Page 74 of A Beach House Beginning

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter One

“You’re late.”

The gruff words slammed through his headache like a Brahma bull making kindling of a flimsy fence, and Jace McCandless barely managed to hide a wince.

“I know. Sorry. I, uh, overslept.”

Though it was the truth—or most of it, anyway—it was a lame excuse, and he knew it. Worse, he was fairly sure Hank knew it, too. The old man raised one of his bushy gray eyebrows at him.

“This ain’t the circuit, son, or one of your fancy Hollywood commercials. You’re not a star here, just the hired help.”

Jace’s laugh was short and pithy. “Hired help? You paying me now? That’s the first I’ve heard.”

The other man patted him on the shoulder. “Who needs a paycheck when you’re gettin’ paid in blessings and goodwill?”

Jace snorted. “Fancy words for what amounts to slave labor.”

He wouldn’t be here at all if not for Hank’s wily skill at emotional blackmail. The man was slicker than cow snot. His grandmother’s second husband had called him up the night before, with his unerring gift for finding and capitalizing on a man’s weak moments.

Jace had no idea how Hank had known he was scraping emotional bottom, that he was haunted by cries of those he couldn’t help.

Next thing he knew, the crusty rodeo promoter had been reminding him of the long ledger of favors Jace owed him from their days on the circuit together—and worse. With that same uncanny skill, Hank had managed to drive the blade into his insides and give it a good, sharp twist.

“You ever think that maybe you survived that hotel fire for a reason?” he’d said, and even through the phone line Jace could hear the bite in his voice. “I have to think sitting at home with a bottle ain’t what God had in mind for Jace McCandless.”

He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but by the time he hung up fifteen minutes later Jace was fairly sure he had promised the man a whole host of things he hadn’t intended, including helping out at the equine therapy center Hank had started after retiring from the rodeo ring, marrying Jace’s grandmother and moving her to his spread in this dusty, quiet corner of Utah.

That ought to teach him not to answer the phone when he was drunk off his butt.

“You ready?”

Jace glanced at the bright red steel building behind Hank. His insides tightened, but he couldn’t have said whether it was nerves or his lingering hangover.

He hoped to hell it was the latter. During his time on the circuit he developed a reputation as a broncobuster with steel guts and a cool head. He wouldn’t like to think he was losing either after only eighteen months away from the business.

“I guess,” he mumbled.

Hank grinned, showing off the perfect, blindingly white dentures that were such a contrast to his raw, craggy features. “You are in for a real treat, son.”

He highly doubted that, but he still obediently followed the man into the building.

Even with his sunglasses, it took his tired, gritty eyes a good three minutes to adjust from the brilliant spring sunshine outside to the dimmer arena lights.

When he could see again, he immediately wanted to bolt right out the door. What the hell was he doing here?

He even started to turn around, but Hank stood between Jace and the door, almost as if the old man guessed at the thoughts of escape racing through his brain.

“Hey, Mr. Hank! Look at me! I can go fast.” One excited youngster waved from the back of a swaybacked nag that looked as though it should have been sold for glue about two decades ago.

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