Chapter One
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Navy SEAL Boone Rudman should have been concentrating on the pile of paperwork in front of him. Instead he was brooding over a woman he hadn’t seen in thirteen years. If he’d been alone, he would have pulled up Riley Eaton’s photograph on his laptop, but three other men ringed the table in the small office he occupied at the Naval Amphibious Base at Little Creek, Virginia, so instead he mentally ran over the information he’d found out about her on the Internet. Riley lived in Boston, where she’d gone to school. She’d graduated with a fine arts degree, something which confused Boone; she’d never talked about wanting to study art when they were young. She worked at a vitamin manufacturer, which made no sense at all. And why was she living in a city, when Riley had only ever come alive when she’d visited Chance Creek, Montana, every summer as a child?
Too many questions. Questions he should know the answer to, since Riley had once been such an integral part of his life. If only he hadn’t been such a fool, Boone knew she still would be. Still a friend at least, or maybe much, much more. Pride had kept him from finding out.
He was done with pride.
He reached for his laptop, ready to pull up her photograph, whether he was alone or not, but stopped when it chimed to announce a video call. For one crazy second, Boone wondered if his thoughts had conjured Riley up, but he quickly shook away that ridiculous notion.
Probably his parents wondering once again why he wasn’t coming home when he left the Navy. He’d explained time and again the plans he’d made, but they couldn’t comprehend why he wouldn’t take the job his father had found him at a local ranch.
“Working with horses,” his dad had said the last time they talked. “What more do you want?”
It was tempting. Boone had always loved horses. But he had something else in mind. Something his parents found difficult to comprehend. The laptop chimed again.
“You going to get that?” Jericho Cook said, looking up from his work. Blond, blue-eyed, and six-foot-one inches of muscle, he looked out of place hunched over his paperwork. He and the other two men sitting at the table were three of Boone’s most trusted buddies and members of his strike team. Like him, they were far more at home jumping out of airplanes, infiltrating terrorist organizations and negotiating their way through disaster areas than sitting on their asses filling out forms. But paperwork caught up to everyone at some point.
He wouldn’t have to do it much longer, though. Boone was due to separate from the Navy in less than a month. The others were due to leave soon after. They’d joined up together—egging each other on when they turned eighteen over their parents’ objections. They’d survived the brutal process of becoming Navy SEALs together, too, adamant that they’d never leave each other behind. They’d served together whenever they could. Now, thirteen years later, they’d transition back to civilian life together as well.
The computer chimed a third time and his mind finally registered the name on the screen. Boone slapped a hand on the table to get the others’ attention.
“It’s him!”
“Him, who?” Jericho asked.
“Martin Fulsom, from the Fulsom Foundation. He’s calling me!”
“Are you sure?” Clay Pickett shifted his chair over to where he could see. He was an inch or two shorter than Jericho, with dark hair and a wiry build that concealed a perpetual source of energy. Even now Clay’s foot was tapping as he worked.
Boone understood his confusion. Why would Martin Fulsom, who must have a legion of secretaries and assistants at his command, call him personally?
“It says Martin Fulsom.”
“Holy shit. Answer it,” Jericho said. He shifted his chair over, too. Walker Norton, the final member of their little group, stood up silently and moved behind the others. Walker had dark hair and dark eyes that hinted at his Native American ancestry. Unlike the others, he’d taken the time to get his schooling and become an officer. As Lieutenant, he was the highest ranked. He was also the tallest of the group, with a heavy muscular frame that could move faster than most gave him credit for. He was quiet, though. So quiet that those who didn’t know him tended to write him off. They did so at their own peril.
Boone stifled an oath at the tremor that ran through him as he reached out to accept the call, but it wasn’t every day you got to meet your hero face to face. Martin Fulsom wasn’t a Navy SEAL. He wasn’t in the military at all. He’d once been an oil man, and had amassed a fortune in the industry before he’d learned about global warming and had a change of heart. For the last decade he’d spearheaded a movement to prevent carbon dioxide particulates from exceeding the disastrous level of 450 ppm. He’d backed his foundation with his entire fortune, invested it in green technology and used his earnings to fund projects around the world aimed at helping him reach his goal. Fulsom was a force of nature, with an oversized personality to match his incredible wealth. Boone liked his can-do attitude and his refusal to mince words when the situation called for plain speaking.
Boone clicked Accept and his screen resolved into an image of a man seated at a large wooden desk. He was gray-haired but virile, with large hands and an impressively large watch. Beside him stood a middle aged woman in a severely tailored black suit, who handed him pieces of paper one at a time, waited for him to sign them and took them back, placing them in various folders she cradled in her arm.
“Boone!” The man’s hearty voice was almost too much for the laptop’s speakers. “Good to finally meet you. This is an impressive proposal you have here.”
Boone swallowed. It was true. Martin Fulsom—one of the greatest innovators of their time—had actually called him. “It’s good to meet you, too, Mr. Fulsom,” he managed to say.
“Call me Martin,” Fulsom boomed. “Everybody does. Like I said, it’s a hell of a proposal. To build a fully operational sustainable community in less than six months? That take guts. Can you deliver?”
“Yes, sir.” Boone was confident he could. He’d studied this stuff for years. Dreamed about it, debated it, played with the numbers and particulars until he could speak with confidence about every aspect of the community he wanted to build. He and his friends had gained a greater working knowledge of the fallout from climate change than any of them had gone looking for when they joined the Navy SEALs. They’d realized most of the conflicts that spawned the missions they took on were caused in one way or the other by struggles over resources, usually exacerbated by climate conditions. When rains didn’t come and crops failed, unrest was sure to follow. Next came partisan politics, rebellions, coups and more. It didn’t take a genius to see that climate change and scarcity of resources would be two prongs spearheading trouble around the world for decades to come.
“And you’ll start with four families, building up to ten within that time frame?”
Boone blinked. Families? “Actually, sir…” He’d said nothing about families. Four men, building up to ten. That’s what he had written in his proposal.
“This is brilliant. Too brilliant.” Fulsom’s direct gaze caught his own. “You see, we were going to launch a community of our own, but when I saw your proposal, I said, ‘This man has already done the hard work; why reinvent the wheel? I can’t think of anyone better to lead such a project than someone like Boone Rudman.’”
Boone stifled a grin. This was going better than he could have dreamed. “Thank you, sir.”
Fulsom leaned forward. “The thing is, Boone, you have to do it right.”
“Of course, sir, but about—”
“It has to be airtight. You have to prove you’re sustainable. You have to prove your food systems are self-perpetuating, that you have a strategy to deal with waste, that you have contingency plans. What you’ve written here?” He held up Boone’s proposal package. “It’s genius. Genius. But the real question is—who’s going to give a shit about it?”
“Well, hell—” Fulsom’s abrupt change of tone startled Boone into defensiveness. He knew about the man’s legendary high-octane personality, but he hadn’t been prepared for this kind of bait and switch. “You yourself just said—”
Fulsom waved the application at him. “I love this stuff. It makes me hard. But the American public? That’s a totally different matter. They don’t find this shit sexy. It’s not enough to jerk me off, Boone. We’re trying to turn on the whole world.”
