Family Of His Own

He’s ready to settle down...with or without her

Scott Abbott has always loved Isabelle Hawks. And he’s always been her rock. Patient, dependable, strong. But lately, she’s been acting like that rock is weighing her down. With her art career taking off, Isabelle has been spending less and less time in Indian Lake...and with him. Scott isn’t even sure what they are to each other anymore. They might be friends with a history, but it sure doesn’t feel like a future. Maybe it’s time for Scott to set her free and focus on his own dreams. A real home. A family. All the things he had hoped to share with her...

“Isabelle, I came here tonight to ask you something.”

A sense of foreboding settled over her. “Scott, I don’t think...”

“Hear me out. We’ve always been best friends. We know each other inside and out. I want us to move forward with our lives.” He squeezed her hand earnestly.

“We are moving forward,” she said reflexively.

“I mean together. I realize that writing articles for the local paper is not going to make a difference in this world. But I can change the future for these kids. I can take something horrible and make it happy. It’s my hope that you’d do that with me.”

All Isabelle could do was stare at him. “You just got through saying we were best friends, but you don’t know me at all. I just won the chance of my lifetime. A shot at a gallery show! The one thing I’ve worked for since high school.” Her voice cracked. Her palms were sweating and her heart rammed against her chest. “You are not asking me this right now.”

“Oh, but I am,” he replied quietly.

Dear Reader,

If you have read all of the Shores of Indian Lakes books, you will be familiar with Scott Abbott and Isabelle Hawks. Scott has had a crush on Isabelle for years. However, Isabelle has been hyper-focused on her art.

From the get-go I wanted Isabelle to be that kind of painter who is truly gifted, but the world hasn’t discovered her yet. Her intuition and inner guidance have told her that if she simply keeps trying, working and believing, she will make it someday.

The problem is that Scott wants to begin his life with Isabelle. When she turns him down, choosing her art over him, Scott takes matters into his own hands and becomes a foster parent to two small children.

Isabelle is the oldest of six children and because her mother became a widow at a young age, Isabelle had to mature fast and be a parent to her siblings. Isabelle’s thwarted childhood is one reason she pursues her portraits of faeries and water sprites—and motivation for embracing her freedom now.

What Isabelle hasn’t realized is that she’s been avoiding living her life all for the sake of art. Through Scott’s growing relationship with his foster kids, Isabelle comes to see her choices with a new palette of colors. Finally, she must learn that without love in her life, her art will never flourish. Neither will her heart.

I hope you like Family of His Own. Please contact me on Facebook, Twitter (@cathlanigan), www.catherinelanigan.com and heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com. Look for chapters on Wattpad.

Happy reading!

Catherine Lanigan

Family of His Own

Catherine Lanigan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHERINE LANIGAN knew she was born to storytelling at a very young age when she told stories to her younger brothers and sister to entertain them. After years of encouragement from family and high school teachers, Catherine was shocked and brokenhearted when her freshman college creative-writing professor told her that she had “no writing talent whatsoever” and that she would never earn a dime as a writer. He promised her that he would be her crutches and get her through his demanding class with a B grade so as not to destroy her high grade point average too much, if Catherine would promise never to write again. Catherine assumed he was the voice of authority and gave in to the bargain.

For fourteen years she did not write until she was encouraged by a television journalist to give her dream a shot. She wrote a six-hundred-page historical romantic spy thriller set against World War I. The journalist sent the manuscript to his agent, who then garnered bids from two publishers. That was nearly forty published novels, nonfiction books and anthologies ago.

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This book is dedicated to my late husband,

Jed Nolan, my hero and best friend. I will love you to the moon and back, and throughout all the galaxies and universes.

Acknowledgments

This story is all about family. The ones we were born into and the ones we come to create. My years with the entire staff at Harlequin Heartwarming, as well as my Heartwarming author sisters, have woven a strong bond of family between us.

For an author, working with an editor should be the best expression of our thoughts and art.

I have again had the extraordinary pleasure to meld ideas with my editor, Claire Caldwell, and together we have extracted the deepest desires and dreams from both Scott and Isabelle about what they truly want from life.

I greatly appreciate Victoria Curran’s guidance in keeping our stories filled with enough heart to warm our readers. Our characters, stories and uplifting style are needed now in the world like never before. Kudos to you, Victoria, and all the team for all your hard work, genius and the long hours it takes to make Harlequin Heartwarming an exceptional line of romance novels.

And to Lissy Peace, my agent, always: I love you and honor our decades of working together.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE SOUND OF gunshots cracked through snow-dusted tree branches and split the brittle December air. A flock of honking Canada geese veered away from the blasts, their wings thudding amid the rippling echoes.

