Excerpt of Midnight Clear

Excerpt from Midnight Clear, the next book in the Laurel Valley Series. Coming December 2024

Hank O'Hara stared out of the window in his father's office, fascinated by the bony branches of the sycamore trees that surrounded his parent's ranch. Twin Peaks jutted from behind the trees—snow covered and majestic—and pregnant gray clouds frothed low and ominous, seeping into the valleys. More snow would come before morning.

It had been a wicked winter, the temperatures below freezing and the wind whipping from down the mountain and into Laurel Valley. Even the die hard skiers were giving the mountains a hard pass this winter. The weather man kept using the word treacherous.

He took a drink of the hot tea he'd made as he passed through the kitchen, and winced when he found it cold. He had no idea how long he'd been standing at the window, thinking of the projects he had piling up or how he'd rather be outdoors than cooped up inside—even with a snowstorm coming.

"You can't hide in here forever, you know," his father said.

Hank turned from the window to see his father grinning at him from behind his massive walnut desk. His feet were propped on the edge as he leaned back in his chair, very much lord of the castle. He was a handsome man—an older version of the five sons he'd sired—with silver hair that had once been black as coal and the blue eyes of the Irish gypsies he was descended from. His body was disciplined and in excellent shape for a man in his early sixties. Ranch life wasn't for the weak.

Mick O'Hara was a man's man and had managed to raise five rambunctious—and sometimes mischievous—sons to adulthood, with only a handful of trips to the ER over the years. A success in Hank's opinion.

"You're doing a pretty good job of it," Hank said, tipping his cup to his father. "In fact, if I recall, you usually disappear around this time every year."

"Well, can you blame me?" Mick asked. "I built this house with my own hands. And then I added on more rooms as each of you boys came into the world. And then I added more rooms as your brothers started marrying and adding to the family. I've grown out of my own house. Where else am I supposed to go? Even the animals are tired of me sneaking out to the barn."

Hank chuckled.

"I've got all I need right here." Mick opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of expensive Irish whiskey and a box of cigars. "What do you say, my boy? Can I pour you two fingers?"

"I wouldn't say no," Hank said, accepting the short crystal glass. "But if mom smells that cigar smoke I'm not taking the wrap for you."

"Traitor," his father said. But Mick just grinned as he took out a portable fan from his desk and flipped it on before lighting his cigar.

Hank took a seat in the burgundy leather chair across from the desk and stretched out his long legs.

"You've got work on the mind," Mick said.

"How do you know?" Hank asked.

"Because if you had a woman on the mind your expression would've been different." Mick waggled his eyebrows as he took another puff from the cigar. "I've learned a thing or two in my sixty years."

Hank's mouth quirked in a half-smile, identical to his father's. "I told mom I'd take the week off and spend it with the family since everyone is here."

"A noble thing, family," Mick said. "Nothing fills your heart with pride and makes you want to take up the bottle at the same time. Next time just tell your mother no."

Hank scoffed. "You try telling mom no."

"Did that once," Mick said, remembering fondly. "Still have the scar to prove it. Quite a woman your mother."

"There you go," Hank said, nodding. "It's not that I don't want to be here. It's nice that everyone is under one roof. It's been too long. And it's been a while since I took a vacation."

"That's an understatement," Mick said. "I didn't realize you even knew the word."

"I like staying busy," Hank defended. "And busy is better than the alternative. I've got the new city hall project ready to go, and residential building has increased, even in the off-season. It's a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I really like the money. But on the other…"

"You don't want a population boom in Laurel Valley," his dad finished.

"Yeah," Hank said.

"It was bound to happen sooner or later," Mick said. "People like to build their ski chalets and bunny bungalows. Fortunately, it's short lived. Take their money, son. You know they'll only use their fancy houses a few weeks out of the year. That thin blood does no good up here."

"Good advice," Hank said.

"And maybe while you're home for the holidays you could take a look at the boiler. It's making a weird sound again."

"At least I'm useful for something," Hank said, putting his empty glass down on the desk.

"That's the spirit," Mick said, his laugh big and booming. "You know what you need?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"A wife," Mick said. "Maybe a baby or two. What you're feeling is restless. Work isn't enough to fulfill you anymore. You're almost thirty-five years old."

"And with that," Hank said, coming to his feet. "I'll go look at the boiler. And I won't mention to mom about the cigar."

Mick narrowed his eyes and clamped the cigar between his teeth. "That's just downright nasty. You'd blackmail your own father."

"I think it's extortion," Hank said, laughing at the indignant look on his father's face as he left the office. He wouldn't rat the old man out. But a little fear served him right for trying to meddle in his love life.

As soon as he left the secluded space where his father's office was located, he was bombarded with a cacophony of sounds. Children laughing and screaming as they chased each other at breakneck speeds through the house, his brothers yelling at a football game, and women's laughter coming from the kitchen. And then there was him.

Hank always felt a little bit like the odd man out. He was the middle child, thirteen months younger than Aidan and ten months older than Colt.

A rather raucous shriek came from somewhere overhead and he heard a crash followed by a herd of footsteps running down the stairs.

"Harrison O'Hara," his sister-in-law Dylan yelled from the kitchen. "That better not have been you and your merry band of cousins. If you made a mess you clean it up."

There were grumbles and a bunch of, "Yes, ma'ams," as footsteps could be heard going back up the stairs.

Hank grinned. It was bedlam. Complete bedlam. He loved his family. Really, he did. It's just that there were so many of them. Everywhere he turned, there was another O'Hara in his path for him to trip over.

Hank considered himself a tolerant kind of man. But enough was enough. He hadn't had fifteen minutes to himself in the last week with his nephews and nieces underfoot. He'd exhausted every avenue of entertainment he could possibly think of—sledding, ice skating, taking the kids for ice cream, and they'd played so many video games his eyes were starting to cross. He loved being the "favorite" uncle, but if he didn't get out of this place soon he was going to lose his mind. It seemed like every O'Hara in the house had something to say or argue about. And they all had to do it at top volume.