Ford: 7 Brides for 7 Soldiers Read online

  Ford

  7 Brides for 7 Soldiers

  Samantha Chase

  Copyright 2017 Samantha Chase

  All Rights Reserved.

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  No part of this book, with the exception of brief quotations for book reviews or critical articles, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 978-1975681579

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  Editor: Kelli Collins

  Cover Artist: Damonza.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Ryder - Excerpt

  Book Blurb

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  About Samantha Chase

  Also by Samantha Chase

  Prologue

  Fifteen years ago…

  “I hear you got into some trouble this week.”

  Ford rolled his eyes and inwardly groaned. Luckily, he had his back to his grandfather, otherwise there’d be a whole other discussion about disrespect on top of the discussion they were about to have about misbehaving.

  Great.

  “It wasn’t a big deal,” he said a little defensively. “It was just a stupid prank. I don’t think it warranted detention.”

  “And I hear you aren’t in there alone.”

  Nope. His older cousin Ryder had gotten detention too. It kind of cushioned the blow because now it didn’t suck quite so much. Plus, they were stuck there with five other guys. There was no way he was going to admit how so far all they’d done was play cards and take bets on who could get a date with the hot teacher who clearly had drawn the short straw and gotten stuck overseeing detention.

  His grandfather walked over and stood beside him at the workbench. This was something they did almost every weekend, and had since Ford was three years old. They’d come out to the workshop—which was really just a converted three-car garage on his grandparents’ ranch—and work on different woodworking projects. Sometimes it was something like a couple of picture frames or birdhouses, and other times it was shelves or some new furniture for his grandmother.

  Either way, whenever they worked together, they talked. And not in the awkward way Ford normally talked with his own father. No, Ben Garrison seemed to understand his grandson in a way no one else did, and it was where Ford not only learned to love carpentry, but he learned a lot about himself.

  And that’s why he hated to disappoint his grandfather more than anyone else.

  “Well, I imagine it was probably done in fun,” his grandfather began as he started pulling down a pair of planers, “but it was still against the rules.”

  “How’d you hear about it?”

  Ben looked at his grandson with a hint of amusement. “Do you really have to ask?”

  Sadly, he didn’t. Chances were it wasn’t just one person who’d shared the news of Ford’s detention, but an entire towns worth of them. Honestly, the people of Eagle’s Ridge seemed to thrive on gossip and talking about everybody’s business—whether it had anything to do with them or not.

  He hated it.

  Seriously hated it.

  And yet…this was his life. Eagle’s Ridge was home, and his grandparents—along with his great aunts and uncles—were founding members of it.

  Lucky me.

  Rather than continue with this particular discussion, Ford opted to change the subject. “So, what are we working on today?”

  “We are building a dollhouse.”

  His eyes went wide. “A dollhouse? Why?”

  Beside him, his grandfather laughed softly as he pulled more tools down and began organizing the pieces of wood he had stacked on the end of the bench. With a lot less enthusiasm than he had a few minutes ago, Ford watched as their project was laid out before him.

  “You remember Ruthie, right?”

  For a minute, Ford racked his brain to try to remember who she was. “You mean the woman who helps Grams with cleaning the house?”

  Ben nodded. “That’s right. Her daughter is having a birthday in a few weeks and I thought this would make a great gift.”

  “Can’t you buy one in a store?”

  Ben laughed again. “Sure. I could also buy furniture and picture frames and even a storage shed, but sometimes things are better and mean more when they’re made by hand.”

  Feigning interest, he asked, “So how old is her daughter?”

  “She’s going to be ten.”

  “Um…Gramps?”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s a little old for a dollhouse, don’t you think?”

  His grandfather stopped moving for a moment as he seemed to consider his comment. Ford held his breath and hoped he’d agree, and then they could make something that wasn’t so…girly. A dollhouse, he scoffed inwardly. It was ridiculous.

  “You know what, Ford?”

  Here it was. He was going to agree and they could move on. “What?”

  “Normally I’d say you were right, but Ruthie mentioned how much Callie wants a dollhouse—something about how she’s always wanted one—and I want to be the one to do it for her. That poor girl has grown up without a father and her mother works two jobs to support them. I get the impression there isn’t a lot of money left over for frivolous things like a dollhouse.”

  “You could just give her money. It sounds like they can use that more than a dollhouse.”

  As usual, his grandfather gave him a patient smile and then patted him on the shoulder. “Why are you so against this? It’s not like I’m asking you to use the darn thing. And you know how I feel about making things from scratch and how important it is to give from the heart. What’s the big deal suddenly?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just expected us to make something…you know…cool today. We’ve been talking about building new bookshelves for Grams. You know she needs them, and she’s been dropping hints about them for months now.”

