A Braveheart for Beth: Lotus Season, #2

By Gillian Mayne

Battling a serious illness made Beth a fighter. Now, the feisty innkeeper is determined to reclaim the life she once had by juggling her recovery and career. But the responsibility she feels to what little family she has left holds her back from pursuing the future she dreams of.

 

After facing the ugliness of war, Ryder left the armed forces and focused on giving back to the community in the hopes of easing the PTSD that haunts him. As the burden on his soul begins to lighten, he meets Beth at a convention. The attraction between them is intense, but it's quickly overshadowed by the family ties that pull him back home.

 

Can Ryder and Beth find a way to carve out a future of their own? Or will family obligations force them to sacrifice their chance at happiness?

 

A Braveheart for Beth is the second offering in the Lotus Season series. If you like heart-warming stories with believable characters, then you'll love this Gillian Mayne sweet read.

 

*Sweet Contemporary Romance with a dash of heat.

*War hero with PTSD and a heart of gold

*Strong heroine with her guard up

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gillian Mayne
• Release date: Feb 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393402879

Gillian Mayne

Gillian is a Romance author who lives on the East coast in New Zealand. She writes contemporary stories with real-life issues and romantic themes woven together, in small-town settings in the USA. You will find more at www.gillianmayne.com

Book preview

1

Celebration

Beth sat reclined in the comfy chair, watching the fluid drip down the skinny, see-through tube hooked into her body. It was her last day of chemo, and she felt triumphant. Take that, you monster.

The monster was cancer, and she would never give in to it.

When she looked over at her friend Maggie, who was flicking through a magazine, a rush of love hit her. Maggie had been by her side throughout this nightmare, running her around, popping in to see her, and checking on how she was coping. Without her love and support, the battle would have been so much harder.

They had been part of each other’s lives a long time now. Maggie had been her teacher the year her mom died in a car accident. Another driver had swerved when a rabbit darted onto the road, and the vehicle slammed head on into her mom’s car. It was an unforgiving tragedy in her life, and she knew it held her back in so many ways.

When Maggie had found Beth sobbing after school one day, she and her big heart scooped Beth up and consoled her. Over time she became her surrogate mom, and Maggie treated her like the daughter she never had.

Is everything ready for the surprise party tonight? Beth asked, shuffling in the chair. More to the point, did my dad manage to get everybody organized?

You bet. I’ve been nagging that man incessantly for weeks. She looked up from the magazine. Sophie and I did all the invitations, and he organized the food. So act surprised. Okay?

How did you achieve that?

Her dad had been dragging his butt around since her mom passed. Beth practically ran the bed-and-breakfast they owned together.

"I reminded him that he only had one daughter, who had lost her mom and suffered at the hands of a terrible illness. If he didn’t do right by her in organizing this party, he wasn’t the man I thought he was. Maggie flicked her blond hair over her shoulder when she sat up. He buckled when I laid that on him."

Beth snickered; her dad always caved under pressure.

She ruffled her spiky black hair; it was pixie short with a long pointy fringe, which she swept to one side. The first chemo drug had made some of her hair fall out, so she’d shaved it off, not wanting to face losing handfuls of her beautiful, long hair each day during her treatment.

In the many months that followed, it had grown soft and fine, like a baby’s, but she kept it short and sleek, which she liked. One day she would let it grow out again, but she wasn’t ready yet.

Do you think I should go au naturel tonight or wear the rockin’ new wig I borrowed? Her eyes were wide, daring.

Wear what you want, honey, Maggie said, reaching over to take her hand, squeezing it with reassurance.

You’re right. So what about combat boots and short shorts—would that work? Beth pursed her lips in contemplation.

Laughter jingled from Maggie. I know you’re just trying to shock me, but it didn’t work when you were a teenager, and it won’t work now. I love you as you are, honey, no matter the hair, the shoes, the makeup—or lack thereof. It’s your heart that’s important to me.

