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Chapter 1 - Cowboy in a Kilt

“It always rains the day a good man dies.”

Raleigh Beaumont felt a smile tug the corner of his mouth, because the weather was bone dry. They’d been in a drought for the past few weeks. “Mama used to say that. She’d also say not to speak ill of the dead.”

“Your daddy was probably the only thing your mama and I really disagreed on.” Charlotte Vasquez came to lean beside him on the split-rail fence bordering the north pasture, propping one booted foot up as they both looked out over the rolling hills of the East Texas ranch that had been in his family for generations. “Luther Beaumont was a bastard, and we both know it.”

“You’re not wrong.” One corner of his mouth quirking, Raleigh glanced down at the tiny Latina woman, who barely came to the top of his shoulder.

When Raleigh’s mama, Lily, had been diagnosed with stage-four cancer, it had been Charlotte who’d taken a leave of absence from her job as a high-powered executive and moved in to care for her—and by extension, Raleigh. His daddy hadn’t stuck around to watch Lily’s decline as illness stole her vitality and vivaciousness, leaving her only a shell of the woman she’d once been. Luther had thrown himself into keeping the ranch running smoothly. At the time, Raleigh had convinced himself his father was only outrunning the inevitable grief. That he was protecting the legacy he’d married into.

He’d learned better since. 

“I mean, come on,” Charlotte continued. “He moves that little hussy—” Said hussy being Twila, Luther’s second wife, who was a bare seven years older than Raleigh himself. “—into the house when your mama’s barely been six months in the ground? She only married him for his money, and he married her for the trophy.” Her tone rang with bitter judgment, though it had been nearly fifteen years.

Raleigh stretched an arm across her shoulders, tugging her in for a hug. In the wake of Lily’s death, Charlotte had convinced Luther to let her stay on as housekeeper, so she’d be around as a mother-figure to Raleigh because, God knew, Twila didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. Back then, he hadn’t understood what she’d given up for him, but at sixteen, that link to the mother he hadn’t wanted to forget had saved Raleigh. And though he was well grown now, somehow, Charlotte had never left. He’d once asked her why, and she’d told him that losing his mother like that had shown her there were far more important things in life than breaking her back to climb a corporate ladder, and until she found another of them, she was staying planted near him.

“You didn’t have to be here today. I’m a big boy. I can handle the reading of the will.” 

She squeezed him back, her head only coming to his shoulder. “Of course, I did. You need somebody here who’s an ally.”

They both turned to see a black Ford F-150 pulling up in the circular drive in front of the house. 

“Looks like you weren’t the only one with that idea,” Raleigh murmured.

A familiar lanky figure climbed out of the truck and headed in their direction. Ezekiel Shaw was one of Raleigh’s oldest and best friends. The one who’d as often been the instigator of mischief as the one to help him out of it.

Charlotte shot him a knowing smile. “Hey, Trouble.”

Zeke grinned and pulled her in for a hug of his own. “Hey, Charlotte. When you gonna run away from this place and marry me?”

“I can’t marry you. Who’d be around to keep this one on the straight and narrow once he takes over the ranch?”

He clutched his chest in dramatic fashion. “Breakin’ my heart, woman.”

“Somehow, I think you’ll survive.” But a twinkle in her rich chocolate eyes softened the dry retort.

Turning to Raleigh, Zeke hauled him in for a back-thumping hug. “You holding up?”

“Ready to get this show on the road. What’re you doing out here?”

Zeke pulled a flask out of his pocket and offered it. “Figured I’d be around for moral support, just in case.”

Raleigh waved away what he knew would be bourbon. “You think things won’t go well with the reading of the will?”

He shrugged. “Got no reason to think one way or the other. I just know you and Twila don’t exactly get on.”

“She’ll be out of my life soon enough.” And thank God for it. Raleigh was itching to truly take over the reins and begin implementing the plans for diversification and modernization that his father had rejected.

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Charlotte muttered.

A whistle sounded behind them.

Hamp Browning, the family attorney, waved from the front porch. “Come on! It’s time.”

They strode toward the house, where Zeke dropped into one of the rocking chairs on the porch. “We’ll see you on the other side.”

Charlotte squeezed his shoulder once. “We’ll be right out here.”

Raleigh followed Hamp back to Luther’s study. Kitted out in lots of wood and leather, the room still smelled of his daddy and the cigar he habitually allowed himself at the end of the day. He could just imagine the old man leaned back in the chair behind the massive desk set in front of the picture window that framed their spread. But it wasn’t his seat anymore. After today, it would be Raleigh’s. 

