Quinn
Book Seventeen of the Farraday Country Series
The sun beat down mercilessly on the old saloon, its weathered clapboard siding a testament to nearly a century of neglect. Another Texas summer hung over the town of Four Corners, now more commonly known as Sadieville.
Quinn Farraday stood with his boot propped against a pile of broken lath and plaster, surveying the building's skeletal interior with a critical eye. One of the crew carried stacks of broken chairs and rotted tables covered with demolition debris to the front porch. Progress, sure but steady. He liked that.
Returning to the assigned task, his work-gloved hand brushed against the crumbling walls, feeling the decades of history beneath his fingertips. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light streaming through the gaps in the termite riddled siding, soon to be replaced by cement board. Inside, the bare structure would be covered with plenty of insulation and modern sheetrock. He grunted, shifting his weight and adjusting his grip on the pry bar. Another day, another renovation.
Board by board, building by building, Sadieville had slowly been coming back to life. One episode at a time, the dust, cobwebs, and rotted wood in the once-forgotten ghost town, had painstakingly given way to the beginnings of an attractive and inviting small town.
The Mercantile had seen the first transition captured for television, transformed from dusty ghost town seller of wares, to a modern souvenir and gift shop. Next, a nearby group of homestead houses had been rehabbed for the families the town hoped to draw. His brother Neil and his wife Nora moved into the first home. After that came the hotel—and now the old saloon would soon become the local restaurant. Designed to serve the production and construction crews alike for lunch, not that the crews didn’t love Molly’s gourmet food truck, an air conditioned eating establishment would be a welcome addition. In the evening, this would become a fine dining experience for the hotel guests and growing number of town residents the Tuckers Bluff Council had been working so hard to attract.
The camera crew from Construction Cousins reality TV show circled like vultures, their equipment catching every swing of a hammer, every cloud of demolition dust, and of course, every mishap, prank, and moment of shenanigans that ensued.
"This place already looks better." Nodding his approval at the scene, his brother Neil crossed to a makeshift workbench cobbled together from salvaged lumber and unrolled his architectural drawings. "We're keeping as much of the original footprint as possible."
Quinn's gaze flickered briefly to the blueprint, catching the key details. The design would preserve the bones of the old café while bringing it into the modern era.
Tracing a line on the blueprint, Neil tapped his finger on the page. "The idea is to modernize the kitchen.”
“Duh,” Morgan teased from across the large room.
Rolling his eyes, Neil ignored his older brother. “Open up the dining area. The town council wants something that still feels authentic to the original era, but can actually serve more than lukewarm coffee and day-old pie."
On a ladder by the large window, Morgan laughed, pulling down another small section of lath and plaster. Wooden strips pulled away from the wall, revealing the rough-hewn studs beneath. Chunks of hardened plaster crumbled to the floor, releasing decades of settled dust. "Speaking of pie, I hope they find a real chef. Not some celebrity who thinks wearing a white coat makes them Gordon Ramsay."
“Or some hotshot chef who thinks adding mesquite smoke to everything makes it authentic Texas barbecue.” Ryan, the youngest brother and Quinn’s Irish twin, wheeled in a large trash bin to clean up the remaining debris.
Morgan's laugh cut through the ambient noise. "I heard the town council is sorting through over a hundred applications."
“You’re kidding?” Ryan’s jaw dropped slightly open. “Who knew there were that many people wanting to move to dusty West Texas?”
Neil rolled the papers up again. “There are a lot of people who think moving to a ghost town will be fun.”
“Or spooky,” Ryan added, his attention falling on the bare wall in front of Quinn. Wooden laths revealed like old ribs of a building holding its breath.
“Or spooky,” Neil repeated, tucking the tube of designs under his arm. “I’m going with Connie to look for some fixtures. The kitchen appliances will be top of the line, but in the dining room I need vintage for atmosphere. I’ll leave y’all to finish cleaning this place out.”
With a nod, Quinn turned his attention to the wall, working methodically, each movement calculated. Baseball had taught him precision—every swing counted, every motion mattered. The muscles in his shoulders remembered the discipline, the quiet intensity he'd always brought to every task.
A particularly stubborn section of plaster resisted. Quinn's jaw clenched. He'd never been one to back down from a challenge. A quick strategic hit and the wall surrendered, showering debris across the floor.
His brothers moved around him, a well-choreographed dance of demolition and preservation. No words needed. They'd been doing this together so long, communication happened in grunts, half-glances, or the subtle shift of a shoulder
.
Quinn's hand tightened on the hammer. Another swing. Another piece of history revealed. His focus on the wall, his mind wandering to the next stage; the arrival of the chef. The man’s professional know-how would add the final touches of the kitchen. If they continued moving at this pace, the town council had better choose their candidate sooner than later. Much sooner.
****
The rhythmic tapping of Eloise Carey's knife against the wooden chopping block kept time with the controlled chaos in the kitchen. Steam billowed from stovetops, orders flew back and forth, and the clattering symphony of pots and pans never ceased. Just like yesterday and the day before, this was life in a busy restaurant kitchen. Over the years she'd perfected her knife work—precise, efficient, not a single wasted motion.
