The Long Trail Home; The Wishing Pearl

Long Trail Home

By Vickie McDonough


Long Trail Home is the third book in the Texas Trails series that I'm writing with Susan Page Davis and Darlene Franklin. It is my first book in the series, and it is a stand alone book. For more information about this series, visit the Texas Trails website: www.texastrailsfiction.com

What others are saying:

Hold on to your heart—Vickie McDonough is about to steal it away with an irresistible love story so unique and fresh, it will leave you breathless. It may be a "long trail home," but the pages have never flown so fast! This is prairie romance at its very best—I loved it!

Julie Lessman, award-winning author of The Daughters of Boston and Winds of Change series

Blurb:

A weary soldier returns from the War Between the States to discover his parents dead, his family farm in shambles, and his fiancée married. Riley Morgan takes a job at the Wilcox School for Blind Children and tries to make peace with God and himself. When a pretty, blind woman who cares for the children reaches through his scarred walls and touches his heart, he begins to find renewed faith and hope for the future. But when he discovers Annie feigned her blindness just to have a home, will his anger and hurt drive him away and ruin all chances for a future filled with love, faith, and family?


WACO, TEXAS, 1858

That one right there—he's your mark."
Annie Sheffield slipped past her daddy and peeked around the corner of the building. A handsome youth with wheat-colored hair stood in the dirt road in front of the mercantile, a shiny pocket watch dangling from his fingers on a silver chain. Annie squinted when a shaft of light reflected off the watch, and she blinked several times, refocusing on her prey. A much younger boy with the same color hair reached for the watch, but the older boy lifted the treasure higher to safety.
The taller boy's look was stern but gentle. "No, Timothy. Remember this watch was Grandpa's. It's very old, and we must be careful with it."

The younger boy's face scrunched up but he nodded. Then the comely youth bent down and allowed Timothy to hold the shiny watch for a moment before he closed it and put it back in a small bag, a proud smile on his handsome face.
Ducking back into the alley, Annie leaned against the wall in the early evening shadows. She glanced at her daddy. "Do I have to?"
"You wanna eat, don'tcha? We need that watch."
"But that boy looks so proud of it."
Her father narrowed his gray eyes. "I'd be proud if'n it was mine."
Annie sighed. If her father possessed the watch, he'd just go hock it or gamble it away.
"Go on with ya." He flicked his thin index finger in the air, pointing toward the street. He tugged down on the ugly orange, green, and brown plaid vest that he always wore. "Scat!"

Annie peered around the building again, taking a moment to judge how fast she'd have to run and where she could hide once she'd taken the watch. She'd come to hate being a pickpocket. Ever since she heard that street preacher several months back in Galveston hollering to a small crowd that stealing was breaking one of God's special laws, it had nagged her worse than a swarm of mosquitoes. But she was hungry, and they had no money.

She studied the boy's long legs. Could she outrun him? And what about his little friend?

Her daddy was an expert pickpocket. He could snitch a wallet and disappear into a crowd like a crow in a flock, but when it came to running away from a target, well, that's where she came in.

The tall cowboy was probably only a few years older than her thirteen years. He motioned to the younger boy, and they hopped up on the boardwalk and strolled toward her, completely unaware they were being spied on. He held one hand on the younger boy's shoulder, as if wanting to keep him close. Now that they both faced her, she could see their resemblance.

They had to be brothers. The big boy glanced at his watch bag, tucked it in his vest pocket, and gave it a loving pat.

Annie jumped back. "He's coming," she whispered over her shoulder.

Her father scowled. "I want that watch. Go!"
He gave her a shove. She stumbled forward and turned. The youth's blue eyes widened. "Hey, look—"
They collided—hard. Annie was knocked backwards, arms pumping, and her cap flew off. The youth grabbed her shoulders, and in a quick, smooth move that had taken Annie her whole life to master, she slipped his watch from his pocket and into hers. She ducked her head and stepped back. "Sorry, mister."

Her apology was more for stealing his treasure than crashing into him. She spun around and ran, hating the baggy trousers her father made her wear so she'd look like a boy. Hating the life she was forced to live. Hating that the handsome youth would hate her. She ran past a bank and a dress shop, then ducked down another alley. Behind the building she turned right instead of going left and back toward her daddy. Right now she didn't want to see him.