  Another quiet laugh. “And she’ll get them for her birthday. Or maybe for Christmas.” He paused and pulled out a box of nails and placed it on the bench beside the small wood pile. “If there’s one thing I know about your grandmother, it’s how she has the patience of a saint. She’s not in a rush for them. And besides, once I build those shelves, she’d going to fill them up right away with all kinds of books and knickknacks and then she’ll be looking for more. The way I see it, I’m pacing myself.”

  While Ford could agree with most of that, he still felt like he needed to step in—on his grandmother’s behalf, of course. “Didn’t you hear Grams as we were walking out here? She gave you measurements for the shelves. She’s expecting us to make them for her.”

  “And she’s also expecting me to make a dollhouse for Callie.”

  “But…but…”

  “Face it, Ford, we’re building a dollhouse today,” his grandfather said firmly. “And the sooner we get started, the sooner we can be done so…let’s get to work.”

  “If we finish it today,
can we start on the shelves for Grams? Or maybe…you know…one of us can work on the dollhouse and the other can work on the shelves. Think of the time we’d save and how much more we could get done.”

  Ben crossed his arms over his massive chest and his expression was neutral—giving Ford no clue as to what he was thinking.

  For the second time since they’d come to the workshop, Ford held his breath and waited for what was coming next.

  “You know what? I think that’s a great idea.”

  “You do?”

  Ben nodded and reached for the sketch pad he always had handy. He immediately began drawing, and Ford almost sagged to the ground with relief. He could build shelves while his grandfather worked on some silly dollhouse for a girl they barely knew. They’d each have a project and they’d spend the day surrounded by sawdust while they talked about life.

  It didn’t get much better than this.

  “Here you go,” Ben said with a smile, handing Ford the drawing.

  “But…wait,” he said, looking at the sketch. “I don’t understand.”

  Ben looked at him and then the paper in his hand. “It’s all right there,” he explained, motioning to the paper. “All the dimensions are clearly specified and everything’s here on the bench. If there’s something you don’t like, you can use the ranch as a model on some of the details.” With another pat on the shoulder, he began to walk away.

  “Gramps, wait!” he cried out almost desperately.

  Ben turned and looked at him, a serene smile on his face.

  “I just…I thought…I was expecting you to give me the specs for the shelves.”

  And then his grandfather grinned widely. “That’s today’s lesson, Ford. Expect the unexpected.”

  One

  Expect the unexpected.

  That perfectly fit what Ford Garrison was dealing with right now. It was after midnight, there was snow on the ground, the power was out and there was a massive tree lying across the front porch of his grandparents’ ranch house.

  Okay, he had been expecting to see that…it was the reason he’d flown all the way back to Eagle’s Ridge, Washington, from Virginia Beach on such short notice. Well, that and the fact that his grandmother had been injured as a result of this massive tree’s destruction.

  Margaret Garrison was as tough as they came and never shied away from a challenge. Even at the age of eighty-eight, she didn’t know the meaning of limitations. It was probably one of the main reasons she was currently in the hospital with a broken hip. Rather than going out the back door of the house when the tree hit, Grams had opted to go out the front door to assess the damage and climb over the massive maple.

  That one still had him shaking his head.

  Either way, Grams was in the hospital and Ford was back in the town he’d been doing his best to avoid for a dozen years.

  Sure, ten years in the Navy as part of their construction battalion had been extremely beneficial in helping him keep his distance, but in the two years since he’d been out, he’d managed to only come back to Eagle’s Ridge when it was on his terms.

  This was not one of those times.

  Not only was he here to check on his grandmother’s well-being, but also to oversee the repairs on the house. And since Garrison Construction—the company his grandfather had started more than fifty years ago—was at his disposal, Ford had no doubt he could get the work done.

  He just wished his grandfather was still here to work beside him.

  From his spot in the truck, he leaned forward and looked not only at the house but at the property around it. How many times had he jumped off of the massive porch or sat on the swing and listened to stories of how Eagle’s Ridge had been formed? He’d climbed just about every tree on the property and had snowball fights with his cousins right here in this front yard. Around the back was the three-car garage that housed his grandfather’s workshop—a place where Ford had spent more time than he could remember learning how to put things together and build them from scratch.

  Those times with his grandfather had meant the world to him. There was a familiar twinge of pain in his heart at the memories. It didn’t seem possible that Ben Garrison had been gone from this world for five years already.

