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  Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

  Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

  www.hartwoodpublishing.com

  Heartland

  Copyright © 2016 by Tricia Andersen

  Digital Release: March 2016

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Heartland by Tricia Andersen

  Now that Sloan’s true identity has been revealed, he and Abbey move to her hometown of Mount Vernon, Iowa, to start their new lives together away from the chaos of New York City and the threat of those looking for him. And they are not alone—they are joined by Gordon, Maggie, and Bartholomew, each looking for a fresh start and new love in the small rural town while they develop a plan for their family’s continued safety.

  Their marriage is put to the test by the reappearance of Abbey’s father, bullies from her high school days, a business opportunity in Miami, and a new baby on the way. When a person from their past comes back looking to make Abbey his own again, will he be able to tear Sloan and Abbey apart forever?

  Dedication

  To Paula and Alden. Thank you for giving me the most precious gift I’ve ever been given—your son.

  Chapter One

  Paradise wasn’t lost. It was dead on arrival.

  Abbey sighed heavily as she sank into the chocolate brown leather sofa. She turned her head slowly and gazed at the crystal-framed photo of a blissfully happy couple romping on the beaches of St. Thomas. She huffed again.

  It had been an incredible two weeks with Sloan in St. Thomas. They chose to spend most of the time naked—in the house, on the isolated beach outside, and in their bed. They made love, they laughed, and they whispered their plans for their future together between kisses. It was a glorious fantasy.

  Then reality came crashing back. Sloan flew to San Francisco to close on the luxury entertainment complex there – a luxury hotel, swanky nightclubs, five star restaurants and the cutest boutiques. Meanwhile Abbey returned to New York and the empty penthouse she shared with Sloan, where she looked forward to morning sickness alone.

  She couldn’t believe how much she missed him. Every inch of the penthouse, every inch of New York City, reminded her of him. It wasn’t like she was without him. He texted her a couple times an hour even into the wee hours of the morning. Words on a cell phone screen didn’t compare to his warm, strong arms, his sweet brogue, and his hot, panty-melting kisses.

  Abbey took a sip from the paper coffee cup on the end table. Since returning home, she took every demand given to her seriously. When she left the penthouse, she made sure one of the men in Sloan’s entourage was in tow. Discovering Sloan’s true identity, that he was really Tom Morrison, turned her world upside down. It made her love him more and hold him tighter. She wasn’t about to be the reason he was in danger again.

  She was jarred from her thoughts by a sharp knock on the door of the penthouse. Her face scrunched up in a scowl as she stared at it.

  Five people had access to Sloan’s penthouse. In addition to Sloan and Abbey, there was also Gordon, Sloan’s handler and father figure, and Robert and Bartholomew, Sloan’s friends and bodyguards. Six, she mentally corrected herself. Maggie, who had just followed her brother to New York City, had a key to her brother’s home too. Maybe this was Maggie still getting used to Sloan’s “no knocking” policy.

  “Come in!”

  Abbey’s greeting was answered by two sharp raps on the glass pane. Her heart thundered in terror as she stood on shaky legs and crossed the foyer to the door. There was no way to access the penthouse unless someone had the key to the elevator. Her mind flashed to her husband’s past in the IRA. Some very dangerous men now knew the truth about Sloan. Please tell me they didn’t find out that he lives here. She trembled in panic as she thought of Bartholomew, who stood as her sentry below. The only way up here would be through him. Literally. Please let him be all right. Slowly, she pulled the door open.

  In the entry stood a man with thick, brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was a few inches taller than Abbey. His thin frame was draped in a custom-tailored, navy blue suit with a muted mauve tie. “Abigail O’Riley?” he queried.

  Abbey stared at him. “Yes? And you are? And more importantly—how did you get up here?”

  The man extended his hand to her. “Nathan Paulson. I am Mr. O’Riley’s attorney. Bartholomew escorted me.”

  Abbey breathed a silent sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, Mr. Paulson. Sloan is in San Francisco. I don’t know when he’ll be home.”

  Nathan smiled at her. “I’m here to speak to you, Abigail.”

  “Me? What could you possibly need with me?”

  Nathan nodded to the interior of the apartment. “May I come in?”

  Abbey stepped aside to open the glass door wider. Nathan brushed past her into the spacious, opulent penthouse, grasping the handles of a bulging leather briefcase. Before she could offer him a seat, he sank into the chocolate brown leather armchair.

  She wrinkled her nose. That was Sloan’s chair. It’s where he sat to watch SportsCenter and read the paper. They cuddled in that chair. They made love in that chair. Seeing another man sitting in it seemed wrong. Very, very wrong.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Her voice slightly betrayed her insincerity. She really wanted him to leave.

  “No, thank you. Sit,” Nathan commanded. He reached across to the sofa and patted the cushion. “We have a lot of ground to cover, and I have another appointment in an hour.”

  Abbey complied hesitantly. “If we need to do this another day…”

  Nathan unzipped his briefcase and pulled free a stack of documents. The pile was easily over two inches thick. “No, we need to do this today. Sloan insisted.”

