The Right Place: Write Place Retreat Romance, #1

By MJ COMPTON

Instalust spurs a curvy waitress to give her virginity to a take-charge forest ranger, but she insists on casual when he wants forever.

 

Darby Remington is on a mission. She has one year to turn the isolated Adirondack Great Camp she inherited into a writers' retreat, or the property will revert to the state, the historic buildings razed, and the land itself will become "forever wild." She seizes the opportunity to prove that she is capable of more than pouring coffee and serving up attitude at the local diner. But someone else has plans for the estate, and Darby is in their way.

 

When by-the-book Cameron Winehouse took an oath to protect and preserve, he never imagined his job would include an armful of sass with a backbone of steel.

While Darby fights to fulfill her dreams, Cam surrenders to his attraction, and as threats against her escalate, he vows to keep her safe—with or without her cooperation.

 

Caught between criminals trying to push her off the land and a seductive alpha male pulling her into a relationship, Darby must rely on her instincts—and learn to trust herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJ COMPTON
• Release date: Apr 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781959923114

Book preview

The Right Place

A Write Place Retreat Romance

MJ Compton

Comptonplations Publishing

Copyright © 2024 by MJ Compton

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Comptonplations Publishing. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

Editor: Jena O'Connor, Practical Proofing

Cover Art: 100 Covers

Published in the United States of America by

Comptonplations Publishing

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-959923-11-4

PRINT ISBN: 978-1-959923-12-1

www.comptonplations.com

This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Contents

1.Chapter One

2.Chapter Two

3.Chapter Three

4.Chapter Four

5.Chapter Five

6.Chapter Six

7.Chapter Seven

8.Chapter Eight

9.Chapter Nine

10.Chapter Ten

11.Chapter Eleven

12.Chapter Twelve

13.Chapter Thirteen

14.Chapter Fourteen

15.Epilogue

Afterword

Acknowledgements

Also By MJ Compton

About the Author

Chapter One

Sunday, June 11, 2000

Darby Remington clutched a spiral notebook to her breasts, as she stood on Camp Nippletop’s wide porch. The towering pine and cedar trees surrounding the main lodge scented the late spring air. Insects chirped, birds peeped, a breeze rustled the overhead branches. Even after a month, she still couldn’t believe she owned a piece of the largest park in the lower 48 states. That she, thanks to a cosmic joke, had inherited an Adirondack Mountain Great Camp.

Darby had always called the High Peaks Region home. Remington roots ran deep in northern New York... not that her relatives included the famous artist from Ogdensburg or the firearms manufacturers in southern Herkimer County. Maybe transforming the Great Camp would be her chance to become an Adirondack legend.

Her property hid in the forest, lurking on the edge of the lake bearing the same name as nearby Nippletop Mountain. She couldn’t rename the geography, but her Great Camp needed a new designation.

Her camp. This main lodge, the outbuildings, and guest cabins. If she met all the stipulations outlined in James Coolidge Astin’s will, the camp plus significant acreage, including the lake, would be hers.

She wasn’t sure she was up to the challenge. Hence the notebook full of lists of what needed to be done before she could fulfill Astin’s conditions. She’d already wasted a month debating whether she should accept the inheritance.

The crunch of tires on the dirt drive had her bracing her spine. A female alone in the woods needed to be cautious. While bears and moose were worrisome, humans tended to be more dangerous.

A dark green pickup truck with a wide yellow stripe and State Forest Ranger emblazoned on the side pulled up to the porch.

Darby only marginally relaxed. A woman couldn’t be too careful. She wished she’d gotten around to buying pepper spray.

He’s a cop, she reminded herself as a tall ranger unfolded himself from the truck. One of the good guys.

Good afternoon, ma’am, he said.

Darby didn’t trust a man whose eyes she couldn’t see, and mirrored sunglasses hid his. Good afternoon. Is there a problem?

She didn’t know how to address him. The silver bar pinned above his right chest pocket named him Winehouse. Sounded like a fancy tourist destination in Lake George.

Checking on the property. I heard the camp changed hands recently.

I’m the new owner. Darby bristled. Although she’d been reluctant to accept the inheritance, once she decided, she’d committed to making Astin’s dream come true. Contact Mr. Astin’s attorney. Howard Chatham in Lake Placid. Astin left everything to me.

She hated talking to blank walls. Because she couldn’t see his eyes through the reflective lenses of his sunglasses, Ranger Winehouse could have been one of the granite cliffs on the other side of the lake.

Oh, I believe you. He grinned.

He had nice teeth. A tiny chip in his upper right front tooth added personality.

Could you take off your shades? she asked. Or is wearing them an intimidation technique you learned in ranger school?

He pulled off the dark-rimmed glasses and hooked them into the vee neck of his shirt. Better?

No.

Because without the shades, he morphed from official to attractive.

Sure. As he strode the distance between his vehicle and the porch, she could tell he didn’t have ordinary eyes. They appeared rusty brown, like the iron-rich water in the area’s lakes. However, beneath the surface —

I’m warning everyone in the area about an escapee from the Adirondack Correctional Facility.

Darby stiffened. Only 30 miles separated Ray Brook, site of the medium security prison, from her property. Thirty treacherous miles, but still too close for comfort. Then again, the prison was closer to her apartment in the village of Saranac Lake, where the cluster of civilization forged a false sense of safety.

Thank you, she said.

Are you out here alone? Ranger Winehouse’s deep voice tingled along her nerve endings.

Now that was a loaded question.

Can I see some ID?

