Jenny lay on the stiff cot staring up in the direction of the rough-hewn ceiling. What she wouldn’t give for her pillow top mattress and a pile of down-filled comforters. Her idea of roughing it was the Super 8, and this cabin, miles from civilization on some no-name mountain, was just a step up from sleeping in a tent. The cold, late November wind whistled through the cracks in the wood slats that doubled for walls. The thin military-style blanket provided only meager warmth. It had been two months since she’d been taken into “protective” custody. In that time, she’d been moved from location to location. Each time because men with guns had found where they’d tucked her away. It was like they’d planted a sub-dermal tracking device on her. She rolled to her side and stared out the break where the curtains didn’t meet. Nothing but darkness. She loved it when stars dotted the sky. She never knew that being in the middle of nowhere with no artificial light for competition allowed for viewing them as nature intended. She’d noticed that during her many sleepless nights. Nighttime was often filled with activity, so that was when she did her thinking, since there was precious little else to do. She wondered what was going on at home. Wondered how her sister was since she’d been told that Jenny had been placed in the witness protection program. She and her parents had never been close, but she truly missed her baby sister. Their mother’s main concern had been to raise her and her sister as two proper southern ladies. Jenny had never fit that mold, not that she had tried. With their father pursuing a career in politics, he’d been mostly absent and happy to leave the childrearing to his wife. The one constant had been that she and Frannie had had each other. At night after the ballet performances Daddy had missed, again, they’d cuddle under the covers and dry each other’s tears. Jenny wrapped her arms around her midsection and squeezed, wishing that it was her sister’s comforting arms around her. Could anything ever fill this ache inside her? She couldn’t imagine never seeing Frannie again. Who had dried her sister’s tears when some faceless voice on a phone had told her she’d never see or speak to Jenny again? Gunfire rocked the cabin, shattering the stillness of the night. Jenny rolled off her bed onto the floor just before the window over the cot became a shower of glass. A man entered the room, a gun poised in his hand. “Come with me,” he ordered, before roughly hauling her to her feet. “Keep your head down.” Jenny’s breath came out in a rush when she saw that he was one of the U.S. Marshals guarding her. The ancient timbers of the tiny, old cabin vibrated with the impact of a barrage of bullets. She ought to be frightened, but instead she was good and pissed. “What the hell happened? We’re on the side of a godforsaken mountain. How do they keep finding us?” The man beside her didn’t respond. Instead, he shoved a moldy rug out of the way. Dust flew in all directions burning her eyes. He flung back a door in the floor revealing a gaping hole. Cool, musty air filtered up offering an invitation she would be unable to refuse. “Get in.” Another marshal appeared in the doorway. “I need you, Pierce. I can’t hold them off on my own.” Pierce grasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “We talked about this when we got here. This tunnel is the only way out now.” He shoved a flashlight at her and urged her down into the hole. “How am I supposed to find some cave in the dark?” “Go.” The rough-hewn door slammed shut and darkness surrounded her. She crouched just inside the tunnel, listening to the sounds above. The scratching of the rug being replaced, retreating footsteps, and finally the crash of a door breaking away from its frame. Then more gunfire. She clicked on the light, let instinct kick in and moved. Slimy rocks lined the narrow, frozen path making footing treacherous. The low earthen ceiling required her to move in a crouched position. Cobwebs clung to her face and clothing. She gulped great breaths of the moist, stagnant air, but couldn’t force enough into her lungs. After weeks of changing locations in the middle of the night, she had learned to sleep prepared to run. Tonight she’d chosen sweatpants and a t-shirt with a sweatshirt tied at her waist. She’d worn shoes to bed for weeks now. She turned a corner and a rat scurried across the toe of her sneakers. A scream rose up in the back of her throat, but she pushed it down and kept moving. The passage narrowed and ended. Jenny searched for a way out, but couldn’t find one. Perfect, she thought. I’m trapped in a cold, dark hole. No marshals, no assassins, just rats that can eat away her flesh while she starved. Nice. