His Grace Under Pressure: The Brides of Purple Heart Ranch, #12

By Shanae Johnson

A holiday romance set in the world of the Purple Heart Ranch!

 

Ariana Carol has the voice of a siren. But after an embarrassing incident on stage, she walked away with stage fright so severe that she barely speaks. So when she's singing late one night to the crashing waves, she's shocked to find that a handsome man hears her voice.

 

Now that he's back in his hometown and out of the service, all Eric Prince craves is silence and solitude on his house boat. After surviving a bomb attack in a combat zone, his PTSD has made him leery of loud noises and large crowds. But the sound of Ari's voice brings him a peace he never thought he'd find again. Getting the shy woman to talk to him, much less sing for him, becomes this soldier's new mission in life. 

 

When Prince learns that he's the reason Ari went mute all those years ago, his toughest battle will be in front of him; the battle for Ari's heart and her song. Ari can't believe she's falling for the boy who silenced her because he's transformed into the man that makes her soul sing. But when she learns he's hiding a painful secret, will their love be strong enough to heal both old and new wounds?

His Grace Under Pressure is a holiday romance set in the world of the Purple Heart Ranch. This love story can be read at any point in the ongoing sweet western romance series. This book was previously published as Sweet Carol from the Indigo Bay Beach Romance series. It has been revised, updated, and transplanted into a midwestern lake town near your favorite rehabilitation ranch for Wounded Warriors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Those Johnson Girls
• Release date: Nov 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201779719

Book preview

Chapter One

It was all in his head.

The hiss of embers that sizzled at his right shoulder. The shards of debris that rained fire down on his back. The dark, curling smoke licking at the heels of his boots.

Eric Prince knew the explosion was just a dream in his head. A vivid, technicolor dream filled with IMAX theater-quality surround sound. Because he’d lived this nightmare. The dream was a memory.

He turned on his mattress. Instead of a warm cushion, he felt the gravel of the disjointed road as he fell face-first into the dirt. He twisted in the sheets. Instead of a cool blanket, he was wrapped in hot embers from the blast.

None of that was the worst of it. The worst part was the silence that stole over him after the dust settled.

Prince jerked awake to bright sunlight shining on his face. There was a chill to the morning air. He lay bare in the bed, having kicked off his blanket at some point during the dream. All was quiet and serene outside his window. The deathly silence had followed him into the real world.

Rising from the bed, he heard the faint shriek of the protesting box springs. Stretching his arms over his head, he felt the pop and crackle of healed injuries from his years in the military. Like his spirit, Prince’s body didn’t voice any protest. He and his bruises simply soldiered on.

He showered and dressed quickly, avoiding looking into the small mirror of his bathroom. He had to live with his wounds. That didn't mean he had to look at the scars.

After stepping into a pair of pants and pulling on a T-shirt, Prince stepped out of his room and onto the deck of his houseboat. Up above, the sky was a clear blue. The sun's rays were muted by a few clouds. Below the sun, water-filled his vision for as far as the eyes could see. The morning tide rose and fell as it lapped against the side of the vessel.

Under his feet, he felt gentle rocking, which had been the only thing that could lull him to sleep after his last and final deployment. Ever since he was a kid, the houseboat had always felt like a large cradle to him. When he was younger, it was his favorite place in the world. Now it was his home.

It was a quiet day on the marina. Most days were here. There were hardly any residents that lived on the water. Though the state of Montana was landlocked, there were a few choice lakefront properties. Prince didn’t live on one. He lived on the lake, docked to the marina of this small town.

Prince had been born in this town, but he had no roots. All ties to this place and these people had been severed long ago. When he’d been injured in the line of duty, and his injuries prevented him from returning to the work he loved, this place was all he had left.

It was a busy day for him. A trip into town and down Main Street always was. He tried to make as few visits from the marina into his town as possible. But as the waters grew colder, the fish didn’t bite so readily. Prince would have to stock up the cupboards unless he wanted to starve.

On the grassy knoll that buffeted the waters, he saw a large group of teens playing volleyball. Their mouths opened wide as they laughed and joked with each other, the way that friends did. The way that he and his military buddies once did before a blast had ripped their lives to shreds.

