Firefly Nights

The road she’s meant to be on

Hoping for a fresh start, Kitty Galloway packs up her son and a few bare necessities and hits the road. Only now they’re stranded in the Blue Ridge Mountains and at the mercy of small-town justice. But it’s the temporary gig she gets caring for an injured pilot that makes her start believing in second chances.

After completing his tour of duty, Campbell Oakes came home a hero to his North Carolina town. Until a freak accident forces the decorated soldier to accept the help of the down-on-her-luck single mother. Quirky and far too appealing, Kitty—along with her sassy kid—is making Campbell trust in the future again. Except it turns out that Kitty isn’t the woman he thought she was...

Her eyes glistened with tears, and he pulled her to him.

Kitty drew in a long, shuddering breath. He wasn’t wrong about her. She cared deeply about her son and, he had to believe, about him. He could make her change her mind. “I wanted to talk to you. Come sit with me.”

Kitty walked with him to the sofa. Campbell sat beside her and took her hands. The familiarity of the act made his heart ache with the pure satisfaction her nearness instilled in him. He rubbed the pads of his thumbs over the backs of her hands. “There’s something going on between us. We’ve only known each other a few weeks, but don’t you think we owe it to each other to see where this leads?”

Dear Reader,

If you’re like me, you’ve probably heard that raising a child is the toughest job there is. I believe motherhood is the greatest responsibility we’ll ever know and the job with the greatest reward.

I hope you enjoy the journey of Kitty and her troublesome twelve-year-old son, Adam. Both mother and son grow up in this novel, with the help of one American hero, an injured ex-pilot who flew in the Iraqi War. I don’t know if it takes a village to raise one child, but it sure helps to have two good role models. One summer in the Blue Ridge Mountains proves to be a roller-coaster thrill for all three characters. I encourage you to come along for the ride.

I love to hear from readers. Please contact me at [e-mail].

Cynthia

Firefly Nights

Cynthia Thomason

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CYNTHIA THOMASON inherited her love of writing from her ancestors. Her father and grandmother both loved to write, and she aspired to continue the legacy. Cynthia studied English and journalism in college, and after a career as a high school English teacher, she began writing novels. She discovered ideas for stories while searching through antiques stores and flea markets and as an auctioneer and estate buyer. Cynthia says every cast-off item from someone’s life can ignite the idea for a plot. She writes about small towns, big hearts and happy endings that are earned and not taken for granted. And as far as the legacy is concerned, just ask her son, the magazine journalist, if he believes.

This book is dedicated to mothers and sons everywhere, with a special shout-out to John Patrick Thomason. You make me proud, son.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“OUCH!” THE SOUND of her own scratchy voice woke Kitty from a fitful sleep. The steering wheel of the old pickup she’d purchased yesterday was poking into her ribs through her Juicy Couture jacket. Her neck ached because her head had been jammed against the driver’s-side window all night. Her right leg, draped awkwardly over the back of the front seat, was asleep.

She smoothed the wrinkles in her favorite eggplant-colored D&G sweatpants and was grateful she hadn’t picked a pair of tight jeans for the drive. Things could be worse. She and her twelve-year-old son, Adam, had been warm enough all night, which was another plus. It could have been the dead of winter in... She struggled to remember the last road sign she’d seen. Oh yeah, they’d made it to North Carolina, the boonies somewhere in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and probably still a hundred and fifty miles from Charlotte. It might as well be a thousand miles if a person was trying to get there in a broken-down truck.

Kitty squinted through her windshield at the rising sun, sat up, stomped her foot on the floor to wake up her toes and then reached over the seat. She groped for the mop of blond hair that would identify her son. “Adam, you awake?”

A groggy voice answered her, “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean I want to be.”

“Me, either. But I suppose we have to start this day anyway.”

Her son’s droopy-eyed face appeared over the seat back. He wrinkled his nose. “This truck stinks.”