  “Do what?”

  Nathan carefully arranged the stack of paper into several neat piles. “Sloan called me the other day to have me draw up some additional contracts for San Francisco. He told me the news of your nuptials and the little one coming. I advised him that we strong-arm you into a couple more provisions to the pre-nup to protect his investments.” Nathan looked up at her from sorting. His glare gave Abbey the chills. “By the way, congratulations.”

  Classy. Abbey fought the sneer from her face. “Thanks,” she responded sarcastically. “So, are these the provisions?”

  “No. I barely got the word pre-nup out before Sloan laid into me. Hard. I’m glad he’s in San Francisco, or he would have torn me limb from limb. After calling me some very colorful names, he very distinctly and clearly ordered me to add you to his accounts. Immediately.”

  “His accounts?”

  “As his wife, he wants you to share in his assets—bank accounts, properties, car titles, et cetera. Billions of dollars’ worth of assets.”

  Abbey’s eyes flew open wide. “B-b-billions?”

  “You heard millions? When San Francisco took shape, Sloan went from a millionaire to a billion
aire.”

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t allow this to happen. Sloan worked too hard for that money.”

  “That’s what I said,” Nathan agreed. He picked up a pen from among the stacks. “But Sloan disagrees with us. And he holds all the cards in this game. So, could you start signing so I’m not late for my next appointment?”

  Abbey stared at him for a long, hard minute before she took the pen. She signed as he pointed, listening in awe as he carefully explained each document. After the second or third, she realized just how little she used her married name. She struggled to write the correct one.

  Astounded, Abbey paused when Nathan slid the deed to the penthouse building in front of her.

  “Is there a problem?” Nathan demanded.

  Abbey shook her head. “No. It’s just hard to fathom that I own this building.” She quickly scribbled her signature.

  “You have one more deed to sign.” Nathan slid the second piece of paper to her.

  This one was crisp and new. Abbey could even faintly smell the ink. She scanned the address, not believing what it was.

  It was the deed to San Francisco.

  “Wow,” she breathed. “I’ve heard all about it. I’ve seen pictures. It’s incredible.”

  “And now you own it with your husband, so sign.”

  Abbey shot Nathan an irritated glare and then quickly finished. The attorney scooped the papers together and slapped a pile of plastic cards on the coffee table.

  “These are your ATM and credit cards. I’m supposed to tell you to use them when you wish on whatever you wish. Those are words from your husband, not me.” She watched as he dropped everything into his bag and zipped it closed. Then he grasped the handles and stood, handing his business card to her. “If you have any questions, call,” he offered.

  Abbey took the card. Before she could stand and escort him to the door, he stormed from the penthouse and slammed it behind himself.

  Abbey sat in stunned silence. She struggled to wrap her mind around what had happened. Sloan had built what he had from nothing. Abbey had been to Belfast. She saw his childhood home and knew his humble beginnings and his struggles growing up. He fought for everything he had. In less than an hour, Sloan had given his fortune to her, announcing his love to the world in a huge way.

  And what did I give Sloan? Abbey shook her head sadly. She caused him to sacrifice his life. She had issues trusting him. She caused him heartache.

  Abbey glanced down at the oak and stone tile coffee table, breathing a few words of disgust at the melee left from the tornado of document signing. The usual books and magazines that were scattered perfectly across the table were now lumped in a pile of debris. Abbey carefully slid each piece back into its place.

  Suddenly, she stopped and stared at the book in her hand. Just a couple of days ago, Abbey had added the proof copies of her and Sloan’s children’s books to the display. The two books she had written and he illustrated, which brought them together twice. Her eyes flew wide as she inspected the cover again. She dropped the book on the coffee table and then scrambled to her purse beneath the table to find her phone.

  Abbey’s fingers trembled as she dialed. It seemed to take forever for someone to pick up.

  “Panda Publications. How may I direct your call?”

  “Aubrey Hart, please,” Abbey said breathlessly.

  “One moment.”

  The few seconds of hold music set loose the butterflies in Abbey’s stomach. With them came a generous wave of morning sickness. Abbey jumped as a voice came on the other line.

  “This is Aubrey Hart.”

  “Hi, Aubrey. It’s Abbey…” Her voice trailed off. What surname should I use? She breathed a sigh of relief as Aubrey picked up the conversation, asking how she was doing. “Good. Still a little nauseated at times. Aubrey, I have a problem. We have to stop printing the books.”

  There was a cold silence on the line. When Aubrey spoke, her tone was equally icy. “Abbey, we’ve gone over this. You can’t do this to me again.”

  “No, the book is fine. The cover is wrong.”

  “You and Sloan signed off on the cover, remember? What’s wrong with it?”

  “That’s not my name.”

  “What do you mean, it’s not your name?” Aubrey demanded.

  “My name isn’t Abbey Wright. Not anymore. It’s Abbey O’Riley.”

