Monahan's Gamble. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      His big brother grinned tolerantly. “And what, oh omniscient knower of women, would that one thing be that they all want?”

      “Equal pay for equal work,” Cullen offered with a smile before Sean had a chance to answer.

      “No, men who do their own laundry,” Ted piped up with a chuckle.

      “No, men who not only do their own laundry but sort by light and dark, too,” Charlie threw in for good measure.

      “Oh, hardy-har-har-har,” Sean replied. “Very funny, wise guys.”

      Eventually the men stopped laughing—again. And when they did, Finn turned a more serious—sort of—gaze on his brother. “Truly, Sean,” he said. “What is this one thing that all women want? We’re on the edge of our seats.”

      Sean lifted his chin a bit defensively. “A wedding ring,” he said.

      Cullen narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Gee, they can get one of those down at Huck’s Pawnshop for twenty bucks. Thirty if they want one that’s not hot.”

      “A wedding ring with a husband attached,” Sean clarified—not that any clarification would be necessary if it weren’t for the fact that he was sitting at a table with his four moronic friends and relatives.

      “Oh, hey, I’m sorry, but Huck doesn’t include that kind of service with his pawn,” Cullen said. “A man has to draw the line somewhere.”

      Sean sighed impatiently. “You know what I mean,” he said evenly. “Women—all women—want to get married. They want to find that one special someone and settle down forever, then milk the poor sap for everything he’s got—socially, financially, emotionally, spiritually, you name it. Women want to be wives. That’s all there is to it.”

      There wasn’t a single comment from anyone present at the table for a moment, then, “Stand back, everybody,” Finn said mildly, “I think his brain is about to blow.”

      Sean growled under his breath. “Look, all I’m saying is that if Autumn Pulaski has this ridiculous rule about not dating anybody for more than a month—”

      “A lunar month,” Cullen reminded him.

      “A lunar month,” Sean said through gritted teeth, “then she’s only doing it to rouse more interest.”

      Finn eyed him levelly. “You know, Sean, I think I speak for everyone here when I say, ‘Huh?”’

      The other three men nodded their agreement.

      Sean rolled his eyes. “Autumn wants to make herself seem more appealing, in order to snag a man,” he said. “She thinks that if she has this no-dating-after-a-month—”

      “A lunar month,” Cullen corrected him again.

      “—rule,” Sean continued, ignoring his younger brother, “then it’ll just make guys that much more determined to date her for more than a lunar,” he said before Cullen could interrupt him, “month.”

      “So you don’t think she’s serious when she says she’ll never date a man for longer than four weeks?” Ted asked.

      “Of course she’s not serious,” Sean said with much conviction.

      Ted eyed him curiously. “Then…why hasn’t she ever dated any man in Marigold for more than four weeks?”

      Sean shrugged. “She hasn’t met the right guy, that’s all,” he said. “That’s another reason she’s got this alleged rule. So she can let the less-desirable guys go without a messy confrontation.”

      “And you think you’re the right guy,” Charlie assumed.

      “I’m certainly a damn sight better than any of you mooks,” he said smugly. “And Gordon.”

      “Yes, well, you always were a legend in your own mind,” Finn remarked mildly.

      “I’m serious,” Sean insisted. “Autumn Pulaski only has her cockamamie lunar-month rule because she knows it will just make guys that much more determined to go out with her. Then, when she finally reels in the one she wants, she’ll have the guy so bamboozled, she’ll be able to wrap him up in silver wedding paper with a big, white bow.”

      Cullen studied him with much speculation. “So what makes you think that you could, in addition to dating her for more than four weeks, avoid being so bamboozled and wrapped up like a wedding gift yourself?”

      “Like I said, I know women,” Sean reiterated matter-of-factly. “I’m hip to her game before we even start to play it. I will come out the winner. In more ways than one.”

      “You really think so?” Finn asked.

      Sean nodded. “Hey, if there’s anybody out there who can last longer than a lunar month with Autumn Pulaski,” he said with a smile, “I’m the man.”

      Finn chewed his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, eyeing Sean with much consideration. Then, right when it occurred to Sean, at the very back of his brain, that he might have just steered himself toward a deadly cliff—but much too late for him to backpedal out of the fatal fall— Finn uttered the words that, for thirty-four years, had tolled the death knell for Sean’s good sense:

      “Prove it, little brother,” Finn said knowingly. “Prove it.”

      Autumn Pulaski was wrestling with a large mass of dough, one that would eventually be a nice loaf of seven-grain onion dill, when she heard the tinkle of the bell over the front door in the shop area of the Autumn’s Harvest Bakery. Normally that door would still be locked this early in the morning, but she’d brought some things in through the front earlier and had neglected to lock up behind herself. It had hardly seemed necessary, because few people in Marigold, Indiana, were even awake this time of morning—particularly on a Saturday. And those who were awake were almost certainly not out and about. And those who were out and about were either working themselves, or were on their way to go fishing.

      “We’re not open yet!” she called out toward the shop. “Come back at seven!”

      But instead of hearing the tinkle of the bell as her 6 a.m. customer left, Autumn heard silence instead, indicating the visitor was still out in the shop. She was more curious about that development than she was concerned for her safety. This was, after all, Marigold, Indiana. In other words, Small Town, U.S.A. The only crimes that occurred here were crimes of fashion.

      Plus, she wasn’t alone in the bakery. She was working with two of the teenage girls she’d hired for the summer, not to mention Louis, who always came in to help her in the mornings. And Louis was six foot seven, had shoulders the size of the Hoover Dam and forearms as big as a Bekins truck. His long, gray beard was braided down to nearly his very ample waist, and a tattoo on his right bicep read, quite simply, Raise Hell. Nobody, but nobody messed with Louis.

      And nobody made better cream puffs, either.

      Autumn sighed heavily and jerked her head to the side, pitching her long, fat, auburn braid over one shoulder. She wiped her hands on her white apron, tugged the sleeves of her white peasant blouse down over her elbows, and СКАЧАТЬ