A Time To Keep

Re-read bestselling author Rochelle Alers’ amazing novel that illustrates the bonds of family and love.

A change of scenery can often create an unexpected change of heart…

Gwendolen Taylor, fed up with big city life, finds herself inheriting an antebellum estate in Bayou Teche. Little does she know that this legacy may lead to a love beyond her wildest hopes and dreams.

Originally published in 2006.

A Time to Keep

Rochelle Alers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

TITLE PAGE

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

EPILOGUE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER 1

The ring tone from Gwendolyn Taylor’s cell phone playing Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3 in E-flat major pulled her attention away from the panoramic landscape of Cajun country. She’d just passed a road sign that indicated she’d entered the town limits of Franklin, Louisiana.

Looking at the caller ID on her cell, she pushed a button on the hands-free receiver. “Yes, Lauren.”

“Are we there yet?” Laughter followed the childish query.

Shaking her head and sucking her teeth, Gwen said loudly, “Girl, you need a job that takes you out of the house, because you’re beginning to sound like your kids.” Lauren, a literary researcher and her husband, bestselling author, Caleb Samuels, both worked from home.

“Are you there yet?” Lauren repeated.

She glanced at the GPS navigational screen. “Almost.”

“How is Louisiana?”

“It’s different from our neck of the woods.”

Lauren’s soft laughter came through the speaker. “Don’t you mean my neck of the woods?”

Gwen smiled. “My driver’s license still has a Boston address, my car a Massachusetts plate, and when I open my mouth and say pawk everyone will know that I will never be crowned Miss Sweet Tater Pone.”

“You’re right about that,” Lauren agreed. “But you should know you’re much too mature for an insipid beauty contest.”

Gwen’s delicate jaw dropped. “Mature? Speak for yourself, Mrs. Samuels. You’re the one with three children, and a possible fourth on the way.”

“I told you before that Royce is going to be my last baby.”

“You said that after you had Kayla.”

“He just happened, cuz.”

“Getting pregnant doesn’t just happen Lauren Taylor-Samuels. Didn’t you tell me that you wind up pregnant whenever you and Caleb take afternoon naps together?”

“For your information, Miss Know-It-All, Cal and I no longer nap together in the afternoon.”

“Are you saying you guys have given up knockin’ boots?”

Lauren laughed again. “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it might incriminate me.”

Gwen took another quick glance at the navigational screen. She was almost there. “You guys should have one more and make it an even four.”

“I’ll have one more if you have one.”

“Can’t, cuz. I don’t have a man.”

“You don’t want a man, Gwen.”

“Correction, Lauren. I don’t need a man.”

“You’re going to need one to make a baby.”

“Not if I go the test tube route.”

“No! You can’t, Gwendolyn.”

Lauren only called her by her full name whenever she was upset with something Gwen said or did. “I can and I will if I’m not married by the time I’m thirty-eight.”

“You better start looking for a man now because you’ll be looking at thirty-eight in less than four years.”

Slowing her late-model sedan, Gwen came to a complete stop at an intersection. Looking both ways she continued in a southwesterly direction. “So will you, Lauren Vernice Taylor-Samuels.” She and Lauren were first cousins, born weeks apart.

“But, I’m the one with the husband and children.”

“You don’t have to rub it in, Lauren.”

“I’m not rubbing it in. You would’ve married years before me if you hadn’t broken off your engagement to Craig Hemming.”

“Craig was wrong for me. He was too old and too possessive. I can’t stand a man who won’t allow me my space.”

“Is that why you’re running away, Gwen? Because you need space?”

“You know I’m not running away.” She didn’t want to argue with Lauren about why she’d sold her condominium and resigned her position as a lifestyle writer at the Boston Gazette to move fifteen hundred miles away and live in a house she’d inherited from a relative she hadn’t seen in more than twenty years.

“I don’t want you to think I’m giving you a hard time,” Lauren continued in a tone she used when correcting her children. “It’s just that I miss you already. You’re more than a cousin. You are my sister.”

“Stop it,” Gwen chided softly, as her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t drive and cry at the same time. I’ll call you tomorrow after I see what Aunt Gwendolyn left me.”

“You promise?”

She smiled, blinking back the tears shimmering in her raven-colored eyes. “I promise. Kiss the children for me, and give Caleb my love.”

“I will,” Lauren said. “Later, cuz.”

Pressing a button, Gwen ended the call, struggling to bring her emotions under control. She was frightened—no, petrified was a better word—to leave all that was familiar to her for something so removed from who or what she was. But she knew her life would not change unless she actively effected that change.

It had taken her four years to become the consummate minimalist; she’d streamlined her lifestyle eliminating what she considered excess as she purged her closet of clothes she hadn’t worn more than twice in a given season, donated books to the local library and nursing homes that were collecting dust on her to-be-read pile, and gave up entertaining men who’d professed their undying love, but were unable to commit to something deeper.