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe normally. Get hold of yourself and think. When she opened her eyes, she saw a makeshift door above her. She pushed against it, splinters bit into her palms, but nothing happened. She pushed harder, ignoring the pain, but it wouldn’t budge. Squatting, she sprang upward, getting nothing but a bruised shoulder for her efforts. She surged up again, the wood tearing her thick cotton shirt. The door moved a little, so she repeated the process until she was able to wedge it open a few inches. She pushed and shoved until, finally, she had clawed her way out onto the leaf-strewn forest floor. Standing, Jenny jumped on the door until it closed. She covered it with tree limbs and brush. And then she ran. She couldn’t tell where she was going, but she had to put distance between her and the cabin. Hiding was her only objective. Her logical mind intruded telling her that if the assassins couldn’t find her, would the marshals be able to? Her mind churned, but survival demanded cover. She’d worry about the rest later. It was pitch-black tonight. The moist smell of rain or snow hung heavy in the air. She hoped to find the cave they’d scouted earlier before it came. Small tree branches bent against her progress and slapped her in the face. Tree roots tripped her, but she maintained her footing and kept going. Thank God for yoga that improved her flexibility and balance. She untied her sweatshirt from her waist and pulled it on as she jogged up the mountain, shining the flashlight in all directions searching. Forget the cave. Anything would do; a ditch, a rock— She ran headlong into something solid. The force of the impact nearly knocked the breath from her. As she struggled to regain her footing, she realized that two strong hands held her upright. She pointed the flashlight at his face. She thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t be sure. He was tall, dark, bearded. His pack declared him a hiker, but could she be sure? What if he was one of them? “What the hell?” he mumbled. He seemed as surprised as her, but she wasn’t about to stand around and find out that he was about to murder her. If he thought Violet Jennings Thompson was going out without a fight, he was in for the shock of his life. All the anger and the months of hiding and having her life stolen from her by faceless men, who were less than scum, converged into blind fury. Adrenaline surged through her, and she pummeled and kicked, mindless in her rage. When he suddenly released her, she fell hard. “Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.” He grabbed her flashlight and pointed it at her face. Blinded, she closed her eyes against the pain. “You,” he murmured. “I thought you were dead.” Jenny heard people thrashing their way up the mountain. She scooted away, gaining her feet. Just a few more steps and she could disappear into the dense forest. He surged forward, gripping her arm it in a vise she couldn’t escape, but she struggled anyway. “Who’s following you?” Instinct told her to answer him honestly. “I’m not sure. Either marshals or— ” The man slung her over his shoulder and ran. “Hey!” She kicked, squirmed, and pounded his back with each labored step he took. “Be still or I’ll drop you on your head so you can break your neck,” he growled. She grabbed his coat with both hands and bided her time, vowing to renew her struggles as soon as her feet touched the ground. © 2011 Deborah Grace Staley All Rights Reserved 
I'll Be There
The Fourth Angel Ridge Novel
by Deborah Grace Staley
Prologue The misty morning enshrouded her in a fog that hugged her body like a lover’s embrace. As it swirled about her, she tipped her head back, her long dark hair a shadow shifting down her back past her waist as she rotated her neck from side to side, a worshipful expression on her face. She extended her arms with palms up to the sky as she communed one-on-one with the Creator. Her thin white linen gown, made nearly translucent by the mountain mist, clung to her body. The music of the hills sang through the tall pines—the robin’s morning songs, the sound of deer, squirrel, and rabbit walking softly, not wanting to intrude on her sacred meditations. The pungent scent of the earth rose up to mingle and blend with her own. She was one with these mountains. These mountains that had sheltered and nurtured generations of the women who were her ancestors -- her heritage. But even as she communed completely and easily on She had a burden for them. A longing that she couldn’t explain. Women before her, like her mother, had experienced the same longing, had tried to assimilate with the people below the mountain and had been cruelly rejected, returning to the mountain to live a singular existence. The prospects of such an existence for her quickly brought hot, soul-wrenching tears to the surface. She became completely still as they fell from her eyes, scalding her face, fracturing her peace. She lowered her hands and opened her eyes, focusing on the town on the other side of the river-- She would go, and make a new life for herself there. The spirit of the mountain and her grandmother would go with her, guiding her steps. She need only to close her eyes and look at the mountain to hear their voices. They would comfort her if times became hard. An angel had come to her as she slept promising that he had prepared hearts there to accept her, but that there would also be those who would not welcome her. She must