Christmas With the Billionaire Rancher

 

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Acknowledgments

Thanks to my agent, Natanya Wheeler and everyone at NYLA and to my amazing editor, Monique Patterson. A huge thanks also goes to Alexandra Sehulster, the talented cover designers, copy editors, and marketing staff at St. Martin's Press! As always, any mistakes are my own. I can only imagine what I'd miss without the amazing support of SMP staff to keep me looking neat and tidy!

One

“I'm so sorry for your loss, Nate. Your father was truly an extraordinary man.”

Nate Christensen stared blankly at the shriveled-up raisin of a woman who'd offered her condolences and then down at her hand clutched tightly over his. Huh. He hadn't even noticed her reach out. “Thanks.” What else could he say? That his father had been extraordinarily good at chasing tail for a man his age? That to his sons, he'd been about as extraordinary as vanilla ice cream? Byron Christensen had cared for little else than his money. That and a string of ex-wives that would make Hugh Hefner jealous.

He was sure the pruney old gal meant well but the fact was, Nate and his father hadn't been close in a long time. He'd barely said five words to the man since the day he'd left for boot camp seven years ago. And now he was dead. Looked like they weren't going to have any sort of heartfelt reconciliation now. Not that he'd wanted one.

The parade of mourners and well-wishers carried on. The ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton, Dallas was decorated for the season: bright twinkling lights, garlands, and ornate Christmas trees scattered throughout. You'd think tonight's dog-and-pony show was some sort of holiday gala, not the somber “celebration of life” it had been touted as. Nate gave the same mechanical canned response to each person who offered their condolences. In the corner of the ballroom, wife number five dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. He had to give it to Miranda, her acting skills had gotten better since he saw her last. Trolling for sympathy with her red, swollen eyes and downturned mouth, the only people who paid her any mind were the crowd of old hens near the buffet table who gossiped with glee about Byron's child-bride widow and the fact that she wasn't going to see a red cent of his billions.

“How you holding up?” Nate's younger brother Travis held a plate piled with gourmet buffet food in one hand. He stood six inches taller than Nate and his hours spent conditioning showed in his bulk. He was one of the largest goalkeepers in the NHL, as quick on his feet as he was tough. One of the rock stars of pro hockey, he looked the part with his shaggy hair and edgy designer clothes. He had a reputation for being an irresponsible party boy and notorious player, and while some of it was true, Travis could be counted on when it mattered.

Nate was sick of everyone walking on eggshells around him. As though his mental state simply couldn't handle the blow of losing their dad. “I'm fine.” It's not like his dad had been blown to shreds by a mortar shell or some shit. The man died of a heart attack. And everyone knew that he'd been exerting himself over Miranda when the big one hit. “I just want this extravaganza to be over so I can get the hell out of here.”

Travis snorted. “This is only the beginning.”

Wasn't that the fucking truth? Nate and his three brothers were set to inherit Byron's kingdom. The oil magnate was worth billions. And as the oldest brother, Nate was in charge of the estate. “I don't want a dime of it.” He brought the bottle of beer to his lips and drank deeply. “You can have my share.”

“I don't want your share.” Travis had more than enough of his own money. As the starting goalkeeper for the Dallas Stars, he was set. So was Travis's twin, Carter. Though they were identical in height and bulk, Carter was the epitome of the clean-cut, all-American athlete with his conservative dress and short-clipped hair. He'd just been traded to the Cowboys for a fat paycheck after they'd lost their star QB to the Seahawks when he went free agent.

“Fine, I'll give it to Noah.” No doubt he'd be appreciative of a fatter inheritance check to supplement his salary as a county sheriff.

“What makes you think I want it?” Noah stepped up to him, arm outstretched, and handed over a fresh bottle of IPA. “Here. You look like you could use it.”

No one could deny the Christensen brothers' parentage. They were all basically carbon copies of their dad. And while Noah was closer to Nate's height and not quite as bulky, they all shared the same towering frames and dark brown hair. Their hazel eyes were the only trait they'd inherited from their mother and Nate often wished that when he looked in the mirror, he didn't see so much of his dad staring back at him.

As a self-made man, Byron Christensen had adhered to the belief that it would build character in his sons to give them absolutely nothing. No financial support, no leg up with his extensive connections … And he hadn't stopped there. He'd been less generous with his affection. After their mom's death when they were only kids, they'd basically fended for themselves. And now that the old man was dead, he was giving them his fortune. They'd gone without it for so long, none of them was interested in it now.

