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Nora's Pride
He’d come for her.
The wild, reckless boy of her dreams had turned into the dark, dangerous man of her nightmares.
Only his eyes were as she remembered—bold, piercing and purposeful.
He knew.
“You look good. Just as I remembered you,” he said.
And he still had the ability to paralyze her—that stomach-quivering, breath-hitching, knee-jellying, mind-numbing power to immobilize her with one curve of his mouth.
He had no right to sashay into her store, into her life. Not after all this time.
“Why don’t you crawl out the way you came in?”
Connor’s nostrils flared slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Same old sassy mouth, too.”
Dear Reader,
This May, we celebrate Mother’s Day and a fabulous month of uplifting romances. I’m delighted to introduce RITA® Award finalist Carol Stephenson, who debuts with her heartwarming reunion romance, Nora’s Pride. Carol writes, “Nora’s Pride is very meaningful to me, as my mother, my staunchest fan and supporter, passed away in May 2000. I’m sure she’s smiling down at me from heaven. She passionately believed this would be my first sale.” A must-read for your list!
The Princess and the Duke, by Allison Leigh, is the second book in the CROWN AND GLORY series. Here, a princess and a duke share a kiss, but can their love withstand the truth about a royal assassination? We have another heart-thumper from the incomparable Marie Ferrarella with Lily and the Lawman, a darling city-girl-meets-small-town-boy romance.
In A Baby for Emily, Ginna Gray delivers an emotionally charged love story in which a brooding hero lays claim to a penniless widow who, unbeknownst to her, is carrying their child…. Sharon De Vita pulls on the heartstrings with A Family To Come Home To, in which a rugged rancher searches for his family and finds true love! You also won’t want to miss Patricia McLinn’s The Runaway Bride, a humorous tale of a sexy cowboy who rescues a distressed bride.
I hope you enjoy these exciting books from Silhouette Special Edition—the place for love, life and family. Come back for more winning reading next month!
Sincerely,
Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor
Nora’s Pride
Carol Stephenson
To Mom, with the angels in heaven, and Dad.
Because of your endless love and belief in me,
I reached for the stars and achieved my dreams.
This one is for you with all my love.
CAROL STEPHENSON
credits her mother for her love of books and her father for her love of travel, but when she gripped a camera and pen for the first time, she found her two greatest loves—photography and writing.
An attorney in South Florida, she constantly juggles the demands of the law with those of writing. I-95 traffic jams are perfect for dictating tales of hard-fought love. She’s thrilled that her debut as a published author is with Silhouette Special Edition. You can drop Carol a note at P.O. Box 1176, Boynton Beach, FL 33425-1176.
Rose Advice by Connor Devlin
1. Tuck roses into your jacket lapel…and hers, too
2. Sprinkle rose petals atop your steaming hot bathtub…and your bed
3. Build a rosebush nursery, so you always have fresh roses at hand
4. Develop a new kind of rose…and name it after the woman you love
5. Massage the woman you love with freshly plucked rose petals…everywhere…
Contents
Prologue
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
Prologue
Arcadia Heights, Ohio
Twenty years ago
Their hands.
When Abigail McCall opened the front door to her house, she first saw three pairs of hands, linked together across their bodies. So small, so fine, clamped white with tension.
Then, as she looked farther, she saw the three terrified pairs of eyes watching her above reddened cheeks. Three little girls joined together by blood and tragedy.
Abigail had been cursing the fates since she’d received the phone call yesterday. Her younger sister, Tess, had always been bent on destruction and had finally found it in a tawdry motel room. Thirty-five and dead of a drug overdose. Now the only evidence of Tess’s brief life was the three youngsters standing on Abigail’s porch.
Tess had never cared about the bindings of marriage, had never stayed with the same man longer than a few months, had never bothered to protect herself. Her foolishness had produced three daughters by three different men. None of their fathers had come forward to claim the girls.
In the end, Tess’s irresponsibility had come home to roost at her older sister’s door. Abigail had been tempted to tell the social worker who called yesterday to take a hike. Why should she let Tess be the albatross around her neck again? Why should she pay the price for her sister’s mistakes? She’d liked the life she’d made for herself in this small Midwest town, and she liked living alone.