Gwen was still trying to uncover what deeper meant. Did it translate to I love you instead of I like you a lot? Whatever it was, she wanted no part of their superficial games. At thirty-four she was ready to start anew in a different state and with property she’d inherited from her namesake—a reclusive, former actress—her great-aunt.

A smile slowly crept through her expression of uncertainty as she drove down Main Street. A wave of nostalgia swept over her; it was as if she’d stepped back in time. Old-fashioned street lamps lined the street, rolling out beneath an arbor of live oaks.

The lush setting had become a reality. Boston-born, reared, and educated, Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor was about to trade the cold, harsh New England winters for the lush, sultry heat of Bayou Teche, the largest of Louisiana’s many bayous.

Her parents, her father in particular, were opposed to her moving so far away. Millard and Paulette Taylor had lost one child, a son, to leukemia before he entered adolescence, and sought to hold onto their surviving child at all costs.

She took another quick look at the screen. She would be home within another two miles. Home—a house she’d only seen in photographs, a place that was hers to renovate or decorate to suit her tastes.

Gwen left Franklin’s Main Street and maneuvered onto a narrow, winding road leading to the property known to the locals as Bon Temps. The setting sun turned the surrounding landscape into a swamp that she glimpsed through a shadowy veil. Cypress, pine and oak trees draped in Spanish moss stood like sentinels overlooking a body of slow-moving water teeming with various wildlife while providing perches for species of birds she’d never seen before.

She was so awed by the beauty of the scenery that she didn’t see the three-legged dog hopping across the road. Swerving sharply to avoid hitting the dog, she veered to the right, skidded, and came to an abrupt end in a ditch.

“Damn!” she muttered between clenched teeth.

Taking a deep breath, she shifted into Reverse, then into Drive, stepped on the gas as the car went completely still. There was only the sound of spinning tires. She shifted again, this time into Park, and stared through the windshield. She was literally stuck in the mud.

Gwen saw something moving in the water less than a hundred feet from where she sat—stranded—a prisoner in her own vehicle. She didn’t know what was gliding under the smooth surface, and didn’t much want to know because she wasn’t getting out of the car.

Reaching for her cell phone, she scrolled through the directory while she searched through her leather handbag on the passenger-side seat for her credit card case. Pressing a button, she listened to the ringing for a programmed number.

“Road assistance, Zack speaking.”

Gwen gave Zack her name, membership number and her location. He took the information, telling her he would call her back as soon as he had located a nearby service station.

Drumming her fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, she hummed a nameless tune while awaiting a call back. Ten minutes later, she grabbed the receiver after the first ring.

“Gwendolyn Taylor.”

“Miss Taylor, this is Zack. I called two stations in your area, one doesn’t have a tow truck, and the other is out on a call.”

“What time will he be back?”

“It’s going to be at least an hour.”

“An hour!” she repeated, her voice rising slightly. There was no way she was going to sit in a car alone surrounded by who-knew-what type of wildlife creeping, crawling, or slithering around her.

“Do you want to wait, Miss Taylor?” Zack drawled.

Why, she wondered, did it take him more than thirty seconds to say seven words. The further south she’d driven, the more pronounced the drawl. “I’ll call you back,” she said, not knowing what else to say. She ended the call, then dialed nine-one-one.

“St. Martin Parish Police. Deputy Jameson speaking.”

She took a deep breath. “Deputy Jameson, my name is Gwendolyn Taylor, and I’m stuck in a ditch on the road leading to Bon Temps. I called for road service, but was told they can’t come for another hour.”

“Are you alone, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“What type of ve-hic-le are you driving?”

Gwen shook her head. He’d drawled out vehicle into more than three syllables. “It’s a dark blue BMW sedan.”

“I’ll radio one of our officers to assist you. Make certain you keep your cell phone on in case we have to call you.”

“I will. Thank you, Deputy Jameson.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

Holding the tiny phone in a death grip, she sat back and waited for one of St. Martin Parish’s finest to rescue her.

* * *

Sheriff Shiloh Harper glanced at the watch strapped to his left wrist for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past hour. He couldn’t wait for his shift to end so he could go home, take a cool shower, and crawl into the hammock on the screened-in second-story veranda, where he could remind himself that he was one day closer to prosecuting criminals instead of arresting them.

He was covering for a vacationing deputy, and had spent the shift mediating petty incidents: a teenage boy had pumped two dollars more in gas than he had on him; a fifteen-year-old girl had tried to buy beer with a fake ID; and he’d issued a slew of tickets for drivers exceeding the speed limit in a school zone.