Kitty sniffed and agreed. The truck did stink. It had that musty, road-weary smell of cracked vinyl and perspiration like most old vehicles.

“Why did you buy this piece of junk?” Adam asked. “Why didn’t we just take the Beemer?”

“I told you why. It’s the little matter of the title, which is in your grandfather’s name. Legally I don’t own the BMW.”

Adam fell back against the seat. “You don’t own anything important.”

An image of the clothes and accessories in the massive walk-in closet she’d left behind flashed in Kitty’s mind. She owned...or she used to own until this morning, dozens of pairs of shoes and too many designer blouses to count. She sighed at the image of her paychecks going to boutique stores. Many of the blouses she’d left behind still had the tags attached. A person couldn’t bring everything in one vehicle.

Trying to assert herself to Adam, she said, “I own this pickup truck. And I paid cash for it. Besides, if we’d taken the BMW, Grandpa would have put out a trace on the car, and we’d be back in Florida by now.”

“And that would be a bad thing?”

After last night, Kitty was still trying to convince herself that, yes, it would definitely be a bad thing. She had to stay focused on the bigger prize. She was removing her son from her father’s all-powerful grip. And this time would be different from her last effort to leave Richland.

Adam stared at her with heart-stopping doe-brown eyes that always masked the devilish intent behind them. She reminded herself for the hundredth time that she was taking this drastic step for Adam.

He jerked his thumb toward the ignition. “Have you tried to start it this morning?”

“No, but with the smoke that was pouring from under the hood, I don’t see much point.” Nevertheless she turned the key and cringed at the grinding noise.

“Tell me again how you got us into this mess,” Adam said.

Kitty dropped the worthless keys into her purse. “Which one?”

“Let’s start with the one that put us on this road to nowhere.”

“Give me a break. I wasn’t responsible for that oil tanker overturning on 285. I didn’t divert traffic off the Atlanta bypass.”

“But it was your idea to leave the main road and drive past every cow pasture in Georgia.”

Kitty was tired of defending herself, but she did it one more time. “I did that to get directions, remember? I thought we’d get good advice from a local business.”

“How’d that work out for you, Mom?”

Count to ten, Kitty. “Adam, it was nearly midnight. I’d been driving for eleven hours without benefit of a GPS.”

“You would have had a GPS if you’d driven the Beemer or turned on your cell phone,” Adam pointed out.

Ignoring the same tired complaint, Kitty continued. “It’s not easy to keep an eye on unending miles of blacktop while trying to read a map. Anyway, I thought we would get back to the highway eventually.”

He stared out the window. “I wish I had my PlayStation. I wish I had all the stuff in my room.”

Kitty couldn’t blame him. His bedroom at her father’s eleven-room Georgian mansion in central Florida was an adolescent boy’s techno paradise. She twisted the rearview mirror so she could see her face, and immediately regretted it. “Why don’t you wish for something we both can use?”

“Like what?”

“A bathroom.”

He screwed up his face. “Or a million dollars.”

She squinted hard to block the image of the bags under her eyes and the mental vision of Adam frantically shaking the contents of her purse onto the front seat a few hours ago and announcing that her wallet was not among them. Looking back, she wished she’d taken her purse into the convenience store instead of a couple of twenty-dollar bills to pay for gas. At least she would still have her wallet.

“If only you’d stayed in the truck like I told you or at least locked it when you came inside,” she said, repeating herself.

“Yeah, and then those guys might have stolen me. Besides, we’re not going to go through that one more time, are we?”

She sighed again, knowing the rehashing of events wouldn’t ease her frustration. She’d paid for the gas, bought Adam a soda and they’d returned to the truck. She’d seen two men running down a narrow side road, but it wasn’t until an hour later when Adam was looking for her wallet to pay for a motel room that she realized those guys had been making a getaway with her precious five hundred dollars. “No, we’re not. It’s history.”

