Falling Hard
FALLING
HARD
by
Stacy Finz
Pub
date: 4/11/2017
Genre:
Contemporary Romance
In
the beautiful Sierra Nevada mountain town of Nugget, California,
falling hard is all too easy . . .
This
is the summer of Annie Sparks—at least according to her. No more
supporting lazy jerks or coddling irresponsible family or taking care
of anyone who doesn’t deserve her help. Instead she’s headed to
an estate in a remote mountain town, to spend her summer with her
boots covered in mud and her hands working the earth. Love is the
last thing on her mind.
Nugget
is a long way from Logan Jenkins’ old life as a Navy SEAL. But
before he starts fresh in the private sector, he receives a bequest
from a man he never knew: his biological father. To learn more about
his background, Logan makes his way to his late father’s estate,
where he is immediately knocked on his heels by an incredible woman
with a heart of gold.
Annie’s
not looking for a fling, and Logan knows Nugget can’t be forever,
so falling in love should be impossible. But when they’re together,
time stops, and suddenly the impossible seems like the only thinkable
option . . .
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Chapter
1
The big gate stopped Logan Jenkins in his tracks. He didn’t know what he was
thinking, coming here like this. But his curiosity had gotten the better of
him. A man ought to know where he came from and who his people were, he
supposed.
Until
a week ago, he hadn’t given a good goddamn. Then, boom, life had changed with
just one phone call.
He
pulled his pickup to the side of the road, slung his backpack over his
shoulder, and got out to have a look around. Picturesque and peaceful, nothing
like the hellholes he’d come from.
The
gate was impressive with its curlicue ironwork, but not much for keeping anyone
out. To prove it, Logan hopped the twelve-foot fence, avoiding the top’s sharp,
ornamental spears, in under a minute and hiked up the long gravel road. At the
peak of the hill he paused and let out a low whistle. Even from a hundred yards
away, he could see that the house put the gate to shame. It looked like one of
those mega–ski chalets plucked from an Alpine mountainside. Lots of large
windows, tiered decks, and big log siding. It was built to appear rustic,
though it was anything but. The landscape wasn’t bad either. A river snaked
through miles of rolling pastures with the Sierra Nevada mountain range looming
in the background.
This
is where he would’ve grown up if things had been different. Instead, for the
last twelve years he hadn’t belonged anywhere—or everywhere, depending on how
he looked at it. His last address—be- sides the apartment he shared with Gabe
when he was stateside—had been Afghanistan. A far cry from Rosser Ranch.
No
one tried to stop him, so he continued down the driveway, to- ward the house,
taking in the sights. A four-car garage with a guest house. A front lawn as big
as a soccer field. And lots of flagstone pathways. Someone went to a lot of
trouble to make the gardens seem native to match the surrounding countryside.
By
now he would’ve expected at least a dog to have barked at his presence. Crappy
security. But he suspected there wasn’t much crime in Nugget, California. Just
a spot on the map, really. According to a quick search on the internet, its
claim to fame was the Western Pacific Railroad Museum, which offered a train
ride through gold country. The blurb he’d read said Nugget was still very much
a railroad town, now a crew-change site for Union Pacific. Before the railroad,
there’d been the Gold Rush. But ultimately, the pioneers had made their
fortunes from timber and cattle. Major cattle ranches still covered the
countryside.
Logan
laughed to himself. Who would’ve thought his ancestors were cowboys? The
closest he’d ever gotten to livestock was the Kochis’ goat and sheep herds in
the Hindu Kush. Here, he could see plenty of cows dotting the hills in the
foreground like a poster advertising rural life on the farm. Pretty
domesticated and attractive, he had to admit. Just not for him. He maneuvered
better in chaos. Thrived in it, actually.
When
he got close to the house, he circled around it to the back- yard. A couple of
hammocks swayed under a log cabana. The large, kidney-shaped pool was tempting
in the heat. The whole upscale setup was very dude-ranch spa.
So
far, he wasn’t feeling his roots. No cosmic connection with the land. All he
was feeling was a shitload of money. The old man was supposed to be buried in
the family plot on the property. Maybe Logan would check that out and see if he
could summon the ghost of the man who’d given him life. Thank him for being a
douche bag.
Logan
ambled down a well-worn path designated by a split-rail trail fence that jutted
off from the pool area toward a stable. Like the house, the building was
constructed of logs with two cupolas and a weather vane on top. It was probably
where Rosser had kept the thoroughbreds or whatever kind of horses he’d raised.
“You’re
late,” a woman called to him. She leaned against the side of the barn,
shielding her eyes from the sun, a cowboy hat pulled over her forehead.