be attuned completely to his message to discern those she should trust from the others. She would seek shelter in new friendships. She’d never known a friend or had anyone her own age to talk to. How she longed for this new kind of communion. She prayed there would be those in the town who would shelter and welcome her in her as the mountain always had, but perhaps these bonds would take time to form. She must be patient. She would go, and find her place there. She must, or she would never again know peace. “Lark! You there, girl?” “I’m here, Uncle Billy!” She scrambled down the slope to the back door of the cabin. Stripping off her nightgown, she stepped into the dark cotton skirt she’d laid out the night before and hurriedly buttoned her shirt. “Coming!” She jammed her arms into her sweater and lifted the old, hard suitcase weathered brown with age that she’d filled with her things. It had been her mother’s--the one she’d packed all her things into the day she’d left “She always said it was so I could see the world right and true, because my mama never did.” That was about all Aunt Ruby had ever told her about her mama. “I reckon she was right.” He jammed his hat down on his head, then without looking at her said, “You know, you don’t have to live in “I thought of that, but if I’m in He nodded, but his mouth was set in a hard line. He turned and pulled the line to start the motor. The gas smell hung in the moist heavy morning mist, settling in her throat. She coughed as they slowly pulled away from the riverbank. She looked up at the mountain trying to get one last look at the cabin she’d called home most of her life, but the mountain mist clung to the trees and bushes, obscuring its rough lines. She closed her eyes, the memory of it etched on her mind. She’d make a good life for herself in It had been her grandmother’s time, just as now it was her time--time to follow her heart and her dreams to see what would come of them. She took it and stepped out of the boat. She smoothed her skirt, looking around. His meager house sat on a little rise with a view of the river and the mountain. “I’m not sure. Maybe Miss Estelee’s. She’s the only person in town I really know. And, Uncle Billy, I’ll be callin’ myself Candi now, so please don’t call me Lark in front of anyone.” “Candi?” He raked a hand down his weathered face, considering. In the end, he nodded his agreement and started the truck. “Not everybody understands mountain ways.” “Was that why my mama had trouble when she moved to “It must be hard trying to figure out how to get on in a world that’s different from anythin’ you ever knew. I’ve been thinking about just that. Maybe I could open a shop in town. Do something that will make people happy. Make them feel good.” As they started on the road to her new life, the uneasiness in her middle twisted painfully, and she wrapped her coat closer around her. “Drop me at the end of She stopped, puzzled by his strange reaction, but then kept moving along the sidewalk. She felt the man’s eyes on her as he watched her from his store's window. Uneasiness crept up the back of her neck, but she kept walking. She walked down the street passing the drug store and soda fountain, McKay’s Bank & Trust, around the horseshoe where the library stood, the courthouse, the Baptist Church and the Presbyterian. On the other side of the street, there was a lawyer’s office, an empty storefront, another building with offices, the post office, and a hardware store which stood a space away from the line of storefronts. Each one was a different color: black, brown, blue, yellow, and the vacant one, which drew her attention, was pink. People focused back on their meals and conversations. Candi sat at the bar and removed her knit cap. She smoothed a hand over her hair. “The beauty shop?” “Um, I’m not sure.” “Thank you.” “My name is Candi. I’m pleased to meet you.” “I'm looking to settle here. Thought maybe I'd open a business.” “You're a hair dresser then?” “So, what kind of shop you thinkin' about opening?” “Duty calls. You sure I can't get you anything to eat? Never let it be said that someone left She stepped back out on the sidewalk, a sense of rightness lightening the uneasy feeling in her stomach a bit. She took a breath and crossed the street to the hardware store. Might as well talk to this Mr. DeFoe. If the money in Aunt Ruby’s strong box wasn’t enough rent out a shop, better to know now so she could make other plans. © 2010 Deborah Grace Staley All Rights Reserved 
What the Heart Wants
by Deborah Grace Staley
She closed the cabin door and rushed down the well-worn path to the river bank. Uncle Billy sat in his fishing boat. The deep lines of his face told his age to be only a few less than his sister, her precious grandmother. She smiled and handed him her suitcase.
Instead of taking it, he said, “You sure about this, girl?”
“Yes, sir.” She said the words, but the uneasiness settled in her center like a dark warning she ought to heed.
The old man took her suitcase and stowed it under a seat. “You’ve got the look of your mama, exceptin’ for Aunt Ruby’s eyes.”
