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  Bearly Together

  By Zoe Chant

  © Zoe Chant 2019

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Green Valley Shifters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Note from Zoe Chant

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  More Paranormal Romance by Zoe Chant

  Zoe Chant on Audio

  Zoe Chant, writing under other names

  Green Valley Shifters

  This is book four of the Green Valley Shifters series. All of my books are stand-alones (they never have cliffhangers!) and can be read independently, but this book does reference some of the events in the previous books and bring back some favorite characters. This is the order the series may be most enjoyed:

  Dancing Bearfoot (Book 1)

  The Tiger Next Door (Book 2)

  Dandelion Season (Book 3)

  Bearly Together (Book 4)

  Chapter 1

  Someone had handed Shelley a baby.

  Shelley was too surprised to thrust it back before the golden-haired woman who gave it to her was hurrying off after another small shrieking person, and then she was stuck with it.

  The squishy little thing stared at her with big blue eyes and made a bubble with its tiny alien mouth.

  It was almost hairless, and it smelled weird.

  Shelley tried to give it to the woman that her father had just married, but Tawny only laughed. “Patricia will be back in a few moments,” the white-haired woman said cheerfully. “Look, she likes you.” Then she hurried off to supervise something concerning food.

  Shelley looked at the thing in her arms with horror as it squirmed and flailed chubby fists.

  “You’re my aunt, Shelley,” a suspicious voice said from her waist, and Shelley looked down to find a little dark-haired boy staring up at her.

  “You’re my nephew, Trevor,” Shelley agreed crossly. Was she supposed to be supporting the thing’s head? It was a little uncomfortable where it was lying in the crook of her elbow staring at her; did she dare adjust it? What if she dropped it? She’d rather let her arms cramp up in place than risk it.

  Trevor squinted up at her. “Are you Grandpa Powell’s favorite?”

  Shelley looked down at the boy in consternation. “Who would tell you that?”

  “Oh, Trevor, no...” Shaun, her brother, looked mortified as he came into the sunny little room filled with plants where Shelly had been waylaid with the infant. “I swear I didn’t mean him to hear that... kids, they absorb everything...” he sputtered.

  Shelley tried to carefully extricate the baby from her arms. “Take this thing and I will pretend it never happened. Besides,” she told Trevor, “you are now Grandpa Powell’s favorite and you are welcome to it.”

  Trevor grinned at her. “I thought so. It’s cuz...” The boy clapped a hand over his mouth as if he had been about to reveal state secrets. “I CAN’T TELL YOU!” he shouted, and to Shelley’s relief, he fled the room.

  One down, one to get rid of.

  “We’re trying not make a big deal out favorites and the whole... shifting thing....” Shaun said, in that disapproving, big brother I know better tone he’d always been perfect at.

  “Sorry,” Shelley said without apology. “I don’t really... do kids. About the best you’re going to get out of me is that I’ll try not to swear around him or let him play with sharp things. Much. Will you please take this thing before I break it?”

  To her relief, Shaun willingly put out his hands for the infant. “This is Victoria, Patricia’s new daughter.”

  But Victoria had a drooly fistful of Shelley’s hair and a grip on her shirt now, and she was bizarrely bendy and uncooperative for something so small and made out of butter. “Oh good God, she’s thrown up on my Chanel,” Shelley realized in horror as she tried to peel the minuscule fingers from the silk blouse without damaging the fabric. “Ow! How can something that small have a grip like that?!” The baby was tugging on her hair now, delighting in Shelley’s grimaces of pain.

  Shaun actually laughed, not offering to help.

  The mother who’d left the baby with her in the first place returned to find Shelley trying to pry the infant off of her, pleading, “Get it off me! There is vomit on my blouse!”

  She was embarrassed and frankly terrified; she didn’t want to accidentally harm the uncooperative baby, and everyone was smirking and giggling at her rising panic.

  “Here, I’ll take her,” Patricia said with a smile that Shelley was too humiliated to find kind. “Thank you for holding her.”

  The baby finally let go and went willingly to Patricia, bouncing easily in her arms and burbling happily.

  “Sorry,” Shelley said tightly, knowing she’d done a terrible job at a simple task. “I’m not a baby person.” She wanted to sink into a hole and die.

  She focused on the blouse, because outrage seemed better than a panic attack over the way that everyone was looking at her. “I need to soak this stain before the shirt is ruined,” she said stiffly. “Excuse me.”

  She heard Shaun make excuses for her as she stalked out. “Sorry, that’s my sister. She’s got a thing about her clothes.”

  It’s not clothes, she wanted to stop and protest, but what else would they assume? That she was afraid of kids?

  Chapter 2

  Dean looked up from his paperwork at the jingle of the store door and bit back a groan. Possibly the only thing worse than quarterly tax estimates had just walked in.

  “Good morning, Gillian,” he said with all the patience he could dredge up.

  “Good morning, Dean!” she trilled in return. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

  “Sure is,” Dean said briefly. He hoped that bending back over his papers with his calculator would be enough to dissuade her, but he wasn’t particularly surprised when she didn’t take the hint, coming to lean on the counter conversationally.