The oncology nurse entered the room just when Beth opened her mouth to give a snappy reply.

Hey, Beth. Last day today, she said, picking up her chart to make some notes. We’re going to miss your wit and humor around here. She checked that the Fluorouracil pouch was finished.

Yeah, I’ll miss this place too, like a sore tooth…but not the people. Are you coming to the party tonight?

I didn’t know the secret was out, the nurse replied, placing a hand on her hip.

Yeah, Maggie never could hide anything, so we don’t have any secrets. Beth smirked.

The nurse laughed in understanding. Yes, I’ll be there, Beth. Now, let’s unhook this so you can get out of here.

Maggie drove Beth home from her last chemo treatment. Since Beth’s diagnosis fourteen months earlier, Maggie had stuck by her side and done the things her dad just couldn’t seem to deal with.

He thought breast cancer was a female thing, and he hadn’t handled it very well. His head wasn’t the only thing in the sand—it covered his neck and some of his shoulders too.

At the time, she’d been angered by his reaction, but she understood. Losing his wife and then discovering his precious daughter was seriously ill had rocked his fragile foundations.

They pulled into the bed-and-breakfast driveway and parked in the owner’s reserved space to the side of the two-story 19 th century Victorian house. Originally there was land that went around the house, but that had been sold off when the city grew and the demand for dwellings increased.

The noble-looking home had been in Beth’s family for generations, and while it had started life fresh and splendid, when it was bequeathed to her mom, it was a maintenance nightmare and looked and acted very tired now.

Beth’s mom knew the house could earn its way. With the number of tourists coming to Portland growing and more conventions being held nearby in the city, her idea for the bed-and-breakfast was born.

They made the downstairs area for guests. On each side of the wood-paneled lobby were two living spaces with large bay windows. One was set up as the guest lounge with a cozy gas fire and a mismatched array of sofas and chairs. Bookshelves, a computer and desk, and a wall-mounted television encircled the room.

The other living space was now the kitchen and dining room. Guests could use the kitchen if they cleaned up afterward. Breakfast was part of the tariff, and that’s when the kitchen became Sandy’s realm. Boy, she would grumble if her kitchen wasn’t left the way a guest found it after breakfast. Toast was known to be burnt and eggs overcooked. It just made Beth laugh; she figured etiquette was important when you were a guest in another person’s home, and if Sandy was giving out a little retribution, so be it.

When her parents owned the house, her mom did most of the management and gave the place its flair. Her dad worked for the city as an electrical contractor, so he took care of any house maintenance during weekends.

It worked, and bookings were consistent. Her dad had tried his best when her mom died, but she hadn’t noticed, in her own grief, that he was not coping.

Finding a pile of unopened mail on top of his nightstand one day, she decided to take a look. Red letters, red numbers, bold text, and underlined words were sprinkled across them.

All bills. Utilities, permits, taxes. When she asked him about it, he replied, Why bother? What’s the point?

That was the day she grew up.

With systematic method she didn’t know she had, she unraveled the issues. A call was placed to each company they owed, and her dad agreed to go on a payment plan so they could catch up. He also took her through the paper bookings system; it was so archaic that Beth wanted to scream in frustration.

To Maggie’s sorrow, Beth dropped out of school. But then she redeemed herself by wanting to gain skills that she could use in the business, and Maggie rallied to help her find two courses: one on basic record keeping and one on web design.

Beth learned quickly; it was amazing how need could drive motivation. Once she had their website set up with some help from the tutor, most of the bookings, deposits, and guest registration was handled online. There were still times when a guest would turn up at the door, or telephone them to book, and Beth just used the website to record the details on the guest’s behalf. It kept everything consistent and manageable. Structure and reliability had made her world harmonious after the chaos and despair of loss.