"Hey! Come back here, you thief!"

Annie's heart lurched, and she switched from trot to gallop. She could no longer see the watch's owner, but she knew it was him hollering. Bumping into that young man had flustered her. She hadn't expected him to be so solid, not for a youth not even full grown yet. Men grew taller and tougher here in Texas than in the other cities of the South where she'd mostly grown up—a different city every few weeks. A thief wasn't welcome in town for long.

Loud footsteps pounded behind her. She ducked under a wagon that sat behind the smithy, rolled, and then dove into the open doorway. She crawled into the shadows of the building and curled up behind a barrel that had oats scattered on the ground around it. She took several gasps of air and listened for footsteps.
The watch pressed hard against her hipbone, causing her guilt to mount. A horse in a nearby stall snorted and pawed the ground. Annie's heartbeat thundered in her ears as she listened for her pursuer's footsteps. Would he thrash her if he found her?

She peeked around the barrel. The tall boy stood in the doorway, looking around. She shrank back into the shadows like a rat—like the vermin she was.

After a moment, he spun around and quick steps took him away. Annie leaned against the wall, hating herself all over. Why couldn't she have been born into a nice family who lived in a big house? She'd even be happy with a small house, if she could have regular meals, wash up every week or so, and wear a dress like other girls.

But no, she had to be born the daughter of a master pickpocket.



**For more information about Vickie McDonough and her books, visit www.vickiemcdonough.com

Long Trail Home is available in bookstores and online:

Christianbook.com - http://www.christianbook.com/the-long-trail-home-texas-trails/vickie-mcdonough/9780802405852/pd/405852?product_redirect=1&Ntt=405852&item_code=&Ntk=keywords&event=ESRCP#curr

Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Long-Trail-Home-Texas/dp/0802405851/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1319028952&sr=8-1

© 2011 by VICKIE MCDONOUGH

* * *

The Wishing Pearl
By Nicole O'Dell

"O'Dell's heart for young adults shines through. A story of hope in the midst of pain, poignantly-written with vivid characters facing real-life issues, THE WISHING PEARL is a can't-put-down must-read for teens!" --Tosca Lee, author of Demon: A Memoir

Series Description:
Diamond Estates. Three girls are on a journey to find hope and healing. Each coming to Diamond Estates seeking solace… Each with her own unique set of struggles… And each capturing hearts and challenging faith.



THE WISHING PEARL
Sixteen-year-old Olivia Mansfield dreams of a land far, far away. . .
A land far away from her stepfather's abuse and torment.
A land far away from her mother's blind eye.
A land far away from the haunting memories of her past.


But then reality sets in, and Olivia knows she must make the best of her dire situation—at least until her high-school graduation. But when poor choices lead Olivia to the brink of a complete breakdown and she finds herself dealing with the unexpected death of her best friend, she comes to a crossroads.


Will Olivia find the path to ultimate hope and healing that her heart longs for?
Or will the demons from her past prove too much to bear?

Chapter One
Even the happiest of songs could sound mournful on the oboe when it was played just right.

Olivia Mansfield pulled the instrument from between her lips and traced her fingers along the silver tracks and keys that reminded her of the braces she wore on her teeth last year. The oboe understood her. It sang her somber song. Melancholy and forlorn, her band director once called it. Perfect words to describe its cry and Olivia.

Buzz. Olivia jumped as the intercom in her bedroom suite intruded.

"Are you almost done with that incessant noise?" barked a crackling voice.

Five more minutes had been the plan—but not anymore. She hurried to the wall and jabbed the Talk button. "I'll be at least another half hour, Chuck." Charles hated when Olivia called him that, almost as much as he hated the sound of the oboe. Which wasn't nearly as much as he hated her.

"Well, hurry up." The speaker clicked and fell silent. Olivia tipped the bell of her instrument in the direction of the door and blew a long, angry note, loud enough to make her stepfather's acne-scarred skin crawl just like he made hers every time he came near. She could wait and practice later when he wasn't home, but why should she? Only two more years of high school band and then, hopefully, a prestigious music school somewhere very far away. Making that dream come true required practice—lots of it. It wasn't her fault Charles couldn't tolerate the sound.

The door to her room flew open. Mom rapped her knuckles on the frame then bustled in looking perfect as usual in her designer clothes and impeccable makeup. Her big brown eyes surveyed the room.