“O-okay.” Shit. Fulsom was going to turn him down after all. Boone gripped the arms of his chair, waiting for the axe to fall.
“So the question is, how do we make the world care about your community? And not just care about it—be so damn obsessed with it they can’t think about anything else?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll tell you how. We’re going to give you your own reality television show. Think of it. The whole world watching you go from ground zero to full-on sustainable community. Rooting for you. Cheering when you triumph. Crying when you fail. A worldwide audience fully engaged with you and your followers.”
“That’s an interesting idea,” Boone said slowly. It was an insane idea. There was no way anyone would spend their time watching him dig garden beds and install photovoltaic panels. He couldn’t think of anything less exciting to watch on television. And he didn’t have followers. He had three like-minded friends who’d signed on to work with him. Friends who even now were bristling at this characterization of their roles. “Like I said, Mr. Fulsom, each of the equal participants in the community have pledged to document our progress. We’ll take lots of photos and post them with our entries on a daily blog.”
“Blogs are for losers.” Fulsom leaned forward. “Come on, Boone. Don’t you want to change the world?”
“Yes, I do.” Anger curled within him. He was serious about these issues. Deadly serious. Why was Fulsom making a mockery of him? You couldn’t win any kind of war with reality television, and Boone approached his sustainable community as if he was waging a war—a war on waste, a war on the future pain and suffering of the entire planet.
“I get it. You think I’m nuts,” Fulsom said. “You think I’ve finally blown my lid. Well, I haven’t. I’m a free-thinker, Boone, not a crazy man. I know how to get the message across to the masses. Always have. And I’ve always been criticized for it, too. Who cares? You know what I care about? This world. The people on it. The plants and animals and atmosphere. The whole grand, beautiful spectacle that we’re currently dragging down into the muck of overconsumption. That’s what I care about. What about you?”
“I care about it, too, but I don’t want—”
“You don’t want to be made a fool of. Fair enough. You’re afraid of exposing yourself to scrutiny. You’re afraid you’ll fuck up on television. Well guess what? You’re right; you will fuck up. But the audience is going to love you so much by that time, that if you cry, they’ll cry with you. And when you triumph—and you will triumph—they’ll feel as ecstatic as if they’d done it all themselves. Along the way they’ll learn more about solar power, wind power, sustainable agriculture and all the rest of it than we could ever force-feed them through documentaries or classes. You watch, Boone. We’re going to do something magical.”
Boone stared at him. Fulsom was persuasive, he’d give him that. “About the families, sir.”
“Families are non-negotiable.” Fulsom set the application down and gazed at Boone, then each of his friends in turn. “You men are pioneers, but pioneers are a yawn-fest until they bring their wives to the frontier. Throw in women, and goddamn, that’s interesting! Women talk. They complain. They’ll take your plans for sustainability and kick them to the curb unless you make them easy to use and satisfying. What’s more, women are a hell of lot more interesting than men. Sex, Boone. Sex sells cars and we’re going to use it to sell sustainability, too. Are you with me?”
“I…” Boone didn’t know what to say. Use sex to sell sustainability? “I don’t think—”
“Of course you’re with me. A handsome Navy SEAL like you has to have a girl. You do, don’t you? Have a girl?”
“A girl?” Had he been reduced to parroting everything Fulsom said? Boone tried to pull himself together. He definitely did not have a girl. He dated when he had time, but he kept things light. He’d never felt it was fair to enter a more serious relationship as long as he was throwing himself into danger on a daily basis. He’d always figured he’d settle down when he left the service and he was looking forward to finally having the time to meet a potential mate. God knew his parents were all too ready for grandkids. They talked about it all the time.
“A woman, a fiancée. Maybe you already have a wife?” Fulsom looked hopeful and his secretary nodded at Boone, as if telling him to say yes.
“Well….”
He was about to say no, but the secretary shook her head rapidly and made a slicing motion across her neck. Since she hadn’t engaged in the conversation at all previously, Boone decided he’d better take her signals seriously. He’d gotten some of his best intel in the field just this way. A subtle nod from a veiled woman, or a pointed finger just protruding from a burka had saved his neck more than once. Women were crafty when it counted.
“I’m almost married,” he blurted. His grip on the arms of his chair tightened. None of this was going like he’d planned. Jericho and Clay turned to stare at him like he’d lost his mind. Behind him Walker chuckled. “I mean—”
“Excellent! Can’t wait to meet your better half. What about the rest of you?” Fulsom waved them off before anyone else could speak. “Never mind. Julie here will get all that information from you later. As long as you’ve got a girl, Boone, everything’s going to be all right. The fearless leader has to have a woman by his side. It gives him that sense of humanity our viewers crave.” Julie nodded like she’d heard this many times before.
Boone’s heart sunk even further. Fearless leader? Fulsom didn’t understand his relationship with the others at all. Walker was his superior officer, for God’s sake. Still, Fulsom was waiting for his answer, with a shrewd look in his eyes that told Boone he wasn’t fooled at all by his hasty words. Their funding would slip away unless he convinced Fulsom that he was dedicated to the project—as Fulsom wanted it to be done.
“I understand completely,” Boone said, although he didn’t understand at all. His project was about sustainability. It wasn’t some human-interest story. “I’m with you one hundred percent.”
“Then I’ve got a shitload of cash to send your way. Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.” He felt rather than heard the others shifting, biting back their protests.
Fulsom leaned so close his head nearly filled the screen. “We’ll start filming June first and I look forward to meeting your fiancée when I arrive. Understand? Not a girlfriend, not a weekend fling—a fiancée. I want weddings, Boone.” He looked over the four of them again. “Four weddings. Yours will kick off the series. I can see it now; an empty stretch of land. Two modern pioneers in love. A country parson performing the ceremony. The bride holding a bouquet of wildflowers the groom picked just minutes before. Their first night together in a lonely tent. Magic, Boone. That’s prime time magic. Surviving on the Land meets The First Six Months.”
Boone nodded, swallowing hard. He’d seen those television shows. The first tracked modern-day mountain men as they pitted themselves against crazy weather conditions in extreme locations. The second followed two newlyweds for six months, and documented their every move, embrace, and lovers’ quarrel as they settled into married life. He didn’t relish the idea of starring in any show remotely like those.
Besides, June first was barely two months away. He’d only get out of the Navy at the end of April. They hadn’t even found a property to build on yet.
“There’ll be four of you men to start,” Fulsom went on. “That means we need four women for episode one; your fiancée and three other hopeful single ladies. Let the viewers do the math, am I right? They’ll start pairing you off even before we do. We’ll add other community members as we go. Six more men and six more women ought to do it, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.” This was getting worse by the minute.
