To Commit Read online

  Other books by Carolyn Brown:

  Love Is

  A Falling Star

  All the Way from Texas

  The Yard Rose

  The Ivy Tree

  Lily’s White Lace

  That Way Again

  The Wager

  Trouble in Paradise

  The PMS Club

  The Broken Roads Romance Series:

  To Trust

  The Drifters and Dreamers Romance Series:

  Morning Glory

  Sweet Tilly

  Evening Star

  The Love’s Valley Historical Romance Series:

  Redemption

  Choices

  Absolution

  Chances

  Promises

  The Promised Land Romance Series:

  Willow

  Velvet

  Gypsy

  Garnet

  Augusta

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright ©2008 by Carolyn Brown

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477813065

  ISBN-10: 1477813063

  This title was previously published by Avalon Books; this version has been reproduced from the Avalon book archive files.

  To Dennis, Patti, and Dustyn Russell with love

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  Rusty hinges squeaked like the chirp of a strange exotic bird as the cold north wind swung the homemade sign hanging from the eaves of the roof. From the end of the lane the engraving in the old weathered piece of wood was barely visible. Brannon Inn, est. 1966. That was the year Stella’s grandmother, Molly Brannon, turned her home into a specialized boarding house and showed her ex-husband she was no longer putting up with his philandering ways. Generation one of a long line of men who couldn’t be trusted. Generation two was Stella’s own father. Three? Well, Stella kept the tradition alive when she also married a scoundrel.

  Stella gathered her denim jacket tightly around her and waved at the little boy in the back of the van until she couldn’t see his snaggle-toothed grin any more. He’d been the highlight of the party of ten, capturing her heart from the moment he brought his red hair, freckles and feisty attitude through the front door. Stella desperately wanted to kidnap him and run away to a far off island where she could keep him forever. But Thanksgiving was over and it was time to wave good-bye to Jasper. She leaned on the porch post, the brisk fall air fluffing her long blond curls and blowing them around her face. She’d been watching people come and go from Brannon Inn for several months now, but this was the first time she’d had a yearning to change things.

  She hung her coat in the hall closet and warmed her hands by the open fire roaring in the big stone fireplace her ancestors built when they constructed the original part of the house. In the beginning it was just one huge room with a sleeping loft upstairs for a couple of newlyweds. Then an ancestor built on a bedroom wing for the children, and another one modernized with indoor plumbing. Now it had two wings—five bedrooms and three bathrooms in one; three bedrooms and two bathrooms in the other. Stella reopened the Brannon Inn the winter before, six weeks after her grandmother died and one month after her husband of five years, Mitch Mason, came in one day and told her she was a hindrance to his acting career.

  She pulled her hair back with a rubber band and roped down the naturally blond curls into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Work waited. Good, hard work that kept her sane. She stripped beds in the five bedrooms in the north wing of the house and shoved a load of sheets into one of three washing machines. Wading across a mountain of dirty towels and linens she picked up a dust cloth on her way back down the hallway. It was just routine cleaning. Dust, then scrub the bathrooms, wipe down the vanities, put freshly ironed doilies on the dressers and homemade mints in the candy dishes on the night stands.

  She slipped a country music CD into the portable player and jacked the volume up as high as it would go. Ultimate Country Party, a medley of fast-moving tunes that her sister gave her for her birthday a couple of years ago blared. Stella worked up a sweat keeping pace with the music as she cleaned. Shania Twain sang, Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under? Stella grabbed the dust mop and twirled it around like a partner on the dance floor. She made a clean sweep of the hardwood floor around the queen sized bed and wondered if Mitch was still parking his boots under his agent’s bed. The one who’d convinced him that Stella was a hindrance to his career and who’d insisted on a clause in the divorce papers giving Stella back her maiden name. After all Mitch wouldn’t want any association with Stella when he made the big time. Giggling aloud, she and the mop did a rendition of a fast two-step. It had been forever since she’d actually been on the dance floor with a good looking man. She dipped and swayed, batted her eyelashes and smiled brightly at the mop.

  She was singing louder than Shania when she sashayed backward and bumped right into a man standing in the doorway of the bedroom. The mop clattered to the floor and it took every ounce of willpower she could conjure up to keep from bolting like a jack rabbit flushed out of a thicket by a whole passel of half starved coyotes. She bit the end of her tongue to stifle a scream. Her heart stopped in the middle of a beat and her chest ached as it tried to resume its normal speed.

  For just a second when she turned around she thought she was facing Mitch decked out in hunting garb. She wanted to beat him with the mop handle until he was cold and blue. Then she blinked and realized it wasn’t Mitch after all. This man, killer or saint, was shorter and actually better looking. Same dark hair and eyes, but with a stronger chin and fuller mouth and thicker across the shoulders with a slimmer waist. Muscular arms held a rifle and deep brown eyes held no humor.

