The Mighty Quinns: Logan

Praise for Kate Hoffmann’s Mighty Quinns

“This truly delightful tale packs in the heat and a lot of heart at the same time.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Dermot

“This is a fast read that is hard to tear the eyes from. Once I picked it up I couldn’t put it down.”

—Fresh Fiction on The Mighty Quinns: Dermot

“A story that not only pulled me in, but left me weak in the knees.”

—Seriously Reviewed on The Mighty Quinns: Riley

“Sexy, heartwarming and romantic, this is a story to settle down with and enjoy—and then reread.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Teague

“Sexy Irish folklore and intrigue weave throughout this steamy tale.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Kellan

“The only drawback to this story is that it’s far too short!”

—Fresh Fiction on The Mighty Quinns: Kellan

“Strong, imperfect but lovable characters, an interesting setting and great sensuality.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Brody

Dear Reader,

It’s hard to believe that I’ve been writing for Mills & Boon for nearly twenty years. It seems like only yesterday that I completed my first novel and sent it in, hoping that it would be good enough to publish. Now, many books later, people sometimes ask if I ever run out of ideas. Fortunately, I don’t. There always seems to be a line of characters just waiting to have their story written.

This month I kick off another set of Mighty Quinns. Only, this time I’m doing something a little different—I’m setting the stories in four different countries! This first book, The Mighty Quinns: Logan, takes place in Australia, and the next book, The Mighty Quinns: Jack, will bring you back to the US. The last two books are still in progress, so I won’t give out any spoilers just yet. But you might want to watch out for a couple of hot Irish guys named Rourke and Dex…:)

As always, without you I wouldn’t have the chance to continue to tell my stories. Whether you’ve been with me from the start or you’ve just discovered my books, thank you for reading! Be sure to check out my page on Facebook for all the latest news.

All my best,

Kate Hoffmann

About the Author

KATE HOFFMANN has written more than seventy books for Mills & Boon, most of them for the Blaze® line. She spent time as a music teacher, a retail assistant buyer and an advertising exec before she settled into a career as a full-time writer. She continues to pursue her interests in music, theater and musical theater, working with local schools in various productions. She lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her cat, Chloe.

The Mighty

Quinns:

Logan

Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Michelle. Never stop believing.

It can happen for you, too!

Prologue

DROPLETS OF RAIN spattered against the wavy glass in the manor-house windows. Aileen Quinn stared out into the lush green of her garden, her gaze fixed on a niche in the tall stone wall. A small statue of an angel was nestled into the ivy, the rain dripping off the outspread wings as if it wept.

“Are you certain?” she asked.

“I know this is a lot to handle, Miss Quinn. Perhaps we should continue later?”

She gripped the head of her cane and turned back to the genealogist. “No,” she said. “I’m ninety-six years old. There will be no more secrets in my life. That’s why I chose to write my autobiography. I want it all out there so I can leave this world in peace.”

“You realize the chances that your older siblings are still alive are virtually zero.”

Aileen moved to a wing chair near the fireplace and sat down, turning toward the warmth. “Of course. But I would like to know if they had children and grandchildren. I have a family and I’d like to know at least a little bit about them before I die.”

She stared into the flickering flames, her thoughts carrying her back to her childhood. She only had the thinnest of details, facts that the nuns at the orphanage had relinquished after years of persistent questions. Her father had died in the Easter Rising of 1916, shot through the heart by a British soldier. Her mother, left pregnant and desperate to provide for her newborn daughter, grew sick with consumption and brought Aileen to the orphanage a few weeks before she died.

The story had been told so many times in the media, the rags-to-riches tale of an Irish orphan girl who became one of the world’s most popular novelists. Aileen’s stories had been a reflection of her life, tales of struggle and triumph, of heartache and great happiness, and all set in the land of her birth, her beautiful Ireland.

“Tell me again,” she said. “Their names. What were my brothers’ names?”

