A Baxter's Redemption Read online

  Has she really changed?

  Former beauty queen Isabel Baxter returns to her hometown, scarred after a near-fatal accident. But in high school, she was the fantasy of every teenage boy in Haggerston, Montana, including James Hunter. Even though James was too far below her social circle to be noticed…

  Now her father’s attorney, James isn’t ready to forgive Isabel for the part she played in his own family tragedy. Yet she seems eager to make amends and prove herself capable of being more than a pretty face. Has the girl he once worshipped—his boss’s daughter—grown into a woman James can respect…and maybe love?

  Isabel grimaced.

  “I feel terrible about forgetting you. I was so self-involved back then. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “It’s okay,” James said gruffly. “So, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Just working in the store, and—” How was she supposed to ask for a favor now? “I—I was wondering if you might be free to help me move something this morning. Feel free to charge the time to my father.”

  He was silent. She wondered if she’d just made an even bigger fool of herself.

  “Sure,” he said at last. “And no need to charge your father.” There was a smile in his voice. “See you in a bit.”

  Was that forgiveness she heard in his tone? James struck her as a man who didn’t talk about his feelings too often. Call it gut instinct—she knew men, if nothing else. She had a feeling that while James seemed to fight it tooth and nail, he was becoming her friend.

  Whether he liked it or not.

  Dear Reader,

  When you’re twenty-two, you have it. Youth has a beauty and allure all its own, and when you look back on photos of your twenty-two-year-old self, you wonder what you were agonizing over back then. Then you get into the business of life, and you get married, have kids, start going gray… Your body changes, your perspective changes, and the other women who are in the same boat start reassuring you—perhaps a little too ardently—that you’ve still got it. You’re a “hot mama.”

  Whoever first told us that it’s our job to be “hot”? And why on earth did we accept the position? “The successful candidate will be a visual stimulus for males within her general vicinity.”

  There’s nothing wrong with being attractive. I am beautiful—my husband reminds me of it all the time. But I’m a woman—not a trophy. I’m a partner, a cheerleader, a warrior, a defender. Let’s start with the assumption that we’re all beautiful—because you are!—then let’s go forward from there. What else are you? And what are you going to do with the wealth of skill, insight and passion that you bring to the party?

  It isn’t my job to be “hot.” My job includes being intelligent, thoughtful and caring. Being well-read is an advantage, and when it comes to protecting the women around me, I’m a force to be reckoned with. When men see me coming, I don’t want appraising glances. My body isn’t their business, and if this brain intimidates them, then they can call me “ma’am.” I prefer it that way, anyway. Ladies, we’re so much more than what society asks of us. I will never call you hot, but I will most certainly call you magnificent!

  If you’d like to connect with me, you can find me on Facebook, or at my website, patriciajohnsromance.com.

  Patricia Johns

  A Baxter’s Redemption

  Patricia Johns

  Patricia Johns has her honors BA in English literature. She lives in Alberta, Canada, with her husband and son where she writes full-time. Her first Harlequin novel came out in 2013, and you can find her books in the Love Inspired, Western Romance and Heartwarming lines.

  Books by Patricia Johns

  American Romance

  Hope, Montana

  Safe in the Lawman’s Arms

  Her Stubborn Cowboy

  The Cowboy’s Christmas Bride

  Love Inspired

  His Unexpected Family

  The Rancher’s City Girl

  A Firefighter’s Promise

  The Lawman’s Surprise Family

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  To my mom, the businesswoman.

  She’s five-two and tough as they come.

  Give her a goal and she sinks her teeth into it, then shakes the stuffing out of it. “Almost” isn’t good enough for her. I love you, Mom.

  You taught me well!

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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

  EXCERPT FROM HIS BEST FRIEND’S WIFE BY LEE MCKENZIE

  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 earli
er. 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 around her neck as if she’d just finished a workout. If she had, she hadn’t worked up a sweat. To Isabel, Britney’s outfit spoke volumes about her maturity. Technically, this was Britney’s home and she could wander around it dressed as she pleased, but she still looked more like a high school cheerleader than a married woman. It was that tanned midriff that drew Isabel’s eye—a gently domed belly. Reality took a moment to sink in, then her gaze whipped back to her father in shock.

  “You’re—” She cleared her throat. “You two are having a baby?”

  When her father had married a woman forty years younger than himself, Isabel had considered the possibility of siblings, but somehow she still wasn’t prepared for this.

  “Yes.” Her father shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you, so—”

  So they thought they’d announce it with a sports bra and yoga pants? There were better ways to announce these things, and she was uncomfortably aware that this awkward family moment was being played out in front of James Hunter. She glanced in his direction irritably.

  “Congratulations,” she said, her throat constricted. “That’s wonderful news.”

  It didn’t feel like wonderful news, but she wasn’t going to confess her true feelings at the moment. Any lawyer would be pleased with that.