As he slowed the police-issued Suburban SUV, he maneuvered behind a copse of trees to wait for wannabe NASCAR drivers who used a stretch of roadway without a stop sign or traffic lights as their private racetrack. Leaning back in the leather seat, he stared at the radar device and waited for the sun to set. With the approach of nightfall, he was certain to catch at least a couple of speeders before his noon-to-eight-o’clock shift ended.

“Shiloh?”

He sat up, suddenly alert when his deputy’s voice came through the small two-way radio clipped to his left shoulder. “Yes, Jimmie.”

“I just got a call from a woman who’s stranded along the road to Bon Temps. I don’t think she’s from around here because she talks real funny. You want her number?”

“No. Call and let her know I’m on my way.”

Shiloh ended the call, placed the red light on the dashboard and headed onto the roadway. Motorists, seeing the flashing red light, moved over to the shoulder to give the official vehicle the right of way. Within minutes of Jimmie Jameson’s call, he had pulled up opposite a dark-colored, late-model sedan with Massachusetts license plates. A slight smile curved the corners of his mouth when he remembered what his deputy said about the stranded motorist talking funny. Pushing open the door, he reached for a flashlight before alighting from the SUV and approaching the car.

He switched on the flashlight and knocked softly on the driver’s door. Large dark eyes stared at him through the glass; he gestured for her to lower the window. She complied and the smell of new leather mixed with the subtle scent of a sensual perfume wafted from the interior.

“I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle, miss.”

Gwen stared at the shadowy face of the man only inches from her own. “I can’t,” she said breathlessly. The eyes staring back at Gwen reminded of her a cat’s. They were an odd shade of gold-green. What made them appear so unusual was that they were set in a brown face with hues ranging from sienna to alizarin.

His eyebrow lifted. “Are you injured?”

She shook her head like someone in a trance. The time she’d spent in the car waiting for assistance had traumatized her. She’d imagined the most macabre scenarios: an alligator climbing up on the hood of the car and smashing the windshield with his powerful tail; a venomous insect crawling in and biting her; or that the mud was quicksand.

“I can’t get out,” she said, unable to control the quiver in her voice.

Reaching into the car, Shiloh released the lock, and opened the door. Hunkering down, he directed the beam of light around the car’s interior. He trained the flashlight on the woman’s legs and feet, which were clad in a pair of cropped pants and sandals. His expressive eyebrows lifted again. She had nice legs and beautifully groomed feet. Her sandals screamed couture with a price tag that probably exceeded the weekly salary of many local residents.

“Can you walk?”

“Yes, but…” Her words trailed off as she stared at the tall man in a crisp tan uniform and western-style light-colored hat. A star on his chest identified him as the sheriff, and a name tag as Harper.

“But what?” Shiloh asked when she didn’t complete her statement.

Sighing, Gwen closed her eyes. “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what? Messing up your shoes?”

She opened her eyes and rolled them at the lawman. A slight frown marred her smooth forehead. How dare he believe she was so vain or insipid that she was more concerned about a pair of shoes than her personal safety.

“Alligators. Snakes.”

A hint of a smile softened Shiloh’s mouth. Jimmie was right about her talking funny. Her Boston accent was as thick as the haze blanketing the bayou before the heat of the sun pierced its shadowy veil.

“The snakes and gators are in the water, miss.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?” Smiling broadly, he nodded. “How do you know there isn’t one under my car?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if there is, then I wouldn’t be here talking to you, because I definitely would’ve been dinner.”

Gwen crossed her arms under her breasts over a white tank top, bringing his gaze to linger there. “Exactly. Now, unless you can assure me that there are no animals lurking next to my car I’m not getting out.”

Shiloh was hard pressed not to bare his teeth at her. How was he going to get her car out of the ditch with her behind the wheel? If Miss Beantown refused to come to him, then he would have to take it to her.

After slipping the flashlight into a loop on his belt, he straightened up, reached into the car, and scooped her off the seat. The unexpected motion forced her to wrap her arms around his neck to maintain her balance. He shifted her slightly, molding her breasts to his chest.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gwen shouted at him. Her right hand fisted. “Put me down.”

Shiloh tightened his hold under her knees. “In the mud, miss?”

“No. Over there,” she demanded, pointing to where he’d parked his sport utility vehicle.

He shifted her again, smiling. “What do you plan to do with that fist?”

Gwen looked at her hand as if it was something she’d never seen before. Heat suffused her face. There was no doubt she was ready to punch out the tall lawman holding her effortlessly as if she were a child. It was also apparent his diet wasn’t made up of pizza and beer or coffee and greasy doughnuts like some of the cops she’d come to know during her years as a reporter for the Boston Gazette. She relaxed her fingers.

Shiloh smiled. “Good. Now I don’t have to cuff you and haul you in for assaulting an officer. What’s your name, miss?”

“Do you have to know my name?”