“The eldest was Diarmuid. He was twelve when he was sent off to work as an apprentice to a shipbuilder in Belfast in 1917. Then there was Conal. He was nine and Lochlan was six when you were born. And Tomas was five. There were three other children who didn’t survive. A baby girl between Diarmuid and Conal who died at birth. And a daughter named Mary and a son named Orin between Tomas and you. They both died of scarlet fever the year before you were born.”

“So there were seven, not four.”

The young man nodded. “Yes.”

“I need to know where they went,” Aileen said, leaning forward in her chair. “How they lived. You need to find everything you can about them.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He riffled through his papers. “I was able to learn that the youngest, Tomas, was sent to Australia. He traveled with a missionary and his wife on a ship called the Cambria, which sailed from Cork and landed in Sydney in December of 1916.”

“Then that’s where you’ll begin,” Aileen said. “In Australia. I don’t care how many people you need to hire to help you or how much it costs. I’m giving you unlimited funds to do whatever is needed, Mr. Stephens. And I want a weekly report of any progress you’ve made, no matter how inconsequential.”

“Yes, Miss Quinn.”

“That’s all for now,” she said.

He nodded and walked out of the solarium, his research tucked under his arm. Aileen watched him leave, then drew a deep breath. She’d spent her whole life believing she was alone in the world, a victim of circumstances beyond her control. But now, in a single instant, she had a family, siblings who had once held her and kissed her…and loved her.

The housekeeper walked into the room, her footsteps silent on the ornate rug. Sally set the tray down on the tea table. “I’ve baked some lovely scones,” she said. “Will you not have one?”

Aileen shook her head. “Just the tea, Sally.”

“Did your Mr. Stephens have anything interesting to share?”

“Not at the present,” she replied. The news about her family was so startling that she wanted to keep it a secret just a bit longer. It wasn’t a good thing to hope. She’d learned that as a child, every Sunday, when visiting day at Our Lady of Mercy orphanage arrived. Just over a hundred girls, dressed in their very best, would stand in proper rows, hoping that someone would come, would choose to take one of them home.

But she’d been a sickly child, smaller than the others and plagued with respiratory infections, and often pushed into the background. After a time, she’d decided to stop trying. She was safe with the nuns and had dreams of joining the Sisters of St. Clare herself.

The orphanage provided a harsh type of life. Punishments were meted out regularly for the girls who refused to conform. Those that were considered chronically impure—the illegitimate, the criminal, the intractable—bore the brunt of the nuns’ disdain. But Aileen was pious and penitent for even the slightest sin.

When Sister Mary gave her a coveted job in the school library, shelving books and reading to the younger girls, she’d quietly been marked as a favorite and was spared the worst of chores.

By the time she was eleven, she’d run out of books to read in the school library and was allowed to accompany the lively young teacher, Sister Bernadette, to the Kinsale library, where she’d been handed a copy of Jane Eyre and told to hide it from the older nuns.

The book had opened a whole new world for her. The story of the plain orphan girl, snatched from her cruel fate and whisked into a life as a governess, had been a revelation. How was it possible to put words in such an order that they could create a truth in her mind?

From that moment on, Aileen had begun to write her own stories, at first just weak copies of what she read. But as her methodical march through the town library shelves continued, she learned more about how to craft a plot and develop a character.

In the evenings, she’d offered to empty the rubbish bins at school, just for the chance to gather spare paper for her work. And then, when she was in the seventh form, Sister Bernadette became her teacher. The sweet-tempered nun recognized Aileen’s talent for writing. From that moment on, Aileen always had pencils and tablets to spare, and someone to read her stories.

Though the girls at the orphanage were trained toward industrial employment, Aileen had been encouraged in her plans to devote her life to God and join the order as a novitiate. But the closer she got to the decision, the more Aileen knew that the life she wanted, and the stories swimming around in her head, couldn’t be contained within the walls of the convent. She’d have to go out in the world and make her own way, to live the life that she so desperately wanted to write about.

