Home at Chestnut Creek Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Home at Chestnut Creek copyright © 2019 by Laura Drake

  Excerpt from A Cowboy for Keeps © 2019 by Laura Drake

  Wild Cowboy Ways copyright © 2015 by Carolyn Brown

  Cover photograph by Claudio Marinesco. Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes. Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First edition of Home at Chestnut Creek: July 2019

  Wild Cowboy Ways was originally published December 2015

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  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-4645-5 (mass market); 978-1-5387-4644-8 (ebook)

  E3-20190514-DANF

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for Laura Drake

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Also by Laura Drake

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  The next book in Laura Drake’s Chestnut Creek series!

  About the Author

  Bonus Story Wild Cowboy Ways

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  About the Author

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  “I thought it was just me.” It comes out in a whisper.

  I glance over. Her eyes are big, big enough for me to see in them, the innocence and longing she hides so well. It touches me in places I walled off, long ago. She knows who I have been and wants me still. “Oh hell.” I unsnap the seat belt, and it retracts with a clang. I slide across the seat and take her face in my hands. She doesn’t draw back—doesn’t shutter the want in her gaze. When I lower my head, my hair falls, curtaining us. Our lips touch, a tentative bird’s-wing brush. Sweet. I trace her lips with my tongue and she rises and takes me in. I fall into her, taking what she gives, and trying to give back.

  When I realize she’s crushed in my arms, and our breathing is loud in the enclosed space, I loosen my hold and force myself to back up. “That shouldn’t have happened. Sorry.”

  She gives me a Cheshire cat smile. “I’m not.”

  Praise for Laura Drake and her novels

  The Last True Cowboy

  “Drake takes readers on a beautifully imperfect journey with two people who can no longer have their ideal future, but learn that the real one might be even better.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Brilliant writing, just brilliant!”

  —Lori Wilde, New York Times bestselling author

  The Sweet Spot

  “Drake is a fabulous new voice in romantic fiction; this is a first-class Western!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller

  “Poignant, heart-wrenching, hopeful...this realistic contemporary zeroes in on issues of trust, communication, healing, and forgiveness. A cut above the rest.”

  —Library Journal

  “A sensitive, honest look at a family destroyed by loss...Drake’s characters are so real, so like us, that you will look at your own life and count your treasures.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Lovers of western settings will enjoy debut author Drake’s detailed descriptions of bull riding and cattle ranching.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Nothing Sweeter

  “Drake writes excellent contemporary westerns that show the real American West—not a dude-ranch fantasy...This one’s not to be missed.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A sweet, passionate, at times heartbreaking romance set in picturesque Colorado with two very strong-willed protagonists, each recovering from their own recent setback.”

  —HarlequinJunkie.com

  Sweet on You

  “Sweet on You is a wonderfully written book and one I wholeheartedly recommend to fans of just about any genre.”

  —The Romance Review

  “A bittersweet romance contemporary that deals with grief, heartbreak, and forgiveness. Drake’s ability to work past the trite and hit on the cusp of the matter with beautiful prose and a genuine empathy for her couple made that book a winner for me.”

  —Smexy Books

  Author’s Note

  My husband and I have crisscrossed New Mexico on a motorcycle several times, and I fell in love with its harsh beauty. But it wasn’t until we did a bicycle tour across the state that I felt New Mexico. A bicycle is much slower, so you have hours and hours alone on the road to notice: the huge expressive sky that can change moods in minutes; the crumbling walls of rock with striations of color from off-white to ochre; the lonely wind, ruffling the grasses. The land spoke to me in ways no other has; it left marks on my soul.

  Along the way, we learned of the rich history of The People; the Navajo. We rode our bicycles 75 to 100 miles a day, visiting ruins, missions, and pueblos. At night, we met the local tribe. Several shared a meal with us, danced, and imparted some of their rich culture and history. I came away with a deep respect for their wisdom, how they live, and how they view the world.

  I wanted to honor them in some small way, and this book is my attempt at that. I had help from Laurelle Sheppard, a Diné who lives on a reservation in Arizona, who’s writing children’s books in Navajo to pr
eserve the language. I owe her a big debt of gratitude. Any errors in this book are mine alone, and I only hope that my respect and admiration for this amazing culture shines through.

  Chapter 1

  Nevada

  The bus blows by a wooden sign:

  WELCOME TO UNFORGIVEN, NEW MEXICO

  HOME TO 1,500 GOOD NEIGHBORS

  AND A FEW OLD SOREHEADS.