  “Who . . . in . . . the . . . devil . . . are . . . you?” she demanded, wondering if he was a terrorist and if he would throw that big gun on his shoulder and aim it right at her fluttering heart. Well, other than Brannon Inn probably supplying him with a fantastic post for his terrorist acts, he’d be disappointed if he did shoot her. There was no money, jewels or other valuables in the house; only a freezer and pantry, both full of food, and a mountain of dirty laundry in the utility room. All of which she’d gladly give him if he wouldn’t murder her.

  “Who are you? Did Granny Brannon finally take my advice and hire a maid?”

  “I am Stella.” She pushed a button on the CD player and a deadly silence filled the room where the music had been playing loudly. She stepped right up into his face, her pale blue eyes locking with his dark ones, and neither one blinking. “And what are you doing here? Do you often walk right into a house without even knocking?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned.

  She didn’t think any part of him was amusing. Not his black hair. Not those twinkling brown eyes. Not even that that cocky grin on his face.

  “A steam train could have crashed through the front door and you wouldn’t have h
eard it. I have reservations for a party of fourteen. Surely you remember talking to me. I’m the one with fourteen hunters for the weekend, and then a single room for two weeks just for me. And where is Granny?”

  “She passed away last year, and I most certainly did not talk to you.”

  His cocky grin faded. “Well, honey, I talked to someone, and I’ve got thirteen more hunters out there in your front room waiting to be shown a room to stow their gear.” An aura of pure ice exuded from his words and Stella battled the urge to hug herself to keep the chill away. Were all dark haired men just natural rascals?

  Stella bowed up to him again, her nose just inches from his. “Brannon Inn belongs to me and I’m the one who makes reservations. I don’t have a secretary or a receptionist. And you do not have reservations here for this weekend much less for two whole weeks.”

  “Check your books—lady.” He drawled the last word out so long it sounded like something tainted and dirty. “I talked to a woman who said she was writing it down. Fourteen of us for the weekend. Breakfast on the sideboard and supper around the big table. I gave her my credit card number and while you are checking you’ll find I’m your boarder for two whole weeks.”

  And your neighbor for a hell of a lot longer than that, he thought but kept that to himself. Thank goodness the house on his new property was a quarter of a mile away from this shrewish woman.

  She pushed her way past him and headed to the desk in the great room. She opened the registration book and pushed it in front of him. “You’re dreaming. See? Blank until next weekend.”

  He flipped a page back and there were several names penciled in. Then he turned a page ahead and there was his name, party number and what they wanted. He turned it back around, practically shoving it under her nose. “Rance Harper and his band of merry hunters at your service ma’am. Someone must have turned two pages at once.”

  Lauren, she thought as she stared at the name and numbers in her sixteen year old niece’s handwriting. Lauren had spent a few days at the inn during the holidays and must have taken the call. Where was I? Then she remembered going to the grocery store that morning while her sister, Maggie, and Lauren packed to leave.

  He raised a dark eyebrow at her. “So?”

  She looked at the gang of men standing behind him. “So, it’s an honest mistake, okay? Go play Rambo in the woods and by supper time I’ll have your rooms ready and supper on the table. Leave your gear right there until you get back.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rance saluted sharply, making fun of her and chalking up a feather for his war bonnet. “We’ll be back at five thirty. Is supper still at six?”

  “Yes, it is.” She nodded, angry at the whole world for tossing this piece of work in her lap. She’d looked forward to a few days to regroup and recoup from a busy six weeks. And there stood more than a dozen men. It would be like cooking for Goliath and his army of giants. Well, they would have good wholesome food in front of them and they’d have clean beds and toilet paper in the bathrooms, but not one word in the travel brochures said she had to like it or even smile brightly at them when she set their iced tea beside their plates at the supper table.

  Rance tipped his hat at her. “Okay guys. Drop your bags and we’ll be off to the woods. We’ll see you at supper time, ma’am. And I’m real sorry about Granny Brannon. She was a wonderful old girl. I might have asked her to marry me just for her cooking if she’d been a little younger.”

  “Granny had the good sense to never trust a scoundrel.” Stella smarted off but it brought her little satisfaction. The humor in his deep laughter still haunted her an hour later as she finished remaking all the beds in the north wing and opened the doors in the south wing to inspect the rooms which hadn’t been used in two weeks. Eight bedrooms and Lauren’s note said they wanted all of them.

  “Blast it all to Hades on a silver poker!” She swore under her breath and pulled a big aluminum stock pot from under the cabinet. She’d make a pot of chili for supper. At least the insolent dark haired rogue hadn’t told Lauren exactly what the menu should be, so if there were a few weak stomachs amongst the great white hunters, then they’d just have to go to bed hungry or spend the night wolfing down antacids.

  She whipped up a German chocolate cake and two pecan pies for dessert, and checked the freezer to be sure there was enough ice cream to dress up either one. Then she put a rising of bread on the cabinet to make cinnamon buns for breakfast.