And so she did what Jane Eyre had done. She became a governess for a wealthy family in Dublin, moving from the orphanage into a grand home situated on a posh street. She cared for three boys by the name of Riley while their father ran a bank and their mother busied herself with charitable works.

And at night, after the boys had been tucked into bed, she wrote. And wrote and wrote and wrote. She saved her meager salary and bought a secondhand typewriter for her twenty-first birthday, then spent what she had left on paper and inked ribbon.

At night, she’d sneak up to a far corner of the attic, lantern in hand, so that the family wouldn’t hear the tap-tap-tap of the keys. She sold her first novel five years later, the story of an orphaned Irish girl who falls in love with the son of her employer, only to be cast aside and left to rebuild a life for herself. Set between the two world wars, the novel sold well enough for her to leave the Rileys and rent a tiny flat in a run-down section of Dublin.

Now, seventy years later, Aileen Quinn had become the grande dame of Irish women writers, the one they all referenced when they talked of their greatest influences. She’d won every award and accolade available to her and had enjoyed her life and her success.

Her only regret had been that the love her characters always struggled to find had never found her. She’d always thought there would be time for a husband and a family. But the years between thirty and fifty had seemed to fly by in a blur. Then, she’d still hoped a man might come into her life. And then another blur between fifty and seventy. By then it was too late for hope. Too late to have a family of her own.

But all that had changed now. She did have a family, people who were related to her by blood. And she was going to find every last one of them.

1

LOGAN QUINN STARED down the long, tree-lined driveway. He’d expected Willimston Farm would be upmarket, but he hadn’t expected a feckin’ estate. He turned the campervan off the main road and felt a sense of unease come over him.

When he’d made plans to stop along his weeklong route to Perth, all Logan had wanted was a spare stable, fresh water and a place to park. His old mate Ed Perkins had been working as a stable manager at Willimston for the past few years and had offered a place to overnight. Logan wondered how Ed’s boss man might feel about the raggedy campervan and trailer ruining the perfectly groomed landscape.

If the sprawling house didn’t give visitors a clue to the wealth of the owners, the outbuildings did. The low-slung buildings were painted white with green doors and shingles, a clear indication of the bottomless bank account that funded the place. Logan couldn’t help but think of his own ranch on the fringes of the outback, the ramshackle house, the rough stables.

He’d worked for years to put together the cash needed to buy his own operation, sometimes juggling his job as an investment banker with one or two other jobs. And though the ranch was far from perfect, it was the first home he’d ever known.

After a childhood spent watching his father bounce from place to place, sheep station to cattle ranch, all the family’s belongings contained in the back of a pickup truck, Logan needed a place to put down roots.

Every time he drove up the dusty road and saw the weathered stable and tiny house, he felt a measure of pride. He was building something for the future. And maybe someday, he’d have a family and they’d know a real home, a place where they could feel safe and secure.

A kid couldn’t help but feel that way on Willimston Farm, he thought to himself. “Someday, my place will look like this,” he murmured. Logan chuckled to himself. “Yeah, right. And someday, pigs will fly.”

He slowly pulled the campervan to a stop and turned off the ignition. They’d been on the road for eight hours. It was time for the both of them to stretch their legs. He watched as a tall, lanky figure approached, then recognized his old friend Ed beneath the brim of the faded hat.

Logan stepped out of the camper and pulled off his sunglasses. “Ed! Hey, mate. Good to see you.”

Ed yanked off his leather gloves and shook Logan’s hand. “Logan Quinn. How was your drive?”

“Long. It feels good to stand instead of sit.” He glanced around. “This is quite the place. You landed yourself a nice spot.”

“It’s good. The owner isn’t around much. He has a mansion in Brisbane, too. But when he is here, he’s a decent chap. Simon Grant. He’s big in energy. Appreciates fine horses, too. So, who’s watching your place while you’re on the road?”

