Welcome
to the Second Chance Inn! If you’re in need of a cold beer, pub grub, rock and
roll, a game of poker, or a place to hang your hat, come on in and stay awhile.
Be sure to ask about our B&B and Happy Hour Specials!
In need of a new start, Bostonian accountant Mackenzie
Chance arrives in Hawthorn, South Dakota determined to restore the rustic inn she’s
inherited from her grandfather. She never expects world renowned rocker Ace
Blackburn, her unrequited first love, to turn up at the door just as a blizzard
begins. Much less the irresistible attraction they share when she welcomes him
inside.
While the snow piles up, they bare their souls, soon becoming
lovers as they plan to turn the Second Chance Inn into a place where employees,
customers, and tourists can renew or reinvent themselves.
But when the storm ends, will
they see their plans come to fruition, or lose everything when the past she’s
left behind returns with a vengeance?
Chapter
One
Second
Chance Inn—Hawthorn, South Dakota
A cold, February wind bit through Mackenzie’s parka as she stood
before the ramshackle inn that had become her home for the foreseeable future!
“Grandpa,
did you really want me to save your bar?” she asked no one, looking up at the
gray sky. The winds kicked higher, the howl in the distance through mountains,
trees, brush, and the Cheyenne River seeming to warn her to turn back while she
still could.
No, she
was not going to be scared away from her new home. She was not going to turn
back or overthink or let her maternal grandparents guilt her into returning to
Boston because they’d never approved of Grandpa Gunnar.
In its
heyday, the Second Chance Inn had been frequented by locals, bikers, truckers,
hikers, veterans, tourists, and campers wanting a break from the road on their
way to either Deadwood or Sturgis. Her grandfather had also offered lodging,
hot showers, pub-grub at night, and the biggest grand slam breakfast in the
county.
Now, it
was hard to see through the years of age to the beauty of the yellow pine and
oak facade. Modeled to resemble a combination saloon and hotel dating back to
the Wild West, the original building was three stories high and expansive, with
a balcony atop the front door and a boarding house added ten years ago.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled. The scents of pine and pending
snowfall made her long for a warm fire and a game of checkers or chess with
Grandpa Gunnar. Or, if it were warm, they’d sit on the front porch and talk
about anything and everything.
Oh, the
memories that washed over her from the times she’d spent with him growing up,
especially the summer before she’d gone to college when she’d experienced her
first love and heartbreak.
Where
was Ace Blackburn now, she wondered? When they’d first met had not only been in
college, he’d been destined for far greater things than the simple life in
Hawthorn, South Dakota. If she’d known how famous he’d become at the time, she
might not have crushed on him as hard. Or set herself up to disappointment when
she’d stumbled upon him with a woman on a great big Harley.
Still,
as she opened her eyes, finding herself looking up at dark, gray skies, she
wished she was seventeen again. If she was, her parents would still be alive.
Perhaps she’d have made better decisions, career choices, relationships, she
didn’t know.
The
bite of wind against her face had her looking back at the older-model Chevy
conversion van she’d bunked down in during her drive from Boston. Behind the
van was an enclosed trailer packed with everything she’d need to make the inn
her home until she could reopen it to its former glory.
In
hindsight, it’d been a wise decision to sell her BMW to buy the van, trailer,
and supplies outright. As she’d stayed at campgrounds, she’d been able to save
on hotel expenses, got a month-to-month smartphone, and used cash to pay for
gasoline.
It
wasn’t that she’d done anything wrong or needed to avoid a paper trail. She’d
simply wanted a clean break from New England. When she was settled and had the
chance to look about the inn, she’d plan the next phase of her life.
Looking
way up to the roof, she laughed. Her grandfather had had a wicked sense of
humor. After the First Chance Inn burned down, he’d moved way out in the middle
of nowhere, turned to the community to rebuild, then had a gigantic sign placed
as high as possible so truckers and drivers could spy it a mile off the main
highway. Over time, it’d read SECOND
CHANCE ‘N, as the I and the first N had worn away and he’d never had it
fixed. Maybe she’d get a new one, maybe she wouldn’t, time would tell.
“I hope
you’re up there in Heaven, Grandpa. If I take a wrong step, guide me to the
right path, okay?”