“Excuse
me?” He walked toward her. Up close, he noticed her com- bat boots right off
the bat. They looked funny with the bubblegum-pink tank top and short floral
skirt that flared a few inches above her knees.
When
he met her eyes—big ones that reminded him of golden brown sugar—she smiled and
he went to DEFCON 3 in less than a heartbeat. It was like sunshine, that smile.
So damn guileless that it instantly put him on alert. Where he’d come from
everyone had an agenda.
“You
were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.” She pushed herself off the wall
of the barn and shrugged as if she was willing to overlook his tardiness. “Come
on. I’ll show you what needs to be done.”
Out
of curiosity he followed her as she took the same path he’d started on through
a wooded area. Her gait was brisk. Her legs and arms were toned, like she got
plenty of exercise, and her ass . . . well, yeah, that looked toned too. They
came up on a large cabin and she stopped.
“Your
first task would be to clear this.” She swept her arm across the weeds and
brambles strangling the building, which on closer inspection seemed more like a
barrack, and eyed him up and down. “You look like you’re up to the challenge.”
Even
with his Gatorz on, he could see the trail of freckles running across her nose.
“What’s the cabin for?”
“It’s
a bunkhouse and we’re going to use it for the program.”
He
got the sense that he was expected to know what the program was, so he just
nodded.
“There’s
another one over there.” She pointed across a clearing at an identical building
that had also seen better days. “Once the shrubs and weeds are cleared away,
we’ll get to work on the insides.”
He
probably should’ve told her he wasn’t the job candidate. But once he did, she’d
kick him off the property and he wasn’t done looking around yet.
“After
we finish up here, there are a few more cottages and a fore- man’s house we
have to ready before the roofer and construction crew comes. If you still need
work after that I could use you to help till the fields for the hay planting in
the fall. You said you’re experienced operating a tractor, right?”
He’d
never driven a tractor in his life, but there couldn’t be much to it. Anyway,
he wouldn’t be here for that. His conscience told him to come clean because
she’d find out sooner or later that he wasn’t here to clear brush. If she
booted him off the land, he’d find another way to explore the place . . . his
origins.
“Actually,
no,” he said.
She
tilted her head in surprise. “Were you trying to win me over on the phone so
you could get the job?” Her mouth turned down into a frown. “I’ll be real honest
with you: Riding a tractor isn’t required. We just need someone who isn’t
afraid to put his back into the work.”
“No,
I mean it wasn’t me on the phone.”
“Oh?
Did you read the help-wanted ad in the Nugget Tribune?”
He
felt compelled to remove a leaf that had gotten stuck in the band of her cowboy
hat but kept his hands at his side. “Nope. I was checking the place out.”
“Rosser
Ranch? Why?”
This
is where it got tricky. He didn’t want to lie—liars were louses—but he wasn’t
ready to advertise the truth. Hell, he’d just learned the truth seven days ago
and was still trying to wrap his head around the news. The old man hadn’t even
owned the ranch when he’d died. So to come here like this . . . well, it would
seem strange.
“I
was passing through, saw the gate, and got curious.”
“Passing
through?” She seemed dubious. “So you’re not looking for work?”
Actually
he was, just not this kind of work. He’d gotten out of the navy a couple of
weeks ago and had found himself at loose ends, which was strange when for the
last twelve years he’d been told where to shit and when to sit.
Gabe,
also a former SEAL, wanted to start a private security business. Everything
from risk management and cyber security to VIP protection and contract work for
Uncle Sam. He wanted Logan to work for him and was trying to scrounge up
investors and a few con- tract jobs to keep them busy. Any time now, Logan
expected to get a call with an assignment.
“Nah,”
he told her, and took off his shades and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. “You
having trouble finding someone?”
“The
only guy who called from the ad is a no-show. That’s why I thought you were
him.”
“Sorry.
I should’ve told you from the get-go.”
“That’s
okay.” But her shoulders deflated in obvious frustration. “You sure you don’t
want the job? It comes with living quarters . . . nothing fancy, but you get to
live here.” She spread her arms wide.
“Yeah,
it’s quite a place. You own it?” Somehow, he didn’t think so.
“Gosh,
no. The owner, Gia Treadwell is great, though. She bought the place less than a
year ago, after her financial-advice show got canceled.” She watched him
closely, presumably to see if he recognized the name Gia Treadwell.
Logan
wasn’t surprised that a celebrity owned it now. It would take that kind of
money to maintain a place like this. He remembered seeing Treadwell’s program
once or twice and hearing that she’d been embroiled in some sort of legal
problems.