“I’ve got Billy Brantley working for me. Remember him? He worked with us that summer out on the Weaver ranch.”

“He’s a good guy. Hard worker.” Ed nodded in the direction of the trailer. “Enough of this chatter. Are you going to show me?”

“Sure. Let’s get her out.” Logan walked to the back of the trailer, dropped the ramp and opened the doors. He smoothed his hand over the flank of the filly as he moved to take her halter.

“Come on, darlin’,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of this trailer and into a paddock. You need some exercise.” The filly slowly backed down the ramp and, when all four hooves were on firm ground, Logan circled her around Ed, letting him observe the horse.

He’d never been more proud of something that he’d accomplished as he had been of breeding and raising Tally. And though he knew not to get too attached to one of his horses, Logan was forced to admit that he loved everything about the pretty filly.

“Jaysus, Logan, she’s a beauty.” Ed stepped forward and examined the filly with a keen eye. He ran his palms over her, peered into her eyes and patted her neck. “You say she’s sold?”

“Why? Do you want to buy her?”

“Hell, I’d be crazy not to show her to my boss. He’s always looking for new stock.”

Logan shrugged. “Yeah, she’s sold. To a guy over in Perth. He’s got a nice breeding operation.”

“No. How much?”

Logan told him the price and Ed shrugged. “It’s a fair price. I probably could have gotten you more. I would have liked to breed her with a stallion we have. They would have made some beautiful babies together.” He paused. “Why didn’t you keep her for yourself?”

A sliver of regret shot through him at the question. “I would have loved to. But I need the money.”

“Things are tough?”

Logan chuckled. “Define tough.”

“Why didn’t you give me a call? I could have helped you out.”

“You’re helping me out now. Letting me stay here for the night. Now, do you have a paddock for my lady? I think she could use a good run.”

“Come on, then. I saved the best for you.”

They walked toward one of the low barns and when they reached the paddock, Ed opened the gate. Logan rubbed the filly’s neck then sent her inside. She trotted around the perimeter, her ears up, her nostrils sniffing the air.

“What’s her name?”

“I call her Tally,” he said. “Her official name is Quinn’s Tally-Ho Wallaroo. But maybe the new owners will give her a different name.”

“She is a beauty.”

Logan nodded. “Yeah. She’s the first colt born on the farm, the first I raised from a baby. Hell, I feel like she’s my kid and I’m sending her off into the world.”

Ed patted him on the shoulder. “I expect letting the first one go is always the hardest. I’ve set up a stall in this barn here,” he said, pointing over his shoulder. “You can pull your campervan around to the back. Just inside the door there’s a loo and a shower.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“Yeah. I picked up something along the way. Once I have Tally bedded down, I’m going to turn in, too. I’m knackered.”

“Well, I’m up at sunrise. I’ll bring you some breakfast before you leave.”

Logan nodded. “Thanks. For everything. I really appreciate it.”

“No worries,” Ed said.

As Ed walked back to the stable, Logan turned his gaze out to the chestnut filly in the paddock. He’d always thought that Tally would be the center of his breeding program at the farm. He’d never imagined that he’d have to give her up. Just the thought of turning her over into someone else’s care caused an ache deep in his gut. But horse breeding was like roulette. Sometimes you hit the jackpot and other times you walked away with nothing.

He braced his arms on the top of the gate and rested his chin on his hands. He’d had a choice. Keep the horse or keep the ranch. Without the filly, the ranch would survive. Without the ranch, he had no place to keep his horses.

Hell, maybe another filly like Tally would come along. Though her sire and dam had produced two males in the past two years, the odds were good that he was due a filly. But what were the chances that she’d be as perfect as Tally? He’d hate to think that his one-in-a-million horse had come at a time when he couldn’t keep her for himself.

A quiet curse slipped from his lips. This trip wouldn’t be any easier if he continued to drown in sentimentality.

