stuff, but clueless with women, basically a bonehead with every subject except science and research. A typical nerd, and useless to Fiona’s Secret Plan, in Pete’s opinion.
Pete continued the roll call. There was Creed, who wouldn’t send women screaming from his appearance, but was too wild for most men, let alone women. Creed was a typical badass, the kind of man ladies loved like grandmas loved tea. Creed, unfortunately, would never love anything but rodeo and the ranch. No marriage material there.
Creed’s twin, Rafe, was a strange blend of nerd and reckless cowboy. Sometimes he wore his long jet-black hair in a braid down his back. Other times he shaved his head. The best way Pete could describe his free-spirited brother was “out there”—egregiously, studiously out there on the edge. One day a woman might reel him back in to planet Earth, but Pete wouldn’t put down a twenty on it.
Judah was a champion bullrider. He had ladies in every town. He was popular with everyone, and blessed with good fortune and athleticism. Judah’s face was cut by the hand of Michelangelo: strong, precise and manly. Women left undies in his gear with phone numbers. One enterprising young lady had herself carried into his hotel room in a maid’s cart. Judah hadn’t been able to resist the French maid’s costume, nor the heiress who’d wanted a cowboy fling and had flown him to Paris for a weekend of French cuisine and French-kissing and everything else that entailed. Judah was a kind, damaged soul and ladies adored all that haunted mystique. But Judah had never chosen just one woman to be his girl. Pete thought Judah overworked the Eeyore routine, but he had to admit it worked brilliantly for his brother.
Finally, there was Sam. No one needed to worry about Sam’s zeal for the altar. Stockier and more muscular than the rest of them (which meant he could kick just about anybody’s ass who messed with him), Sam carried a chip on his shoulder that had everything to do with confidence, swagger and being the youngest. He knew there was something different about him, which didn’t help. He’d come “later” as Jonas always put it, and Pete thought Sam had grown up not exactly understanding his place in the world or the family. Nobody worked harder than Sam, but then sometimes Sam would disappear for days.
Pete shook his head. Fiona was barking up all kinds of wrong trees with this latest plan. He’d consider his brothers candidates for group therapy rather than matrimonial bliss. But that’s just me, he thought, and I tend to be a doubter.
He supposed he’d be the closest to suiting Fiona’s ridiculous offer. He at least had a Saturday-night thing going on. Still, being Mr. Saturday Night wasn’t likely to be upped to two nights a week, much less a full lifetime.
Pete sighed. He admired their Irish aunt who loved to dabble in drama. He had to hand it to her—there was never a moment when she wasn’t trying to fix their lives. Fiona certainly had her work cut out for her this time, but he knew she would stick to it until she considered her job done and done well.
“When was this dream?” Jonas asked, shifting his long legs as he reached for another Christmas cookie from the silver platter on the side table. Pete thought a heart surgeon should be watching his cholesterol, or at least the toxic-waste levels in his body, but no one could eat just one of Fiona’s cookies. Jonas could be counted on to talk some sense into the redoubtable aunt, and Pete relaxed a little. Surely the rest of the brothers could see that there were as many holes in this plan as in Swiss cheese—and his guilt would go away once he knew they’d safely figured Fiona out. After all, what would stop any of them—all of them—from running out, hiring a woman to fake a marriage and perhaps a pregnancy, and then cashing in? Pete swallowed, not wanting to think about his little aunt pushing up daisies.
“It wasn’t so much a dream, it was more a premonition,” Fiona said. “It occurred when I talked to a nice lady at the traveling carnival.”
Creed sat up. “Traveling carnival?”
“That’s right. She was standing outside her tent. There was a sign on it that read Madame Vivant’s Fortune-Telling. Several of the ladies from the Books ’n’ Bingo Society decided it sounded like fun. So we went in.”
Pete heard Rafe groan. He agreed with the sentiment. Was their adorable, feisty aunt beginning to show the start of some affliction that would affect her mental capacity? His blood ran cold at the thought.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve invited her here tonight. Burke, please show Madame Vivant into the library.”