Scott Abbott reloaded his GLOCK, aimed and fired at the paper target in the shape of a person a hundred yards from the plexiglass-protected shooting stand. His shots were all over the place. Only one came close to the heart. Still, he was vastly improved over last month when he stood here in the icy rain shooting through pea-soup fog. Night-vision gear wouldn’t have helped. Scott needed more practice if he wanted to be as good as his friends.

“Good thing my life doesn’t depend on your skills,” Trent Davis, Indian Lake Police Detective, teased as he pulled on a pair of military-issue, noise-canceling earphones and aimed his Smith & Wesson M&P45 and easily squeezed off six shots dead into the target’s heart area.

Scott grimaced at his best friend, Luke Bosworth, whose cool gaze was devoid of mirth. Luke had been a navy SEAL. His new semiautomatic 1911 Colt .45 plowed the target with eight shots, the paper flying off like escaping butterflies.

Scott blew on his freezing hands. “My aim is off. The cold.” He shrugged.

“Yeah, tell it to the judge.” Trent laughed and reloaded.

Scott pulled the sheepskin collar of his scarred leather bomber jacket around his neck. “How do you do it? I’m freezing and you’re not even wearing your parka.”

Trent rammed a new magazine into his gun and without taking his eyes from the target said, “This isn’t a game for me. Never was. Never will be. That’s not a paper man to me. That’s the man who nearly killed my fiancée.” Trent aimed and fired his gun.

Scott, who claimed a byline at the Indian Lake Herald newspaper, knew every last detail and then some about Trent’s brilliant and dangerous plot to bring down the leader of the Le Grande drug ring in Indian Lake only a few short weeks ago.

Trent had headed up the Indian Lake PD’s drug task force for nearly two years, resulting in many arrests, but it was the capture of Brad Kramer, AKA Raoul Le Grande, that brought national attention to their small Indiana town—and to Trent. He’d denied all interview requests, though, except Scott’s. Trent had many reasons to avoid the press. Accuracy was one. Trent had trusted only Scott to report sensitive details about the intricate sting he’d set up to catch Le Grande. Cate Sullivan, Le Grande’s ex-wife, had been at the center of the plan. Scott had met Cate when Luke hired her to sell his home after his first wife died of cancer. Cate was a private woman and had kept her personal life quiet. When Scott learned that Cate had been living in disguise in Indian Lake for the past six years, Scott was as surprised as everyone else.

Le Grande hadn’t only wanted to use Indian Lake as a way station for trafficking drugs from Chicago up to Detroit and eventually to Toronto. The drug lord had wanted his ex-wife and six-year-old son, Danny, back.

Trent had convinced Cate to act as bait to smoke Le Grande out. The plan was well orchestrated, yet even Trent had not calculated the extent of Le Grande’s twisted, maniacal mind.

Thanks to Trent’s Special Forces military training and his exceptional perceptive genius, Cate and Danny survived, and Le Grande was now in prison awaiting trial.

Scott had been at the Christmas Pageant at St. Mark’s school when Le Grande had attempted to kidnap Danny, and he’d managed to capture the entire, harrowing scene on his iPhone. His eyewitness reporting, along with his photos and videos, were still getting attention across the country.

Not since had Scott worked for the Chicago Tribune right after graduation from Northwestern University had he dared to dream of prizes and awards. Now those possibilities seemed once again in reach.

“Hey!” Luke shouted over the blast of Trent’s final bullet. “Back up there, buddy.” He put his hand on Trent’s shoulder. “Did you just say fiancée?”

Scott also did a double take. “What? You and Cate?”

Trent’s half smile grew into a full-blown grin. “Yeah. Can you believe it? She said yes!”

“No,” Scott said, feeling an odd sense of disbelief and disquietude. “I don’t. You’ve only known her—what, a couple months?”

Scott stared at Trent, who had a goofy look on his face. Trent had just become the town hero. He could outshoot and outsmart master criminals. But when he talked about Cate, he turned to mush. It had been a long time since Scott had felt that way about Isabelle. Come to think of it, he’d never seen her get dewy-eyed over him. And if she had, he’d missed it. Maybe that was a good reason to rush into marriage. Grab the feeling while it was new and fresh, like a spring sapling. Let it grow over time.

Trent’s laughter broke through Scott’s thoughts.

“Yeah, man, intense days, I’ll tell you. But—” He glanced down at his gun. “I can’t imagine another day without her.”

“Wow!” Luke grabbed Trent in a bear hug. “That’s awesome, man. Did she like the ring?”