  And it certainly wasn’t fair that Ford hadn’t been there to say goodbye.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered gruffly.

  It was late, he was exhausted, and all he wanted right now was to sleep. It had been a long day and a long flight and he was slowly losing the fight to keep his eyes open. Staying in the ranch wasn’t going to be possible. The structure had been compromised and until he could assess the damage in the light of day, it was best to crash elsewhere.

  And on top of it all, he still couldn’t believe he’d gone to such great lengths to avoid coming home for Thanksgiving, yet he’d ended up here anyway.

  Just a day late.

  Looking over to the far right corner of the property, Ford spotted the guest cottage and sighed. That was going to have to be his temporary home. No doubt it was a cold, dusty mess, but it was either that or driving back into town and waking up his parents or his cousin Ryder.

  “Suck it up for the night,” he murmured, and put the truck in gear and slowly made his way across the property. Even though the ground was covered in a light dusting of snow, Ford knew this place like the back of his hand. In the few times he’d come home after getting out of the service, he’d marveled at how it never changed. Other than the trees getting bigger, everything looked exactly the same as he remembered it from his childhood.

  It was comforting.

  Parking next to the guest cottage—which always reminded him of some sort of dollhouse—Ford shut off the truck and yawned. If he didn’t move soon, he was certain he’d fall asleep right there in the driver’s seat. Another yawn later, and he forced himself to reach for his duffle bag and exit the vehicle. The cold air hit him so hard, he hissed with it. There was cold weather in Virginia, but it didn’t even begin to compare to the cold in Washington.

  With a curse, he walked up to the small front porch and tried to open the door.

  Locked.

  That was odd. Last he checked, this place had never been locked.

  Looking around, he remembered how his grandmother had a thing for hiding spare keys in flowerpots and, sure enough, after feeling around in the three next to the front door, he found one. Within minutes, he was inside and closing the door behind him. The space was warmer than he imagined it would be, but it was also pitch black.

  Cursing the lack of electricity, he carefully made his way across the room toward the small bedroom in the back. The space was tiny by any standards, but the main floor housed a one-room living room-kitchen combo, a bathroom and a bedroom. There was a small loft space upstairs that was also used for sleeping, but he had a feeling it had been primarily used for storage in recent years. The bedroom seemed like the safest place to go.

  Inside, he silently prayed there were blankets on the bed and, reaching out blindly, he was able to confirm that there were.

  “I’ve slept in worse conditions,” he quietly reminded himself as he kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket. With little concern, he dropped the garment on the floor and quickly did the same with his socks, shirt and jeans. In nothing more than his briefs, he slid beneath the blankets and sighed at how good it felt to be lying down.

  His eyes were heavy, and he cleared his mind of the craziness of the day, the damage he’d just witnessed on the main house, and all of the work that lay ahead of him and forced himself to simply not think. Sleep wasn’t going to be a problem once his brain quieted down, and as he settled a little farther down under the blankets, he yawned and closed his eyes and felt himself smile as sleep began to claim him.

  Tomorrow was another day, and no doubt, he was going to need his rest.

  He could have been asleep for minutes or hours—but it was the scream that woke him up and had him jumping from the bed in near terror.r />
  “Oh my God! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  The voice was female, but it was too dark and he had no idea who was speaking. His brain was foggy and it took a full minute for Ford to get his bearings.

  “Um…what?”

  On the other side of the room, he heard footsteps and things moving around, and the next thing he knew, something was poking him—hard—in the shoulder. “Hey! What the…?”

  “I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it!” the female voice said, but Ford heard the slight tremor there, and he was no idiot—it wasn’t a gun poking him. It was a bat.

  “Look, um…I’m Ford Garrison,” he said, his own voice firm and commanding as he reached out and grabbed the bat from her hands. She shrieked at his actions but he wasn’t going to be deterred. “This is my grandmother’s home and property and you’re trespassing. Now why don’t you just get your things and get going and we’ll forget all about this.”

  That sounded logical, right?

  “Ford?” she said weakly. “But…no. You’re lying. Ford wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Seriously? “And how would you know that?” he demanded, growing tired of this conversation after less than a minute.

  “Be…because Ford never comes home and Margaret is always talking about it. So…whoever you are, you need to leave because I’m calling the police,” she said, her voice a little steadier now.

  And that’s when an idea hit him – his phone was in the pocket of his jeans. Slowly, silently, he crouched down and fished it out and turned it on, illuminating the room a little. When the light hit his would-be assailant, he stiffened.