Crossing the road, Shiloh ignored her hostile query. “Yes. I’m going to have to file a report.”

“Why?”

He met her questioning gaze in the waning daylight. “I don’t know how you do things up north, but down here whenever someone places a call to our police department we follow up with a written report. Which means I’m going to need your license and registration.”

Gwen frowned. “You think I stole the car?”

Not bothering to answer her question, Shiloh deposited her on the passenger seat of the Suburban. “Stay here until I come back.”

Gwen registered the edge of authority in his slow drawling speech pattern. He’d told her to stay as if she were a dog. Where was she going in the backwoods, and in the dark?

Shiloh returned to her car. Not only did she talk funny, but she also had a quick tongue. What he didn’t want to think about was how nice she smelled and how good she felt in his arms.

Slipping behind the wheel, he adjusted the lever under the front seat to accommodate his longer legs. Not bothering to close the driver-side door, he shifted into Reverse, turned the wheel slightly, then shifted into Drive, maneuvering out of the mud and onto the shoulder. He adjusted the air-conditioning, noting the gas gauge. It registered a half tank. At least she knew enough not to drive around on E, or even close to it.

He picked up her handbag off the passenger seat, recognizing the designer logo with a single glance. His ex-wife’s closet overflowed with designer bags, shoes, sunglasses and clothes. If the item didn’t have someone’s name stitched or stamped on it, then she refused to buy it.

A knowing smile softened his mouth. Miss Beantown drove a six-figure car, wore very nice shoes and carried a very, very nice handbag. There was no doubt the lady from Massachusetts was top shelf. And he wondered, what was she doing driving around back roads at night in Cajun country?

* * *

Gwen could not stop the wave of heat washing over her face and upper body. All it took was a little maneuvering to get her car out of a ditch. How, she thought, was she able to drive through mounds of snow, not spin out on icy streets or highways, yet couldn’t extricate herself from a mud bank?

She stared at the mud-covered boots rather than at the face of the man striding toward her, breathing in quick shallow breaths. Never had she been so embarrassed. She thought about slipping out of the SUV and making a run for her car, but quickly changed her mind. There were enough televised police chases, and she had no intention of adding to the footage.

The driver’s side door opened and she stared, wide-eyed, at the man climbing into the vehicle beside her. Not only was he tall, but also big. Not fat big, but muscled big. His biceps bulged against the sleeves of his uniform, and she forced herself not to glance below his chest.

Tilting her chin, lowering her lashes, and affecting a smile that usually left men with their mouths gaping, Gwen sought to replace the scowl on Sheriff Harper’s face with one that was more friendly. After all, he’d taken an oath to protect and serve, not berate and abuse.

Shiloh gave the woman sitting beside him a sidelong glance. “You can stop flirting with me because I’m not going to give you a citation.” He dropped her handbag in her lap.

An audible gasp escaped Gwen’s parted lips. Scorching heat swept over her from head to toe. “I’m not flirting with you. Why would I? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“No, you haven’t—not yet anyway.” Shiloh gave her a direct stare. “May I have your license and registration?”

Gwen glanced at his long, well-groomed hands when he opened a leather binder, then removed a pen from a breast pocket. Searching through her handbag, she took out a small leather case and removed the documents he’d requested.

Shiloh took a quick glance at her license. “What’s your name?”

“Gwendolyn Taylor.”

“Address.”

“Which one?”

Shiloh went completely still, his fingers tightening on the pen. “You have more than one?”

She smiled. “Yes. You have the one on my license and registration, but…”

“But what, Miss Taylor?” he asked when she didn’t finish her statement.

“I have a new address.”

He stared directly at her, liking what he saw. Gwendolyn Taylor wasn’t as pretty as she was attractive—sensually attractive. Her round face made her look much younger than her actual age. Her large dark eyes sparkled like polished onyx in a flawless sable-brown face; her nose was short and cute, her mouth full and lush; and her hair was a profusion of dark flyaway curls that fell over her forehead and along the nape of her slender neck. He didn’t want to think of her rounded body. It was a bouquet of lushness. He remembered the tagline about real women having curves. Gwendolyn Taylor had enough curves for two women.

“Where do you live now?”

“Here in St. Martin Parish. I’m moving into Bon Temps. Gwendolyn Pickering was my great-aunt.”

Shiloh stared at Gwen. There had been a lot of talk after the owner of the house passed away earlier in the year. Developers swooped down on Bon Temps like scavengers on rotting carrion. The men had come, checkbooks in hand, to purchase the house and the six acres on which it sat, but Gwendolyn Pickering’s attorney refused to meet with them. He’d turned them away because his client had willed her property to a relative—a Massachusetts relative.

“That should please a lot of folks around here,” Shiloh said, after he’d recovered from his shock.