  I knew Carly lived in the boonies, but dang.

  The bus turns onto an old-fashioned town square, with a peeling gazebo plunked in the middle of a bunch of dead grass. Most of the store windows are covered in butcher paper. Snowflakes drift from gray flat-bottomed clouds to melt on deserted sidewalks.

  This place is the dead end of civilization. A good place to hide.

  I hope the haircut and dye job help keep me safe. I roll my shoulders, and my neck pops. I’m tired, and my shoulder is killing me. It was hard to sleep last night, worrying about somebody stealing my backpack.

  The bus turns, and I see it: an old train station with the sign CHESTNUT CREEK CAFÉ above the door.

  I know the owner, Carly, from when she ran away to the rodeo, preggers and scared. I was cooking for Cora on her food truck, when she went to visit her newest grandkid and left me and Carly to handle the business. It was rocky, but in the end, we didn’t kill each other. Carly told me to come see her if I ever needed a job. Hope she meant it.

  I pull the cord, lift my backpack, and stumble down the aisle as the bus comes to a halt.

  The driver watches me in the long rearview mirror over his head, and the door opens with a squeal.

  I step out into three inches of slushy water, and the bus pulls away with a roar and a choking cloud of diesel. My tennies are soaked, and the wind whips right through my denim jacket. Cora tried to get me to buy a heavier one before I left, but that’d just be one more thing to carry. I don’t need the weight.

  Warm light from the café spills onto the cold sidewalk. There are people inside. It looks welcoming.

  I don’t care about a welcome. I need a job.

  My shoes squelch all the way to the door with old-fashioned gold lettering. Metal bells jingle against the glass, and I step into a hug of heat and the smell of grilling beef. Shaking off the shivers, I wipe my freezing feet on the mat and look around.

  Red vinyl booths, mostly occupied, line the windows on three sides, and in front of me, a counter with round stools covered by locals. Behind it, a serving window with a long chalkboard above, declaring the daily special, meat loaf. My stomach snarls, reminding me I skipped breakfast and lunch.

  The room is full of voices and laughter. I walk across the old black and white patterned tile floor to take the last open stool at the counter.

  A tall black-haired woman in jeans, a checkered blouse, and a food-spattered apron steps up, holding up a steaming pot of coffee. “Cold night for a light jacket. Want some?”

  “Oh, heck yes.” I flip over the mug in front of me and she pours. I’m about to ask about Carly, when the bells tinkle behind me.

  In walks Austin Davis, in a Marlboro man shearling coat, one arm weighted down by a carrier full of blanket-wrapped, kicking baby. Carly follows, laughing and shaking snowflakes out of her crazy red curls.

  Patrons call to them.

  “Hey, Austin.”

  “There they are!”

  “Carly!”

  A frail old lady with fire-engine-red lipstick bleeding off her thin lips waves bony, talon fingers. “Austin Davis, you bring that baby over here right now. I need to give her some sugar.”

  “Yes’m.” Austin stomps off his boots then walks to the booth and sets the carrier on the table.

  Carly sees me, and her mouth drops to an O of surprise.

  She rushes across the floor and wraps me in a hug. “Nevada Sweet, I hardly recognized you! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? What did you do to your hair?”

  My fingers go to my new dark brown pixie cut, and I untangle myself. “Back up off me, Beauchamp.”

  “Davis.”

  I look down at the small rock on her hand. “Cora told me he finally made an honest woman of you.”

  A lightning flick of pain crosses her face, before her smile amps again.

  I always say the wrong thing, even when I mean well. Not that I often mean well, but I wouldn’t hurt Carly on purpose.

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Because, if I owned a phone, I’d have to talk to people.”

  She laughs. “Same old Nevada.” She looks around the room. “Where’s Cora?”

  “Wintering in Oregon, same as always.”

  “But I thought you were going to stay with her until the rodeo circuit starts up again.”

  “Hang around a bunch of squalling kids? Not hardly.” That’s at least partly true. The other part, Carly doesn’t need to know about. “Thought I’d stop in and see if you had any work until then.” I’m not going back and putting Cora in danger, but I’m not saying that, either.

  I can read Carly’s face like the Houston Chronicle. Her lips turn south, and one cheek lifts in a wince. “I don’t—”

  “No problem. Just thought I’d check before I headed to Albuquerque.” I push off the stool.

  “Wait, how’d you get here anyway?”