Pete watched as his lunkheaded brothers seemed to transmogrify in the face of a beautiful woman. Jonas looked like a petrified tree felled by an ax, and the rest of his brothers were practically drooling like babies. He was embarrassed for them. Pete smelled enticing perfume, heard the jingle of tiny charms she wore on silver bracelets. No more than five foot two, Madame Vivant was a delightful babe of about twenty-five. He’d bet the whole “dream” was a ruse for her to get hitched to one of them. Madame Fortune-teller his ass—more like Madame Shakedown Artist.
This was bad news. No woman of good intent should jingle when she walked. It was as look-at-me! as a lady could get.
Pete decided Fiona’s scheme was getting out of hand. She wasn’t supposed to bring the catnip to the mice, was she? It was dirty pool, and he had to draw the line somewhere.
A guy could only enjoy watching his brothers get worked over by Fiona for so long.
“You have to leave,” Pete said, towering over the tiny redhead. He refused to notice the trim waist, the delightful peachy bosom, the sweetly curved hips under the undulating black skirt that had his easily-led-astray brothers reeling. Once again, Pete realized, it was up to him to save them from themselves. “Take your bells and your parlor tricks out of here. And don’t bother taking Burke’s pocket watch,” he said, neatly removing it from the velvet pouch she carried. He’d seen it poking out and recognized it instantly. It was one of the butler’s prized possessions.
Burke cleared his throat. “I gave her that, sir. I asked her to help me with a personal matter.”
Pete looked at the butler he’d known ever since Burke and Fiona had come to the ranch to care for the boys. He softened his words for Burke—he’d protect him, too. “No doubt she has played with your mind as well. Never mind. Once you’re off the property, Madame Vivant—if that is your real name—all will be right again.”
Cool green eyes considered him. “Tough guy, huh?”
“That’s right. Off you go, little gypsy.” Pete congratulated himself on his excellent handling of the situation—until Jonas spoke up.
“Not so fast, bro,” Jonas said. “It’s cold outside. I’m sure we could offer our guest a cup of cocoa, couldn’t we, Burke?”
The butler nodded and went off to do Jonas’s bidding. Jonas continued staring at the gypsy as if his brain was locked in gear. Pete scowled. Surely Jonas—steady-handed Jonas the surgeon—wouldn’t get the hots for a gypsy.
He should have put a stop to this in the beginning; he was practically an accomplice. But he hadn’t counted on his brothers being super boneheads—just greedy. He opened his mouth to throw water on the scheme, confess everything, too, but Fiona shot him down.
“Pete!” His aunt’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’re being rude to an invited guest, and one thing we aren’t at Rancho Diablo is rude.”
He shrugged and went to lean against a wall. “If you think I’m going to be part of a séance or machination on her part to confuse you, I’m afraid we’re not going to fall for the plan, Aunt.” There, that was a piece of delicious Broadway acting, if he did say so himself—although he was still worried about Jonas. Sam was young and hotheaded, so he might have expected Sam to latch on to their visitor, or wild-at-heart Creed might have been an easy target. Any of them but Jonas, who was still stonelike and staring—rapt, mesmerized.
Creed, Rafe, Judah and Sam all crossed their arms, gazing with interest at the fortune-teller. They seemed very interested in the tale she was about to spin. Pete would have to keep a close eye on Fiona since no one else seemed inclined to play protector to their giddy aunt.
The next thing Pete knew, Jonas was lying on the floor staring up at the wood-beamed ceiling. Madame Vivant stood over him, staring down at his brother. Jonas said, “My lucky, lucky eyes,” and Pete wondered if Jonas had hit his head on the way down. Pete was getting really nervous. He glanced at Fiona to see if she was worried about the effects of her Secret Plan, but she seemed more interested in the warm drink Burke was handing her.
“What happened?” Jonas asked as Madame Vivant moved to help him up.
“You fainted,” she told him.
Jonas raised a disbelieving brow that made Pete proud. For a moment he’d feared his older brother was going to drown in a pool of misplaced desire.
“I’m a doctor, and a damn good one. I think I’d know if I’d fainted.”
“You fainted, bro,” Rafe said. “Went down like a sack of hammers.”