"Hi, Mom. Thanks for knocking." Olivia gave her a raised eyebrow then continued her song. If her room were smaller, it might be considered a pigsty. Luckily, the enormity swallowed the mess, making it look only mildly untidy. Hopefully Mom wouldn't complain too much about all the dirty designer clothes littering the walnut floors.

"Sorry. I'm just in a hurry." Mom rushed over to the king- sized four-poster bed and yanked the silk duvet cover up over the rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets. "I wish you'd take better care of this beautiful room, Liv. Charles has been more than generous to pay for all of this and everything else you'd have only dreamed of having."

Yeah, Charles had bought Olivia all that stuff, but only so he'd look good to everyone else—certainly not to make her happy. "I never asked him for any of this." Olivia swiveled in the desk chair she'd pulled to the center of the room and gestured at her expansive quarters. The sitting area looked like a high-tech home theater pictured in a magazine, and the marble and granite bathroom would have satisfied a queen. The jetted tub was nice, but Olivia would never admit that to Charles. "Besides, I'm going to get in the bed in a couple of hours anyway, so why bother?"

Mom's spiked heels clicked as she strode across the room, swept up a pile of dirty clothes into her arms, then dumped them down the laundry chute near Olivia's bathroom door. "You know, Norma can't wash the laundry if you don't drop it down."

Whatever. Norma could come up here and get it if she wanted it—she sure got paid enough. Time to change the subject. "Where are you going anyway?"

"Don't you remember?" Mom turned to the mirror while she spoke and tucked a nonexistent errant hair back into her long dark waves.

When would she cut her hair into a more age-appropriate style—at least shoulder length? "Don't tell me this is your shop- ping weekend in Chicago."

"Yep. Tonight's a fancy downtown dinner with the girls and a night at the Ritz. Saturday is for shopping on Mag Mile and dinner again. Then we'll work off the calories with a lakefront bike ride on Sunday."

Two nights? Home alone with Chuck? "Will Jake be here?"

"Probably for some of the weekend. But he's definitely going to want to get out and have fun with his friends—he's only got three weeks left before he leaves for college. Try not to get in his way too much."

"That's my job. Stay out of everyone's way." Why should this weekend be any different? Olivia slumped in her chair.

Mom stacked some books that had slipped to the floor from Olivia's built-in bookcase. "Just try a little harder to be nice to Charles. He's never been anything but wonderful to you."

Gag. "No, Mom. Daddy was wonderful. Chuck. . .exists." Olivia threaded her fingers through the layers of her silky black hair to find the purple streak she'd added a few days ago. She twisted it around her fingers and put the ends in her mouth.

"Quit that. Do you know how many germs are in your hair?" Mom swiped the clump of hair from between Olivia's lips. "Now give me a hug. I'll be home in a couple of days. Just try to be pleasant. Okay?" She pulled Olivia back to arm's length and smiled as she slid her hand down the back of Olivia's head. "I'll buy you something special—purple to match that streak of rebellion in that gorgeous hair of yours."

Great. A present. Mom's answer for everything—she sure hadn't acted like that when Daddy was alive, and she wouldn't have even if she'd had the money. Olivia mumbled her thanks as Mom hurried from the room, high heels clacking on the wood.

Olivia rushed to lock the door, her plan the same as every other day: stay out of everyone's way. Nothing new. Probably shouldn't have started the weekend off with the oboe serenade though—much better not to draw attention to herself. But it was too late to worry about that. Her eyes drilled holes in the intercom. A shame she couldn't see through it into the rest of the house. Go down and make peace, or stay hidden as long as possible? It would help if she knew whether he was already drinking.


______________________________
Nicole O'Dell, founder of Choose NOW Ministries, battles peer pressure as she writes and speaks to preteens, teenagers, and parents about how to prepare for life's tough choices. She is the author of a bunch of YA books, including the popular Scenarios for Girls interactive fiction series and her recent release, THE WISHING PEARL, 1st in the Diamond Estates series. Non-fiction for teens includes Girl Talk, 2/1/12, which she wrote with her two daughters based on their popular blog column by the same name, and O'Dell's desire to bridge the gap between parents and teens is evident in her adult non-fiction like the upcoming Hot Buttons series.
Do Not Reproduce without permission.