  “How’s your darling little Aaron doing?” she pried.

  “He’s doing great,” Dean said politely. “He likes first grade. How are your kids? And Brad?” Being married didn’t seem to keep Gillian from being very obvious about her predatory ways. She was ten years older than Dean, at least, and not unattractive, but Dean was not the slightest bit interested and the woman would not take a hint.

  “They’re great,” Gillian said airily. “Really busy at school. Brad’s away a lot.”

  Dean nodded. “Mm-hmm.” What kind of expense was a ream of paper? And if he took a roll of duct tape from inventory and used it to tape Gillian’s mouth shut, how did he account for that? Did it become an office supply?

  “I hear there’s snow in the forecast for next week,” she said, playing with the display of carpenter pencils on the counter.

  “Early, but not unheard of,” Dean sighed. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I’ve got a slow drain in the kitchen,” Gillian said, giving him a look from under
her eyelashes. “I’m just not sure what parts I might need.”

  “Have you tried Draino?” Dean suggested.

  “That stuff is so toxic,” Gillian said. “I just hate to use it.”

  “Can you remove the trap and check for a clog there?”

  “Oh, that sounds so complicated,” Gillian said, managing to lean over so that her cleavage was trying to make a jiggly escape from her shirt. “I’m sure I couldn’t do that myself. Oh, but you’re good at that stuff,” she said, as if it had just occurred to her. “Could you come by and take a look? I just know you could figure it out.”

  Dean wondered if he had the word ‘sucker’ tattooed on his forehead and ran his hand through his hair. He needed a haircut.

  “I don’t mind paying,” Gillian said coaxingly. “I know things are tight for you and Aaron.”

  The jingle of the store door was the sweetest sound that Dean had ever heard. “Sorry,” he said, hoping he sounded a little more sorry than he felt. “Have a lot to take care of here.”

  “Hey Dean,” Turner called. “You got a five-eighth ratchet head? I don’t need a whole set.”

  Dean showed him personally where the clearance bin of broken sets was. “Don’t know if we’ve got that size, but there’s a chance.”

  Gillian, pouting, purchased a half gallon of Draino and gave him a lingering gaze as she left.

  “Find what you needed?” Dean asked Turner. “The common sizes usually get snapped up fast.”

  “Didn’t need one,” Turner said with a chuckle. “Came in for a snow shovel, but those are right up front. Figured I’d look like an idiot asking you to point those out to me.”

  Dean smiled gratefully at Turner. “Thanks, Chief.” Turner was in charge of the three-man local fire department.

  “She’s shameless,” Turner said, shaking his graying head. “And you’re not great at saying no.”

  “Give me some credit,” Dean protested. “I have standards!”

  “She doesn’t,” Turner scoffed.

  “Hold on, now...” Dean laughed. “I think I’ve been insulted.”

  Turner picked out a snow shovel and Dean rang him up.

  The third jingle from the store door might have been a record number of customers in an hour, but this one was only Henry, shuffling in looking—if possible—more disheveled than ever.

  “Got any work?” Henry asked. He always looked a bit like he expected someone to kick him.

  Dean looked down at his taxes. “Yeah, could you just watch things for a little bit? I’ve got to get this postmarked today.” It was just an estimate; he could probably call what he’d already figured up good enough.

  Henry’s eyes brightened. “Sure,” he said, standing taller.

  Dean swiftly wrote out a check for entirely too much money and found a twenty-year-old envelope to stuff it into. The seal tasted bad and didn’t seem to want to stick, so he ended up closing the envelope with a strip of duct tape.

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said.

  Outside, Green Valley was in full autumn color.

  Trees along the lanes sported gold and orange and red, and merry breezes sent swirling leaves along the sidewalks. People were out raking their lawns, or mowing them one last time before the overnight frosts sent them into their long brown hibernation.

  The mention of hibernation made his bear make a sleepy murmur of longing. It had been a long time since Dean had taken an opportunity to get out and stretch on four paws. He was overdue for slipping out into the woods around Green Valley for a little time in his other form.

  Dean mailed his letter at the little post office and gathered the business mail from his box. Bills. Lots of bills.

  He looked through them wistfully. He wasn’t sure how his life had gotten where it was, and he couldn’t imagine it any differently, but he couldn’t help thinking that something was missing.

  Chapter 3

  In a fresh shirt, with her hair brushed and her make-up touched up, Shelley felt considerably better.

  “I know you were planning to head out tomorrow, but you are welcome to stay a few days,” Tawny told her when she ventured back down to the kitchen. “The house came with several spare bedrooms, and if I have guests in them, I can’t accidentally fill them up with books.”

  Shelley laughed because it was expected of her. Everyone else was thankfully gone; evening was falling, and probably they were all putting their sticky children into bed.