One of the waiters came scurrying through the kitchen and shouted, “Table twelve still waiting on entrée.”
Eloise's hands moved faster, dicing carrots with machine-like precision. The familiar scents of herbs and roasted garlic wrapped around her, but tonight they didn't bring their usual comfort. Her brother Danny had walked out the door four days ago and hadn't answered his phone since. Ever since being discharged from the military, her brother had struggled to hold down a job, and though he’d never said a word, it was obvious to anyone who knew him how much he hated being dependent on his baby sister?
“Hey.” Another waitress paused and frowned. “You’re not whistling tonight?”
“Too focused.” No point in sharing her personal problems with the entire kitchen.
Hands carrying two baskets of warm garlic bread, the young blonde’s brows shot up high on her forehead, but offering nothing more than a shrug, she spun around and shouldered the double doors open.
The last time he'd gone dark like this, she’d worried all night at work until she'd finally found him in the middle of the night, huddled in his closet, hands over his ears, trying to block out the endless city noise. The memory of that event had robbed her of more than one decent night’s sleep.
After three tours in Afghanistan, Danny had come home with medals and nightmares. The brother who'd once loved watching fireworks from the Navy Pier now flinched every time an old clunker backfired. The man who so many years ago had taught her to ride a bike, couldn't handle the rushing noise of the L-train past their apartment windows.
"Pickup on seven!" Breaking into her thoughts, a waiter appeared at the pass, plates balanced up his arm.
The kitchen in the upscale corner of the city moved like a well-oiled machine around her, but her mind continued to battle her concern that Danny could be lying in a ditch, shattered and terrified, with the hope that he could also simply be couch surfing with an old buddy, seeking comfort with the familiar. The problem was that Danny needed more than the VA services here could provide. The system was big, overloaded, and in her humble opinion, terribly broken. For years, she’d been at a loss on how to help her brother. But worse, his episodes were getting more instead of less frequent. Coping skills eluded him. His disappearing was happening more often—too often—but this was the first time he’d vanished for so long. Working seventy hours a week, she couldn’t afford private therapy, or to move to a different, less cramped apartment. The city tended to press in on him—the constant sirens, the throng of people on Michigan Avenue, the helicopter traffic from three hospitals within earshot of their neighborhood.
"Chef! Need that mirepoix!"
"Coming!" Eloise scraped perfect cubes of carrot, celery, and onion into a waiting container. Her phone vibrated in her chef coat pocket—not the familiar buzz of a text, but the longer rhythm of a call. Danny? Heart pounding, she stripped off her gloves.
Unknown number.
As she stepped into the walk-in cooler for quiet, her throat tightened. "Hello?"
"Ms. Carey? This is Officer Martinez. We’re here with your brother…"
Expecting to hear the news she’d been dreading for too long, the officer’s words sent waves of panic up her spine. As the calm man explained that Danny was safe in their custody, the nervous edge that had plagued her for days eased. But the news was not all good. Her brother had had an episode in a grocery store clear across town. What the heck he was doing there, or where had he been the last four days, she had no idea. Just like that night, only weeks ago when he'd ended up in the ER, after the fluorescent lights, the crowds, the dropping of a glass jar, the sensory overload had overwhelmed him.
Eloise's hand found the folded paper in her other pocket—wrinkled now from countless readings. The job listing seemed to glow in the cooler's harsh light: Executive Chef needed for new restaurant development. Historic renovation project in former ghost town of Sadieville, Texas. Rural setting, creative control, housing provided.
She'd laughed the first time she’d seen it. West Texas? A ghost town? But something made her save the listing. She thought of the photos she'd looked up. The endless horizon. Stars visible at night, unlike Chicago's light-polluted skies. A town small enough that everyone knew everyone. Whether that was a good or bad thing she had yet to decide—still, what it did mean was no anonymous crowds to navigate. No skyscrapers blocking the sun. No constant crush of humanity pressing in from all sides. A chance for Danny to have some semblance of peace.
The listing had mentioned a historic renovation, bringing life back to forgotten places. Maybe that's what Danny needed—what they both needed. A chance to rebuild something broken, to find peace in wide open spaces where the only sounds at night would be crickets and desert wind.
"Chef?" Someone pushed open the cooler door. "Eight top just sat."
"I'll be right there." Tucking the listing back into her pocket, Eloise straightened. Her mind wasn't on the dinner service ahead. Instead, she saw endless Texas sky, a small town waiting to be reborn, and couldn’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—the crazy want ad that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw away wasn’t some big joke, but actually a chance to save her brother.
With every passing moment, the crazy idea seemed to bloom into an answer to a prayer. By the time they’d served their last dessert and began cleaning up the kitchen for the night, she was absolutely sure it was time to update her resume and trade Chicago's concrete canyons for Texas stars. Then all she’d have to do was convince her brother that she hadn’t lost her ever-loving mind.
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