Finally a Bride ; On Hummingbird Wings

Finally a Bride

By

Vickie McDonough

What a delightful story! Vickie McDonough treats her readers to a remarkable conclusion to the Boardinghouse Brides trilogy. Finally a Bride is a heartwarming story of two couples struggling to overcome their pasts as they build a future filled with faith and love.

--Amanda Cabot, author of Tomorrow's Garden

A feisty female reporter seeks to prove the new minister is harboring secrets.

Jacqueline Davis, a reporter for the Lookout Ledger, is bent on nabbing her story at any cost. When Noah Jeffers comes to Lookout as temporary pastor, Jack suspects there may be something hidden behind his shepherding ways. Soon though, Jack becomes attracted to the new pastor despite her initial hesitation. But as she uncovers the truth, will the story cost her too much? Will she reveal what she's found, or keep it hidden to protect newfound love?

One

Lookout, Texas

1896

Jacqueline Davis had done a lot of daring things in her life, but this deed had to be the most foolhardy. She held up her skirt with one hand, holding her free arm out for balance, and slid her foot across the roof's wooden shakes. The mayor's chimney was only a dozen more steps away. She peered down at the ground far below then yanked her gaze upward when a wave of dizziness made her sway. She sucked in a steadying breath. If she fell the two stories to the packed dirt below, she'd become tomorrow's news instead of her story about the mayor's latest scheme.

She just had to find out what he had up his sleeve. Weeks had passed since she'd landed an exciting story for Lookout's newspaper. She had to get the scoop—whatever the cost. Maybe then she'd have enough clippings in her portfolio to land a job in Dallas as a reporter and finally leave Lookout.

The sweat trickling down her back had nothing to do with the bright April sun warming her shoulders. A moderate breeze whooshed past, lifting her skirts and almost throwing her off balance. Her petticoat flapped like a white flag, but she was far from surrendering. She swatted down her skirts and glanced around the streets, thankful no one was out and about yet. "Oh, why didn't I don my trousers before attempting this stunt?"

"Because you reacted without thinking again, that's why," she scolded herself just like her mother had done on too many occasions to count. Would she never learn? Sighing, she carefully bent down, reached between her legs, pulled the hem of her skirt through and tucked it in her waistband. Holding her arms out for balance, she righted herself again.

The hour was still early, but with the mayor's house resting right on the busy corner of Bluebonnet Lane and Apple Street, she couldn't exactly listen outside his parlor window to the meeting he was holding inside. If the two well-dressed strangers hadn't ridden right past the boardinghouse while she'd been sweeping the porch, she'd have never known of their arrival.

Her knock on the mayor's door for permission to listen in and to take notes had resulted in a scowl and the door being slammed in her face. Scuttlebutt was running rampant around town that Mayor Burke had some great plan to bring new businesses to Lookout. He was up to something, and she meant to be the first to find out what it was.

She slid her left foot forward. Listening through the chimney opening was her only alternative. She just hoped the men's voices would carry up that far. Sliding her right foot forward, she held her breath. Her task must be completed quickly before anyone saw her.

"Jacqueline Hamilton Davis, you come down from that roof right this minute—or I'm calling off our wedding." Jack jumped at Billy Morgan's roar. She twisted sideways, swung her arms in the air, wobbled, and regained her balance on the peak of the house. Heart galloping, she glared down at the blond man standing in the street beside the mayor's house and swiped her hand in the air.

"Go away!" she hollered in a loud whisper. If she'd told him once, she'd told him a dozen times, she had no intention of marrying him.

Her foot slid toward the chimney. She had to get there right now or Billy's ruckus would surely draw a crowd, and she'd have to climb down without her story. A high-pitched scream rent the air.

"Don't fall, Sissy!"

Jack lurched the final step to the chimney and hugged the bricks. She peered down at her five-year-old sister and swatted her hand, indicating for Abby to leave, but the stubborn girl just hiked her chin in the air. Abby was so dramatic. She'd even practiced her screams until she could blast the shrillest and loudest screeches of all her friends. Parents no longer came running when the young girls practiced their hollering. Jack shook her head. It would be a shame if one of them ever truly needed help one day and she screamed, because not a soul in Lookout would come to her aid.

She peeked down to see if Billy was still there, and sure enough, the rascal stood in the middle of the dirt road with his hat pushed back off his forehead and his hands on his hips.