But all thoughts of rejecting the girls shriveled and died the moment Abigail saw the poorly clothed little ones shivering before her. Their linked hands testified to their fear and their unified strength.
The tallest and eldest stood on the right, her thin shoulders hunched against the cold. Long black hair whipped around her pinched features.
On the other end, a pint-size blond angel waited patiently, her blue eyes wistfully fixed on the glowing light spilling from the front parlor onto the veranda’s weathered planks.
Sandwiched between the two was the youngest child, who fidgeted until the oldest looked at her. The girl went still and stared, owl-eyed, at Abigail. Wisps of cinnamon-colored hair straggled out from under the brim of her blue knit cap. She lifted one joined pair of hands to wipe her nose. The older girl rolled her eyes but didn’t let go, as if she feared someone would snatch her sister away.
Poor children. None of this was their doing.
Tears pricked Abigail’s eyes. In that moment she lost her heart to them. Her nieces had suffered enough. It was time for them to have a real home.
Abigail dropped to her knees, silently encircling her nieces with her arms. Three heartbeats later, the blond pixie shyly put her free hand on Abigail’s shoulder and frowned at her oldest sister. Eyes grayer than the November sky studied Abigail, judged her and came to a decision. The older girl’s hand came up to rest on Abigail’s shoulder. The smallest child, encapsulated by her sisters, flashed a dimpled smile and threw both hands around Abigail’s neck.
They were hers now.
Three nights later, after the girls were asleep, Abigail carried a steaming mug of hot chocolate into her workshop at the rear of the house and went straight to her bench. During the summer months, she normally trekked across the backyard to her pottery shop, which faced the main business street. But with winter’s unrelenting cold and wind, she retreated to a workshop set up in her converted den, which also accessed the back porch. Cocooned from the cantankerous weather, she worked her magic.
After unwrapping the plastic sheet from a block of ironware-grade clay, she placed the slab on the potter’s wheel. After sluicing water over her hands, Abigail kneaded the clay, getting the feel of the formative powers of this particular lump. She closed her eyes and began to run her hands up and down the cool, moist material. Gradually she relaxed, the familiar tempo of molding the clay taking over all thought. Only instinct pulsed through her now.
The lump lifted, separated into three pieces. Experiencing only the sculpture, Abigail lost track of time. She scraped, she hollowed, she smoothed the pliable material. As she refined and refined again, her thoughts and prayers poured through her busy fingers into the clay.
Thoughts of love, prayers of hope, promises of forever—all worked into the core of the sculpture.
Finally Abigail stopped, spent, and wiped her clay-covered arm across her sleepy eyes. She dipped her aching hands into water, then wiped them with a towel. Biting her lower lip, she studied this newest piece of her heart.
From behind she heard a whispered exclamation of “Gosh!” She turned to find her nieces, dressed only in their pajamas, huddled together for warmth on the oak floor. The youngest, Eve, squirmed with excitement, restrained only by her sisters from getting up; the ethereal angel, Christina, glowed with inner fire as she studied the statuette. She looked at Abigail and said, “It’s so beautiful.”
Nora, the oldest one, solemnly studied the form without any visible reaction. She had been the last to eat, drink, bathe and go to bed each night. She’d always put her sisters first. To gain this trio’s trust, Abigail knew she needed to win Nora’s.
Rolling her head to relieve the kinks in her neck, Abigail smiled at the potential critic. “What do you think, Nora?”
The girl rose and walked to the wheel. Almost against her will, she reached out, then flushed red and stopped. “Whose hands are they?”
Abigail glanced at her work—three small hands, clasped together and raised, fragile fingers reaching toward the sky. She reached out and drew the child’s stiff, resisting body to her side and rested her chin on the black silky hair.
“They are your hands, Nora. Yours and your sisters’.”
“Why?” The child’s voice was gruff. “Why did you bother to make our hands?”
“To remind you that the three of you will be bound together forever.”
Suddenly the other sisters draped themselves over her knees. Christina’s blue eyes were dreamy with enchantment. “Will it have a name? Like the other stuff you did?”