“Made a real funky sound when you fell, too,” Aunt Fiona said. “When you were just a little thing, I used to ask you if you’d stepped on a frog when you made that noise, Jonas. Brings back memories—”
“That’s enough.” Jonas stared at the petite redhead. “You did something to me.”
“You don’t believe in spells,” she replied. “A doctor wouldn’t believe in such things, would you?” She took his hand in her much smaller one and helped him to his feet with a surprisingly strong yank.
“I felt fine before you walked in,” Jonas replied, his voice crabby, and Pete relaxed. Jonas had obviously recovered his good sense when he fell out of his chair, or whatever the hell he’d just done. We’re all working too hard. Or we’ve had too much Christmas vacation with the holiday-loving aunt.
“Can we get on with this?” Aunt Fiona asked, her tone impatient. “Madame Vivant can’t stay long. The carnival’s train moves on tonight.”
“After she’s stolen the family heirlooms,” Pete muttered.
“We don’t have any of those,” Sam said. “Bro, sit over here so I can keep an eye on you. You’re making an ass of yourself.”
This was tough coming from the baby. He’d changed that boy’s diapers! Pete felt tired suddenly, and not soothed by the brandy Burke pressed on him.
“Your aunt asked me here to interpret—explain—the dream she had while in my tent,” Madame Vivant said. “Your family home is in jeopardy.”
Pete rolled his eyes. He couldn’t help it. He knew he was being churlish, and a thirty-one-year-old man shouldn’t be. Of course the family home was in danger. The culprit was sitting next to his aunt on her velvet footstool. Why couldn’t anyone but him see this?
His brothers were mesmerized. They leaned forward like schoolboys, hanging on every word that dropped from Madame Vivant’s sweet ruby lips. Even Jonas went back to being spellbound, looking as if he might jump into her lap any second. Pete just glared at her. “In danger from what?” he demanded. “Or whom?”
As if he didn’t know.
“That has not been revealed to me,” the fortune-teller replied, her voice soft.
He shook his head. “And so we’re all supposed to get married, and have a child—”
“That’s your aunt’s solution,” the gypsy said.
“Look,” Pete said, tired of the conversation. He and his brothers had work to do on the ranch. He didn’t want to leave this woman here to prey on his innocent aunt’s fears. She loved Rancho Diablo with all her heart. She’d kept it running after their mother and father had died, had raised all of them to manhood. He was always up for a joke on his hammerheaded brothers, but Aunt Fiona’s scheme was getting out of hand.
Suddenly, Jonas spoke. “I’m not going to allow you to continue this charade until you tell me your real name. This Madame Vivant crap is for beginners, and I am no easy mark. I want your name in case I have to have the law hunt you down.”
Her eyes widened.
“Jonas!” Fiona leaned forward. “I’m going to ask you to leave if you insist upon being a pest.”
Jonas refused to release the gypsy’s gaze. Something was definitely happening to his normally uptight brother.
“My name,” she finally said, “is Sabrina McKinley.”
“Your real name? Or one of many aliases? I’ve got a good mind to call the cops right now,” Jonas stated, and Pete was pretty certain his brother meant it. Jonas seemed to be fluctuating between protecting their aunt and rampant sexual desire, and if he wasn’t so worried, Pete might have enjoyed the drama.
“It’s my real name.” She stared back at Jonas, unafraid of his growing ire. “I might remind you that I don’t know any of you. I came alone, knowing there would be six men and only a frail elderly woman here—”
Pete expected his aunt to utter a loud “ha!” but she only sighed and pulled an afghan around her shoulders.
“You’ve convinced her she’s ill,” Jonas said, outraged. “She was fine last I saw her. You’ve toyed with her mind, made her think she’s dying—”
Madame Vivant—Sabrina—shook her head. “I have no dark powers.”
“Hypnotism isn’t a dark art?”
She gasped. “How dare you?”
“Let her finish, Jonas,” Rafe said, interrupting the two verbal combatants. “She’s not going to hurt anybody by saying whatever she wants to say.”
“I’m going to do this,” Fiona said, “in fact, I’ve already changed my will. Regardless of what misguided thoughts you have about my mental state, the time has come for me to make a decision about Rancho Diablo.” She looked around at all of her nephews. “Which of you truly feels a special connection to Rancho Diablo? Would want it to be yours? You, Jonas, are the eldest,” Fiona said, “and marriage might suit you.”