The crossing was slow because the lake that separated the mountain from the other side was wide. After awhile, Uncle Billy pulled the boat alongside of the little dock he’d built at the edge of his property. Standing, he tied it up just as the sun rose over the backside of the mountain. He lifted her suitcase onto the dock, hopped up alongside it, then offered her a hand.
“I’ll give you a ride into town, then. My truck’s just up there.”
“Thank you.”
“Where will you stay?”
“It reminds me of Aunt Ruby. She always said I was sweet as candy.” She got in the truck and after her uncle had settled behind the wheel, she said, “Uncle Billy, you think it’d be best if folks didn’t know Aunt Ruby was my grandmamma?”
“That and your mama going about tryin’ to belong there all wrong.”
“Some people up there don’t have no happiness in ’em, and they got a lot of say. So, don’t be surprised if makin’ a place for yourself in that town takes some doin’.”
“Do you think anyone will remember my mama?”
Uncle Billy looked at her long and hard. “It’s been a lot of years . . . For your sake, I hope not.”
He didn’t speak, but his silence did. Maybe he was remembering what happened to her mother. She might have asked him to tell her the story Aunt Ruby had not, but she kept silent as well. Whatever had happened to her mother in
Uncle Billy pulled over, and the old truck rattled to a stop. Rusty hinges spoke their protest as Candi opened the door and stepped out into the chill, gray morning.
Mist hovered on the lake below and obscured the mountain she’d called home her entire life. Fitting, that. She should look at what was in front of her and not what was behind. She closed the door and lifted her suitcase out of the truck bed. Uncle Billy drove away, leaving her alone on the brick sidewalks of
Candi closed her eyes, drew in a long, cleansing breath and then put one foot in front of the other. Signs in shop windows read, “Closed,” but some lights were on behind the wide windows of the storefronts. One man swept the sidewalk outside Wallace’s Grocery. He looked up as if to say, “Morning,” as she came near, but the word died half spoken on his lips. He gripped his broom, rubbed his eyes, blinked, and then looked at her again. As if not liking what he saw, he hurriedly went inside his shop and locked the door.
Store fronts lined both sides of the street that U-ed at the end to come around to the other side. Winter-brown grass took up the middle holding park benches, a large gazebo, and a great bronze angel perched atop a brick pedestal. Fitting for a town that legend told was named for an angel that saved its earliest settlers from an Indian attack.
A “For Rent” sign with a telephone number on it stood in the corner of a wide bay window. Candi pressed her face to the glass trying to make out what might be inside. The front room was empty, and it looked like the space was narrow and deep. She backed up a pace to look up. Windows above promised that maybe a living space could be arranged upstairs.
Well, pink certainly would be the right color for someone named Candi. The thought brought a smile to her face.
Candi turned to look around the early morning town devoid of activity. Diagonally across the street was a cafe with a rustic sign that read, “
As she approached the red brick building with cheery yellow and white striped awnings, she could see through the long row of large windows that the diner was crowded. Candi hesitated. Not being used to them, crowds made her uncomfortable. She took a deep breath to shore up her courage and opened the door. A bell clanged alerting all that a new customer had arrived. It seemed that all eyes focused on her, curious about the stranger who had just entered.
“Good mornin’,” a woman bustling behind the counter said. “Come in and take a seat. I’ll be with you in a second.”
The tall, smartly dressed red-haired woman soon returned and placed a cup and saucer in front of her. She poured coffee and said, “What can I get you hon?” She took a pencil and an order pad from her apron pocket.
“Nothing, thank you. I was wondering if you could tell me who’s renting the pink building in town.”
“Is that what it is?”
“Yeah. The lady who ran it moved about a year ago. You thinkin’ to rent it.”
“Well, Bud DeFoe owns that and most of the other buildings on that side of
She leaned against the counter and said, “You're new in town.”
It wasn't a question. “Yes.”
“I’m Dixie Ferguson.”
Dixie Ferguson . . . She must own the diner. She had a warm smile that reached her eyes and seemed like a nice person, but Candi couldn't be sure on such short acquaintance. Better to keep her guard up until she knew her better.
“Likewise.”
“No. I just liked the building. It . . . stands out.”