Twila sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk, looking like she’d come dressed for a board meeting instead of the reading of a will at home. She’d never fit in around here, with her city airs and high-heeled shoes. He didn’t think he’d ever even seen her on a horse, and the only time she’d come out to the barn was to track down her husband. God forbid she risk stepping in something in her Feragucci shoes. Raleigh figured she’d be lighting out of here almost as soon as the reading was over. Back to Dallas, to her high-society friends.

He lowered himself into the other chair as Hamp circled around to the opposite side of the desk. The old man sat with a creak of springs and leather, running a hand down the tie that fell to the paunch overhanging his belt, then back up to smooth his big walrus mustache. Not for the first time, Raleigh thought he wouldn’t look out of place as an extra in a western. Maybe in a leather vest at a poker table or behind the bar in an old saloon. The thought of it had his lips twitching into a smile. His mama would’ve appreciated the image. She had loved her westerns.

On a sigh, Hamp opened the folder he’d placed on the blotter. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

As the lawyer fell into the drone of legalese, reading the last will and testament of Luther Alexander Beaumont, Raleigh’s gaze strayed past him to the window. Just a little while longer, then he’d finally be free to speak to the hands and their families, giving them the reassurance that nothing would change. They wouldn’t lose their homes or jobs. His mind shifted to what needed to be his first orders of action. He’d had plenty of time to consider that, but he had to think about the season and what expenses the ranch would have coming up.

Abruptly, Raleigh realized Hamp and Twila were staring at him. 

“I’m sorry. I zoned out there for a minute. Can you break it down into layman’s terms?”

Hamp glanced at Twila, then back at him, his expression apologetic.

What the hell had he missed? Fighting not to curl his hands around the arms of the chair as a bad feeling set up like Quikrete in his gut, he waved at Hamp. “Go ahead; spit it out. I don’t care about the money. I just want the ranch.”

The old man winced. “Your father left everything to Twila.”

That couldn’t be right.

Shock was the only thing that kept his voice level. “I’m sorry. What?”

“All of it. He changed his will a few years ago. The stock, the land, the house. It all belongs to her now.”

Raleigh exploded up, sending his chair skidding several feet back as he rounded on his father’s wife. “This is fucking bullshit. This is my birthright. My mother’s family’s land. You have no right to it whatsoever. You don’t want this place. You have no interest in running a ranch.”

Unperturbed, she lifted her chin, somehow managing to look down her nose at him from where she stayed seated, her long legs crossed neatly in the slim pencil skirt. “You’re right. I don’t. Which is why I’ve already made arrangements to sell it.”

The blood drained out of Raleigh’s head. “Sell it? To who?”

She named a developer who’d been sniffing around for years with designs on turning their several thousand acres into cookie-cutter suburban houses. 

As he let loose a string of profanity and began to pace, Twila examined her manicured nails. “You’re welcome to try to beat the price.” The figure she quoted was stratospheres above what Raleigh could afford.

When he said nothing, she flashed a smug little smile. “That’s what I thought.” She turned back to Hamp. “If that’s all?”

At his short nod, she picked up her designer purse. “You have a week to clear out.” Then she strode out of the room without a backward glance.

Raleigh scrubbed a hand over his head. “This can’t be happening.”

Hamp shoved up from the chair, looking about ten years older than he had when he’d sat down. “I’m sorry, son. There’s nothing we can do.”

“Can I take her to court? Contest the will?”

“You can try. But in my professional opinion, it’s going to cost you more than you’ve got, and you’re not going to come away with a ranch in the end. Luther was in his right mind when he changed his will. The bastard screwed you right and proper. There’s no two ways about it.”

The sucker punch of it had Raleigh swaying on his feet in a way the loss of his father had not. It threw him back to the devastation of his mother’s death. He’d promised her he’d take care of the ranch. Take care of the people who worked there. Carry on their family legacy. And all of it had just been ripped away.

He didn’t even remember leaving the room, not until he almost ran over Charlotte.

“Honey, what happened?”

Raleigh just shook his head and kept going. He needed out of the house, into the hot, humid air. 

As soon as he hit the front porch, Zeke pushed up from the rocking chair he’d commandeered. “What the hell happened?”

“I got fucked, that’s what happened. The old man left her everything. All of it. The entire ranch. My mother’s ranch. She’s selling it to fucking developers. It’s gonna be a goddamn neighborhood here next year. My home is liable to be bulldozed or turned into some kind of clubhouse. Not to mention what the hell happens to all the hands and their families.” Heart sinking, he scrubbed both hands over his face. “I promised them I’d look out for them, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. She gave me a fucking week to get out.”