“So, are you gonna call Grandpa?” he asked.

“No!”

“I wish I had my phone. I’d call him.”

“I know, and that’s why I made you leave it at home. And don’t even think of borrowing someone else’s or using a pay phone.” Realizing Adam needed some assurances, she added, “We’ll be fine. We’re not totally broke.”

“Right. We’re only practically broke.”

She glared at him.

“Well, how much have you got?”

She stretched her leg so she could get her hand into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulled out a wad of bills. She counted. “Thirty-seven dollars. There’s money on the floor of the backseat, too. How much is it?”

She listened to her son scrape his hand over the rubber mat and then heard the jingle of coins. “Eighty cents.”

“Great.”

“You’d better call Grandpa.”

“I am not calling him,” she stated with greater emphasis. “I’ve still got my bank card. We can get more money as soon as I find an ATM.” She quickly calculated what she had in the bank. Fifteen hundred for the truck, five hundred in cash. She had about twenty-seven hundred left in savings back in Richland. Plenty to get to Charlotte and enroll in school.

Adam set his chin on the back of the front seat and stared out the windshield at an unending panorama of pasture and trees. “Ought to be a lot of ATMs around here,” he said.

Kitty ignored him. If only Adam had used some of that intelligence to succeed in his schoolwork instead of coming up with sarcastic comments. After finally taking this positive step, she was determined not to crawl home to Daddy like the first time, eleven years ago, when she’d called Owen Galloway and begged him to send money so she could leave Bobby Watley and bring her one-year-old son back home. Her father had spent the past eleven years reminding her of the mistake she’d made marrying the down-on-his-luck golf pro. Owen had consistently pointed an accusing finger with one hand while handing her cash with the other—and she’d let him.

Her friends might call her crazy for taking this step. After all, who had a better, more comfy life than Katherine Thelda Galloway? She lived in a fine house, drove a super car and had a cushy job in her father’s corporate citrus groves offices. But Kitty, as she was called by those who knew her best, often thought about running away from home again. Only now her reason would be different from thirteen years ago when she was twenty years old, grieving over her mother’s death and letting Bobby Watley fill her eyes with stars and her heart with promises. This time she needed to go for the sake of her twelve-year-old son.

Adam opened his fist and dropped coins onto the front seat. “I can’t believe you cut up every single credit card.”

His latest accusation brought her back to the present. “I couldn’t use them anyway. The receipts would leave a paper trail for Grandpa to see where we’re headed.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Grandpa knows a lot of people. I bet he can find anybody. Remember how he found us two summers ago when we barely made it into Georgia?”

She remembered. The failure still clawed at her insides.

“And I know he’ll want to find me especially,” Adam said.

Kitty had considered Owen’s wide web of contacts, making her even more determined to fly under his radar. Yes, he would do almost anything to regain control of her son, the young heir to Galloway Groves that Owen had substituted for the worthless bundle of female his wife had handed him thirty-three years ago.

“And besides,” Adam said, “why do you all the sudden hate him? He takes care of us. He buys us stuff...”

“I know that, and I don’t hate him.” That was basically true, but how did she tell Adam that she didn’t admire his grandfather, either? Any more than she admired herself. She’d allowed her father to pull the strings of her life while she never tried to cut them—until two days ago when Owen had pulled those magic strings with the principal of the middle school to get Adam out of a theft charge.

“I’ll handle this,” her father had said. “Adam’s just spirited. You know that.”

Theft! She’d been completely shocked. Adam had everything, and yet he’d stolen an iPhone from a kid who’d just gotten it for his birthday and had justified his crime with a flippant remark about how the kid had irritated him by showing off the games he’d already downloaded. Since Friday had been the last day of school, and because he’d promised the principal he would punish Adam appropriately, Owen had once again avoided expulsion for his grandson. More strings and more lies. Ignoring Kitty’s attempts to discipline her son with grounding, Owen had accused her of “sucking the spunk right out of the kid.” And he’d even defied her by taking Adam to the racetrack in Tampa that very night.