“Now, I’ve given you a hell of a shock today. I get that. So let me throw you a bone. I’ve just closed on the perfect piece of property for your community. Fifteen hundred acres of usable land with creeks, forest, pasture and several buildings. I’m going to give it to you free and clear to use for the duration of the series. If—and only if—you meet your goals, I’ll sign it over to you lock, stock and barrel at the end of the last show.”
Boone sat up. That was a hell of a bone. “Where is it?”
“Little town called Chance Creek, Montana. I believe you’ve heard of it?” Fulsom laughed at his reaction. Even Walker was startled. Chance Creek? They’d grown up there. Their families still lived there.
They were going home.
Chills marched up and down his spine and Boone wondered if his friends felt the same way. He’d hardly even let himself dream about that possibility. None of them came from wealthy families and none of them would inherit land. He’d figured they’d go where it was cheapest, and ranches around Chance Creek didn’t come cheap. Not these days. Like everywhere else, the town had seen a slump during the last recession, but now prices were up again and he’d heard from his folks that developers were circling, talking about expanding the town. Boone couldn’t picture that.
“Let me see here. I believe it’s called… Westfield,” Fulsom said. Julie nodded, confirming his words. “Hasn’t been inhabited for over a decade. A local caretaker has been keeping an eye on it, but there hasn’t been cattle on it for at least that long. The heir to the property lives in Europe now. Must have finally decided he wasn’t ever going to take up ranching. When he put it on the market, I snapped it up real quick.”
Westfield.
Boone sat back even as his friends shifted behind him again. Westfield was a hell of a property—owned by the Eaton family for as long as anyone could remember. He couldn’t believe it wasn’t a working ranch anymore. But if the old folks were gone, he guessed that made sense. They must have passed away not long after he had left Chance Creek. They wouldn’t have broken up the property, so Russ Eaton would have inherited and Russ wasn’t much for ranching. Neither was his younger brother, Michael. As far as Boone knew, Russ hadn’t married, which left Michael’s daughter the only possible candidate to run the place.
Riley Eaton.
Was it a coincidence that had brought her to mind just moments before Fulsom’s call, or something more?
Coincidence, Boone decided, even as the more impulsive side of him declared it Fate.
A grin tugged at his mouth as he remembered Riley as she used to be, the tomboy who tagged along after him every summer when they were kids. Riley lived for vacations on her grandparents’ ranch. Her mother would send her off each year dressed up for the journey, and the minute Riley reached Chance Creek she’d wad up those fancy clothes and spend the rest of the summer in jeans, boots and an old Stetson passed down from her grandma. Boone and his friends hired on at Westfield most summers to earn some spending money. Riley stuck to them like glue, learning as much as she could about riding and ranching from them. When she was little, she used to cry when August ended and she had to go back home. As she grew older, she hid her feelings better, but Boone knew she’d always adored the ranch. It wasn’t surprising, given her home life. Even when he was young, he’d heard the gossip and knew things were rough back in Chicago.
As much as he and the others had complained about being saddled with a follower like Riley, she’d earned their grudging respect as the years went on. Riley never complained, never wavered in her loyalty to them, and as many times as they left her behind, she was always ready to try again to convince them to let her join them in their exploits.
“It’s a crime,” he’d once heard his mother say to a friend on the phone. “Neither mother nor father has any time for her at all. No wonder she’ll put up with anything those boys dish out. I worry for her.”
Boone understood now what his mother was afraid of, but at the time he’d shrugged it off and over the years Riley had become a good friend. Sometimes when they were alone fishing, or riding, or just hanging out on her grandparents’ porch, Boone would find himself telling her things he’d never told anyone else. As far as he knew, she’d never betrayed a confidence.
Riley was the one who dubbed Boone, Clay, Jericho and Walker the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a nickname that had stuck all these years. When they’d become obsessed with the idea of being Navy SEALs, Riley had even tried to keep up with the same training regimen they’d adopted.
Boone wished he could say they’d always treated Riley as well as she treated them, but that wasn’t the truth of it. One of his most shameful memories centered around the slim girl with the long brown braids. Things had become complicated once he and his friends began to date. They had far less time for Riley, who was two years younger and still a kid in their eyes, and she’d withdrawn when she realized their girlfriends didn’t want her around. She still hung out when they worked at Westfield, though, and was old enough to be a real help with the work. Some of Boone’s best memories were of early mornings mucking out stables with Riley. They didn’t talk much, just worked side by side until the job was done. From time to time they walked out to a spot on the ranch where the land fell away and they could see the mountains in the distance. Boone had never quantified how he felt during those times. Now he realized what a fool he’d been.
He hadn’t given a thought to how his girlfriends affected her or what it would be like for Riley when they left for the Navy. He’d been too young. Too utterly self-absorbed.
That same year he’d had his first serious relationship, with a girl named Melissa Resnick. Curvy, flirty and oh-so-feminine, she’d slipped into his heart by slipping into his bed on Valentine’s Day. By the time Riley came to town again that last summer, he and Melissa were seldom apart. Of all the girls the Horsemen had dated, Melissa was the least tolerant of Riley’s presence, and one day when they’d all gone to a local swimming hole, she’d huffed in exasperation when the younger girl came along.
“It’s like you’ve got a sidekick,” she told Boone in everyone’s hearing. “Good ol’ Tagalong Riley.”
Clay, Jericho, and Walker, who’d always treated Riley like a little sister, thought it was funny. They had their own girlfriends to impress, and the name had stuck. Boone knew he should put a stop to it, but the lure of Melissa’s body was still too strong and he knew if he took Riley’s side he’d lose his access to it.
Riley had held her head up high that day and she’d stayed at the swimming hole, a move that Boone knew must have cost her, but each repetition of the nickname that summer seemed to heap pain onto her shoulders, until she caved in on herself and walked with her head down.
The worst was the night before he and the Horsemen left to join the Navy. He hadn’t seen Riley for several days, whereas he couldn’t seem to shake Melissa for a minute. He should have felt flattered, but instead it had irritated him. More and more often, he had found himself wishing for Riley’s calm company, but she’d stopped coming to help him.
Because everyone else seemed to expect it, he’d attended the hoe-down in town sponsored by the rodeo that last night. Melissa clung to him like a burr. Riley was nowhere to be found. Boone accepted every drink he was offered and was well on his way to being three sheets to the wind when Melissa excused herself to the ladies’ room at about ten. Boone remained with the other Horsemen and their dates, and he could only stare when Riley appeared in front of him. For once she’d left her Stetson at home, her hair was loose from its braids, and she wore makeup and a mini skirt that left miles of leg between its hem and her dress cowboy boots.
Every nerve in his body had come to full alert and Boone had understood in that moment what he’d failed to realize all that summer. Riley had grown up. At sixteen, she was a woman. A beautiful woman who understood him far better than Melissa could hope to. He’d had a fleeting sense of lost time and missed opportunities before Clay had whistled. “Hell, Tagalong, you’ve gone and gotten yourself a pair of breasts.”
“You better watch out dressed up like that; some guy will think you want more than you bargained for,” Jericho said.
Walker’s normally grave expression had grown even more grim.
