He’d found the two puppy mastiffs tied to a tree during a job. Abandoned, dehydrated, and starving, with sores on their bodies, they’d likely been out in the woods for a while. After a vet visit that saved their lives, Cal couldn’t stand the idea of them going to the shelter. They refused to leave each other’s sides, bonding from the horrific incident, so separating them wasn’t an option.
His father hated dogs and probably would’ve left them in the woods, deeming animals an unnecessary burden in life. Cal let Christian win most battles, since it was easier. But not this one. He’d decided to foster until he got them both a home together, but after a few weeks, Cal faced the truth: he loved them. He decided they already had their home—with him.
Because Caleb had tumbled straight into love with the gentle giants, who had no manners, little attention, but huge hearts that reached out and soothed his own.
They’d torn up his house pretty good the first few months, but after they realized they were safe, they turned into big mushes. Towering to his chest, almost two hundred pounds each, they resembled intimidating, ferocious beasts until you looked into their faces and saw the joyous abandon in their gaze. Unfortunately, they sucked at commands and rarely controlled themselves when meeting strangers. Most dogs wouldn’t have recovered from their trauma. But Gandalf and Balin had a zest for life no one could steal from them. They reminded Caleb of all the good things in the world worth fighting for.
Even his father had surrendered. Though he muttered about their sloppy behavior, Christian had loved the dogs with a passion Cal rarely saw him show toward anything other than work. Gandalf and Balin were known to flank his father and gaze at him in adoration while he watched CNN every night, sharing his popcorn and commenting on the sad state of the world. There weren’t too many people who missed Christian Pierce, but Caleb’s mastiffs still waited at the door as if his father would surprise them by coming through it one day.
Maybe there’d been hope for the old man, after all.
Cal shook his head, scooped out two rawhide bones, and held them out.
Gandalf could never seem to handle the stress, so he did the only trick he knew to get the bone in his mouth as quickly as possible. He fell to the ground and played dead. Paws stuck straight up in the air, head cocked at a sharp angle, he peeked through his eyelids to make sure he had an audience. It was the most ridiculous thing Cal had ever seen, but every time he did it, a laugh escaped his lips.
He threw the bone, and Gandalf came alive just in time to snatch it in his mouth.
Balin was a little more patient but tended to try to eat his hand along with the bone. Cal paused for three beats, then slowly offered the treat. Balin let out a whimper of distress, seeing it so close but not allowed to grab it. Finally Cal nodded, and Balin grasped the treat and raced toward his dog bed, where all food and toys were always hoarded.
And now it was Cal’s turn.
He poured a few fingers of his favorite Kentucky bourbon and tried to ignore the silence in the house. His gaze flicked around the elaborate kitchen, where his mother had reigned as queen. Memories rushed past him in a succession of images he didn’t want to see.
They’d gather around the horseshoe marble island for meals and lively discussions, the scent of fresh bread warming the air. The kitchen was equipped with all the state-of-the-art appliances, from the Wolf double oven and Sub-Zero refrigerator to the espresso maker, soda machine, and customized popcorn popper. God, how she loved cooking for them. Some of his best memories revolved around elaborate meals and her warm laugh, her patient tone when lecturing them on their wild ways, and the way she insisted none of her sons ever go to bed angry at the others.
His mother’s presence still beat strong in the bright yellow walls, eclectic collection of dish towels, and cheery splashes of color that livened up the cold steel and elegant marble. Their house was always a showcase for new buyers, and Christian held it to the highest standard of materials and elegance. The floor-to-ceiling bay windows with their silver velvet drapes; the vaulted ceiling, which gave the rooms amazing space; and such expensive materials as pine, mahogany, marble, and Italian tile all brought the place a greatness and quality his father proudly boasted of.
But Diane Pierce had made it a true home.
Now the house was quiet except for the chomping of the dogs. Cal held back a weary sigh as he made his way toward the porch. His brothers had avoided him since the reading of the will, but he needed an answer soon. It was time they had a real talk and figured out if they could forgive enough to work together.
He opened the door to the porch and strode to his favorite drinking chair. The wicker rocker was old and worn, and the seat molded to his ass with perfect precision. He propped up his booted feet on the matching wicker table, faded now to a dirty white, smirking a bit when he remembered how Christian had hated having any wicker in his house. It was a material he frowned upon, and it looked out of place with the custom wood rockers and cedar porch. Maybe that was why Cal loved this set so much.
He sipped his whiskey and tried to relax. Darkness closed around him, the thick woods that surrounded the twenty-acre estate full of lively night action from the crickets and frogs, each trying to outsing the others. The intricately structured gazebo of latticed painted wood and peaked roof opened onto the infinity pool. A faint greenish glow and trickle of steam rose from the right, connecting to the main house via a bluestone pathway lined with natural rock formations. The lush manicured lawn tumbled into towering oaks and pines, snugly wrapping the house around them. It was a sight that always startled him with its beauty. How many times had he and his brothers played in those woods, pretending they were Hansel and Gretel and that a witch with a candy house would eventually snag them? Cal swore he heard raucous laughter drifting to his ears. Ghosts from the past swirled and caught him in its net.
Three young boys who ran together, climbed trees, and shared secrets in an old tree house. Three boys who believed in magic and a future so bright, no reality could ever dim it. Three young boys who had no idea one day it would be torn apart and they’d never find themselves going back to one another.
A swarm of gnats hovered around his head, and he batted them away, reminding himself to get a few more citronella candles out. Summer was upon them, and the bugs were a bitch. He used to wonder why his parents never built near the harbor, closer to the bustling town. It was a location most people sought out in Harrington. Then he realized that land was key. Owning numerous acres gave power, the more the better. Cal wondered if his parents had been happy for a brief time, when endless possibilities stretched before them. It was as if the bigger the business got, the more their family began to break at the foundation.
Cal knew from experience that the foundation everything was built on was key. It could rot like termites eating through bad wood and never truly recover.
Now, wasn’t he thinking like a damn poet? But he was no Dylan Thomas. Better to shut off his thoughts and just drink.
“Still drinking that bourbon shit, brother?”
He jerked his head around. Dalton smirked and dropped into the rocker to the right. His fingers clasped loosely around the neck of an IPA. Cal took in his tired face, ripped tank, and denim shorts with the ragged hem. Dalton propped his feet up on the railing, which were now clad in frayed flip-flops.
Cal tipped his head in greeting. “Still drinking the drink of the commoner, Dalton? Or is that all you can afford lately?” That comment got him a snarl, but Cal gave a laugh. “Sorry, I’m only screwing with you. Been a long time since I got to needle you.”