Maybe they'd all built a little character after all.

“I'd bet his only concern was making sure
she
didn't get it.” Travis jutted his chin to where Miranda sat.

“I'm sure she expects everyone to feel sorry for her,” Noah said. “As though she deserves something for putting up with him. And—OMG—she still married him after he made her sign a prenup!”

Nate snorted at Noah's mocking tone. His dad had had the nerve to actually invite him to the wedding, as if Nate hadn't packed up his shit and run from that fucking bullshit as fast as his legs could carry him. In fact, he couldn't get far enough away from his dad and had already been on his way to basic when the invitations went out. Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan … Nate had traveled halfway around the goddamned world and it still hadn't been enough to wipe the memories of his father's betrayals from his mind.

“Nate…?”

He shook himself from unpleasant memories. “What was that?” Carter had said something to him, but he wasn't tracking.

“I said, the girls are getting antsy and I should probably take them home.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. You don't need to stick around. Get out of here.”

Carter's wife, Stephanie, had died of cancer last year. It tore Nate up to think of his brother trying to get over losing the love of his life—they'd been high school sweethearts—while juggling football and five-year old twins.
That
was a tragedy. The people at his father's
tribute
acted as though Byron kicking the bucket was some unthinkable, sudden catastrophe. Sixty-eight years old with a bad heart, an affinity for scotch and cigars, and a twenty-eight-year-old wife. Hell, it was a wonder he'd lasted this long.

“If you need anything, let me know.”

Nate should have been the one offering Carter help, not the other way around.
Awesome
. He was the family fuck-up. The emotionally unstable war vet who hid out at his ranch so he wouldn't have to deal with real life. “I've got it under control,” Nate said. He could assemble an AR-15 in less than ten minutes. Running an oil empire couldn't be much harder.

“All right. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” Nate watched as Carter headed toward the buffet tables where his daughters, Jenny and Jane, were running in a circle with a few other kids.

“Gird your loins, brothers,” Travis said out of the corner of his mouth. “The grieving widow is headed this way.”

Great
. If Nate's brothers didn't want his share of his dad's fortune, he bet he could convince Miranda to take it off his hands.

“Don't even think about it.” Noah pinned Nate with an accusing stare.

“What? You don't want it. Carter and Travis don't want it. Why not give it to her? I'd say she earned it.”

“She deserves shit,” Noah said. “Besides, she's getting the house. And the cars.”

“Maybe she needs some cash, too.”

“Not a chance. She's a deceitful, lying money-grubber and nothing else. She'd party it away in a matter of weeks. Take the money, Nate. I'm not saying you have to be the CEO of Christensen Petroleum or some shit, but you deserve it more than she does. Hell, as much as any of us does.”

Nate took a long pull from his bottle. “I don't need it.” He had all of about seven hundred bucks in his checking account right now. But he didn't want his life—or the people in it—to be defined by the numbers in his checkbook. Never had.

“Buy a few more cows. Hell, get a tractor. Make that sorry excuse of a ranch into something that might actually turn a profit.”

“Wouldn't that violate dad's make-your-own-way policy?”

Noah cocked a brow and fixed Nate with a sad smile. “Doesn't matter now. The old man's gone.”

*   *   *

Chloe Benson had done some crazy things to get her hooks in a high roller's checkbook, but crashing a memorial service was a new low even for her. She didn't have time to debate the morality of getting in line for a handout when Byron Christensen's body hadn't been in the ground for even a week, though. This was her eleventh hour. And if she couldn't get her hands on some serious cash by Christmas Eve, she was as good as screwed.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

She scanned the crowd in search of Nathan Christensen. According to the gossip mill, the oldest Christensen son was looking to off-load the substantial inheritance his father had left him. Speculation on the reasons why ranged from Nathan being mentally unstable to a falling out with his father years ago. Chloe didn't care why he didn't want the money. She simply wanted to be first in line when he started handing it out.

A small crowd gathered around a group of men and Chloe moved in. The Christensen brothers were infamous for being the black sheep of Dallas high society. The rumor mill had speculated for years about why the brothers hadn't entered into the family business and why they never showed up at events, the country clubs, or any of the other places where the elite hung out to pat each other on the back. Two of the brothers were pro athletes, the other a sheriff a few counties over. As for Nathan, he was the blackest sheep of all. He'd run off and joined the Navy. Rumor had it that Byron hadn't even known when his son returned home. Talk about estranged …