Riley had ignored them all. She’d squared her shoulders, looked Boone in the eye and said, “Will you dance with me?”
Shame flooded Boone every time he thought back to that moment.
Riley had paid him a thousand kindnesses over the years, listened to some of his most intimate thoughts and fears, never judged him, made fun of him or cut him down the way his other friends sometimes did. She’d always been there for him, and all she’d asked for was one dance.
He should have said yes.
It wasn’t the shake of Walker’s head, or Clay and Jericho’s laughter that stopped him. It was Melissa, who had returned in time to hear Riley’s question, and answered for him.
“No one wants to dance with a Tagalong. Go on home.”
Riley had waited one more moment—then fled.
Boone rarely thought about Melissa after he’d left Chance Creek and when he did it was to wonder what he’d ever found compelling in her. He thought about Riley far too often. He tried to remember the good times—teaching her to ride, shoot, trap and fish. The conversations and lazy days in the sun when they were kids. The intimacy that had grown up between them without him ever realizing it.
Instead, he thought of that moment—that awful, shameful moment when she’d begged him with her eyes to say yes, to throw her pride that single bone.
And he’d kept silent.
“Have you heard of the place?” Fulsom broke into his thoughts and Boone blinked. He’d been so far away it took a moment to come back. Finally, he nodded.
“I have.” He cleared his throat to get the huskiness out of it. “Mighty fine ranch.” He couldn’t fathom why it hadn’t passed down to Riley. Losing it must have broken her heart.
Again.
“So my people tell me. Heck of a fight to get it, too. Had a competitor, a rabid developer named Montague.” Fulsom shook his head. “But that gave me a perfect setup.”
“What do you mean?” Boone’s thoughts were still with the girl he’d once known. The woman who’d haunted him all these years. He forced himself to pay attention to Fulsom instead.
Fulsom clicked his keyboard and an image sprung up onscreen. “Take a look.”
Letting his memories go, Boone tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Some kind of map—an architect’s rendering of a planned development.
“What is that?” Clay demanded.
“Wait—that’s Westfield.” Jericho leaned over Boone’s shoulder to get a better look.
“Almost right.” Fulsom nodded. “Those are the plans for Westfield Commons, a community of seventy luxury homes.”
Blood ran cold in Boone’s veins as Walker elbowed his way between them and peered at the screen. “Luxury homes? On Westfield? You can’t do that!”
“I don’t want to. But Montague does. He’s frothing at the mouth to bulldoze that ranch and sell it piece by piece. The big, bad developer versus the environmentalists. This show is going to write itself.” He fixed his gaze on Boone. “And if you fail, the last episode will show his bulldozers closing in.”
“But it’s our land; you just said so,” Boone protested.
“As long as you meet your goals by December first. Ten committed couples—every couple married by the time the show ends. Ten homes whose energy requirements are one-tenth the normal usage for an American home. Six months’ worth of food produced on site stockpiled to last the inhabitants through the winter. And three children.”
“Children? Where do we get those?” Boone couldn’t keep up. He hadn’t promised anything like that. All he’d said in his proposal was that they’d build a community.
“The old-fashioned way. You make them. No cheating; children conceived before the show starts don’t count.”
“Jesus.” Fulsom had lost his mind. He was taking the stakes and raising them to outrageous heights… which was exactly the way to create a prime-time hit, Boone realized.
“It takes nine months to have a child,” Jericho pointed out dryly.
“I didn’t say they needed to be born. Pregnant bellies are better than squalling babies. Like I said, sex sells, boys. Let’s give our viewers proof you and your wives are getting it on.”
Boone had had enough. “That’s ridiculous, Fulsom. You’re—”
“You know what’s ridiculous?” Fulsom leaned forward again, suddenly grim. “Famine. Poverty. Violence. War. And yet it never stops, does it? You said you wanted to do something about it. Here’s your chance. You’re leaving the Navy, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me you didn’t plan to meet a woman, settle down and raise some kids. So I’ve put a rush on the matter. Sue me.”
He had a point. But still—
“I could sell the land to Montague today,” Fulsom said. “Pocket the money and get back to sorting out hydrogen fuel cells.” He waited a beat. When Boone shook his head, Fulsom smiled in triumph. “Gotta go, boys. Julie, here, will get you all sorted out. Good luck to you on this fabulous venture. Remember—we’re going to change the world together.”
“Wait—”
Fulsom stood up and walked off screen.
Boone stared as Julie sat down in his place. By the time she had walked them through the particulars of the funding process, and when and how to take possession of the land, Boone’s temples were throbbing. He cut the call after Julie promised to send a packet of information, reluctantly pushed his chair back from the table and faced the three men who were to be his partners in this venture.
“Married?” Clay demanded. “No one said anything about getting married!”
“I know.”
“And kids? Three out of ten of us men will have to get their wives pregnant. That means all of us will have to be trying just to beat the odds,” Jericho said.
“I know.”
Walker just looked at him and shook his head.
“I get it! None of us planned for anything like this.” Boone stood up. “But none of us thought we had a shot of moving back to Chance Creek, either—or getting our message out to the whole country.” When no one answered, he went on. “Are you saying you’re out?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Jericho said, pacing around the room. “I could stomach anything except that marriage part. I’ve never seen myself as a family man.”
“I don’t mind getting hitched,” Clay said. “And I want kids. But I want to choose where and when to do it. And Fulsom’s setting us up to fail in front of a national audience. If that Montague guy gets the ranch and builds a subdivision on it, everyone in town is going to hate us—and our families.”
“So what do we do?” Boone challenged him.
“Not much choice,” Walker said. “If we don’t sign on, Fulsom will sell to Montague anyway.”
“Exactly. The only shot we have of saving that ranch is to agree to his demands,” Boone said. He shoved his hands in his pockets, unsure what to do. He couldn’t see himself married in two months, let alone trying to have a child with a woman he hadn’t even met yet, but giving up—Boone hated to think about it. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d done unexpected things to accomplish a mission.
Jericho paced back. “But his demands are—”
“Insane. I know that.” Boone knew he was losing them. “He’s right, though; a sustainable community made only of men doesn’t mean shit. A community that’s actually going to sustain itself—to carry on into the future, generation after generation—has to include women and eventually kids. Otherwise we’re just playing.”
“Fulsom’s the one who’s playing. Playing with our lives. He can’t demand we marry someone for the sake of his ratings,” Jericho said.
“Actually, he can,” Clay said. “He’s the one with the cash.”
“We’ll find cash somewhere else—”
“It’s more than cash,” Boone reminded Jericho. “It’s publicity. If we build a community and no one knows about it, what good is it? We went to Fulsom because we wanted him to do just what he’s done—find a way to make everyone talk about sustainability.”
“By marrying us off one by one?” Jericho stared at each of them in turn. “Are you serious? We just spent the last thirteen years of our lives fighting for our country—”
“And now we’re going to fight for it in a whole new way. By getting married. On television. And knocking up our wives—while the whole damn world watches,” Boone said.