  Stella had fallen into the work at Bannon Inn naturally. It didn’t seem to matter if she cooked for one man or for fifteen men, or a group of eight complete with whining kids. It was all just readjusting recipes and the realization that these people paid a lot better than her ex-husband. Besides, not one of them was ever going to walk in the kitchen and tell her she was an obstruction to his almighty wannabe career like her ex-husband had done.

  The aroma of chili powder and fresh pecan pies combined in the kitchen and she felt a tiny surge of guilt for the way she’d snapped at Mr. Rance whoever. If his hair wasn’t as black as Mitch’s and his eyes even darker, and if he hadn’t scared the bejesus right out of her, she might not have bowed up to him so staunchly. She gave herself a stinging lecture, in a thinking tone of severity with her grandmother’s voice, that customers were what paid her bills.

  She opened the cabinet doors and took another stock pot from the assortment of shiny pots and pans, filled it half full of water, added two whole chickens and a half dozen bouillon cubes. She’d give them a choice. Chicken and dumplings or chili, or both if they were really hungry after chasing a whole herd of deer all over the southern part of the state. If they wanted they could even mix the two together. She shuddered at the idea, but a smile raised her spirits from the depths of pure unadulterated wrath to a more pleasant level.

  The sun was setting in the West, filtering through the lace curtains and casting a warm glow on the dining room table when the guests arrived. She heard their trucks, then conversation as they stomped up on the wooden porch. In the spring when the fishermen arrived, they’d eat supper and then sit on the wide verandah, spinning tales about catfish or bass or striper as big as an Angus steer that broke a million pound tests line and swam back through the creeks and rivers to the ocean. But in the fall and winter the deer, turkey or squirrel hunters ate their supper with the gusto of hungry hounds and sat in front of the fireplace, telling stories of bucks the size of Big Foot who ran off into the woods with bullets piercing every major organ. They’d declare that they followed a blood trail for sixteen miles and never caught sight of the eighty-nine point rack again. They’d swear on their grandma’s eyes that super-buck jumped a barbed wire fence into restricted property or he’d be mounted and hung on their den wall.

  She’d heard every story there was to tell. Maybe that’s why Jasper, in all his wide eyed innocence, had made such an impression on her. The squirrels playing in the trees behind the Inn had mesmerized him and he didn’t even throw up a finger, point at them and yell, “Bang!”

  A tall red haired fellow with clear blue eyes took his dirty boots off just inside the door. “Mmmm, this house smells wonderful. Is that really chili?”

  Rance sniffed the air. “No, you dummy, it’s boiling chicken. It probably won’t be as good as Granny Brannon’s but it sure smells good.”

  Another hunter raised his chin and sniffed the air. “Chili. I’m an expert on good chili. A connoisseur if you please and there’s no way that smell is chicken, Rance.”

  A short, plump fellow with a bald spot on the back of his head, piped up. “It’s cake. Chocolate, right?”

  She struck a match and lit a dozen votive candles strewn down the middle of the table. “It’s all of the above. Served in exactly thirty minutes. If you’re not here at six o’clock then you may get left out. So pick up your gear and decide which rooms you want. Five on this end. Three on the other.”

  Rance reached for a soft leather suitcase and matching boot bag. “I’ll take the last one on this wing. Carl
can have the last room on that wing, and the rest of you can fight over who gets to sleep the farthest away from his snoring. But fighting takes time, so you better hurry up or you’ll be left out in the cold, starving to death.”

  Twenty minutes later she ladled chili into three serving bowls and spaced them down the length of the long wood table. She did the same with crock bowls of steaming chicken and dumplings. Granny Brannon always said chicken and dumplings were to be served in crock bowls; never clear glass. Stella wished she’d asked her why as she filled the empty areas on the table with platters of piping hot corn bread and yeast rolls, along with a tray of cheese and pickles and one of carrot and celery sticks.

  A group of dirty men dressed in camouflage disappeared to the north and south ends of the house and in half an hour, a bunch of clean shaven, nice smelling men emerged in their places. The change always amazed her. The way to a man’s heart was truly through his stomach.

  “Mighty fine looking vittles, Miss Stella,” the tall red haired fellow said.

  “Thank you. You’d all best start passing those bowls before everything gets cold. Two things in the world that aren’t worth eating are chili with a skim of grease on the top, or chicken and dumplings when the steam is gone. I’ve got water, sweet tea, unsweet tea, and hot coffee.” She pulled a small wooden cart laden with glass pitchers and an insulated carafe of coffee around the table.

  One of the men filled his bowl with chili and sighed in appreciation with the first bite. “Best chili I’ve ever tasted and I know my chili. And the cornbread is good enough to be cake.”

  Another loaded his plate with dumplings. “But not chocolate cake. I smelled chocolate. I swear I did.”

  “Got to clean up your plate, though, or there’ll be no dessert. Granny Brannon told me that for years. From the first time I came to Murray County to deer hunt with my dad,” Rance said.

  The red haired man blew on another spoonful of chili. “Bet you could make venison chili. I sure wish my wife would fix venison for me. Lord, but I love a good deer roast, but she won’t have it in the house.”