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A Weaver Proposal
Allison Leigh
Dare to dream… these sparkling romances will make you laugh, cry and fall in love – again and again!Pregnant and on the run, heiress Sydney came to Weaver, Wyoming, to take a man break…Only to be confronted by exasperated Derek, who was condescending, rude – and so gorgeous she didn’t know whether she should set down roots or run for the hills.
“You’ll never know if you can make it unless you try. But if you’re afraid, I’ll go back and bring a truck,” Derek said beside her.
Sydney gave him a thin glare. He was the reason she felt determined to get up that snow bank that rose twice as high as her head. “And here I thought you were going to manage not to say something insulting. I am not afraid.”
He lifted his hands innocently, but the devilish curl on his lips was anything but. “It was just an offer.”
“I think I can manage,” she told him. “You’re not giving me a push, either,” she told him under her breath.
“Didn’t offer, cupcake. But if you want my hands on your butt, say the word. We don’t have to like each other to want each other.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome back to the world of Weaver, Wyoming and the Double-C Family!
Derek Clay is a pretty traditional guy. Believes in family, duty, honour. He works hard, likes a beer and a game of pool with his cousins now and then, and can definitely appreciate a pretty woman.
Sydney Forrest isn’t exactly a traditional girl. She’s an heiress, for one thing. Having never experienced a particularly happy home life, she’s never thought that “family” was for her. But now, Sydney’s in the family way, and for the benefit of her child, she’s re-evaluating her entire lifestyle.
His life is pretty settled and he likes that just fine. Her life is anything but settled, but she thinks at least she’s got a plan.
And then they meet…
Best wishes,
Allison
About the Author
There is a saying that you can never be too rich or too thin. ALLISON LEIGH doesn’t believe that, but she does believe that you can never have enough books! When her stories find a way into the hearts—and bookshelves—of others, Allison says she feels she’s done something right. Making her home in Arizona with her husband, she enjoys hearing from her readers at Allison@allisonleigh.com or PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-077, USA.
A Weaver
Proposal
Allison Leigh
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Greg.
Because you never fail to make me laugh.
Prologue
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Syd. He’s full of it.”
Sydney Forrest hugged her arms around her chest. She could hear her sister’s voice, but it was overridden by the loud tones of her father’s still ringing inside her head.
You ‘re a worthless slut.
Just like your mother.
She stared out the windows overlooking the long, sloping green lawns that spread from their house down to the white-steepled stables. Her dark-haired father was striding across them, his long legs eating up the distance as he headed for the only thing—as far as she could tell—that he did care about.
The Forrest’s Crossing Thoroughbreds. They even came before Forco, the family’s textile business. At least that’s what her sister Charlotte was always saying.
Char wanted to run the huge business someday. As far as Sydney was concerned, her sister was welcome to it. The same went for her older brother Jake—he was studying agribusiness at college. Whatever the heck that was.
“It was only a kiss,” Charlotte continued from behind her. She was being as practical as ever. “No big deal.”
It had been a big deal to Sydney.
She was fourteen years old, and it had been her first kiss. Her first real kiss.
“I wonder if he’d have cared so much if I’d been kissing the son of one of his country club friends,” she said bitterly. “Instead of one of the boys from the stable.”
Charlotte threw her arm around Sydney’s shoulders. She pressed her head against Sydney’s, her blond hair a sharp contrast to Sydney’s raven-black tresses. “Who knows?” she asked on a sigh. At eighteen, she was four years older than Sydney and decades smarter. Charlotte had kissed plenty of boys, but she knew better than to be caught doing so anywhere around Forrest’s Crossing. “Didn’t help that he’s obviously been drinking.” She waved her hand at the crystal decanter that was sitting, unstoppered, on the desk. “If you really like Andy, just meet him in town. Or at school,” she advised. “The old man never has to know.”
“Am I really just like her?”
Charlotte didn’t have to ask what Sydney meant. “You don’t remember what she looked like when she left?”
Sydney shook her head. She wanted to think she remembered her mother. But what she remembered of the woman who’d abandoned her three children when Sydney was a baby was more likely just wishful thinking.
As wishful as thinking that her father had any affection at all for the children his wife had given him—particularly Sydney.
Charlotte crossed their father’s study to his desk. She tipped the pens and pencils out of a silver mint julep cup—the only thing besides the decanter sitting on top of the gleaming wood surface—and fished the desk key out from the bottom. Opening the locked center drawer, she moved a few things, then pulled out a ragged-edged snapshot. She held it up. “Just ‘cause you look like her doesn’t mean you are like her,” she warned.
Still feeling bruised from her father’s tirade, Sydney took the photograph. Black hair. Thin face. Blue eyes.
They were the same eyes that stared back at Sydney whenever she looked in a mirror.
She was just like her mother.
“Jake looks like the old man and he’s nothing like him,” Charlotte added. He really was the spitting image of their father.
“He doesn’t even like any of us.” Sydney crumpled the photograph in her fist. “So why’d he bother fighting to keep us?”
“To win,” Charlotte answered immediately.
Sydney tossed the crumpled picture on the center of the spotless desk. She didn’t care if it did mean he’d know they’d been into his desk or not. “If we had four hooves and won races would he love us?”