Now that she mentioned it, Candi noticed that
Candi shrugged. “I was thinking of making it a sundries shop.”
“Sundries?”
“This and that.”
“That's very kind. Thank you, ma'am.”
“Please, call me
Candi smiled. “
“Order up!” someone called from the back.
“I should be getting on.” She had a lot to do before the sun set over the mountain, the most important of which was finding somewhere to stay until she found a place of her own. “I'll try to come by for supper.”
“You do that. Fried chicken's the special tonight.”
Candi left a dollar on the counter for the coffee, then stood, picked up her suitcase, and headed for the door. A beauty shop . . . That might make people happy, especially since there didn’t seem to be another one in town. Becoming a beautician would require going to school, and she needed income now. She had some money that her Aunt Ruby had left for her, but she wasn’t sure how long it would last.
She had to be practical. Aunt Ruby had taught her to have good common sense if nothing else. Rely on what you know and what seems practical, that’s what she’d say to her if she was standing next to her right now. She’d had a plan when she come off the mountain. No need to be changin’ things now. Just because the building had been a beauty shop didn’t oblige her to keep it a beauty shop. She needed money now, and that meant sticking to what she knew. She was passable good at arranging flowers, and she would sell the salves and tonics that Aunt Ruby had taught her to make. Everyone liked flowers and they would also like the natural remedies. That was it. Stick to the plan. It was a good plan.
A Home for Christmas
The Second Angel Ridge Novel
by Deborah Grace Staley
Chapter One
They say you can never go home.
Janice Thornton glided up to the curb in front of the old two-story Victorian and killed the engine. It looked much the same—gingerbread trim in the eaves, wide wraparound porch with wicker furniture. The house was huge, but in the short time she spent here as a child, it had felt cozy to her.
Sitting here looking at it through adult eyes, she realized the appeal had never been the house itself, but the home her grandparents had made in it. Their house had been her ideal of what a home should be. A home she'd longed for as a child. A home she'd never had with her own parents.
Janice slid her sunglasses off and laid them in the empty passenger seat next to her. She always got sentimental around the holidays. She didn't know why. Her formative years had been spent at exclusive boarding schools. Christmases always involved a trip, either with her parents, or more often, with school friends. Each year, her grandmother had invited her to spend Christmas break in Angel Ridge, but her mother wouldn't hear of such a thing. She'd always been embarrassed by her humble roots and didn't want her daughter revisiting them.
Janice hadn't been in Angel Ridge, Tennessee since she'd gone behind her parents' backs and borrowed a friend's car when she was sixteen to come during her spring break. It hadn't changed much. Tall, old houses lined one side of a street that ran high above the Tellassee River, with church steeples just visible a few blocks over. It was a sleepy little town that time seemed to have forgotten, but for some reason, it burned in Janice's memory like a warm, inviting fire on a cold winter morning.
A movement in her peripheral vision made her refocus on the old Victorian. She noticed that a man had appeared from behind the house carrying a ladder. The sun glinted off a pile of tangled Christmas lights, bunched near the steps of the porch, drawing her attention. Janice smiled. She was glad to see that this man, whoever he was, continued her grandfather's tradition of decking the house out in grand style for Christmas.
The man leaned the ladder against the house. As he turned toward the mound of lights, he noticed her and smiled. Her breath caught and hung inside her chest. It was an easy smile, full of good humor that enticed a person to come sit a spell on the porch and enjoy the unseasonably warm, late autumn sunshine.
Tall and lean with whipcord muscles, he wore faded and well-worn jeans with a T-shirt that looked like it had once been black, but now was more a soft charcoal dotted with paint stains. A tan leather tool belt slung low across his narrow hips. A lock of thick, dark hair fell across his tanned forehead as he bent to retrieve the lights.
Janice shifted and the leather seat creaked. A sheen of sweat misted her forehead, and she cracked the window.
What must the home's owner be thinking? But he acted as if seeing a strange woman in a new silver BMW parked outside his home was an every Saturday morning occurrence. He turned, and without giving her a second glance, started up the ladder. Stopping about eight rungs up, he leaned to his right, toward one of the bay windows on the ground floor. Shifting the lights to his other hand, he reached out to pull at something above the window. He teetered. One foot went up in the air as he tried to shift back to find his balance. But the ladder tipped sideways with the movement, and Janice watched in horrified disbelief as he began to fall.