  There was another long, quiet pause. “I can order the reprint of the two books. If we made changes, we’d have to do it immediately. But more than the cover would need to be changed.”

  “I know, the cover page and the bios too. Would that be difficult?” Abbey chewed on her thumbnail nervously.

  Aubrey’s stern business tone transformed dramatically. It became devious. “No, but that’s not what I’m thinking. Where is Sloan?”

  Abbey furrowed her brow, confused. “San Francisco. But I don’t understand…”

  “The back cover, Abbey. Above each biography.”

  Abbey picked the book up from the coffee table and turned to the back cover. As she examined the page, a smile slowly crept across her face.

  “How fast can you get to San Francisco?” Aubrey asked.

  “I can be there by this afternoon.”

  “I will get a photographer arranged,” Aubrey confirmed. “Have a safe trip. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  »»•««

  Sloan slammed the door of the conference room to give himself more privacy for his call. He certainly didn’t need his entire office staff to hear him shout into the phone. They spent a vast majority of the week listening to him yell—at contractors, at lawyers, at them. This battle was personal and none of their business.

  “What the hell do you mean you want to reshoot my bio photo, Aubrey?” he demanded.

  “Not want, Sloan. The photographer will be there at five.”

  “We’ve used that photo for six years. What’s suddenly wrong with it?”

  “Things have changed. It needs to be updated.”

  Sloan gritted his teeth. “This building opens in a few days. I have final inspections, press conferences, meetings. I don’t have time for this shit.”

  Aubrey laughed on the other end of the line. “”What’s that phrase you love to use, Sloan? That’s right. This is non-negotiable.”

  Sloan’s violent temper seeped into his voice. “Is it five o’clock your time or mine?”

  “Yours, dear boy. If it were mine, the photographer would be arriving now. Try using that beautiful park near the entrance to the complex. It should make a lovely shot.”

  Sloan pulled the cell from his ear and pressed the screen to end the call before Aubrey could say any more.

  For the next few hours, Sloan couldn’t concentrate on his work. He fumed at Aubrey’s unreasonable demand. Who does she think she is, appropriating my time? My time is too valuable to be wasting on new head shots for her books. This is the last series I’m doing for Panda.

  A sly smile suddenly broke across Sloan’s face. Unless Abigail wishes to do another one, of course. She’ll work with another illustrator over my dead body.

  Sloan stormed into his makeshift office and slammed the door. Instead of taking a bite of the sandwich he had ordered, he strode to the cabinet against the wall and poured himself a tumbler of whiskey. He took a long, hard swallow. The liquor relaxed him.

  Relaxing allowed his mind to wander to Abigail. It had been an incredible three weeks in St. Thomas with her. The best three weeks of his life. He wanted nothing more than to be home with her in New York kissing her senseless, whispering to her, gazing into her beautiful hazel eyes, and making love to her. He missed her more than he had ever missed anyone in his life.

  At five o’clock, he made his way down the elevator to the park outside. The photographer had just arrived and had not even unpacked his equipment. Sloan paced the stone sidewalk impatiently. He growled as the man gazed at him with a helpless look.

  Irritated, Sloan glared at his watch and
then began to pace the stone walk of the garden again. The constant shuffling of the photographer and the click and clamor of equipment grated on his last nerve. He had delayed a critical meeting for this photo. This imbecile photographer had better hurry up. “Can we speed things along?”

  The photographer stared at him, flustered. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t believe we’re ready.”

  Sloan felt his Irish temper flash dangerously. “Then maybe you can tell me exactly why we are reshooting this picture? Because Aubrey sure as hell wasn’t going to.”

  “I’m sorry, sir…”

  “Maybe I can shed some light on that.”

  Sloan stopped dead at the sound of a soft, feminine voice. His heart thundered in his chest as his breath caught in his throat. It can’t be…

  Sloan turned slowly. Behind him, standing at the mouth of the path, stood his Abigail. She was dressed in a fuzzy, baby pink, cashmere sweater and a pair of faded blue jeans with her long brown hair tied up in a ponytail. She clutched her tablet in her hands.

  “Abigail,” Sloan breathed, all his fury evaporating at the sight of her. She had a way of doing that to him. She smiled at Sloan as she made her way up the stone path. He gently caressed her cheek with his fingertips as he gazed at her. “What are you doing here?” he murmured.

  “Nathan visited me this morning.”

  He snorted in disgust. “About time.”

  “Sloan, it’s all too much. You’ve worked too hard.”

  Sloan cupped Abbey’s chin with his palm and tilted her face to his. He stared deeply into her eyes. “Aye, Abigail. I needed to. You’ve learned my past with the IRA. You’ve learned about the marketable talent I now have. I am wanted by some very evil men. I could not leave you without if something were to happen to me. It very well could.” Sloan curved his mouth into a smirk. “So what did you do that started this chaos?”

  Smiling sheepishly, Abbey trailed her finger across the screen to wake it. Then, she turned it to face Sloan.

  »»•««