“Actually, I haven’t gotten her one yet. I want it to be a Christmas present.” Trent looked from Luke to Scott. “Do you think I should surprise her or have her go with me to pick it out?”

“Surprise her,” Luke said emphatically.

“I dunno...” Scott shook his head. “Women can be weird about rings. I’d take her shopping. What if you pick out something she hates and then she’s stuck wearing it the rest of her life?”

Trent and Luke took a moment to consider his advice.

Luke put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “This is why he’s been my best friend since high school. He considers all the angles. Very observant. Better take her shopping. But to surprise her—you could put the empty box under the tree. Then tell her you’re taking her to the jeweler the next day.”

“Ah, good one,” Trent agreed. “So, Luke, what are you getting Sarah for Christmas?”

“I was thinking about some new drill bits,” Luke deadpanned.

“Right,” Scott said. “She’ll be thrilled.”

Luke broke into laughter. “Nah. I got her a sapphire bracelet. To match her eyes.” He smiled wistfully.

“Very romantic,” Scott replied.

Trent grabbed his box of shells. “So what are you giving Isabelle? Want to make that a double date to the jeweler’s?”

Scott’s mouth went dry. “Uh, we don’t exchange gifts.”

“You what?” Trent and Luke said in unison.

“Man, no wonder...” Luke didn’t finish his thought. He went over to his gear and fussed with his holster.

“Isabelle and I aren’t like that,” Scott began.

“You mean not romantic?” Trent asked.

“Uh, no. Not really.” Scott aimed at the target again, pretending interest in the exercise. He felt more like the bull’s-eye was drawn on the middle of his chest. “Isabelle and I are friends. You know?”

“Yeah?” Luke narrowed his eyes. “Is that because that’s how she wants it or how you want it?”

“It’s how it is.”

Trent unloaded his gun into the target, then turned to Scott. “I thought you told me you two were sweethearts in high school?”

“We were just kids then.” Scott turned away, avoiding Luke’s steely gaze. He knew exactly what his best friend was thinking.

Scott had returned to Indian Lake four years ago to take care of his mother, who had needed a new heart valve. He’d had to leave his job at the Chicago Tribune, but he’d sensed a layoff was around the corner anyway; journalists had been losing their jobs across the nation, and it was only getting worse.

He’d been in town a few months when he’d run into Isabelle at one of Mrs. Beabots’s Sunday dessert parties. Sarah Jensen had invited him, and since Sarah’s mother had recently died, Scott thought he was doing the friendly thing by attending. Sarah’s girlfriends were all there, including Isabelle.

In minutes they’d struck up a conversation. Scott had been surprised she didn’t seem to hate him for not staying in touch as he’d promised.

Isabelle had told him she was now the bookkeeper and sometimes-hostess at the Tall Pines Lodges of Indian Lake. He remembered the green-eyed girl who’d painted sea nymphs and faeries for a high school play he’d codirected. Isabelle had designed the backdrops: stunningly beautiful moonlit forests that pulled the viewer into their magic. Scott had been mesmerized by her back then.

However, Scott’s ambitions had been strong and he’d already been accepted to Northwestern which tempered his romantic feelings. Once Scott left for Chicago, Indian Lake and the girl back home had seemed like part of another life. He had immersed himself in creative writing and political science, spent nights huddled with new friends from California, New York and Beijing whose viewpoints stretched his thinking and blew apart what he thought he knew about the world.

Scott had believed then that the world was his oyster and he would only be satisfied with the pearl.

He hadn’t told Isabelle any of this that Sunday evening at Mrs. Beabots’s house. Like the investigative journalist he was, he’d asked her about her life instead.

Isabelle had been taking art classes for years, including a few at the Art Institute of Chicago. She couldn’t stop talking about walking along the shores of Indian Lake and imagining water sprites looking up at her from the cool depths. She was compelled to paint them.

Scott had become mesmerized all over again.

That summer after returning home, Scott had done everything to be near her. He paid Sarah Jensen double the going cost for a booth at the St. Mark’s Summer Festival to make sure his booth for his coffee beans and books was next to Isabelle’s art display.

As the months rolled on, Scott realized Isabelle had changed, as well. When it came to her art, she was fiercely ambitious. He’d recognized the same fire in her eyes that his own had held when he’d worked at the Tribune. Because his situation had altered so drastically, Scott had had to reinvent himself. He’d had to learn to be satisfied with lesser aspirations. Which was why he’d opened his bookstore and coffee shop.

Since those first months of his return, everyone in town had considered him and Isabelle to be a couple. But the truth was that Scott had no idea if Isabelle loved him. The one time he’d told her he loved her, she’d dismissed his declaration, telling him he couldn’t possibly love her because she hadn’t become her true self yet—hadn’t accomplished enough. She intended to do a great many things with her talent and her life. She hadn’t “come into her own.”