Now, looking out the window of a rusty old truck, with thirty-seven dollars in her pocket, Kitty felt as if she’d finally severed those strings—with a chain saw.

“I thought you understood, Adam, that I think you and I need some time alone. Just the two of us.” That was true. She hadn’t shared nearly enough quality time with her son, and that was a major reason for his problems and attitude now. “Is that so bad?”

“No.” He thought better of his answer and said, “It’s just weird, that’s all. Why now?”

Because now I need to seriously be your mother before it’s too late. “Adam, don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll think of something.”

“Think of using your phone to call Grandpa.”

She skewered him with a threatening glare before pointing to some bushes several yards from where the pickup had wheezed to a halt. “You gotta go?”

“Oh, right. Me, first. Then if anything bites me on the butt, I can warn you.”

Kitty slid her feet into her chunky cork sandals, scooted to the passenger side and yanked on the door handle. “Forget it. I’ll go first.” She wiggled her fingers at the backseat. “Hand me that box of tissues.”

When he did, she managed a smile. “See? Aren’t you glad I thought to bring these?”

“I’m thrilled.” He nodded at the window that separated the cab from the back of the truck. “We got a bunch of crappy material, a sewing machine and tissues. Fat City.”

She got out of the truck, leaned inside and said, “While I’m gone, you get all that sarcastic trash talk out of your system, because when I get back I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

As she walked toward the bushes in her suddenly impractical designer slides, Adam hollered, “I’m hungry!”

Ten minutes later Kitty and Adam stood by the side of the road scoping out approaching traffic. When a van appeared, Adam stuck out his thumb. Kitty pulled his hand down.

“What’d you do that for?”

“We’re not hitchhiking. It’s dangerous.”

“So is starving. We gotta get to a town somehow.” Again Adam scrutinized the endless stretch of rolling hills and farmland. “If there even is a town in this state.”

“I’m watching for just the right ride,” Kitty said. “I’ll know it when I see it.” And she did—a farm truck loaded with watermelons. She waved at the driver, and the vehicle braked. Tugging Adam behind her, Kitty ran to the passenger window and explained to a middle-aged woman in a cotton dress and straw hat about the truck breaking down.

“You wantin’ a lift to town, then?” the woman asked.

“If you don’t mind,” Kitty said.

The woman looked to the driver, a man of her same approximate age. He nodded. “We’re headin’ to the grand opening of the twenty-four-hour Super Value-Rite,” she said, “so we can get you that far.”

A Value-Rite! Food. Bathrooms. An ATM. “That’s perfect,” Kitty said. “How far is it?”

“About two miles to Sorrel Gap,” the man answered. “The Value-Rite’s just on the outskirts. We’re taking all the melons to set up a stand in the parking lot. You and the boy are welcome to climb in the back.”

“Thank you.”

Kitty and Adam climbed over a wooden gate at the rear of the truck and settled in among a mound of watermelons. When the truck lurched forward, Kitty patted Adam’s hand. “There, see, it’s better than walking, and the farmer and his wife were nice.”

“You told me never to ride with a stranger.”

“I told you never to get in a car with a stranger. I never said anything about riding with watermelons. Anyway, this is a special case.”

He leaned back on a large melon and lifted his face to the sun. “It’s not so bad, I guess. But I’d sure like to know how you’re going to get us out of this.”

“I’m thinking. I told you I’d come up with a plan, and I will. We’ll be back on the road to cousin Bette’s house before you know it.” Bette was Kitty’s one true refuge. Her mother’s cousin had been comforting and sympathetic when Kitty called her the day before.

“Of course I’ll help you, Katherine,” Bette had promised. “I’ll find out about the fashion-design institute for you and lend you enough money to enroll. You and Adam can stay here as long as you need to.”