Uh oh. Across the street, her ma carefully made her way down the front porch steps of the boardinghouse—the bulge of her pregnant belly obvious even from this distance. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she looked around, probably checking on Abby.

Jack ducked down behind the chimney. With her ma so close to her time of birthing another baby, she didn't want to cause her distress—and finding her twenty-year-old daughter on a rooftop would certainly set her pulse pounding.

Movement on Main Street drew Jack's attention. She peered over the bank's roof to the boardwalk on the far side of the street. Oh, horse feathers! Now her pa was heading out of the marshal's office and hurrying toward her mother. He probably thought she'd drop that baby right there in the street. Their last child, two-and-a-half-year-old Emma, had been born in a wagon on the way back from Denison, almost a month early.

She glanced down at Billy, who stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. Her ma was looking down Main Street now. With precious few moments before the jig was up, Jack stood on her tiptoes, concentrating on her task. She listened hard, trying to decipher the muted words drifting up the chimney. The strong scent of soot stung her nose, but all she could hear was the faint rumble of men's voices.

She glanced back at the far edge of the roof, trying to decide whether to return to the tree and shinny back down now or wait until her mother and step-father went back inside. Would Billy give her away?

Jack heaved a frustrated sigh. Even if he didn't, Abby would surely tattle. She peeked at her sister. Abby ran toward their mother, her finger pointing up at the mayor's roof. Oh fiddlesticks.

Why did they have to come outside before she concluded her sleuthing? And now, thanks to Billy's caterwauling, a crowd was gathering on Bluebonnet Lane.

She quickly studied the town from her vantage point. This was the perfect spot to view any events taking place in Lookout and garner the news, but it was also dangerous. How could she manage to take notes and still keep her balance? Perhaps she could talk Jenny into building a platform with a fence around it atop her newspaper office so they could view the city whenever community events were happening.

"Jacqueline! Oh, my heavens. What are you doing up there?" Her ma splayed her hand across her chest. Abby stood beside her, looking proud that she'd gotten her big sister in trouble.

Jack held tight to edge of the chimney and laid her forehead against the bricks. She was as caught as a robber in a bank vault on Monday morning.

Thanks for reading this excerpt from Finally A Bride.

Please visit my website www.vickiemcdonough.com for more information about my books.

To purchase Finally A Bride or any of my books, visit

www.christianbooks.com,

www.amazon.com,

or your local bookstore.

Please do not reproduce without permission.

* * *

On Hummingbird Wings

By Lauraine Snelling

Published by FaithWords

(April 2011)

"Snelling can certainly charm." – Publishers Weekly

Doctors have no medical explanation why Gillian Ormsby's mother can't eat or get out of bed, but something has caused the once-spirited woman to give up her will to live. Despite their difficult relationship and an equally strained relationship with her sister, who lives in California near their mother, Gillian flies home and attempts to get their mother back on her feet. While home, Gillian restores her mother's neglected garden. There two hummingbirds take up residence and preside over the new relationship forming between Gillian and Adam, a neighbor and the local garden center owner. Although her goal is to return to her job in New York, Gillian begins to wonder if she can find a compromise between career, family and love

"But Mother is always dying." Why had she ever let the call come through? "I'm putting you on speaker." Gillian Ormsby clicked the SPEAKER button without waiting for her sister's reply. At least this way she could continue to flip the screens on the computer. Glancing at the clock, she mentally allowed Allison two more minutes before returning to the report in front of her.

"No, this time it is really serious. I can't make her get out of bed."

Gillian rolled her eyes. Leave it to Miss Perfect Allison to hit the dramatics. "Look, you live twenty miles away and I live across the country. Surely you can find time in your busy schedule to sweet-talk Mother into doing what you want." You always have.

"You don't need to be sarcastic. Just because I'm not a high-powered executive with an office in New York City. It isn't like what I have to do isn't important, with two active teenagers and a busy husband."

"I didn't say that. But, Allie, there is no way I can leave right now. There are rumors of a possible buyout, and everyone is walking around whispering like someone died. Have you talked with her doctor? Surely if she is that bad, she should go to a nursing home to help get her back on her feet."

"That's part of the problem; she doesn't want to get back on her feet. She wants to die. She says life here has no meaning for her any longer and heaven will be a far better place."