“Do what I do, Syd.” Charlotte flicked the balled-up photo with her finger and it rolled off the desk onto the floor. “Stop caring what he thinks.” She relocked the drawer, dropped the key in the julep cup and replaced the pens and pencils before heading for the doorway. “He’s not worth it,” she said before sailing out of the office.
Easy for her sister to say. She was going away to college in the fall and wouldn’t even be living at home. Jake, of course, was already out on his own and had been for years.
Sydney would be stuck at home with the man for several years yet.
She turned back to look out the windows. The horse barns where her father’s pride and joy was stabled were visible in the distance. “He’s not worth it,” she repeated.
But her chest hurt and tears crept down her cheeks when she finally looked away.
She picked up the crumpled picture of her mother and smoothed it out on the desk.
Black hair. Thin face. Blue eyes.
“You’re not worth it, either,” she whispered to the picture.
The large grandfather clock against the wall ticked softly.
Sydney made a face and slowly picked up the photo.
She folded it carefully in half.
Then she pushed it into her pocket and left the room.
Chapter One
“What on earth are you doing here?” Sydney murmured the question to herself as she yanked a thick sweater over her head. She was wearing two layers of sweaters, on top of a long-sleeved thermal undershirt, and she still couldn’t get warm. January in Wyoming was a long way from January in Georgia.
She shook her head sharply, freeing the ends of her hair from the turtleneck and pulled the cuffs of the sweater even farther down over her hands as she gave the furnace a baleful look.
The offending item was housed behind a door—currently open—off her small kitchen. After failing to get the thing to run for the last forty-eight hours, and considering her dwindling supply of firewood, she’d finally given up and called a repair service.
That had been nearly eight hours ago.
They’d promised to send someone in two.
Clearly, the three impatient calls that she’d made since then hadn’t sped things along.
Not for the first time, she wondered if moving herself—lock, stock and metaphorical barrel—out to this small town in Wyoming was a monumental mistake.
But making monumental mistakes was truly the one thing at which Sydney Forrest excelled.
She rubbed her hands down her flat belly, then picked up the hammer she’d been trying not to pitch at the broken furnace and eyed the cabin wall again. She’d already hung one of her Solieres and had two more to go.
The modern American style of the paintings didn’t match the cabin’s interior—early-American leftover—but she loved the original oils, anyway. They were the first pieces of art she’d ever purchased, and the only ones in her sizeable collection that she’d bothered bringing with her to Weaver, Wyoming. The rest she’d left back in Georgia on loan to various galleries and she could honestly say she didn’t care whether she ever saw any of them again.
But the Solieres…these, she loved.
If she could hang them here, then she’d be home.
She hoped.
She placed the nail and hammered it into the thick log wall. Only when she stopped did she realize that someone was hammering at her door, too.
She dropped the hammer on the hideous green-and-orange-plaid couch that came with the place and headed toward the door, only to stop short.
She eyed the thick, glossy-covered book lying on her couch. The Next Forty Weeks. Maybe it was silly of her, but she shoved it behind a cushion, anyway, before hurrying the few steps to the door.
“You’re late,” she said flatly when she threw open the door.
The tall man standing on the doorstep of the cabin tilted down the dark glasses he was wearing and looked at her over the rims. “I am?”
The fact that there was amusement in the bright green eyes he trained on her face didn’t help her irritation. “I called for you nearly eight hours ago.” Her voice was only a few shades warmer than the cold air that seeped inside around him. “I don’t know what kind of service your employer expects you to provide but he assured me—more than once over those hours—that you would be…right here.” She sounded like a witch and didn’t particularly care. She pointed her index finger at the offending furnace. “It’s over there.”
Still peering over the tops of his sunglasses, he finally shifted away in the direction she was pointing. “I see.” He stepped past her into the cabin, turning slightly sideways as he did so.
To avoid touching her, or to even fit through the door, she wasn’t sure. He was wearing a thick down jacket that, despite the rip in one shoulder seam, nevertheless made his shoulders look a good six inches wider than they probably were.
“Let’s just take a look, then,” he murmured as he passed her.
She shivered and slammed the door shut.
She wasn’t going to remotely entertain the idea that she was reacting to his deep, soft voice.
She was absolutely done with men.
Been there. Done that. With far too many.
She folded her arms around her waist and watched him as he crouched down in front of the furnace. His thighs strained against the faded, dirty jeans he was wearing and she wasn’t going to admit that she, even for one moment, glanced at his rear visible beneath the coat he wasn’t bothering to remove.
Why would he take it off?
The cabin’s interior was freezing.
Her irritation mounted even more. “Didn’t you even bring a toolbox? What kind of a repairman are you, besides a late one?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. He’d pulled off his sunglasses and she got a full-on view of that scruffy face and striking eyes.
He needed a shave, a haircut and, she was betting, a shower.
“Actually, I have a toolbox in my truck.” His drawl seemed to have deepened. “Ma’am,” he added after a moment.
Her lips tightened.
Smart-aleck repairmen she didn’t need. What she did need was heat. Or she was afraid she was going to have to give up the idea of staying in the cabin on her own.
She might as well have a tail that she could tuck between her legs if she had to admit, already, that she couldn’t hack it by herself in Weaver.
The idea tasted bitter. As bitter as the fear that ran deep and strong inside her that she wouldn’t be able to hack it.
And then where would she be?
Back in Georgia? Lolling away her time and inheritance in a place where nobody really cared about her—or heaven forbid—felt sorry for her?