Scott had scratched his head over that one, but he’d let it go. He’d made his intentions clear, and he hoped that one day Isabelle would see what was right in front of her. There had never been another woman for him, and to his knowledge Isabelle wasn’t interested in another man. They were good friends. Best friends, really. Isabelle was Team Isabelle. Though not in a selfish way.

“Guys. What can I say? We’re just not ‘there’ yet.”

Luke shot a glance at Trent, who shrugged. “So, this gives you another year to save up for a really big rock.”

Scott shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think a diamond would impress this woman.”

“What would?” Luke asked.

“That’s easy. Hanging her paintings in The Guggenheim.”

Trent whistled and slapped Scott on the back. “Come on, I want you guys to help me with something before we leave.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” Scott asked as he put away his GLOCK and gathered his ammunition and protective glasses.

Trent stuck his arms through his black jacket and stuffed his gloves in his pockets. “I received a call from Richard Schmitz at CPD...”

“He’s your counterpart in Chicago, right?” Scott asked. “I interviewed him for my articles.”

Luke led the way out of the shooting range, waving to the attendant as they left. “By the way, Scott. That article was fantastic. Great writing. I felt like I was right there in the middle of the action.” Luke stopped short, and Scott nearly ran into him. “Wait! What am I saying?” Luke snickered. “I was in the middle of the action.”

Scott didn’t need reminding. Luke’s daughter, Annie, had been talking to little Danny when Le Grande had appeared, grabbed Danny like a sack of flour and raced off with him.

Dozens of people had witnessed the kidnapping. Le Grande might dodge the drug dealing and selling charges, given his high-powered and expensive criminal attorney, but that kidnapping was another matter. Scott hoped Le Grande would be locked up for decades. “Trent. Tell us what’s up.”

“Le Grande has been busy behind bars. Like many powerful people in the drug trade, I’m afraid.”

“That does tend to be the case,” Scott replied. Apprehension seemed to snake across the frozen ground and grab him by the heels. It had only been three weeks since Trent had nailed Le Grande and arrested five of his gang members in Indian Lake. Trent had later told Scott the heroin alone was worth over a quarter million. The meth had a street value of half a million. Scott knew exactly what Trent was about to say. Deals like that didn’t die. They morphed into something bigger and more sinister.

“Come on,” Trent said as they walked quickly toward Luke’s SUV. “I want to drive by the old WWII ammunitions plant that’s just down the road from here.”

“Why?” Scott asked, climbing into the back seat.

“Richard has reason to believe that members of Le Grande’s gang are scouting Indian Lake, Gary and possibly up into Berrien Springs, Michigan, for a place to make methamphetamine.”

“No way,” Scott exhaled. “They’d come back here?”

“Why not? They know the terrain and a lot of the existing dealers.”

Scott peered at Luke, who glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He shook his head. “I was hoping this was behind us.”

Trent turned in the passenger seat to look at Scott. “You both are sworn to secrecy. Off the record, Scott. You got that?”

“This can’t be good.” Scott sighed, his eyes still locked on Trent. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I’ve got a lead on a guy who is making the meth.”

Scott sat up straighter. “And?”

“I’ve been on stakeouts, but the guy moves around a lot. He’s got his playbook down pat. He wheedles his way into friendships with disabled young people he finds in soup kitchens and churches. Lately, he’s been recruiting construction workers, too.”

Luke chimed in. “That’s because it’s winter and guys like me don’t have a lot of work. And they hang out at pool halls, bars.” He turned into an unplowed drive that led through a cluster of trees.

“That’s right,” Trent continued. “So our guy’s name is Frankie Ellis. Or that’s his alias this week. Anyway, he gets these kids to let him bunk with them, then he talks them into making meth. They become accomplices. And he’s got them.” Trent made a fist.

“And you think he’s out here at the old ordinance plant?”

“I do.”

Scott looked out the window. “I was hoping Indian Lake kids would be safer after you nabbed Le Grande.”

“Me, too.” Luke clutched the steering wheel.

“Afraid not,” Trent said, shaking his head.

They’d reached the end of the drive and were approaching a row of long, narrow manufacturing buildings from World War II. The white paint on their exteriors was chipped, and some of the faded green shutters hung at odd angles. A concrete drive circled a naked flagpole and a raised planter that at one time, Scott imagined, had been filled with red, white and blue flowers. Weeds and poison ivy, now strangled by winter’s kill, decorated the front of a matching office building. To the far right were what appeared to be barracks and hangar-like buildings for transport vehicles.