Abigail ran her hand over the soft, short cap of platinum hair. “Yes, Christina. I’m going to call it Sisters Three.”
Eve pursed her lips, her brown eyes surprisingly calculating in her six-year-old face. “Aunt Abigail, do you make lots of money?”
“Eve!” Nora glared at her sister, who grinned back, unrepentant.
Aunt. The word pulsed, shimmered in the air. Abigail swallowed a lump of emotion. None of them had called her that before. They were hers now, to protect, to raise, to love. And she would, until her dying breath.
“It’s all right, Nora. We’re a family now.” She paused, spotting a brief flicker of hope in the oldest girl’s eyes. Abigail wished she could chase away Nora’s fears. She couldn’t, not now, but she could nurture that spark of belief until one day it would vanquish the terror in her eyes.
To Eve she said, “I do all right with my pottery. Good enough that tomorrow we’re going shopping to buy you proper winter coats.”
Christina beamed. “I want a purple coat.”
“I want blue.” Eve patted Abigail’s knee for attention.
Abigail laughed. “I’m sure we can find a blue coat for you. How about you, Nora? What color do you like?”
Her stormy eyes too dark to reveal her thoughts, Nora shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My coat’s okay. Eve and Christina need coats more.”
Eve expectantly held up her arms. Abigail lifted the child onto her lap. The little girl leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Nora’s always wanted a red coat, but Mama never had the money.”
Abigail smiled. “Then red it is for Nora.” She stroked Eve’s cheek, marveling at the smooth, velvety texture. She noticed Nora studying the statue. “Well, sweetheart, do you like it or not?”
“It’s missing one thing, Aunt Abigail.” The girl turned toward them and held her hand palm up. Her sisters brought their hands up, leaving a space. Three expectant pairs of eyes stared at her. Her vision blurry, Abigail lifted her hand and completed the circle.
Chapter One
Arcadia Heights
The present
The clay figurine slipped from Nora McCall’s numb fingers and exploded into a million pieces across the bare oak floorboards, shattering with it twelve years of Nora’s carefully structured life. Her heart pounded with fear.
The tall man with eyes the color of a deep-blue sky entered the pottery shop. Only one male had that hell-bent-for-trouble walk, and that was Connor Devlin.
The very same man who was definitely heading her way.
Find Abby and hide, she thought as the blood roared in her ears. Instead, she stood, frozen by the man’s determined gaze.
Her fingers flexed as she nervously glanced down at the floor. As she realized what she’d done a sensation of horror seeped through her.
Oh, no, she thought frantically. Not Abby’s cat. Nora knelt and, heedless of the jagged edges, began scooping up the fragments. It was totaled. She’d never be able to glue it together again. Never.
Scuffed boot tips stopped before her.
Nora’s hands stilled. One more crime to lay at Connor Devlin’s feet—he’d destroyed her daughter’s Mother’s Day present.
“Hello, Nora.”
She looked up. The wild, reckless boy of her dreams had turned into the dark, dangerous man of her nightmares. But he still wore the same rebel’s uniform he had always worn: white T-shirt, second-skin blue jeans and trademark well-worn bomber jacket.
“What are you doing here?”
“You always could bring me to my knees, Nora McCall.” Before she could rise and protect the precious pieces of Abby’s cat, he crouched beside her, his hands brushing hers as he began picking up the broken pottery.
“Go away, Connor. I don’t need your help,” she snapped. She tried to nudge his hands aside, but he scooped up the last piece of clay. Frissons of awareness tingled along her arm, only to explode into raging resentment when he gripped her elbow and propelled her to her feet.
She broke free. Time had taken the boy’s youth and replaced it with a man’s face of sharp angles and planes. The once tall, rangy body had hardened into whipcord toughness. Windswept, sun-streaked chestnut hair fell over his brow and collar. Only his eyes were as she remembered—bold, piercing and purposeful.
He knew. He’d come for her.
“You look good. Just as I remembered you.”
And he still had the ability to paralyze her—that stomach-quivering, breath-hitching, knee-jellying, mind-numbing power to immobilize with one curve of his mouth.