His gaze caught on Charlotte’s face. Her expression had turned carefully neutral, but she’d lost all color. He realized he wasn’t the only one out of a home.

“Fuuuuuck.” Zeke drew the word out. “Man, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to tell you. I mean, I could—”

Raleigh held up a hand, knowing what he was about to suggest. “Not an option. Thank you, but no.”

“Alright. Well, in that case, I’m thinking the best option is gonna be for you to get the hell out of town before you do something you’re gonna regret.”

Raleigh had no idea what he might do if he stayed and wasn’t much inclined to risk ending up behind bars. And yet. “I can’t just leave. I need to break the news to the hands. Do what I can to help them find other placements. And I should pull together the family momentos before that bitch tosses them all.” The idea of losing anything else of his family history made Raleigh sick.

“I’ve already done a lot of that, setting things aside for you over the years,” Charlotte assured him. “It won’t take long to pull together the rest. We should probably hurry before that harpy gets it in her head you don’t have a right to them.”

Zeke pulled out his phone. “I’ll make the arrangements for boxes and storage.”

As his friend stepped away, Raleigh took Charlotte by the shoulders. “I don’t know where I’m gonna land with all this, but wherever it is, you’ll have a place there. Always. You’re family.”

She cupped his cheek. “You’re a good boy, Raleigh, and you grew into a fine man. Your mama would be proud. Now, let’s go get to work.”

* * *

“Maybe no one will notice.”

Kyla MacKean briefly shot her brother some side eye. “Aye. Right. No one will notice the six-foot-wide chunk of plaster that’s crumbled off the wall.” The remains of that plaster lay in a heap on the scarred hardwood floors she’d only just waxed and polished for the wedding reception set to be held here in a matter of days.

Connor shrugged with his usual insouciance. “It’s a six-hundred-year-old castle. We’ll say it’s part of the ambiance.”

“Be serious, Con. This is important. We can’t afford for anything else to go wrong. Too much is riding on this weekend.” 

The reality of living in a centuries-old castle in the Highlands of Scotland was nowhere near as romantic as books and movies made it out to be. It was cold, drafty, and often wet. Parts of the castle were fully uninhabitable. The estimates they’d received from various contractors for truly weatherproofing the place were astronomical. Every single problem they discovered was usually a sign of a bigger, deeper issue that called for bigger, deeper pockets than they had. The truth was, they were land rich and house poor, and without a massive influx of cash, the home they both loved would fall to ruin. And while Scots did love their ruins, Kyla wasn’t keen on living in one.

She had a plan. One that involved using her brother’s wedding as an opportunity to show the world that Ardinmuir could be a premier wedding destination. People paid big money for that sort of thing. But not if the bloody walls of the great hall were falling down around their ears.

“Dinna fash yourself. It’s stood for this long. It’s no’ gonna crash onto our heads this weekend.”

“So say you.”

He swung an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Aye, I do.”

“Oh good. You’ve got your line down.” She teased him out of long habit, but in truth, she was worried.

“That’s right. Until I do my bit as the sacrificial groom, your bit hardly matters.”

Kyla spun into him, clutching his shirt. “You’re not thinking of backing out, are you?”

His beleaguered sigh didn’t make her feel any better. 

“No. I know my duty. I’ve had a lifetime to accept it. This wedding will happen, and the terms of the marriage pact will finally be satisfied.”

Then the axe hovering over all their heads because of an agreement made by ancestors who’d long since turned to dust would be gone, and they could get down to the serious business of actually saving the estate.

“I hope you know how much it means to me that you’re doing this. I know Afton isn’t who you’d have chosen.”

“I’m certain I’m not her first choice, either. But it is what it is. We’re friends. That’s a far better basis than many have in arranged marriages.”

Afton Lennox was the remaining heir to the barony of Lochmara, the neighboring estate. Her legacy fell under the same threat as their own, and Kyla could only thank God that she was willing to adhere to the terms of the pact. Then again, if she didn’t, both their estates were forfeit to the Crown. Kyla would never stop cursing their ancestors for the addition of that little failsafe to the agreement meant to ensure the alliance between their families actually happened. 

Knowing there was no changing their situation, she shook off the frustration. “We need to get someone out to look at it to make sure it’s not going to get worse before the wedding. I don’t want to have this place full of guests only to have plaster crashing down onto plates at the reception.” Already feeling the beginnings of a headache, Kyla headed for the door. There was no getting  mobile reception inside three- to four-foot-thick stone walls. “Maybe we can have a quick patch job done to get us through, then deal with the more permanent repair after.” 

It wasn’t ideal, but she simply didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with more disasters right now. 