  “Thank you, Tawny,” she said genuinely; she did honestly like the woman her dad had just married. “I plan to leave tomorrow, but I was hoping to have someone look at my car before I left. It’s making a terrible rattling noise every time I go over bumps and I don’t want to get stranded halfway back to Minneapolis. Is there a good shop in town?”

  Tawny handed her a piece of carrot from the cutting board she was working on before Shelley could tell her that she didn’t like carrots.

  She put it down at the edge of the cutting board when Tawny turned back to the sink to wash her hands.

  “There’s only one shop in town,” Tawny said cheerfully. “And it’s great. Dean owns Ted’s Hardware, and his shop is right next door. You can’t miss it.”

  As advertised, it was impossible to miss the auto shop next to the hardware store. The town wasn’t big enough that you could miss anything even if you wanted to.

  Shelley pulled up in front of the single garage door and walked carefully around to the side door with its crooked ‘OPEN’ sign in the window. The sidewalk was cracked, and the last thing she needed to do was snap off a heel.

  Open seemed to be a slight exaggeration.

  There was a tall, greasy-looking counter in the tiny room with an old-fashioned register as well as a modern credit card machine (to Shelley’s relief). There was a pile of take-out menus that also gave her a moment of hope... until she noticed that they were all from Madison. It was too much to believe that there could be decent food in Green Valley to eat while they did the diagnosis of her car.

  Two chairs with cracked vinyl seats flanked a water dispenser with a leaning stack of tiny paper cups. The entertainment selection—and for that matter the decor—seemed to be limited to car magazines and farm economic journals. An open door behind the counter led out to the shop, to one side was a closed door that said ‘Ted’s Hardware,’ and a smaller door open in the corner suggested a restroom that no amount of money in the world could have convinced Shelley to use.

  “Hello?” she called hesitantly.

  “Yeah?”

  The man who suddenly sat up from behind the counter had clearly been sleeping. Shelley had a moment of wondering if a homeless man had wandered in.

  “I... have a problem with my car,” Shelley said cautiously, looking around. She was beginning to think it was worth the risk just to drive to the city.

  “I’m Henry; I’ll check you in. Dean’ll be back in a few. He had to walk to the post office.”

  A pad of carbon copy paper was put on the counter and a drawer was rummaged for a pen. “Make and model?”

  “Lincoln Continental,” Shelley said.

  The scruffy man whistled. “Nice. We don’t get so many of those, you know. Lotta tractors. Subarus. Pickups.”

  She gave him the rest of her details and very reluctantly passed him her key. “Is there a Starbucks nearby?” she asked plaintively. “Or some place with coffee? Maybe WiFi?” She knew there was decent coffee at her brother Shaun’s bakery, but this was the one day a week he was closed.

  “Best coffee in town is Gran’s Grits,” Henry said helpfully. “Two blocks over past the Presbyterian church across from the liquor store. I dunno about WiFi, but there’s a television in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you,” Shelley said primly. “Do you know how long it will take?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Maybe an hour?” Henry guessed. “Course, if we gotta order parts, it might be longer.”

  Shelley could imagine no torture worse than being trapped in Green Valley seve
ral extra days. Maybe her insurance would cover a rental. It was probably worth paying for a rental out of pocket if the alternative was being stuck here.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said firmly.

  “You do that,” Henry said cheerfully.

  Chapter 4

  Dean furrowed his brow at the unexpected car in his garage. A Lincoln Continental was not the type of vehicle that any locals drove.

  Well, not any of the real locals. There had been an influx of big city billionaires over the past few years; first Lee Montgomery who owned a bunch of big construction companies came in and married his daughter’s preschool teacher. Then there had been Shaun Powell, some kind of financial investor, who’d followed the trend by marrying his son’s preschool teacher. And just this summer, Shaun’s big shot engineer father, Damien, had surprised the whole town by sweeping spinster Tawny Summers off her feet.

  This wasn’t a car any of those men drove, which meant someone new, and Dean sourly wondered if there were any other preschool teachers in town to romance.

  Then he had a moment of hope; maybe they would run off with Gillian, and save the whole town a lot of trouble.

  “Got a car to look at,” Henry told him helpfully as he came into the office, waving a ticket at him. “Some fancy lady with clicky shoes and red lips.”

  Dean was disappointed for a moment, then hoped briefly that maybe Gillian’s man-eating ways really hid a closeted interest in women. That would certainly keep the town talking for a while. He squinted at the paper Henry gave him. “What’s the problem, exactly?” he asked. Henry’s handwriting was awful, and the problem probably wasn’t a rattlesnake.

  “Rattles going over bumps, she said,” he explained. “Worried about getting back to the city if it was something major.”

  Dean looked at the name on the key fob. Shelley Powell. She must be related to Shaun and Damien, he thought.

  “I’ll take a look,” Dean said. “Thanks for watching the counter.” He gave the man a certificate to Gran’s Grits. Cash in Henry’s hands would be spent at all the wrong places, but he didn’t want the man to starve, so he gave him what work he could do (and remembered to show up for) and paid under the counter in gift certificates to local stores.