A Baxter's Redemption. Patricia Johns

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       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY

       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

       Extract

       Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

      ISABEL BAXTER’S STOMACH curdled as she glanced around the sunny living room of her childhood home—a rambling, three-story house just outside Haggerston, Montana. Coming home wasn’t the same since her father’s second marriage, the thought of which still left her angry. The house itself had stood the test of time, but the interior had not. The portrait of her parents was gone, replaced by a jarring abstract painting over the stone fireplace. The removal of that portrait was to be expected, of course, but it still felt like a betrayal to the family they used to be. The antique rocking chair that had belonged to Isabel’s maternal grandmother had also been removed, replaced by a modern monstrosity that looked like a dried orange peel, a cup waiting to embrace the hindquarters of unsuspecting visitors.

      Her father, George Baxter, was balding and portly, and he sat in his same old spot in the leather armchair. The family lawyer loomed behind him—a young man with a steely gaze. She knew he was the lawyer the minute she stepped into the room, although she’d never met him. Lawyers all had the same look: well ironed and expressionless. Isabel eyed him for a moment, taking in his broad shoulders, his suit jacket tugging ever so slightly around a muscled chest. She sighed. This was the kind of family reunion she’d expected—the kind that required a lawyer. Baxters were nothing if not prepared.

      “Do we really need a lawyer here?” she asked.

      A slight smile flickered around the corners of the lawyer’s lips, and she met his gaze. He was muscular with chiseled features and an easy way of standing that made her suddenly more aware of her own appearance. There had been a time when Isabel would have flirted with him, just to see if she could get his attention, but those days were past. She knew better than to flirt since the accident.

      “I’m glad you’re here, Princess,” her father replied, ignoring her tartness. “How are you feeling?” Was it her imagination, or was he trying not to look too closely at her face?

      She knew what he was getting at. She wasn’t the same daughter that George Baxter had sent off to New York six years earlier. A year ago, she’d been hit by a car, leaving her severely scarred. After a bad reaction to anesthetic where she nearly died on the operating table, she declined further cosmetic surgery. She’d just have to carry on as she was. It wasn’t a decision her father had ever fully embraced.

      “I’m fine, Dad. I assume you asked me here to talk business.”

      “Yes.” Her father heaved himself to his feet with a grunt. “It’s about the money.”

      “What money, specifically?” she asked.

      “Your money.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “The doctor says I’ve got to slow down with my heart acting up this way, and I’ve decided to sign over your trust fund now, instead of when you turn thirty.”

      “Why?” She pulled her hair away from her face. “What did the doctor say, exactly?”

      “I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re getting at,” her father retorted.

      “But what did he say?” she pressed.

      “Hardening of the arteries. Some fibrillation. Nothing earth-shattering. Your grandfather lived to be ninety-five eating nothing but bacon and eggs, so I’m sure I’ll be just fine. All the same, I’m slowing down.”

      “And you’re finally ready for me to run Baxter Land Holdings?” Isabel guessed, her pulse speeding up at the prospect. She’d been angling for this—preparing for it—since she went to college, not that her father had encouraged it. He’d suggested she take a degree in art history. She’d been the one to choose a degree in business, with a minor in marketing.

      “Take over?” George shot her an alarmed look. “Heavens, no. But with your accident, and all that, I thought you could use some cheering up—”

      Isabel pressed her lips together. Her father had a stranglehold on the family business, and in his eyes, she’d always be his princess—an endearment that came with as many strings as a spider’s web.

      “I love you, too, but you know money won’t fix this, right?” she asked blandly.

      George gestured to the younger man. She glanced uneasily toward the lawyer, and he smiled, then crossed the room. He wore a nicely tailored suit, but it wasn’t expensive. She knew suits, and this one was store brand.

      “Hi, I’m Isabel Baxter,” she said. “George’s daughter, in case you weren’t up to speed there.”

      “James Hunter.” He shook her hand, his grasp strong and warm. “Nice to see you again.”

      Again? Isabel squinted at him. Have I met him before?

      “So come take a look.” Her father went on, ignoring their personal introductions. He held a folder, which he opened. “I’ve requested that your funds be taken out of the investments. There was some good growth, so you’ll be comfortable.” He came to his daughter’s side and pointed to a dollar amount. “It takes a few days for the funds to be released, but I’ll give you the paperwork as soon as it is.”

      “Sure.” She nodded. “That would be fine.”

      There was movement in the doorway, and Isabel glanced up to see her young stepmother, Britney Baxter. Britney was two years younger than Isabel, and she wore yoga pants and a midriff-baring top, with a towel tossed СКАЧАТЬ