At
that moment, snow began to fall. To her, it was a sign that Grandpa Gunnar
heard her. There’d been nothing he loved more than winter and everything that
went with it. ***An Hour Later***
As she
dusted the bar with Pledge, lifting and moving her electronics, making a quick
pass with her Swiffer behind it so she could relocate her bags and bins from
the middle of the floor, Ace Blackburn continued to sing, his lead guitar riffs
second to none, keeping her company as the wind blew against the inn.
Fortunately, the foundation was sound, she had food, shelter, warmth, and
everything she’d need to wait out a snowstorm. As a native New Englander, she
was more than capable of fending for herself during bad weather.
With
her tummy growling almost as loudly as her music, Kenzie picked up her dust
mop. Promising herself to take a break for a late-day lunch and text her friend
Payton, she walked to the far side of the room and began sweeping.
Enjoying
the rock music that accompanied her task, she completed the first pass of the
floor. Though looking at the microfiber cloth, it was going to take several
passes before she could break out the steam mop! With that in mind, she traced
her way back to the kitchen for a fresh microfiber cloth.
Still
singing along with Dead Man’s Hand, she jumped clear out of her skin when loud
banging resounded from the front door. Who would be at her doorstep when it was
snowing outside?
Why
worry? It wasn’t as if Hawthorn was a hotbed of illegal activity. She was sure
there was crime and troublemakers, but more than likely it was the town’s mayor
or a neighbor checking in.
More
pounding sounded at the door, this time met with a voice that she never, ever,
in her wildest dreams thought would overpower the playlist on her laptop. “Hey,
Mackenzie Chance? It’s Ace Blackburn. I used to work for your grandfather,
remember? Can you open the door? Come on now, it’s freezing out here.”
No! No
way. It was her imagination. He was
not at her door.
“Mackenzie?
You okay in there? Please tell me I don’t need to call for an ambulance or
something.”
Certain
she was going to find nothing but cold wind and a face full of snow, Kenzie
took her mop with her. What she’d do with it, she’d no idea, especially as she
heard a curious rumble outside. Was that thunder?
“Hold
on a sec,” she shouted, uncertain it was necessary, though the howl against the
windowpanes increased. As did the rumbling, rolling thunder. Holy cow, it
really was thundering.
Quickly,
she unbarred the door, cracking it open, only to discover that it wasn’t her
imagination. Ace Blackburn stood in the doorway, his long dark hair and badass
leather jacket covered in snow.
“Hi,
you gonna let me in, sugar?” he asked in that sexy, gravelly voice that could
tempt a saint to sin. “Or are you about to beat me with that stick?”
“What
stick?”
“In
your hand. What the hell is that?”
“It’s
called a sweeper or a dust mop, whichever you prefer. I’ve been cleaning the
floor.”
“Okay.
You gonna open the door all the way or hit me with that thing? If you choose
the second option, please don’t hit anything vital. Someday, I’d like to have
kids.”
“What?”
Completely stunned, she was certain he was some sort of an apparition made from
a snowstorm that was, in fact blowing, howling, and sending icy flakes through
the door into her face.
“Never
mind, sorry. Please, invite me in, the storm’s getting worse. Swear, I won’t
hurt you.”
“I know,”
she said.
“In
that case, lower the sweeper thing and let’s make nice.”
“Not
making anything with you,” she murmured, hoping the rush of wind and ice
prevented him from hearing her suddenly pounding heartbeat.
Telling
herself to calm down, she stepped back and let the door swing wide. In a flash,
he was inside, the door closed and barred as he stomped snow off his boots.
“Let’s
start over,” he said, sticking his hand out, the sleeve of his jacket riding up
some, exposing an array of tattoos running from the back of his hand upward,
beneath his sleeve.
Holy
moly, did he have to be so hot, even when his straight shoulder length
raven-black hair was dusted with snow? With his chiseled, devilish features and
a seriously sexy well-trimmed mustache and goatee, she wondered if he hadn’t
just fallen out of heaven itself. Even his deep brown eyes were molten.
“Nice
to see you again, Mackenzie,” he went on, the ink catching her attention was
the two black eights, two black aces, and unknown hole card, fanned out on the
back of his hand. Known as poker’s dead man’s hand, the cards were supposedly
held by Wild Bill Hickok when he was shot in Deadwood. Ow, hell, just when she thought she was going
to handle this without freaking out, the lack of lunch and the heavy lifting
made her feel dizzy. Next thing she knew, the world went gray, then black.
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