“She
hired me to plant a Christmas-tree farm,” she continued. “I get to live on the
ranch as part of the deal, which includes prepping the place for a residential
program to help women down on their luck get back on their feet.” She hesitated
and then said, “After . . . uh . . . Gia’s troubles, she wanted to pay it
forward.”
Logan
swiveled around to peer at the bunkhouses again. “They going to live in these?”
“Yep.
And there are cottages for the women who have children.” “Nice.” He wanted to
ask her if he could continue to check out the place, maybe wander over to the
family cemetery plot, but thought
better
of it. “I’m Logan Jenkins, by the way.” She stuck out her hand. “Annie Sparks.”
Annie
had a good grip, even though his hands dwarfed hers. And she was so freaking
pretty, with those big, soulful eyes and peaches-and-cream skin, that he
couldn’t stop looking at her. Everything from her trusting demeanor to her
flowered skirt and faded straw hat said sweet. Logan usually avoided the sweet
girls; they always cried when he left and it broke his heart.
“Why
don’t you show me where I’d get to live if I took the job?” It was an excuse to
see more and to throw her a bone after initially misleading her.
“Sure,”
Annie said, and perked up. She led him further down the path to a smaller log
cabin. Unlike the others, this one had been cleared. The front porch even had a
rocking chair and flower boxes underneath green trimmed windows.
She
climbed the stairs and opened the front door. “Feel free to check it out.”
He
went inside. The place was tiny, just a living room, galley kitchen, eating
nook, and sleeping loft. What it lacked in space it made up for in charm,
though Logan’s bar was pretty low. He’d been deployed so many
times, living in
enough CHUs—containerized housing units—that even the moldy, shoebox of
an apartment he shared with Gabe in Coronado seemed like a palace.
“It’s
adorable, isn’t it?”
“Not
bad,” he said. Through the trees he could see wide-open pastures. The view
certainly didn’t suck. “Where’s your place?”
“Over
the garage. In the fall I’ll be commuting to finish my PhD program at UC Davis.”
“PhD,
huh? What in?” “Agricultural economics.”
“Whoa,
you must be smart.” Logan was lucky to have a high school diploma. Not that he
was dumb, but he’d had trouble sitting through classes. The doctors had told
his mom it was ADHD. They were wrong. He could concentrate just fine if it were
something he was interested in. He loved to read, picked up languages fairly
well— at least enough to be conversational—and was a quick study when it came
to people. “So does that make you an economist or a farmer?”
“A
farmer. Third generation. I don’t see that changing. I suppose the degree gives
me extra credibility and the option to teach. How about you? What brings you to
Nugget?”
“Uh
. . . I recently got out of the navy, found myself between jobs, and have been
doing a little traveling. The town looked interesting.” Most of what he’d said
was true.
“I
thought you might be military. Were you in the Middle East?” “Afghanistan and
Iraq.”
“So
you saw combat, huh?”
Logan
nodded. “So why’s the place called Rosser Ranch?” He knew damned well why; he
was fishing and it was a better topic than war.
“Ray
Rosser used to own the ranch. It had been in his family since the Gold Rush.
But he sold it to Gia last year to pay his attor- neys’ fees when he was
charged with murder after killing a cattle rustler.”
The
lawyer had already told him the colorful story, which still seemed bizarre. It
was the twenty-first century. Shooting cattle rustlers? Who did shit like that
anymore?
“A
week ago he had a stroke in prison and died,” Annie said. “His wife and
daughter live in Colorado.”
Logan
had met them at the attorney’s office in Sacramento for the reading of the
will. That had been a hell of a party. Apparently, they’d known as much about
him as he’d known about them. That would be a big zilch.
The
wife had been okay. He didn’t get the sense that there’d been any love lost
between her and Rosser, nor that she’d been surprised he’d been stepping out on
her. But the daughter, Raylene, had been a monster bitch. He could understand how
finding out that you suddenly had a half-brother would make her resentful.
But
he’d gotten the impression that she was mostly mad about the money—that she and
her husband weren’t getting all of it. Logan hadn’t asked for any- thing. Hell,
he hadn’t even known about his secret family until the old man croaked and
would’ve been fine moving through life with- out the knowledge that he and Ray
Rosser shared the same DNA. He’d gotten along thirty-one years without it. But
his mother had pleaded with him to take his due.
“It’s
part of your heritage,” she’d argued.
And
if anyone could cajole him into something he didn’t want to do, it was Maisy
Jenkins.
She’d
raised him single-handedly, which was no easy feat. He’d been a wild boy, prone
to getting into fights and hanging with the wrong crowd. Yet, Maisy had always
loved and believed in him. Growing up in Vegas, it had never dawned on him that
they lived a little too well for Maisy’s paycheck. She worked at a gift shop at
the Bellagio and was usually home when he got off of school. Still, they’d
owned a modest house in a subdivision, his mother drove a nice car, and they
always had plenty of food on the table with money left over for him to buy
Little League gear and new clothes. Not rich by a long shot, but comfortable.