  “Greyhound.”

  She frowns, studying my face. “Hang on. Let me see what I can do…” She waves at the blond waitress.

  “Hey, forget it, okay?” I knew this was a mistake. I’d fit in this cozy place like a coyote at the kennel club. I shoulder the strap of my backpack and reach in my pocket for a couple bills to pay for the coffee.

  “Dang it, Sweet, would you stop being so stubborn?” Carly nods to the kitchen door when the waitress walks up. “You. Sit.” She glares at me and points at the stool. “Stay.”

  “Marriage made you even bossier.” Might as well sit. Maybe my feet will warm up before I have to head out again.

  I take a sip, and the coffee burns its way down, warming me from the inside out.

  Austin is now in the middle of a crowd of people wanting to pet the baby. The cowboy I saw last summer would have never put up with not being the center of attention, but he looks as proud as if he pushed that baby out himself. She has her hand around his little finger, but it’s clear from the sappy look on his face that it’s really the other way around.

  I order the meat loaf from a young waitress who stops by. When she brings it, I dig in. It’s not just that I’m hungry—I know good cooking when I taste it. Green peppers, jalapeño, and some spice I can’t quite name make it the best meat loaf I’ve eaten. I look through the serving window. A tall, rangy, broad-shouldered guy has his back to me at the grill, a long black braid trailing to his waist. Nice butt.

  I’m mopping up gravy with a piece of homemade bread when Carly and the blonde come through the swinging door.

  “Nevada, this is Lorelei West, our manager. Lorelei, Nevada Sweet.”

  I nod.

  Carly looks around, and when she finds her husband, a smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “What with Faith, and our new business, I don’t get in here much. Lorelei would be your boss. But you need to know, we’ve already got a cook—a good one.”

  “Yeah, I found that out.” I wave at my empty plate. “That’s okay; I’ll just—”

  “But we do need a busboy, and someone to waitress in the busy times,” Lorelei says. “Carly vouches for you, so that’s good enough for me.”

  Carly hasn’t stopped looking me over. “I know you can do better, but I want you to stay. Will you take it?” She names an hourly rate that’s better than the job deserves.

  I don’t do charity. But I’m tired. Tired of running. Tired of worrying. And I’d be near invisible here in the butt crack of America. Besides, it’s too cold to be on the road. Maybe I’ll stay ’til it warms up. I hold out my hand to Lorelei. “Okay.” I can’t meet Carly’s eye, but I pull the word from my gut and spit it out. “Thanks.”

  “Come
with me.” Carly clamps onto the sleeve of my jacket and pulls. “I want you to meet Fish.”

  “I’m not a fan of tuna. Besides, I just ate.”

  She laughs that tinkling laugh I remember. “No, silly.” She pulls me through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Nevada, this is Joe ‘Fishing Eagle’ King. Fish, to his friends.”

  The name makes sense when he turns around. He’s obviously American Indian: long burnished face with strong bones, crow-black hair. One fine-looking dude. His eyes…they’re calm and steady. It’s like they see into me.

  “Fish, this is my friend, Nevada Sweet.”

  He takes his time, looking his fill.

  “What, do I have gravy on my chin?”

  He smiles like he knows something I don’t. He’s got a mouthful of startling white teeth. “Welcome, Nevada.”

  “Whatever.”

  Carly says, “Nevada’s going to be busing tables, helping out cleaning up in the kitchen, and waitressing when we’re shorthanded. But she’s a heck of a short-order cook by trade, so if you want to take some time off for a change, you can.”

  “We’ll see.” He turns back to the grill. “Nice to have the option.”

  Carly tows me back through the swinging door. “You’ll come home with us.”

  I stop, and pull my sleeve out of her grip. “I’ll just get a hotel room.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Did you see a hotel anywhere around? The nearest is five miles down the road to Albuquerque, and how would you get back for your shift in the morning?”

  “Hitch a ride.” I don’t want to be the flat spare tire in their home sweet home.

  “Oh, shut up, Sweet. You look beat. You’re coming home with me. Austin will bring you back in the morning.”

  I don’t have anything to say to that.

  “Come on, we’ll rescue my husband and baby, and get on home.”

  She’s not going to give up, so I follow.

  “I’m sorry, everyone, but we’ve got to get this princess home. Past her bedtime.” She touches Austin’s sleeve. “You ready, babe?”

  “Ready, Tigger.” He looks down at his wife, smug as a dog by the fire.