“And if Daddy calls you,” Kitty had said, “please don’t tell him I contacted you.” Bette had vowed secrecy.

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Adam blurted out. “Going to some old lady’s house I don’t even remember? School just let out two days ago, and already it looks like this is going to be the worst summer I’ve ever had.”

“You’ll like Charlotte. They have museums and—”

“I hope I get my own room.”

Kitty pictured Adam’s bedroom in her father’s house and even allowed herself an image of her lavender suite at the mansion. No doubt it was tough giving all that up. “You will have a room,” she promised. “Just as soon as I can afford to leave Bette’s and rent a place. And once my business takes off, I’ll even replace some of the things you left at Grandpa’s.”

“Your business? You make it sound like we’re never going back to Florida.”

She hadn’t meant to scare him with that conclusion. “Of course we’ll go back. Sometime. But we’ll definitely be away long enough for me to go to the design institute.”

“You mean I might have to go to school in this Podunk state?”

“There’s nothing Podunk about Charlotte,” she said. “I’m sure there are very nice schools...if we need them.”

“You think you can really design clothes that people will buy?”

Kitty had wanted to make clothes since she was a child. In the back of the truck, she even had a few original patterns she’d developed herself and fabrics she’d hired a graphic artist to draw in a modernist style.

Adam seemed to be staring at her nape-length, spiky blond hair. He scrunched up his nose. “Remember, I’ve seen some of the stuff you’ve made. It’s kind of weird looking.”

“That’s why I’m going to school.” She was used to hearing criticism of her fashions from the males in her family, and she hoped they were wrong. Except for the purchase of her new Singer, she’d always been too complacent to take the plunge and pursue her dream seriously. Or maybe she’d been too lazy. Or scared. But in the past twenty-four hours, she’d taken quite a few plunges into the unknown, so what was one more?

Kitty clutched her stomach as a familiar stab of pain took her breath. The doctors told her it was anxiety. She’d suffered from phantom bellyaches off and on most of her life, but they’d gotten much worse after her mother died. And now she was banking her and Adam’s futures on her ability to succeed in a competitive business.

She kept telling herself that she had a plan, a good one. After a while, when Owen had calmed down, Kitty would call him and explain why she’d felt she had to leave, but right now he’d just have to be satisfied with the note she’d left telling him that she and Adam were taking a vacation. He wouldn’t believe it. And even if he did, he was probably already raising holy heck to find them. Thank goodness he’d never think to look in the back of a watermelon truck.

Adam had settled into a sort of temporary acceptance of their situation and was watching the passing scenery. She hoped he hadn’t picked up on her discomfort. She didn’t want him to bear any responsibility for what the immediate future held. This was her decision, and she’d made it at a crucial time in her son’s life. So she was the one who had to make it work.

The farm truck eased into a right turn off the highway and slowly crept along with the rest of the traffic entering the Value-Rite parking lot. It was eight-thirty on a Sunday morning, but already the lot was filling up, and people were heading toward the automatic doors.

The farmer drove to a large tent set up at one end of the asphalt where everything from corn on the cob to Georgia peaches was for sale. He chose a spot, and Kitty and Adam scrambled down.

“Thanks for the lift,” Kitty said as Adam headed toward the store. “I need to get my son some breakfast, but after that we’ll be glad to help you unload the melons.”

“No need for that,” the farmer’s wife said. “You don’t owe us for that ride.”

Kitty thanked the couple again and caught up with Adam. “Can I have a couple of bucks, Mom?” he asked. “I’ll bet they got doughnuts inside.”

“No doughnuts. That tent is full of fruit and healthy things. I’ll buy you a banana and a muffin and orange juice.”

He groaned his opinion of the breakfast menu. “At least let me go inside for a minute.”

She studied his expression, trying to determine his motive for wanting to enter the Value-Rite. “What for? I thought you were starving.”

“I am...or I was. But I have to use the bathroom.”