"Mother said that?" "And yes, I have talked with the doctor, but you know I don't understand a lot about medical things."

"Google it."

"Gillian, please. She needs you."

"Mother has made it quite clear through the years that she much prefers your company to mine." So suck it up, baby sister, and live with it. She drummed her nails on the desk pad.

"Look, I have to go. I'll call you back tonight." She checked her calendar. "No, make that tomorrow night, I have a commitment for tonight."

"What if she dies before then?"

Gillian closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. "Look, she's not going to die. She's threatened this for years. Every hangnail is mortal peril, you know that."

"You haven't seen her, in what—five years?"

Leave it to Allison to go for the stiletto. Although Gillian sent expensive gifts at the proper occasions, she'd not graced California with her presence in a long time. Surely, it hadn't been five years, had it? She counted back, using Christmas as the starting point. She'd spent the last one in Saint Croix, actually two of the last five; she'd needed warm weather by then. And while California was usually sunny in December, she'd wanted somewhere really warm and tropical to go along with it. One year she'd gone skiing, the first and last time in Vermont and the first and last time with Pierre. Since that debacle she'd sworn off both skiing and men.

That was three of the five. Where else had she gone? Oh, yes, one year she'd been home in bed—with the flu and her own rotten company.

"Gillian, are you listening to me?" The strident tone jerked her back to the moment.

"Of course I am." What had she missed?

"Well, then?"

"Well, what?"

"When are you coming?" Gillian glanced heavenward as if hoping for deliverance.

"Sorry, I have a call that I have to take. I'll get back to you." She hung up before her sister could respond. Clicking on her intercom, she instructed her assistant to hold any calls from Allison and collapsed against the back of her leather executive chair. Why now? She really didn't dare leave, not if she wanted to be sure of an office to come back to. Glancing around the room, she focused on a painting she'd found at a local art fair and hung opposite her desk to help relieve moments of stress. The painting depicted purple wisteria cascading over a white trellis that had one corner of its arch in need of repair. Much like she did right now. The four-paned cottage windows of the cozy house at the end of a brick walk beckoned her in. She drew in a deep breath, held it to the count of ten, and blew it all out on a gentle stream. Her shoulders relaxed immediately, as did the tension pulling from the back of her head, through her scalp, and to her eyebrows.

Someday she would own a cottage like that, maybe as a summer place; it didn't matter on which coast. What mattered was the garden and the sense of peace that seeped from the picture into her soul. Digging in the dirt did that for her. Gardening was the one thing she had in common with her mother.

Surely Mother wasn't really dying.

Gillian flexed her fingers. Allie had been born exaggerating. No occasion was sufficient in and of itself; she always had to make it bigger and brighter, deeper and wider. Gillian stared at the computer screen where she'd been working on the proposal for a three o'clock meeting. The figures blurred, causing her to blink and blink again.

Her mother could not be dying. She was far too young and had always been robustly healthy. She claimed her gardening did that for her.

So what had happened to cause this, this manifestation of . . . of . . . of what? Granted even fingernail splits were traumatic to her mother, but she'd never taken to her bed before.

You don't have time to think on this now, she ordered herself. Get that proposal done. She knew the figures added up, but could she cut anywhere to reduce the bottom line?

The intercom clicked in. "Gillian, you have one hour."'

This excerpt is printed by permission of FaithWords, a division of Hachette Book Group.

All rights reserved.

Blessings, Lauraine Snelling

www.LauraineSnelling.com

and

www.onhummingbirdwings.com

Mutiny of the Heart

MUTINY OF THE HEART


Book 1 in an exciting new series set in historical Charleston


By award winning author Vickie McDonough


When a young woman arrives on Lucas Reed's doorstep, claiming the small boy in her charge is his son, Lucas is certain she's a charlatan, but then he looks at the child's face—a face that remarkably resembles his own.




Charleston, South Carolina

1788


Heather Hawthorne gazed at the monstrous homes of Charleston as another wave of doubt slammed into her with the full force of a hurricane. Was she making the right decision?


Hadn't she asked herself that question a thousand times since boarding the ship back home in Canada? Was it too late to hail the carriage driver and ask him to return them to the Charlotte Anne before it set sail for the Caribbean?


"Are we almost there, Aunt Heather?"