No one spoke for a minute.
“I sure as hell hope they won’t film that part, Chief,” Clay said with a quick grin, using the moniker Boone had gained in the SEALs as second in command of his platoon.
“They wouldn’t want to film your hairy ass, anyway,” Jericho said.
Clay shoved him. Jericho elbowed him away.
“Enough.” Walker’s single word settled all of them down. They were used to listening to their lieutenant. Walker turned to Boone. “You think this will actually do any good?”
Boone shrugged. “Remember Yemen. Remember what’s coming. We swore we’d do what it takes to make a difference.” It was a low blow bringing up that disaster, but it was what had gotten them started down this path and he wanted to remind them of it.
“I remember Yemen every day,” Jericho said, all trace of clowning around gone.
“So do I.” Clay sighed. “Hell, I’m ready for a family anyway. I’m in. I don’t know how I’ll find a wife, though. Ain’t had any luck so far.”
“I’ll find you one,” Boone told him.
“Thanks, Chief.” Clay gave him an ironic salute.
Jericho walked away. Came back again. “Damn it. I’m in, too. Under protest, though. Something this serious shouldn’t be a game. You find me a wife, too, Chief, but I’ll divorce her when the six months are up if I don’t like her.”
“Wait until Fulsom’s given us the deed to the ranch, then do what you like,” Boone said. “But if I’m picking your bride, give her a chance.”
“Sure, Chief.”
Boone didn’t trust that answer, but Jericho had agreed to Fulsom’s terms and that’s all that mattered for now. He looked to Walker. It was crucial that the man get on board. Walker stared back at him, his gaze unfathomable. Boone knew there was trouble in his past. Lots of trouble. The man avoided women whenever he could.
Finally Walker gave him a curt nod. “Find me one, too. Don’t screw it up.”
Boone let out the breath he was holding. Despite the events of the past hour, a surge of anticipation warmed him from within.
They were going to do it.
And he was going to get hitched.
Was Riley the marrying kind?
Riley Eaton took a sip of her green tea and summoned a smile for the friends who’d gathered on the tiny balcony of her apartment in Boston. Her thoughts were far away, though, tangled in a memory of a hot Montana afternoon when she was only ten. She’d crouched on the bank of Pittance Creek watching Boone Rudman wade through the knee-deep waters, fishing for minnows with a net. Riley had followed Boone everywhere back then, but she knew to stay out of the water and not scare his bait away.
“Mom said marriage is a trap set by men for unsuspecting women,” she’d told him, quoting what she’d heard her mother say to a friend over the phone.
“You’d better watch out then,” he’d said, poised to scoop up a handful of little fish.
“I won’t get caught. Someone’s got to want to catch you before that happens.”
Boone had straightened, his net trailing in the water. She’d never forgotten the way he’d looked at her—all earnest concern.
“Maybe I’ll catch you.”
“Why?” She’d been genuinely curious. Getting overlooked was something she’d already grown used to.
“For my wife. If I ever want one. You’ll never see me coming.” He’d lifted his chin as if she’d argue the point. But Riley had thought it over and knew he was right.
She’d nodded. “You are pretty sneaky.”
Riley had never forgotten that conversation, but Boone had and like everyone else he’d overlooked her when the time counted.
Story of her life.
Riley shook off the maudlin thoughts. She couldn’t be a good hostess if she was wrapped up in her troubles. Time enough for them when her friends had gone.
She took another sip of her tea and hoped they wouldn’t notice the tremor in her hands. She couldn’t believe seven years had passed since she’d graduated from Boston College with the women who relaxed on the cheap folding chairs around her. Back then she’d thought she’d always have these women by her side, but now these yearly reunions were the only time she saw them. They were all firmly ensconced in careers that consumed their time and energy. It was hard enough to stay afloat these days, let alone get ahead in the world—or have time to take a break.
Gone were the carefree years when they thought nothing of losing whole weekends to trying out a new art medium, or picking up a new instrument. Once she’d been fearless, throwing paint on the canvas, guided only by her moods. She’d experimented day after day, laughed at the disasters and gloried in the triumphs that took shape under her brushes from time to time. Now she rarely even sketched, and what she produced seemed inane. If she wanted to express the truth of her situation through her art, she’d paint pigeons and gum stuck to the sidewalk. But she wasn’t honest anymore.
For much of the past five years she’d been married to her job as a commercial artist at a vitamin distributor, joined to it twenty-four seven through her cell phone and Internet connection. Those years studying art seemed like a dream now; the one time in her life she’d felt like she’d truly belonged somewhere. She had no idea how she’d thought she’d earn a living with a fine arts degree, though. She supposed she’d hadn’t thought much about the future back then. Now she felt trapped by it.
Especially after the week she’d had.
She set her cup down and twisted her hands together, trying to stop the shaking. It had started on Wednesday when she’d been called into her boss’s office and handed a pink slip and a box in which to pack up her things.
“Downsizing. It’s nothing personal,” he’d told her.
She didn’t know how she’d kept her feet as she’d made her way out of the building. She wasn’t the only one riding the elevator down to street level with her belongings in her hands, but that was cold comfort. It had been hard enough to find this job. She had no idea where to start looking for another.
She’d held in her shock and panic that night and all the next day until Nadia from the adoption agency knocked on her door for their scheduled home visit at precisely two pm. She’d managed to answer Nadia’s questions calmly and carefully, until the woman put down her pen.
“Tell me about your job, Riley. How will you as a single mother balance work and home life with a child?”
Riley had opened her mouth to speak, but no answer had come out. She’d reached for her cup of tea, but only managed to spill it on the cream colored skirt she’d chosen carefully for the occasion. As Nadia rushed to help her mop up, the truth had spilled from Riley’s lips.
“I’ve just been downsized. I’m sorry; I’ll get a new job right away. This doesn’t have to change anything, does it?”
Nadia had been sympathetic but firm. “This is why we hesitate to place children with single parents, Riley. Children require stability. We can continue the interview and I’ll weigh all the information in our judgement, but until you can prove you have a stable job, I’m afraid you won’t qualify for a child.”
“That will take years,” Riley had almost cried, but she’d bitten back the words. What good would it do to say them aloud? As a girl, she’d dreamed she’d have children with Boone someday. When she’d grown up, she’d thought she’d find someone else. Hadn’t she waited long enough to start her family?
“Riley? Are you all right?” Savannah Edwards asked, bringing her back to the present.
“Of course.” She had to be. There was no other option but to soldier on. She needed to get a new job. A better job. She needed to excel at it and put the time in to make herself indispensable. Then, in a few years, she could try again to adopt.
“Are you sure?” A tall blonde with hazel eyes, Savannah had been Riley’s best friend back in school, and Riley had always had a hard time fooling her. Savannah had been a music major and Riley could have listened to her play forever. She was the first person Riley had met since her grandparents passed away who seemed to care about her wholeheartedly. Riley’s parents had been too busy arguing with each other all through her childhood to have much time left over to think about her. They split up within weeks after she left for college. Each remarried before the year was out and both started new families soon after. Riley felt like the odd man out when she visited them on holidays. More than eighteen years older than her half-siblings, she didn’t seem to belong anywhere now.