  Her father smiled widely. He gestured toward his young wife. “Come on in, beautiful. We’re done with the business talk.”

  Britney padded into the room on bare feet and slid into her husband’s embrace. She eyed Isabel cautiously.

  “Well, I should be off,” Isabel said, sucking in a breath. She’d had enough surprises on her first day back in town.

  “No, no. You’ll stay here, of course.” George patted Britney’s hip, then released her.

  “No, Dad, that’s not a great idea.”

  “Why?” her father demanded, glancing between his young wife and his daughter. “There is plenty of space. This is your home. You grew up in this house.” Britney and Isabel had exchanged heated words after the wedding, and they’d never actually made up afterward. But they were expected to forget about all that and act like one big, happy family. Not likely. Britney looked away, her cheeks pink.

  “And I’m fully grown now.” Isabel shot her father a smile. “Thanks all the same, Dad, but I need a bit of privacy, too.”

  “Fine, fine,” he muttered gruffly. “Suit yourself. You’re staying for supper at least, aren’t you? I asked James here so he could go over a few of the legalities with you. He’s got papers for you to sign, and we could start all of that now—”

  “I have a hundred things to do still, so no. Next time. The legalities can wait until the money is transferred, I’m sure.” She smiled—not from happiness but from habit, an automatic coping mechanism she hadn’t stopped using now that her smile lost its power. “I’d better get going.”

  Her father shrugged, then stepped forward and enclosed Isabel in a strong hug. “It’s good to see you, Princess.”

  “I missed you, too,” she whispered, squeezing him back.

  Turning toward the door, she heaved a sigh of relief. She’d been dreading this first visit home after her move back, and now she could tick that off her list of uncomfortable obligations. All she wanted right now was to get as far from this house as possible.

  Dad’s having another child.

  She knew things were different, but seeing Britney’s pregnant belly had hammered that fact home. Everything—absolutely everything—had changed.

  * * *

  JAMES WATCHED AS Isabel left the room, her low-heeled pumps tapping against the hardwood floor. Her long dark hair swung halfway down her back, a few inches above her close-fitting blue jeans. She hadn’t lost her ability to dress for her figure over the last decade, and James was reminded of the Isabel from high school—the girl with whom a hundred teenage boys fell in love from afar. He had, too, but she hadn’t been a terribly compassionate person back then. She’d known how much power she wielded over the male population, and she’d used it regularly. Sweet smiles or scathing criticism—she’d use whatever helped get her way. He’d recognized that smile she’d shot her father—he could still see Haggerston’s exploitive beauty queen beneath the scars.

  The front door opened and shut, leaving the room in awkward silence.

  “It looks like you won’t be needing me, after all,” James said, glancing toward Mr. Baxter. The older man shrugged.

  “Actually, there is something you can do for me,” Mr. Baxter replied. He patted Britney’s shoulder, and the young woman hesitated for a moment.

  “I’ll leave you boys to the business chatter,” she quipped, and headed for the door. “I thought I’d go shopping this morning, Georgie...”

  �
�Good girl.” Mr. Baxter smiled fondly in his wife’s direction, but he waited until the door was shut before he spoke again. “I need you to keep an eye on my daughter.”

  “Isabel?” James couldn’t hide his surprise. “Why?”

  “She’s—” Mr. Baxter stopped, frowned. “How to say this... She takes after her mother more than me. She’s not exactly business minded.”

  James swallowed a laugh. “Doesn’t she have a bachelor’s degree in business from Yale?”

  That constituted some business sense in James’s mind.

  Mr. Baxter batted his hand through the air in dismissal. “A degree and an actual instinct for business are two different things. She tried to start up a line of natural soaps and creams a couple of years ago, and it tanked. I’d told her that the market was saturated, but she wouldn’t listen. Hers would be better, she said. Even if they were, it didn’t matter. There was no more interest in skin-care start-ups by fashionistas. Before that, it was a line of scarves, I think—those wispy things women accessorize with. She insisted that all the girls wanted to be like her, and now they could—for the low, low price of thirty-five bucks. She spent a few weeks in front of a sewing machine until she realized she hated sewing, and apparently no one outside this town wanted to be just like her. I could have told her that much, but would she listen to me? Never. She needs guidance with the money I’m signing over to her, and she might not be willing to accept it from me—directly, that is.”

  “So you want me to give her your advice?” James clarified.

  “And keep me informed.”

  This was very quickly inching beyond the scope of his job description, and James glanced around the room while he gathered his thoughts.

  “I won’t follow her,” he said, bringing his attention back to Mr. Baxter. “I’m your lawyer, not a private eye.”

  “I thought you’d be willing to be somewhat flexible.”

  James smiled grimly. He’d never been described as flexible in anything, least of all matters of conscience. “Not that flexible, sir.”