And that was because Ray Rosser had been footing the bill. In return, his
mother had sworn to keep her love child’s paternity secret.
Logan
wasn’t angry about it. She did what she had to do. Ray wasn’t about to leave
his wife, who’d been pregnant with Raylene when Logan was one. Rosser certainly
wasn’t going to publicly acknowledge him. So what was the point of pressing the
issue? Maisy took the money and moved to Nevada with a signed declaration that
Rosser would at least make room for his illegitimate son in his will.
He’d
kept to the bargain.
And
Logan was thinking he could use the money to partner with Gabe in the security
company. With the cash, they could really build something, even hire a few more
operators. But first they needed a couple of assignments under their belt to
build a reputation.
In
the meantime, Logan planned to learn more about the Rosser side of his family.
The only real father figure he’d ever had was Nick, whom his mother married
when Logan was a senior in high school. Nick, a former Navy SEAL in charge of
security at the Bella- gio, was as good as they came. He’d been the one to make
sure Logan walked the straight and narrow and had encouraged him when he
enlisted to join Seaman-to-SEAL, a program that guaranteed he’d at least become
a candidate because he’d already met many of the physical challenges. No one
was prouder of Logan than Nick when he’d made it through six months of
BUD/S—basic underwater de- molition. But Nick wasn’t his biological father,
even though Logan wished otherwise.
“You
want to sit for a second?” Annie asked, and Logan got the distinct impression
she was getting ready to do a sales job on him.
“You’re
pretty hard up, huh?” He took a seat at the edge of the porch and swung his
legs over the side, waiting for her to join him.
“It’s
difficult to find reliable people out here.” Annie took the top step, smoothing
the back of her skirt as she sat down. “Most of the good ones have already
signed up with a ranch or the railroad for per- manent work. We don’t have
enough to keep someone on past fall, but I’m on a deadline. The women are due
here in September.”
She
smelled good, fresh like the outdoors. But it was her breasts straining against
the pink tank top that was holding his attention. Those and her combat boots,
which were sexy as hell. And . . . shit . . . he’d never found combat boots
sexy before.
“What
makes you think I’m reliable?” he asked, his gaze moving to her lips. Pretty,
lush pink ones.
“Because
you were in the military, I guess.”
He
grinned because it was the truth. He was damned reliable. “So just the cabins,
the cottages, and the foreman’s house?” Logan could probably get them cleared
in a few days.
“Yep.”
“And
I get to live in this one?”
She
nodded. “Utilities included, but you have to cover your own food.”
“I
can park my truck here?” He figured it was as good a stopping place as any until Gabe called.
Meanwhile, he could get a feel for where he came from.
“Where
is it now?”
“I
parked it near your security gate—which, by the way, sucks.” She laughed.
“Why’s that?”
“Because
I’m in here, not out there.”
“We’re
a little less cautious here in the country, but I’ll pass the word on to the
owner. You’ll take the job, then?”
“I’ll
hack out all the overgrowth. After that, you’re on your own. Is there a
laundromat around here? I don’t have a lot of clothes with me.” He’d only
expected to stay a day or two, just long enough to check the place out, since
it was only a three-hour drive from the lawyer’s office.
“There’s
a washer and dryer in each of the bunkhouses, which you’re welcome to use.”
“I’m
guessing the place comes with the furniture, right?” All Logan really cared
about was the bed. He could do with not sleeping on the cold, hard ground for a
while.
“It
does. I’ll see if I can find you some bedding, though.” “I have a sleeping bag
in my truck. That’ll do me.”
“Then
we’re set.” Annie stood up, and he let his eyes linger over her mile-long legs.
“Let’s go back to the barn where you can sign the paperwork. After that I’ll
open the gate and you can bring your truck around.”
“Sounds
good.”
He
suddenly realized he hadn’t thought to ask about the pay. This was a
reconnaissance mission, he reminded himself. The job was just an excuse to keep
him on the property. Now if he could just focus on the land of his ancestors
instead of Annie Sparks’s smoking-hot body, he’d be okay.
Stacy
Finz is an award-winning reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle.
After more than twenty years covering notorious serial killers,
naked-tractor-driving farmers, fanatical foodies, aging rock stars
and weird Western towns, she figured she finally had enough material
to launch a career writing fiction. In 2012 she won the Daphne du
Maurier Award for unpublished single-title mystery/suspense. She
lives in Berkeley, California with her husband.
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