Years of medical school, emergency room rotations, residency, and private practice had honed her instincts so that she didn't even give it a conscious thought. She was out of her car and at his side almost before he hit the boxwoods and rolled to the ground.
"Ah, jeez…" he groaned.
Janice had already clicked into professional mode. "Don't worry, I'm a doctor. Try not to move." She ran her hands down his arms, checking for broken bones. "Where does it hurt?"
The man chuckled. It was a low rumble that had a crazy effect on her. And that smile…it should be registered as a lethal weapon.
"If I said everywhere, would you keep doing that?"
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© 2009 Deborah Grace Staley All Rights Reserved
Praise for
A Home for Christmas
"Staley pens a great old-fashioned love story for the holiday season. Book two in her
"A HOME FOR CHRISTMAS is a feel good community talk in the best tradition of storytellers like Debbie Macomber. Angel Ridge is a warm, comfortable placed I'd like to visit again, full of caring people anyone would love to have for neighbors. Share your holiday season with the people of
"A Home for Christmas is a charming, heart-warming story. It is the type of book that you want to curl up with and read over and over again that just has an old-fashion feeling to it. Deborah Grace Staley writes the type of stories that stay with you long after you've turned the last page."-Jaymi, Fallen Angel Reviews
"The story is a great Christmas time story. I could not put the story down, so read it in one sitting. Lovers of romances will want to add A Home for Christmas to their lists. I'll be looking for more books by Deborah Grace Staley."-Robert H. Goss, Roundtable Reviews
"A heartwarming romance in time for the holidays. A Home for Christmas was a charming Christmas romance; I recommend it."-Marlene Breakfield, Paranormal Romance Reviews
"An absolutely delightful way to get into the holiday spirit. This is a well written, uplifting romance that I most highly recommend. Want to get in the Christmas spirit? Read A Home for Christmas."-Robin Thomas, MyShelf.com
"A heartwarming romance in time for the holidays. A HOME FOR CHRISTMAS was a charming Christmas romance; I recommend it."-Marlene Breakfield, Paranormal Romance Reviews
"The story is a delight. The town offers a dearth of stories just waiting to be told. Hopefully, Ms. Staley will take us back to the Ridge and show us the wonderful magic of love once again."-K. Anne Rohrer, Contemporary Romance Writers, Romance Designs
"A HOME FOR CHRISTMAS is a very sweet romance with an emotionally poignant story."-Tara Black, The Romance Studio
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A Home for Christmas
- In a Home for Christmas, Janice Thornton wants something so badly, she’s afraid to even hope for it, much less seriously consider it a possibility: a home and a family. Have you ever wanted something that much? How did you overcome the fear and go after it?
- Blake Ferguson has dreams, too. Dreams of a home filled with a large, loving, traditional family. Discuss his methods for going after Janice and winning her heart despite the reality that a traditional family with her would not likely be possible.
- Miss Estelee sure is an interesting character with a lot of unanswered questions surrounding her like how old is she really? Where did she come from? Why did she never marry? Who broke her heart, or did she do the breaking? And what about her and Doc Prescott? What do you think that’s about?
- Blake and his brother, Cory, have a sibling rivalry. Have you experienced this or do you know someone who has? How do you deal with sibling rivalry? Is it possible to avoid sibling rivalry in a large family?
- Blake has anger management issues. Why do you think he has anger issues?
- Having gone grown up together,
- What Christmas traditions did you enjoy as a child that hold warm memories for you? Are there any in A Home for Christmas that you’d like to adopt for your Christmas celebrations?
- Do you believe that Christmas is a time for miracles? Have you ever experienced a Christmas miracle?
- Which do you prefer at the top of your tree and why? An angel or a star or maybe a ribbon. If you have an angel this year, will you make a wish on it?
- Discuss storylines and characters you would like to see in the Angel Ridge Novels. Designate a person in your group to write them up, send them to Deborah Grace Staley,
Only You
The First Angel Ridge Novel
by Deborah Grace Staley
ISBN 978-0-9821756-3-7
Available NOW
in Trade Paperback and in E-Format
from Bell Bridge Books, Amazon.com, BN.com
and from your favorite bookseller
Welcome
Hey, ya'll. Dixie Ferguson here. I run Ferguson's Diner in Angel Ridge, Tennessee. Population three hundred forty-five. Even though I wasn't born here, well, I call it home now, and most of the locals accept me as one of their own. Let me tell ya a little bit about our corner of the world.