Connor followed her out. “I’m gonna go check in on Uncle Angus. The latest iteration of the wedding cake should be about ready.”

“But the cake was decided on weeks ago! Why is he mucking around with it?”

“He reckons it’ll be good practice for his audition for the Great British Baking Show, and who am I to turn down more cake?”

Kyla closed her eyes and prayed for patience. She loved her great uncle and her brother, both, but sometimes dealing with them felt like wrangling a couple of cheerful puppies rather than grown adults. At least if Angus was baking, he wasn’t out getting into some other sort of trouble. And, really, she wasn’t going to turn down more cake, either, given how the day was shaping up.

It took longer than she wanted to get ahold of Theo Gordon, the contractor who’d done the most work on Ardinmuir. And longer still to convince him to come out today, after he finished up the job he was working the next village over. If a batch of Angus’s jaffa cakes had been promised as a bribe, well, she’d run into Glenlaig to pick up ingredients herself, if she had to. It wasn’t like they could finish setup until this was sorted, anyway. 

Satisfied that she’d done all that could be done for the moment, Kyla made her way down to the kitchen, which was housed in the newer portion of the castle. New being relative, having been added on in the nineteenth century, when James MacKean, head of the family at the time, had been flush with cash from a shipping empire that later collapsed. But at least that part of the house had been comparatively modernized. 

As she stepped into the kitchen, Angus straightened at the heavy wooden island, lifting his piping bag in triumph from a truly lovely confection of swirls and flowers.

Kyla sniffed the air and caught the tang of citrus. “If that’s a lemon chiffon cake, I just might fall to my knees and weep with gratitude.”

Angus’s blue eyes twinkled. “Then ready your tissues, lass. But you’ll have to wait until I take a picture for my blog.”

“We have a deal. Although you may take that back when I tell you that the only way I could get Theo out today to look at the wall in the great hall was to promise him a batch of your jaffa cakes.”

One white brow winged up. “And what’ll you trade me in this bargain?”

“My undying gratitude.” Kyla slid her arm around him, and pressed a smacking kiss to his leathery cheek, feeling a bit of a pang as she realized he’d gotten a little more frail over the winter. Other than Connor, Uncle Angus was the last of her immediate family. When had he last gotten a checkup? She added that to the never-ending list in the back of her brain. Something to address after the wedding.

Connor snagged an Irn Bru from the avocado green refrigerator and kicked back against one of the long stone counters, smirking. “That disnae sound like much of a deal to me.”

She pointed a finger at him in warning. “You stay out of this.”

Angus considered. “You do the second round of dishes, and we have an agreement.”

“Done.”

As they shook on it, someone knocked on the door.

Connor pulled it open. “Malcolm! Welcome. Did you come to help with the setup for the reception, or did you hear a rumor that there’s more cake?”

The brawny, fifty-something man stepped into the kitchen, kilt swinging, his thick-soled boots thumping on the hardwood floors. His hazel gaze slid over the cake on the island, but his expression didn’t change. There were some in Glenlaig who believed Lochmara’s estate manager to be surly, but Kyla knew the truth. He just preferred animals to people. In social settings, he tended to be a man of few words. Still, the prospect of cake usually would have garnered at least some interest.

A frisson of unease traveled down her spine as she registered the tension in his burly shoulders and jaw. “Is everything all right, Malcolm?” 

“No.” His throat worked. “Afton is gone.”

The words hit Kyla like a well-aimed stone to the gut. “Gone? What do you mean she’s gone? The wedding is in less than a week. She can’t be gone.”

“I found a note.”

“Saying what?” Connor asked.

“That she’s sorry.”

“That’s it?” Kyla knew her voice was edging into the realm of shrill, but couldn’t seem to control it.

“That’s it.”

Like a puppet with cut strings, she dropped into a nearby chair. “You can’t be telling me what I think you’re telling me. If she’s gone… If she doesn’t go through with this wedding, we’re all screwed. The Crown has been watching since we filed the paperwork for the marriage. We have to find her.”

“Her car is still in the village. I tracked her that far before I came here. But she’s gone. She could be anywhere.”

“What about the police?” Angus asked.

“Since she left a note, we have no reason to get them involved. She’s not a missing person since she left voluntarily.” Malcolm spread his hands. “Unless you want to pour money into a private investigator to track her down…”

That was money they didn’t have.

This was terrible. Disastrous.

Connor tunneled a hand through his mop of blond hair. “Maybe she’ll come back.”

Kyla shot a hard stare in his direction. “Are you willing to wait until the eleventh hour to see? I’m not. We all need to turn our efforts to tracking her down. She has to go down that aisle if I have to march her there in handcuffs myself.”