His devastating grin flashed again. Yes, ma’am. He stopped at the bottom step of the porch and pulled out a leather case. The sun snuck through the overhead branches and glinted off the silvery metal of his shield. The wallet also contained his photo. His name. Cameron Winehouse.

And you are? His tone remained professionally polite.

She swallowed her reluctance. Darby Remington.

Are you out here alone? Ranger Winehouse repeated his question. Because if you are, you should also be aware—

Bear safety? I grew up around here.

Yes, ma’am, but I’m talking about the two-legged dangers. Meth labs, marijuana farms, paramilitary cults, and undocumented immigrants smuggled in from Canada. We’re monitoring an uptick in suspicious activity lately.

Her brain blanked for a moment. Meth labs? Undocumented immigrants? Here?

You have the ideal set-up—an isolated camp, abandoned outbuildings—

I beg your pardon, she interrupted. His assumptions annoyed her. The outbuildings are not abandoned. They’re underutilized. I’m renovating the camp into a writing retreat, per the late James Coolidge Astin’s instructions. Nothing illegal is going on.

I understand, ma’am. Ms. Remington. However, Mr. Astin may not have been aware of the suspicious activity on his property. We’re hearing increased chatter.

Ranger Winehouse’s suspicions explained the uneasiness she’d experienced while exploring the property. She’d been taught to trust her instincts. Her gut told her something was not right. Ranger Winehouse’s warning confirmed her fears.

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Cam Winehouse called on all his training to remain professional while confronting the most attractive woman he’d ever seen.

Prickly, too. She needed to be handled with care.

Darby Remington’s generous curves defined every place a woman was supposed to be round. Her breasts were like pillows to cushion a man as he fell into her softness at the end of a hard day. When a man grabbed her ass, he’d know he clutched a female.

I didn’t realize forest rangers dealt with drugs. Her doe-like eyes widened. I thought you tagged deer ticks and stuff.

A sense of humor, too. "Alerting the state police when we find drugs falls into the and stuff category."

She smiled, and it was as if the sun had fallen to earth in order to illuminate the clearing in which they stood. He wanted to stay in her light. To bask in her warmth and glow.

He’d never reacted to a woman this way before. They hadn’t exchanged a hundred words, yet he wanted to drive her to the county courthouse in Elizabethtown and get a marriage license. Spend a week or two having a wedding night.

The heat must be getting to him. He usually maintained control in the face of adversity and disaster.

Wanting to marry a woman he’d met not five minutes ago qualified as a disaster. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. Lust, maybe, and the stirring in his cock was undoubtedly lust. Indiscriminate sex could get a guy in trouble.

Darby Remington spelled trouble.

Do you have a business card? she asked. In case I see anyone planting or cooking or even trespassing?

The proper response would be to tell her to call 9-1-1. His ego—or maybe his dick—was flattered she wanted his number.

He pulled a business card from his shield wallet. Call 9-1-1 first, he advised. There. He’d done the right thing. I might be tied up collecting moose droppings or something.

They stood staring at each other until the crackle of the radio in his truck splintered the silence.

I need to get back to work, he said.

Me, too. She waved her notebook. Lots to do. If I find any rogue deer ticks, I’ll be sure to give you a call.

Chapter Two

Monday, June 12, 2000

Early the next morning, Ranger Winehouse walked into Chuck’s Local Diner with another ranger. Darby’s cheeks heated when she overheard his companion remark he couldn’t believe Cam had never eaten there.

Where Darby worked wasn’t a secret. Could he have asked around about her?

Regulars filled the booths. Tourists didn’t frequent the Local. Chuck purposely kept the exterior looking as disreputable as village ordinances allowed. He hated dealing with what he called the tourism counterculture. Only local culture at my counter. Then he’d guffaw.

Darby made a decent living waiting tables. Serving James Coolidge Astin had also led to inheriting Camp Nippletop.

Good morning, Darby greeted the rangers as cheerfully as she could without sounding too eager. No unruly bears wanting omelets this morning?

Ranger Winehouse grinned at her, and her insides melted like butter on a stack hot off the griddle.

Darby had spent the night trying to purge the man from her head. From her dreams. Dangerous dreams. Stubborn male wouldn’t budge. Now here he sat in the flesh. Well, in uniform. On duty.

The rangers claimed the last two stools at the counter, Sue Stone’s jurisdiction. Darby didn’t mind. His appearance so flustered her, she’d probably spill hot coffee in his lap.

Except Sue was the pretty waitress. Thin. Blond. Naturally vivacious, whereas drab Darby struggled with both her weight and her perkiness.

The last thing Darby needed was more rumors flying around the north country about her and her alleged lack of morals. She already figured in too much gossip. When word got out that Astin had left his historic Great Camp with an enormous trust fund to her, people had speculated about why chunky Darby Remington?

She’d been the first to wonder. Astin had been a regular at the diner. He always sat in one of her booths. Their relationship resembled that Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt movie, As Good As It Gets—a cantankerous author and the waitress who endured his crap.

That was it. The full extent of their relationship. She hadn’t realized Astin knew her last name.

Come to find out, only a few people knew he was a famous author, Darby being one. He’d won a Pulitzer or some other prestigious literary award. She’d read two of his books. The local library shelved them because he’d donated copies.

She’d once mentioned she enjoyed reading them.

He’d grumped at her.

She’d ignored his surliness and dropped more jelly packets on his table.

Then he’d died. Alone. Leaving her his property and the funds to transform the place into a writing retreat for other authors to bask in the solitude they needed to write. The camp he’d never wanted to share with anyone while he’d lived.

Death had made him generous.

Although Winehouse sat at the counter, Darby paid attention to his order. Eggs cooked sunny side