The shop bell chimed again, announcing visitors. Nora grabbed hold of her composure. This was their big day—the grand opening of Kilning You Softly—and she wouldn’t let a ghost from her past ruin it.
She was no longer a young, impressionable girl who could be swayed by gorgeous eyes and a sexy mouth. Since her one life-altering mistake, she had avoided following her mother’s path. The man before her meant nothing but trouble. He had no right to sashay into her store, into her life. Not after all this time.
She had to get rid of him.
The lawyer in her took over. “Why don’t you get back on your knees and crawl out the way you came in.”
Connor’s nostrils flared slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Same old sassy mouth, too.”
“My mouth is none of your business, Connor Devlin. Why are you here?” Needing space, she turned to the side and gently laid the pottery fragments on the hutch.
Connor moved to stand beside her. “Business.” He held his hand over the wastepaper basket to throw out the shards.
Nora clutched his arm. “No! Don’t!” She wrapped her fingers around his and pried at the shards. “Ow!” She snatched her hand away and cradled it. Blood oozed from a jagged gash on the base of her left thumb.
Connor dumped the pieces on the sideboard. “Here, let me see that.” His hand cupped hers.
Blinking away tears, Nora bent her head to get a closer look at the damage. Her forehead bumped Connor’s. She bit back a curse as he gently probed the wound on her palm. The backs of his hands were broad and tanned, with a faint dusting of golden hair. She could feel the rough texture of his calluses as he wiped away the trail of blood. The hands of the boy were now the hard hands of a man. Whatever had happened to him, Connor still used his hands for a living.
Nora slanted a quick look at him through her wet lashes. His brow was furrowed as he checked her hand. Surreptitiously she leaned closer. Beyond the leather and soap, she could smell the sun and the earth clinging to him like an indelible part of his makeup.
Connor dragged a black bandanna from a pocket inside his jacket and wrapped it around the cut. “What was so important about that…” He glanced at the fragments and apparently couldn’t divine their former existence. He shook his head. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth slicing off a chunk of your finger. It’s not as if it were irreplaceable like The Sisters Three.”
No, it was only her daughter’s attempt to console Nora over Aunt Abigail’s death. It was every bit as precious to her as Abigail’s most famous work, which glowed in its place of honor on the mantel in the store’s rear alcove.
But Connor wouldn’t know that. He wouldn’t know about anniversaries, birthdays or deaths. After all, he hadn’t been around for twelve years. Hadn’t cared to be present. And now he had the audacity to lecture her in her own shop, filled with people she knew. People he’d scorned. The moment he knotted the fabric, she jerked her hand free and stepped away from him.
Irritation flashed across his face. “If you’re worried about germs, that’s a clean bandanna.” He folded his arms. “I think you’ll live, but you’d better have Doc Sims take a look at the cut to make sure you don’t need stitches.”
“I’m fine.” And because Aunt Abigail had taught her better, she added, “Thanks.” She looked down at her wrapped hand and caught sight of her watch. Almost eleven. She needed to get him out of the store. Now.
Her sisters, Christina and Eve, crossed to her, and she drew comfort from their presence. She would get through this, just as she had every other obstacle tossed in her path.
Nora McCall, standing proud, was a bittersweet image branded in Connor’s memory. Once he had hoped to share his life with her, but that dream had never stood a chance. His pact with the devil, his mother, had seen to that.
Yet, over the years, doubt regarding his decision to leave town, to leave Nora, had snapped relentlessly at his conscience in the lonely hours when night met dawn. Now, seeing Nora and her sisters, a part of him felt at peace. The McCall girls were still together in a place they loved.
The devil had apparently kept her side of the bargain. She would not be pleased he was breaking his.
He nodded at the women. “Eve, Christina. Good to see you both.” But he kept his gaze on Nora, even though every muscle in his body wound tighter. Tense as rectitude, his mother would have said.
Nora was still a knockout. From her lustrous black hair to her pressed jacket, she was all trim and lovely. And he had this craving to touch her, to feel once more the jolt of her pulse. If he had succumbed to his urge to press his lips against the soft flesh of her thumb while he had tended her wound, would he have found heat still running deep beneath her cool exterior?