Younger kids ran in and out of the water just up to their shins, splashing cold water on one another. Prince could see an older woman standing nearby. Her mouth was agape, and her features were pinched in annoyance. She cupped her hand around her mouth, and her lips began moving. A moment later, the kids trudged out of the water, disappointment clear on their faces. Their own lips were flapping in what Prince was sure was an argument against stopping their fun.

Hey!

Prince came to a halt. He blinked a couple of times as the man standing in front of him came into clear view. Arnie Mackenzie, the Marina Manager, had been working the docks longer than Prince had been alive. On the old man’s face, Prince read bewilderment. Arnie must have been calling after Prince for a while before he noticed.

Prince carefully arranged his features into one of disinterest. In his youth, he’d had a reputation for being a hothead and a troublemaker. Though he’d never shown that attitude out here on the docks.

I said there’s a storm coming in a few days, Arnie spoke slowly, opening his mouth wider than necessary for normal volume.

A tingling crept up the back of Prince’s neck. The feeling was worse than the memory of the blast embers piercing his skin. Did Arnie know?

Self-consciously, Prince ran a hand through his hair. It was longer than military regulation. He’d started growing it out after his diagnosis. His dark hair was now long enough to cover his ears.

Son, you know if there’s anything you need…

Prince allowed the rest of the sentence to drone out. It wasn’t hard to do. The silence from his nightmare hadn’t stopped ringing in his ears. It never did. Likely never would.

Thanks, Mr. Mackenzie, Prince called out before heading toward the street.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder, but the man wasn’t following him. Nor was he calling out to Prince. Mr. Mackenzie had turned back and was walking down to the marina.

The tension seeped out of Prince’s shoulders like water swirling down a drain. He wanted to curse the cold-blooded fish for not being able to hack a few drops in the temperature. If not for their inconsiderateness, he’d be scaling his lunch instead of mingling with people.

Up ahead, a gruff dog sniffed at a trash can on the sidewalk. The animal’s fur was matted as though it had taken a bath in the bay’s waters and then run through the dirt. Its tongue lolled out the side of its mouth as though it grinned when it pulled a half-eaten sandwich from the garbage.

It looked up when it heard Prince approach. It didn’t look rabid, just dirty. There was no collar or tags on the beast. One strong wind would likely knock the animal over.

Still knowing all of this, Prince gave the animal a wide enough berth. The dog was no match for a trained Tier One Operator, such as himself. Prince had taken down insurgents with rifles, knives, and even his bare hands without blinking.

Yet when this mangy mongrel sniffed the air around Prince and then sat back on its haunches, Prince’s hands began to shake. Heat licked up his back as though from an oncoming blast. Prickles traced over his skin like the ghost of embers from an explosive.

In the military, bomb-sniffing dogs were trained to sit when they scented an explosive.

Prince tried to shake himself loose of his thoughts. This was a stray mutt, not a trained animal. It was sitting because it was looking to be petted. This was not a warning that a bomb was in the trash.

The dog opened his mouth. It’s jaws working as it called after Prince. Prince heard not a sound of the animal’s barking as he quickly walked away from it.

Six months in a military hospital, three months on the Purple Heart rehabilitation ranch, and Prince was still not healed. That bomb had stolen more than his career. It had stolen a chunk of his flesh and nearly all of his hearing. The only thing he wanted from this life now was peace and the quiet that would inevitably consume him.

Chapter Two

The screech of the microphone was the best sound to come off the stage in the last couple of minutes. Ariana Carol’s entire body tensed as Betsy Vance tried in vain to hit the high note in Whitney Houston's  Bodyguard  anthem. But the long note that the amateur tried to trill out scratched the back of her throat.

It was like the squeeze of a lemon on top of chocolate pudding. It was like giving a balloon a hug with the five fingertips of one hand while the nails of the other one scratched down a chalkboard. Ari had to stop in the center of the dance floor for a second and make sure that her soul wasn't splintering, much less the windows of her family’s karaoke bar.

Luckily, all was intact in Carol on the Bay. The seashells on the walls did swing a bit as though the vibrations from the speakers had crashed into them. A few of the portraits of great singers seemed to shake, or rather shudder as the song came near to the end.

Meanwhile,