Kissed By The Country Doc. Melinda Curtis

most importantly, a love of my fellow man. I was unable to give the latter to my children. It’s my fault my sons consider themselves superior to others, that they consider their wealth a form of entitlement.’”

      That was Grandpa Harlan, calling a diamond-studded spade a diamond-studded spade.

      “You, my girl, have gumption,” he’d told Ella the first time he’d met her as he’d grabbed onto her hand from his wheelchair. “Don’t let the Monroes take that away from you. You’ve got to greet every day with a happy song.” He’d given her hand a squeeze and then raised his arms in the air and goofed, “Are you ready, Hezzie?” It was a favorite line of his that had been popular when he was a young man. And then he’d burst into song, uncaring of his surroundings or the audience.

      Grandpa Harlan hadn’t had a pretentious or self-conscious bone in his body.

      Penny did a slow-motion, near-silent fall to her rump on the plush carpet, and then lay down on her back and pretended to make a snow angel. One hand still clutching black Spanx. She turned her sweet face toward Ella and whispered, “Mom. Mom. Mom.”

      How could Ella worry about anything with a daughter like that? And yet, how could she not? She had no family apart from the Monroes. Without them, who would Penny have if anything happened to Ella?

      Ella peeked in the dining room, her gaze connecting with Ian’s. Her father-in-law gave her that farewell look once more. It roiled the artichoke quiche in her stomach.

      “‘I made my first fortune in Texas oil before I ever married,’” the lawyer went on. “‘I was also a lucky man who found love four times over. My wives were drawn to my sense of adventure and my charm.’”

      Someone chuckled. Grandpa Harlan was a straight-shooter with a good heart, but he forgot to mention he had a wandering eye.

      “‘My four sons were raised in the lap of luxury, never worrying about having a roof over their heads, where their next meal would come from, or how to pay for their college education.’”

      So true. Those four millionaires had never balanced the need for rent money against the cost of a new pair of shoes.

      “Hep.” Penny struggled to sit up—the Spanx was pulled over her head like a stocking cap half covering a bank robber’s face. “Mom, hep.”

      Ella reclaimed possession of her undergarment and then her seat outside the dining room, hoping she hadn’t been noticed. Thankfully, all attention was being given to the lawyer reading Grandpa Harlan’s letter.

      Freed, Penny lay back down and began to sing a soft, wordless song, while she made another snow angel in the carpet.

      “‘My four sons...’” Mr. Quinby cleared his throat, nervous once more, perhaps because he was delivering Harlan’s barbs without cover against return fire. “‘My four sons are too old to unlearn the privilege of the silver spoon, too busy to enjoy the priceless beauty of a mountain sunrise, too calloused to appreciate the comfort that comes from loyalty, or the joy that love for love’s sake can bring.’”

      “Beautiful,” Ella murmured.

       Maybe he wrote that after Bryce and I fell in love.

      “‘To those coldhearted fools, I leave the Monroe Holding Corporation and all its entities on one condition.’”

      Everyone leaned forward in their seats, even Ella.

      “‘As for my grandchildren...’” The elderly lawyer ran a finger beneath his collar.

      “Wait,” Holden, the oldest grandchild, said. He managed the Monroe assets. “What condition?”

      “I’m getting to that,” Mr. Quinby said defensively. He rattled the letter. “It’s right here.” And then he spent a moment trying to find his place. “‘As for my grandchildren, there is hope for their moral fiber. But only if they break free of the influence of my four failures and learn there is more to life than the bottom line. Therefore, for the good of my grandchildren, as a condition of their inheritance, my sons will immediately fire said grandchildren and terminate their contracts with any and all entities under the ownership of the Monroe Holding Corporation. Also, it is my further stipulation that within the next thirty days, my grandchildren will vacate all residences, homes, apartments and penthouses that are owned by the Monroe Holding Corporation.’”

      Yikes. All the grandchildren lived in corporately owned housing.

      “‘In the meantime—’”

      “He left us nothing?” Holden demanded. His gray eyes seemed colder than the ice frosting the pristine landscaping outside.

      Mr. Quinby sat back warily, as if this had been the reaction he’d feared all along.

      Ella sat back, too, thinking that everything was going to be all right. She wasn’t a Monroe grandchild. For her, nothing would change. Ian’s regretful expression from before must have been regarding his conditional inheritance and that of his children.

      “I’m supposed to move out of my home?” Bentley was Bryce’s twin brother and designed luxury yachts for Monroe Shipworks.

      “Grandpa is firing me?” Shane spit. He ran the family’s hotel chain based in Las Vegas. “From the grave?”

      “Let him finish.” Sophie adjusted her glasses, presumably so she could better see the lawyer if he ever got the chance to continue.

      “Yes, please.” The junior lawyer behind Mr. Quinby spoke up. His name was Daniel Something-or-other and he had a kind look about him. “Your questions will be answered if you just let Mr. Quinby finish.”

      “Thank you, Daniel.” The senior lawyer cleared his throat, sounding like an old car reluctant to start on a chilly morning. He acknowledged Shane with a wave of his hand. “Technically, your father has to fire you—” his hand swung toward Bentley “—and your father has to evict you. That is, if he wants to inherit twenty-five percent of your grandfather’s assets.” He turned to Holden. “Harlan did, in fact, leave his grandchildren something.” Mr. Quinby ran his finger down the page slowly. “Ah! Here it is. ‘By each of them standing on their own two feet, my grandchildren, I hope, will discover their moral compass, which will guide them to the lives they should choose to lead. Not the ones that would most benefit the Monroe Holding Corporation. To that end, I leave the town of Second Chance, Idaho, to my grandchildren and great grandchildren.’”

      “You’re not really going to go along with this—this...farce?” Holden leaned forward, black eyebrows drawn low in disbelief. “Grandpa Harlan clearly wasn’t in his right mind when he wrote this.”

      Several pairs of eyes swung toward Ian and his three brothers. Chairs creaked. Ella held her breath, worried for her husband’s siblings and cousins. Not because of the fortune they weren’t getting, but because their fathers might choose money over family.

      Ella didn’t blame Bryce’s cousins and siblings for being upset. They’d been groomed since birth to work in one of the family businesses—oil, finance, luxury-yacht building, hotels or filmmaking. They didn’t have trust funds, but they’d been given everything they’d ever needed—the finest educations, mortgage-free homes and generous salaries. All with the expectation that they’d benefit from their commitment to the family someday. They just hadn’t expected that benefit to be a town.

      Ella’s glance swung to Penny and then back to the others in the dining room. All the while, she was wondering: Who inherits a town? For that matter, who owned a town to begin with?

      Harlan’s lawyer wasn’t finished yet. Quinby cleared his gravelly throat. “Again, I’d like to repeat to Harlan’s four sons that their inheritance is contingent upon the condition being met.” Meaning mass layoffs and evictions for their children.

      No one in the dining room moved. No one seemed to breathe. Ella had been shuttled from foster home to foster home for many reasons. She’d