“I’m great now that you three are here.” She wouldn’t confess the setback that had just befallen her. It was still too raw to process and she didn’t want to bring the others down when they’d only just arrived. She wasn’t the only one who had it tough. Savannah should have been a concert pianist, but when she broke her wrist in a car accident several years after graduation, she had to give up her aspirations. Instead, she had gone to work as an assistant at a prominent tech company in Silicon Valley and was still there.
“What’s on tap for the weekend?” Nora Ridgeway asked as she scooped her long, wavy, light brown hair into a messy updo and secured it with a clip. She’d flown in from Baltimore where she taught English in an inner-city high school. Riley had been shocked to see the dark smudges under her eyes. Nora looked thin. Too thin. Riley wondered what secrets she was hiding behind her upbeat tone.
“I hope it’s a whole lot of nothing,” Avery Lightfoot said, her auburn curls glinting in the sun. Avery lived in Nashville and worked in the marketing department of one of the largest food distribution companies in North America. She’d studied acting in school, but she’d never been discovered the way she’d once hoped to be. For a brief time she’d created an original video series that she’d posted online, but the advertising revenue she’d generated hadn’t added up to much and soon her money had run out. Now she created short videos to market low-carb products to yoga moms. Riley’s heart ached for her friend. She sounded as tired as Nora looked.
In fact, everyone looked like they needed a pick-me-up after dealing with flights and taxis, and Riley headed inside to get refreshments. She wished she’d been able to drive to the airport and pick them up. Who could afford a car, though? Even when she’d had a job, Riley found it hard to keep up with her rent, medical insurance and monthly bills, and budget enough for the childcare she’d need when she adopted. Thank God it had been her turn to host their gathering this year. She couldn’t have gotten on a plane after the news she’d just received.
When she thought back to her college days she realized her belief in a golden future had really been a pipe dream. Some of her classmates were doing fine. But most of them were struggling to keep their heads above water, just like her. A few had given up and moved back in with their parents.
When she got back to the balcony with a tray of snacks, she saw Savannah pluck a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice out of a small basket that sat next to the door. Riley had been reading it in the mornings before work this week as she drank her coffee—until she’d been let go. A little escapism helped start her day off on the right foot.
“Am I the only one who’d trade my life for one of Austen’s characters’ in a heartbeat?” Savannah asked, flipping through the pages.
“You want to live in Regency England? And be some man’s property?” Nora asked sharply.
“Of course not. I don’t want the class conflict or the snobbery or the outdated rules. But I want the beauty of their lives. I want the music and the literature. I want afternoon visits and balls that last all night. Why don’t we do those things anymore?”
“Who has time for that?” Riley certainly hadn’t when she was working. Now she’d have to spend every waking moment finding a new job.
“I haven’t played the piano in ages,” Savannah went on. “I mean, it’s not like I’m all that good anymore—”
“Are you kidding? You’ve always been fantastic,” Nora said.
“What about romance? I’d kill for a real romance. One that means something,” Avery said.
“What about Dan?” Savannah asked.
“I broke up with him three weeks ago. He told me he wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. The man’s thirty-one. If he’s not ready now, when will he be?”
“That’s tough.” Riley understood what Avery meant. She hadn’t had a date in a year; not since Marc Hepstein had told her he didn’t consider her marriage material. She should have dumped him long before.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t been warned. His older sister had taken her aside once and spelled it out for her:
“Every boy needs to sow his wild oats. You’re his shiksa fling. You’ll see; you won’t get a wedding ring from him. Marc will marry a nice Jewish girl in the end.”
Riley wished she’d paid attention to the warning, but of course she hadn’t. She had a history of dangling after men who were unavailable.
Shiksa fling.
Just a step up from Tagalong Riley.
Riley pushed down the old insecurities that threatened to take hold of her and tried not to give in to her pain over her lost chance to adopt. When Marc had broken up with her, it had been a wake-up call. She’d realized if she waited for a man to love her, she might never experience the joy of raising a child. She’d also realized she hadn’t loved Marc enough to spend a life with him. She’d been settling, and she was better than that.
She’d started the adoption process.
Now she’d have to start all over again.
“It wasn’t as hard to leave him as you might think.” Avery took a sip of her tea. “It’s not just Dan. I feel like breaking up with my life. I had a heart once. I know I did. I used to feel—alive.”
“Me, too,” Nora said softly.
“I thought I’d be married by now,” Savannah said, “but I haven’t had a boyfriend in months. And I hate my job. I mean, I really hate it!” Riley couldn’t remember ever seeing calm, poised Savannah like this.
“So do I,” Avery said, her words gushing forth as if a dam had broken. “Especially since I have two of them now. I got back in debt when my car broke down and I needed to buy a new one. Now I can’t seem to get ahead.”
“I don’t have any job at all,” Riley confessed. “I’ve been downsized.” She closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to say that.
“Oh my goodness, Riley,” Avery said. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Paint?” She laughed dully. She couldn’t tell them the worst of it. She was afraid if she talked about her failed attempt to adopt she’d lose control of her emotions altogether. “Can you imagine a life in which we could actually pursue our dreams?”
“No,” Avery said flatly. “After what happened last time, I’m so afraid if I try to act again, I’ll just make a fool of myself.”
Savannah nodded vigorously, tears glinting in her eyes. “I’m afraid to play,” she confessed. “I sit down at my piano and then I get up again without touching the keys. What if my talent was all a dream? What if I was fooling myself and I was never anything special at all? My wrist healed years ago, but I can’t make myself go for it like I once did. I’m too scared.”
“What about you, Nora? Do you ever write these days?” Riley asked gently when Nora remained quiet. When they were younger, Nora talked all the time about wanting to write a novel, but she hadn’t mentioned it in ages. Riley had assumed it was because she loved teaching, but she looked as burnt out as the rest of them. Riley knew she worked in an area of Baltimore that resembled a war zone.
Her friend didn’t answer, but a tear traced down her cheek.
“Nora, what is it?” Savannah dropped the book and came to crouch by her chair.
“It’s one of my students.” Nora kept her voice steady even as another tear followed the tracks of the first. “At least I think it is.”
“What do you mean?” Riley realized they’d all pulled closer to each other, leaning forward in mutual support and feeling. Dread crept into her throat at Nora’s words. She’d known instinctively something was wrong in her friend’s life for quite some time, but despite her questions, Nora’s e-mails and texts never revealed a thing.
“I’ve been getting threats. On my phone,” Nora said, plucking at a piece of lint on her skirt.
“Someone’s texting threats?” Savannah sounded aghast.
“And calling. He has my home number, too.”
“What did he say?” Avery asked.
“Did he threaten to hurt you?” Riley demanded. After a moment, Nora nodded.
“To kill you?” Avery whispered.
Nora nodded again. “And more.”