“Nice horse.”

The sound of her voice startled him. Logan turned to find a woman standing beside him on the lowest rail of the gate. The sun was behind her and he had a hard time making out her features, so he stepped back from the gate and pulled down his sunglasses.

The beauty of her profile, outlined by the setting sun, hit him like a ton of bricks. Flaxen hair gleamed in the golden light, the strands falling around her face in delicate curls. She looked as if she’d just crawled out of bed.

Her eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. She wore a loose-fitting T-shirt and the bottoms to a hot-pink bikini that barely covered her backside. The soft curves of her breasts were outlined by the thin cotton, and he could almost imagine the body beneath the shirt. His gaze drifted back up to her face and he took in her lush lips.

A tiny smile twitched at the corners of that sensuous mouth. “What’s next? Are you going to want to check my teeth? Maybe run your hands over my withers? I can take a turn around the paddock if you like.”

He hadn’t realized his stare was so obvious. He turned away and fixed his gaze on Tally. “You—you startled me.”

“Good,” she said. “I always like making a memorable first impression.”

He laughed softly. She was teasing him and wasn’t trying to hide it. But to what end? “Well done, then,” he said. “I’m impressed.” Logan glanced over at her. “Who are you?”

She held out her hand. “Lucinda Grant. My father owns this place.”

He took her hand and gave it a quick shake. Her fingers were long and slender and tipped with shiny red polish. His mind flashed an image of those hands, skimming over his naked body, touching him in places he hadn’t been touched for a while. Logan swallowed hard. Yeah, right. No chance a pretty little rich girl was going to waste her time on guy without a penny in his pocket.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Grant,” Logan said.

“Oh, please. You stared at my arse. I think we’re beyond Miss Grant. You can call me Sunny.”

“I thought your name was Lucinda.”

“It is, but everyone calls me Sunny. With a u. Actually, it really should be an o. My father always wanted a boy so he called me Sonny with an o until I was five. My mother changed it to Sunny with a u.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sunny with a u.”

She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head and turned her green-eyed gaze his way. “It’s usually customary for you to tell me your name. You really do have the worst manners.”

“Are you always such a smart-ass?” he asked, starting to enjoy the little game they were playing.

That brought a laugh. “I developed the talent in my teenage years and have perfected it since then. It’s one of my best qualities.”

He saw the glint in her gaze and Logan shook his head. He’d known girls like her, girls who weren’t afraid to push the boundaries, girls who would say anything that came into their heads just to get a reaction. He usually made it a point to stay away from that type. They were impossible to figure out.

But there was something about Sunny, something more than just a quick wit and a sharp tongue. He saw something more…vulnerable behind that bold facade. He could see it in those eyes, those incredibly beautiful green eyes.

Logan rubbed his hand on his faded jeans before holding it out to her. “Logan Quinn.”

She stared down at his hand for a long moment and Logan wondered if she didn’t want to touch him. But then, she reached out and ran her finger along the length of his forearm. The feel of her nail scraping his skin sent a shiver through his body. She glanced up at him and smiled coyly. “You have nice hands, Logan Quinn.” Her gaze turned toward the filly, who was now watching them both with a suspicious eye. “Is she yours?”

“For now,” Logan said.

With that, she crawled over the gate and dropped down on the other side, her bare feet causing a soft thud in the dirt. As she walked toward Tally, Sunny turned back to him. “Come on,” she said. “I want to hear what you have to say about her.”

Logan followed her over the gate and hurried to catch up. As he walked beside her, he risked a glance at her face again. God, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. And the oddest, as well. She didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that she was wandering around in a T-shirt that was just thin enough to reveal what was underneath. Maybe she’d spent the day sunbathing…topless… . He swallowed hard as a vivid image flashed in his mind.

When they got within ten feet of the filly, Sunny stopped and held out her hand. “What’s her name?”

“Tally,” he said.

“Hey, there, Tally,” she murmured.