The jab of desire irritated him, but Connor absorbed it. His gaze strayed to Nora’s wrapped left hand. She wore no ring. If she hadn’t married, would things have turned out different for them?
She arched a brow at his stare. “Gee, Connor, other than the mileage on your face, you haven’t changed a bit. Very few older men can carry off that James Dean look. At least you’ve the good sense not to copy the hair.”
Connor stiffened. A muscle jerked along his jaw. “You always did have brass, kid.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m not a kid.”
He slowly looked Nora up and down. “No, ma’am. You’re certainly not.”
Nora colored fiercely, but he gained only a grim pleasure from her discomfort. Why should he care about her? She certainly didn’t care for him.
Shortly after he had left town, he had called his mother and said he couldn’t go through with the deal. His tormentor had been silent for a second before crisply advising him to keep moving.
“Your high-and-mighty McCall girl got married last week.” Even now, he could still hear the cold taunt that had ripped apart his soul.
Stunned, he had dropped the receiver and walked away from the phone booth. Nora had run into another man’s arms. She hadn’t waited. She’d never pined for him.
So he had kept moving, seeking to put as much distance as possible between him and his past.
“Connor?”
He realized Christina had spoken.
“What?”
“I said we were all sorry about Ed Miller’s passing.”
The dull ache whenever he thought about the loss of the old man who had been his surrogate father throbbed. “Thanks.”
Eve was brasher. “We figured you’d be there at the funeral.”
“I couldn’t get away.” His jaw tensed. Missing Ed’s service had torn him apart, but carrying out his promise to the farmer who had befriended him all those years ago had to come first. It wasn’t until he’d gotten Ed’s deathbed phone call that he’d learned he would finally get a chance to pay Ed back.
Nora accepted his statement without rebuke. “I’m sure you wanted to come, Connor. Ed was a good man.”
“Yes, he was.” More than anyone in the town would ever guess. Ed had been Connor’s remaining link to his past, keeping him bound despite Connor’s ending up in Florida. When Connor called Ed, the taciturn farmer had been circumspect about everything but his crops. Finally, desperate for news, Connor had asked the old man point-blank how Nora and her husband were doing. Ed had barked, “Husband. There’s no husband.”
Connor remembered his grim satisfaction in learning of her divorce. However, he never could ferret out any additional information in subsequent calls to Ed. All the farmer would ever mutter was that “the McCall womenfolk were doing just fine.”
He sure did miss the old coot.
Ever sensitive to other people’s emotions, Christina said softly, “Pastor Devlin must be thrilled you’ve returned.”
Pastor, not mother—Sheila Devlin would appreciate the distinction. She had certainly tried hard enough to distance herself from the role his birth had thrust on her. He hitched his shoulders. “She doesn’t know I’m here. Yet.”
Christina looked startled. “Oh.” She huffed out a breath. “Well.” Sadness flitted across her face. “Your mother performed a fine eulogy for Aunt Abigail.”
Connor realized he hadn’t offered condolences. He’d picked up the phone a hundred times when he had learned of their aunt’s death. He’d replaced the receiver a hundred times because he hadn’t known what to say.
He cleared his throat. “I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear about Abigail’s death. She was a good woman.” He gestured at the shop. “She’d be proud of what you’ve accomplished here.”
Eve didn’t mask her curiosity. “Thanks, Connor, but how did you—” The doorbell chimed. Eve narrowed her eyes.
A wave of new arrivals crowded around Nora and Christina. Breaking the crowd apart, Nathan Roberts, a tall lean man, sauntered past Eve, brushing so close that she had to step back to avoid contact. Watching the familiar byplay had Connor fighting to keep his lips flat. Some things never changed.
Nate crossed to Connor and clasped his hand. Behind wire-rim glasses, Nathan Roberts’s slate-gray eyes warmed with amusement. “So, the town’s favorite hell-raiser has returned. Will he receive a prodigal son’s welcome?” He thumped Connor’s shoulder.