Savannah’s expression hardened. “More?”
Nora looked up. “He threatened to rape me. He said I’d like it. He got… really graphic.”
The four of them stared at each other in shocked silence.
“You can’t go back,” Savannah said. “Nora, you can’t go back there. I don’t care how important your work is, that’s too much.”
“What did the police say?” Riley’s hands were shaking again. Rage and shock battled inside of her, but anger won out. Who would dare threaten her friend?
“What did the school’s administration say?” Avery demanded.
“That threats happen all the time. That I should change my phone numbers. That the people who make the threats usually don’t act on them.”
“Usually?” Riley was horrified.
“What are you going to do?” Savannah said.
“What am I supposed to do? I can’t quit.” Nora seemed to sink into herself. “I changed my number, but it’s happening again. I’ve got nothing saved. I managed to pay off my student loans, but then my mom got sick… I’m broke.”
No one answered. They knew Nora’s family hadn’t had much money, and she’d taken on debt to get her degree. Riley figured she’d probably used every penny she might have saved to pay it off again. Then her mother had contracted cancer and had gone through several expensive procedures before she passed away.
“Is this really what it’s come to?” Avery asked finally. “Our work consumes us, or it overwhelms us, or it threatens us with bodily harm and we just keep going?”
“And what happened to love? True love?” Savannah’s voice was raw. “Look at us! We’re intelligent, caring, attractive women. And we’re all single! None of us even dating. What about kids? I thought I’d be a mother.”
“So did I,” Riley whispered.
“Who can afford children?” Nora said fiercely. “I thought teaching would be enough. I thought my students would care—” She broke off and Riley’s heart squeezed at Nora’s misery.
“I’ve got some savings, but I’ll eat through them fast if I don’t get another job,” Riley said slowly. “I want to leave Boston so badly. I want fresh air and a big, blue sky. But there aren’t any jobs in the country.” Memories of just such a sky flooded her mind. What she’d give for a vacation at her uncle’s ranch in Chance Creek, Montana. In fact, she’d love to go there and never come back. It had been so long since she’d managed to stop by and spend a weekend at Westfield, it made her ache to think of the carefree weeks she spent there every summer as a child. The smell of hay and horses and sunshine on old buildings, the way her grandparents used to let her loose on the ranch to run and play and ride as hard as she wanted to. Their unconditional love. There were few rules at Westfield and those existed purely for the sake of practicality and safety. Don’t spook the horses. Clean and put away tools after you use them. Be home at mealtimes and help with the dishes.
Away from her parents’ arguing, Riley had blossomed, and the skills she’d learned from the other kids in town—especially the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—had taught her pride and self-confidence. They were rough and tumble boys and they rarely slowed down to her speed, but as long as she kept up to them, they included her in their fun.
Clay Pickett, Jericho Cook, Walker Norton—they’d treated her like a sister. For an only child, it was a dream come true. But it was Boone who’d become a true friend, and her first crush.
And then had broken her heart.
“I keep wondering if it will always be like this,” Avery said, interrupting her thoughts. “If I’ll always have to struggle to get by. If I’ll never have a house of my own—or a husband or family.”
“You’ll have a family,” Riley assured her, then bit her lip. Who was she to reassure Avery? She could never seem to shake her bad luck—with men, with work, with anything. But out of all the things that had happened to her, nothing left her cringing with humiliation like the memory of the time she’d asked Boone to dance.
She’d been such a child. No one like Boone would have looked twice at her, no matter how friendly he’d been over the years. She could still hear Melissa’s sneering words—No one wants to dance with a Tagalong. Go on home—and the laughter that followed her when she fled the dance.
She’d returned to Chicago that last summer thinking her heart would never mend, and time had just begun to heal it when her grandparents passed away one after the other in quick succession that winter. Riley had been devastated; doubly so when she left for college the following year and her parents split. It was as if a tidal wave had washed away her childhood in one blow. After that, her parents sold their home and caretakers watched over the ranch. Uncle Russ, who’d inherited it, had found he made a better financier than a cowboy. With his career taking off, he’d moved to Europe soon after.
At his farewell dinner, one of the few occasions she’d seen her parents in the same room since they’d divorced, he’d stood up and raised a glass. “To Riley. You’re the only one who loves Westfield now, and I want you to think of it as yours. One day in the future it will be, you know. While I’m away, I hope you’ll treat it as your own home. Visit as long as you like. Bring your friends. Enjoy the ranch. My parents would have wanted that.” He’d taken her aside later and presented her with a key. His trust in her and his promises had warmed her heart. If she’d own Westfield one day she could stand anything, she’d told herself that night. It was the one thing that had sustained her through life’s repeated blows.
“I wish I could run away from my life, even for a little while. Six months would do it,” Savannah said, breaking into her thoughts. “If I could clear my mind of everything that has happened in the past few years I know I could make a fresh start.”
Riley knew just what she meant. She’d often wished the same thing, but she didn’t only want to run away from her life; she wanted to run straight back into her past to a time when her grandparents were still alive. Things had been so simple then.
Until she’d fallen for Boone.
She hadn’t seen Uncle Russ since he’d moved away, although she wrote to him a couple of times a year, and received polite, if remote, answers in turn. She had the feeling Russ had found the home of his heart in Munich. She wondered if he’d ever come back to Montana.
In the intervening years she’d visited Westfield whenever she could, more frequently as the sting of Boone’s betrayal faded, although in reality that meant a long weekend every three or four months, rather than the expansive summer vacations she’d imagined when she’d received the key. It wasn’t quite the same without her grandparents and her old friends, without Boone and the Horsemen, but she still loved the country, and Westfield Manor was the stuff of dreams. Even the name evoked happy memories and she blessed the ancestor whose flight of fancy had bestowed such a distinguished title on a Montana ranch house. She’d always wondered if she’d stumble across Boone someday, home for leave, but their visits had never coincided. Still, whenever she drove into Chance Creek, her heart rate kicked up a notch and she couldn’t help scanning the streets for his familiar face.
“I wish I could run away from my dirty dishes and laundry,” Avery said. Riley knew she was attempting to lighten the mood. “I spend my weekends taking care of all my possessions. I bet Jane Austen didn’t do laundry.”
“In those days servants did it,” Nora said, swiping her arm over her cheek to wipe away the traces of her tears. “Maybe we should get servants, too, while we’re dreaming.”
“Maybe we should, if it means we could concentrate on the things we love,” Savannah said.
“Like that’s possible. Look at us—we’re stuck, all of us. There’s no way out.” The waver in Nora’s voice betrayed her fierceness.
“There has to be,” Avery exclaimed.
“How?”
Riley wished she had the answer. She hated seeing the pain and disillusionment on her friends’ faces. And she was terrified of having to start over herself.
“What if… what if we lived together?” Savannah said slowly. “I mean, wouldn’t that be better than how things are now? If we pooled our resources and figured out how to make them stretch? None of us would have to work so hard.”
“I thought you had a good job,” Nora said, a little bitterly.