Smiling down at the lad she loved as her own, she ruffled his hair then found his cap on the seat and set it on his head. "Aye, dear one, we've nearly arrived."


Jamie furrowed his brow and leaned against her arm. "Do you think he will like me?"


Heather's heart clenched as she patted his soft cheek. "Of course he will."


Please, Lord. Let it be so. Holding the lad's hand, she watched the tall homes, and even taller palm trees, pass by. She hadn't seen the likes of such houses since her family left England and settled off the coast of Canada on Nova Scotia. Her poor cottage was probably a fraction of the size of the carriage houses that sat behind many of the giant homes. Nearly all had one- and two-story porches, or piazzas as she'd heard them called. Many of them faced the Charleston harbor, welcoming the cooling breezes of the sea. She lifted her head. Though she could not see the harbor at the moment, she could smell the salty air.


Lucas Reed was said to be one of the wealthiest ship- builders in the area and would certainly live in one of these large homes. No sooner had the thought taken wing than the coach slowed and stopped. Heather gasped and held her hand against her chest. The imposing brick house looming above them was three stories tall. The decorative front door was sheltered by a rounded portico supported by four massive white columns. Curved stairways on either side led up to the landing. Ivy clung to the brick below the portico and crept out onto the stairs, giving the home a soft accent.


The carriage driver lowered the steps and opened the door. "The home of Mr. Lucas Reed, miss."


She accepted the hand he held out and descended the steps, turning to check on Jamie. He shrank back, staring at her with wide blue eyes. "Don't be afraid, lad. I'll be with you."


He nodded then gathered the bag that held his favorite possessions and hopped down, looking around with a crinkled brow. "Where's the house?"


The driver chuckled and motioned toward the red brick structure. " 'Tis here, boy."


"But that's a big building." Jamie tilted his head back and looked up at the portico.


"Aye, the houses here are quite large."


Now that was an understatement if there ever was one. Heather swallowed the lump in her throat. She'd gone through so much to get here, but what if the man didn't want the boy?


Lucas Reed had more money than he knew what to do with from the looks of this house, and his reputation for helping others was widely talked about—although he surely hadn't helped Jamie's mother any. She pursed her lips, trying to maintain a proper attitude. She would see that he did right by the lad, even if she had to remain in this hated country to do so.


The coachman lifted out her satchel and Jamie's smaller one. "I shall run these up the stairs for you, miss."

She smiled, found a coin in her handbag, and paid the man when he returned to the coach. "Thank you for your service."


"Should I wait for you, miss?"


"Nay." Surely Mr. Reed could provide transportation back to the docks. Straightening her back and her resolve, she took Jamie's hand and climbed the stairs to the massive white door. She pounded the knocker and gazed around at the homes crowded together. How could one live with neighbors clustered so nearby?


The door opened, and she swallowed hard. A butler studied her, gazing down her length and back up. His eyes narrowed a bit. "How can I be of service?"


"We're here to see Mr. Reed. Is he at home?"


"Hmm. . .I don't remember him having an appointment today."


"We don't have one." Heather lifted her chin at the stern man. "We've just arrived in town, and I had no chance to notify Mr. Reed in advance."


Jamie tugged her hand, shuffling his feet. "I need to use the. . .you know."


The butler backed away, holding the door open. "Step inside, miss, and I'll see if Mr. Reed is available. May I tell him the nature of your business?"


" 'Tis rather private." Heather ducked her head beneath his stern gaze. She got the impression he didn't think much of her, but he wasn't the one she was worried about. They stepped inside, and he hoisted their bags and set them in the entryway then closed the door.


"Stay here. I'll return shortly. You may leave your card in the receiving tray over there." He pointed to a long, narrow table that held a hammered silver tray with three of the four corners bent inward, then strode into the interior of the house.


She wandered over to the table, taking in the fine furnishings of the home. In the dish lay several calling cards with the owners' names on them. She had no card to leave. What would it matter anyway?


"Aunt Heather. . . "


"Hang on a bit longer, please." She stooped in front of Jamie and brushed his dark hair from his deep blue eyes. Oh, how she'd miss him. He was like a son to her, but he deserved to know his father, especially since his mother had died.


But would the father be worthy of such a fine lad?

Vickie McDonough

www.vickiemcdonough.com


Where to buy a copy: www.heartsongpresents.com/book/detail/9781616261122/



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