An aunt convinced her dad to see his doctor, and with regular therapy and medication, he recovered. Before long he was taking care of guests and any maintenance that popped up, which meant she only had to keep the books and help Sandy out with cleaning the bed-and-breakfast.

Nausea had started to descend during the drive back from the treatment center. This particular drug made her sick and light-headed. She hated feeling weak and, at heart, had been fighting since the day her mom died.

Beth waved to Maggie when she drove out, then walked up the porch steps. She needed to get inside, closer to the bathroom.

Hey, Dad, she said, spying him behind the small counter just inside the lobby.

Hello, sunbeam. How was it? he asked, looking up.

She shrugged, feeling weary. I’m done. Another chapter in this roller coaster ride is complete.

Walking around the counter, he pulled her into a bear hug. He was tall, and she got her height from him, so he didn’t have to stoop too far to wrap her in his warmth. I’m pleased, honey. I hope you don’t mind, but I invited Maggie and Sophie over for a small get together tonight. Just dinner and cake. Okay?

Whoa, that was smooth; he actually pulled it off.

Yeah, that would be nice.

Oh, before I forget, we had a last-minute booking this morning. Coming in later today. I put him in the Tulip room.

Returning to the booking screen to double check, he nodded, and Beth groaned.

Sandy had skipped cleaning that room earlier, specifically because it had a late cancellation and hadn’t been rebooked.

Typical!

I’ll sort it out…but after lunch. Right now, I need to rest.

She walked up the carpeted staircase, fatigue was sapping her energy levels fast.

2

Vroom

Ryder threw his gear into a backpack at the last minute; he was heading into the city for the annual tattoo convention. Living on the coast in a small town got too cozy at times—heading into winter was one of those times.

The convention would let him see what the competition was doing, find out about new products, and sit in artists’ alley with his business card and portfolio each day. It was the best way to connect with new customers and find out what was in favor in the field.

He had always dabbled with art and drawing at school, but traditional stuff didn’t float his boat. A friend of his dad’s was a tattooist, and after watching him one day, he was hooked and wanted to learn the ancient craft.

Drawing was at the core, so he practiced constantly, leaving a litter of note pages around the house. Then he moved on to using fruit as a means of trying different designs, like symbols, flowers, and animals.

His beginnings were simple, but years of practice had honed his skills, and he’d learned different techniques. This focus and a steady hand proved to be invaluable in the trade.

The year Ryder turned eighteen, the president had sent troops to invade Iraq. Ryder joined the navy so he could serve his country. He thought that would be the end of his tattooist ambitions, but it was only the beginning. He had a ship full of willing victims, and the therapy of his art helped him get through the hardest days of war.

The trip from Garibaldi to Portland took just over an hour on his Ducati. He preferred riding when he could, enjoying the control when he weaved the bike in and out of traffic. But feeling the fresh air on his face during the ride was the best—he felt free.

Navigating to the bed-and-breakfast he’d booked at the last minute, he slowly relaxed, letting some of the weight he carried come off his shoulders.

Riding through the stone gateposts, he parked the bike in one of the guest spaces and took off his helmet. Looking up at the house, he nodded—it was very nice, just like the website picture promised but warmer.

The boards were painted in a soft cream, the trim in chocolate brown accents, with white window sashes. Lush green trees and manicured shrubs surrounding the house and parking lot showed him someone cared for the noble old lady.

He locked his bike and headed up the front steps. Inside the lobby, he rang the entry bell. A tall middle-aged man with a friendly face and graying black hair came through a side door.

Hi, I booked a room for the next three nights. Ryder Keaton, he said, handing over his driver’s license.

Welcome, I’m Ralph, one of the owners.

His host walked around and shook his hand with enthusiasm. His large hands and grip reminded Ryder of his dad’s—firm but friendly. The warm introduction made him feel like he was coming home for a visit.

We just need your credit card, or cash, for the charges, please, Ralph said, walking back behind the counter.

He grabbed his wallet from inside his jacket. Nice place you have here,