“On paper. The cost of living in Silicon Valley is outrageous, though. You’d be surprised how little is left over when I pay my bills. And inside, I feel… like I’m dying.”
A silence stretched out between them. Riley knew just what Savannah meant. At first grown-up life had seemed exciting. Now it felt like she was slipping into a pool of quicksand that she’d never be able to escape. Maybe it would be different if they joined forces. If they pooled their money, they could do all kinds of things.
For the first time in months she felt a hint of possibility.
“We could move where the cost of living is cheaper and get a house together.” Savannah warmed to her theme. “With a garden, maybe. We could work part time and share the bills.”
“For six months? What good would that do? We’d run through what little money we have and be harder to employ afterward,” Nora said.
“How much longer are you willing to wait before you try for the life you actually want, rather than the life that keeps you afloat one more day?” Savannah asked her. “I have to try to be a real pianist. Life isn’t worth living if I don’t give it a shot. That means practicing for hours every day. I can’t do that and work a regular job, too.”
“I’ve had an idea for a screenplay,” Avery confessed. “I think it’s really good. Six months would be plenty of time for me to write it. Then I could go back to work while I shop it around.”
“If I had six months I would paint all day until I had enough canvasses to put on a show. Maybe that would be the start and end of my career as an artist, but at least I’d have done it once,” Riley said.
“A house costs money,” Nora said.
“Not always,” Riley said slowly as an idea took hold in her head. “What about Westfield?” After all, it hadn’t been inhabited in years. “Uncle Russ always said I should bring my friends and stay there.”
“Long term?” Avery asked.
“Six months would be fine. Russ hasn’t set foot in it in over a decade.”
“You want us to move to Montana and freeload for six months?” Nora asked.
“I want us to move to Montana and take six months to jumpstart our lives. We’ll practice following our passions. We’ll brainstorm ideas together for how to make money from them. Who knows? Maybe together we’ll come up with a plan that will work.”
“Sounds good to me,” Avery said.
“I don’t know,” Nora said. “Do you really think it’s work that’s kept you from writing or playing or painting? Because if you can’t do it now, chances are you won’t be able to do it at Westfield either. You’ll busy up your days with errands and visits and sightseeing and all that. Wait and see.”
“Not if we swore an oath to work on our projects every day,” Savannah said.
“Like the oaths you used to swear to do your homework on time? Or not to drink on Saturday night? Or to stop crank-calling the guy who dumped you junior year?”
Savannah flushed. “I was a child back then—”
“I just feel that if we take six months off, we’ll end up worse off than when we started.”
Savannah leaned forward. “Come on. Six whole months to write. Aren’t you dying to try it?” When Nora hesitated, Savannah pounced on her. “I knew it! You want to as badly as we do.”
“Of course I want to,” Nora said. “But it won’t work. None of you will stay at home and hone your craft.”
A smile tugged at Savannah’s lips. “What if we couldn’t leave?”
“Are you going to chain us to the house?”
“No. I’m going to take away your clothes. Your modern clothes,” she clarified when the others stared at her. “You’re right; we could easily be tempted to treat the time like a vacation, especially with us all together. But if we only have Regency clothes to wear, we’ll be stuck because we’ll be too embarrassed to go into town. We’ll take a six-month long Jane Austen vacation from our lives.” She sat back and folded her arms over her chest.
“I love it,” Riley said. “Keep talking.”
“We’ll create a Regency life, as if we’d stepped into one of her novels. A beautiful life, with time for music and literature and poetry and walks. Westfield is rural, right? No one will be there to see us. If we pattern our days after the way Jane’s characters spent theirs, we’d have plenty of time for creative pursuits.”
Nora rolled her eyes. “What about the neighbors? What about groceries and dental appointments?”
“Westfield is set back from the road.” Riley thought it through. “Savannah’s right; we could go for long stretches without seeing anyone. We could have things delivered, probably.”
“I’m in,” Avery said. “I’ll swear to live a Regency life for six months. I’ll swear it on penalty of… death.”
“The penalty is embarrassment,” Savannah said. “If we leave early, we have to travel home in our Regency clothes. I know I’m in. I’d gladly live a Jane Austen life for six months.”
“If I get to wear Regency dresses and bonnets, I’m in too,” Riley said. What was the alternative? Stay here and mourn the child she’d never have?
“Are you serious?” Nora asked. “Where do we even get those things?”
“We have a seamstress make them, or we sew them ourselves,” Avery said. “Come on, Nora. Don’t pretend you haven’t always wanted to.”
The others nodded. After all, it was their mutual love of Jane Austen movies that had brought them together in the first place. Two days into their freshman year at Boston College, Savannah had marched through the halls of their dorm announcing a Jane Austen film festival in her room that night. Riley, Nora and Avery had shown up for it, and the rest was history.
“It’ll force us to carry out our plan the way we intend to,” Savannah told her. “If we can’t leave the ranch, there will be no distractions. Every morning when we put on our clothes we’ll be recommitting to our vow to devote six months to our creative pursuits. Think about it, Nora. Six whole months to write.”
“Besides, we were so good together back in college,” Riley said. “We inspired each other. Why couldn’t we do that again?”
“But what will we live on?”
“We’ll each liquidate our possessions,” Savannah said. “Think about how little most people had in Jane Austen’s time. It’ll be like when Eleanor and Marianne have to move to a cottage in Sense and Sensibility with their mother and little sister. We’ll make a shoestring budget and stick to it for food and supplies. If we don’t go anywhere, we won’t spend any money, right?”
“That’s right,” Avery said. “Remember what Mrs. John Dashwood said in that novel. ‘What on earth can four women want for more than that?—They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be!’”
“We certainly won’t have any horses or carriages.” Savannah laughed.
“But we will be comfortable, and during the time we’re together we can brainstorm what to do next,” Riley said. “No one leaves Westfield until we all have a working plan.”
“With four of us to split the chores of running the house, it’ll be easy,” Avery said. “We’ll have hours and hours to devote to our craft every day.”
Nora hesitated. “You know this is crazy, right?”
“But it’s exactly the right kind of crazy,” Riley said. “You have to join us, Nora.”
Nora shook her head, but just when Riley thought she’d refuse, she shrugged. “Oh, okay. What the hell? I’ll do it.” Riley’s heart soared. “But when our six months are up, I’ll be broke,” Nora went on. “I’ll be homeless, too. I don’t see how anything will have improved.”
“Everything will have improved,” Savannah told her. “I promise. Together we can do anything.”
Riley smiled at their old rallying-cry from college. “So, we’re going to do it? You’ll all come to Westfield with me? And wear funny dresses?”
“And bonnets,” Avery said. “Don’t forget the bonnets.”
“I’m in,” Savannah said, sticking out her hand.
“I’m in,” Avery said, putting hers down on top of it.
“I guess I’m in,” Nora said, and added hers to the pile.
“Well, I’m definitely in.” Riley slapped hers down on top of the rest.
Westfield. She was going back to Westfield.
Things were looking up.
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