“And you have a bid on a ranch sixty miles to the east,” Sabrina said. “You’ve been thinking about having your own working ranch.”
Pete supposed she expected them to be amazed that she knew this bit of information, as if they were in the presence of a mystical mind-reader. Pete was surprised his brother was thinking about owning a ranch in New Mexico, since he had a successful surgical practice in Dallas, Texas. Fiona must have told Sabrina.
“Sorry, I don’t feel like cooperating,” Jonas said, sounding more in control of his faculties, to Pete’s relief. “I’m not getting married, having a baby or playing hoodwink-the-gentle-aunt.”
“Nevertheless, you will be considered, Jonas,” Fiona said, her tone firm. “Should you marry and produce multiple heirs, you will be considered for Rancho Diablo.”
“Multiple heirs?” Creed asked.
“Naturally,” Fiona said. “Whichever of you has the largest family should inherit the property, which makes sense on several levels. That’s what Madame Vivant suggested, and I think it’s an excellent plan to ensure that none of you try to hire a woman with a child to fool me or my executor.” She shot Jonas a stern look. “It’s not like my own kin doesn’t know a little something about hoodwinking the gentle aunt.”
Pete silently conceded Fiona’s point. Over the years they had done their best to pull the wool over the bright aunty eyes, with varying degrees of success. She’d grown up on a farm in Ireland with eleven brothers, so she knew a lot about what boys—men—could get into. It had been like living with a kindly old jailer.
Still, they’d done their best—and had occasionally succeeded.
“Now, I don’t expect any of this to happen overnight,” Aunt Fiona continued. “In fact, given the nature of your extreme bachelorhoods, it could be years before any of you settle down. Therefore, I have set forth these plans with an executor in an airtight will and testament. Airtight.”
Pete rose to his feet. “Jonas, you get the job of trying to talk sense into our beloved aunt.”
Jonas smiled a lazy come-and-get-it smile at the gypsy. “I’m not so certain Aunt Fiona’s plan doesn’t have some merit. I’m not totally opposed to settling down.”
Pete had expected all five of his brothers to follow him out the door in a cavalcade of loyalty and righteous indignation. But to a man, they wouldn’t look at him.
He was outnumbered, voted down. Aunt Fiona’s Secret Plan was surely succeeding beyond her wildest dreams.
“Fine. I’m going to check on the horses. Then I’m bedding down. None of you, and that includes you, Jonas,” he said, sweeping a hand toward his brothers, “come crying to me when you find yourselves ensnared by Mata Hari here.”
By that moniker he meant their aunt as well—she was such a bad storyteller—but Sabrina looked at Jonas with big, sexy, fake-concerned eyes. Oh, boy, Pete thought. That’s danger dressed in a sweet tight top all right. Jonas is a marked man.
He decided it would be fun to watch Jonas fall like a granite boulder for a woman. Pete grinned, suddenly feeling no guilt at all.
Jonas stood, catching Pete by surprise. “Well, I’m out like a trout,” Jonas said. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he told Madame Vivant.
“You can’t leave,” Pete said, “The fun’s just beginning.”
“I’ve got patients,” Jonas reminded him. “Got to catch a plane back to Dallas. Pete, I leave tonight’s discussion and everything that follows in your more-than-capable hands.”
“Oh, hell, no,” Pete said. “Don’t you leave me holding the bag, Jonas.”
“Sorry. Duty calls.”
“Duty?” Pete realized Jonas was really leaving. This was bad for Fiona’s trap. Pete didn’t want her trap slamming shut on him. “Jonas, we have a problem here.”
“No worries,” Jonas said, kissing their aunt goodbye. “You’ll take care of everything, Pete.” He departed as though he hadn’t spent the past half hour ogling the gypsy like a tomcat eyeing a nice, juicy mouse.
Pete glanced at his aunt, wondering if Jonas’s exit blew up her plan, but she was staring at him as though she expected him to do something, and Pete sighed.
It was hell being Mr. Responsibility.
