always felt he had been born a few decades too late. To him, simple was better. Simple worked just fine, but the more houses he built, the more he was surrounded by requests for fancier equipment, for endless rooms that would never be used, and for him to clear land better left alone.
He nodded to Jason, who was currently finishing up the framing, and ran his hand over the wood, checking for stability and texture. His hands were an extension of all his senses, able to figure out weak spots hidden in rotted wood or irregular length. Of course, he wasn’t as gifted as his youngest brother, Dalton, who’d been dubbed the Wood Whisperer. His middle brother, Tristan, only laughed and suggested wood be changed to woody to be more accurate. He’d always been the wiseass out of all of them.
Cal wiped the thought of his brothers out of his head, readjusted his hard hat, and continued his quick walk-through. In the past year, Pierce Brothers Construction had grown, but Cal refused to sacrifice quality over his father’s constant need to be the biggest firm in the Northeast.
On cue, his phone shrieked, and he punched the button. “Yeah?”
“Cal? Something happened.”
The usually calm voice of his assistant, Sydney, broke over the line. In that moment, he knew deep in his gut that everything would change, like the flash of knowledge before a car crash, or the sharp cut of pain before a loss penetrated the brain. Cal tightened his grip on the phone and waited. The heat of the morning pressed over him. The bright blue sky, streaked with clouds, blurred his vision. The sounds of Aerosmith, drills, and hammers filled his ears.
“Your father had a heart attack. He’s at Harrington Memorial.”
“Is he okay?”
Sydney paused. The silence told him everything he needed to know and dreaded to hear. “You need to get there quick.”
“On my way.”
Calling out quickly to his team, he ripped off his hat, jumped into his truck, and drove.
A mass of machines beeped, and Cal tried not to focus on the tubes running into his father’s body in an attempt to keep him alive. They’d tried to keep him out by siccing Security on him and making a scene, but he refused to leave until they allowed him to stand beside his bed while they prepped him for surgery.
Christian Pierce was a hard, fierce man with a force that pushed through both opposition and people like a tank. At seventy years old, he’d only grown more grizzled, in both body and spirit, leaving fear and respect in his wake but little tenderness. Cal stared into his pale face while the machines moved up and down to keep breath in his lungs and reached out tentatively to take his father’s hand.
“Get off me, for God’s sake. I’m not dying. Not yet.”
Cal jerked away. His father’s eyes flew open. The familiar coffee-brown eyes held a hint of disdain at his son’s weakness, even though they were red rimmed and weary. Cal shoved down the brief flare of pain and arranged his face to a neutral expression. “Good, because I want you to take over the Weatherspoons. They’re a pain in my ass.”
His father grunted. “I need some future political favors. Handle it.” He practically spit at the nurse hovering and checking his vitals. “Stop poking me. When do I get out of here?”
The pretty blonde hesitated. Uh-oh. His father was the worst patient in the world, and he bit faster than a rattlesnake when cornered. Already he looked set to viciously tear her to verbal pieces while she seemed to be gathering the right words to say.
Cal saved her by answering. “You’re not. Doctor said you need surgery to unblock some valves. They’re sending you now.”
His father grunted again. “Idiot doctor has been wanting me to go under the knife for years. He just wants to make money and shut me up. He’s still bitching I overcharged him on materials for his house.”
“You did.”
“He can afford it.”
Cal didn’t argue. He knew the next five minutes before his father was wheeled into surgery were vital. He’d already been told by the serious-faced Dr. Wang that it wouldn’t be an easy surgery. Not with his father’s heart damage from the last attack and the way he’d treated his body the past few years. Christian liked his whiskey, his cigars, and his privacy. He thought eating healthy and walking on treadmills were for weaklings. When he was actually doing the construction part of