It's a picturesque town in the valley of the Little Tennessee River, established in 1785. In the early days, its first families-the McKays, the Wallaces, the Houstons, the Joneses, and, of course, the Craigs-staked their claims on hundreds of acres of the richest bottom land anyone had ever seen. They built large homes near the meandering river and operated prosperous plantations. Well, all except for the Craigs. They were traders and craftsmen. Men of commerce, as it were. Meanwhile, the town developed above the river on a high ridge.
In the early 1970s, the Flood Control Board came in and bought up about all of the property along the flood prone river, and those stately homes that some called relics of a bygone era were inundated in the name of progress. But those who built more modest houses near town up on the ridge, well, their homes are still standin'. Of course, the families who lost theirs to the newly formed Tellassee Lake moved up to the ridge as well and built elaborate Victorian mansions such as this quaint little town had never seen.
Most of the families I mentioned earlier are still around. These folks are hardy people. Why in all the time they've lived here, they've endured Indian attacks, floods, divided loyalties in the Civil War, and yes, even feuds. The older folks are still marked by the hardships of the past, but the young people of the town hope to move beyond old hurts to create a new generation made strong because of their roots, yet free of the past.
After all the years I've spent behind the counter at Ferguson's, I could probably tell ya'll a story about near everyone in town. But we only have so much time, so I'll narrow it down to just two for now.
This is a story about coming home. It's also a story about acceptin' folks for who they are. You could say it's a story about a librarian and a handyman, but I say it's a story about finding love where you'd least expect to. Ya know, those kinds of things always seem to happen when you open up your heart to possibilities. Of course, a little help from our hometown angels and yours truly don't hurt none either!
* * *
A man is not where he lives,
but where he loves.
Latin Proverb
Chapter One
It was one of those days. Mid-May...spring on the cusp of summer. A rare day. One with the bluest of skies dotted with cotton ball clouds and the temperature perfect with a cooling breeze blowing up from the lake. No one could ask for a better day, but not a thing had gone right since Josephine Allen's feet had hit the hardwoods of the turn of the century Victorian that had been her childhood home in Angel Ridge.
Josie had lived on the ridge up until she'd gone away to college. She'd been away for nearly seven years; but now she was back. The town had chosen her as the "right person" to take over the directorship of Angel Ridge's most prized possession: The Angel Ridge Library. Expectations were naturally high for the town's golden child.
So far, she had not delivered.
It had begun with the pronouncement by her parents that they would be moving to a retirement community in Florida. The house, of course, would be hers now. Whether she wanted it or not? Not an option. And then there were the problems with the cataloging program that had been keeping her at the library every night to all hours.
So, she'd awakened this morning to no power, no alarm clock, no curling iron, and no hot water. After a late night at the office, was a hot shower too much to ask? She did the best she could with her appearance under the circumstances. No time to check the fuse box. She'd barely make it to open the front door of the library by eight. There were probably people already lined up on the steps anxious to hit the genealogy room. They always came early and stayed until closing.
Two hours later, things at the office weren't going any better than things at home.
"Dr. Allen? Cole Craig on line two for you. He says it's urgent.
Josie turned from her computer screen to look up at her secretary standing in her office doorway. "Thank you, Teresa."
Josie removed her wire-rimmed glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. The library's out-dated computer system had crashed twice already today, and it wasn't even lunchtime.
Cole Craig. Cole Craig. The name rang a bell, but her brain was so scrambled, she couldn't match a face to it. She punched the button below the blinking light on her phone, picked up the receiver and said, "This is Dr. Allen. How may I help you?"
"Is this Josie Allen?"
The deep voice laced with a smooth southern drawl flowed through the telephone line to caress her ear. Chill bumps raced up her arm. "Um...yes," she managed through a suddenly constricted throat.
"This is Cole Craig. I'm sorry to bother you at work, but there's a problem at your house."
She frowned. She knew that, but just how did this person also know? "A problem?"
"Yes, ma'am. I was cuttin' Miss Estelee's lawn this morning. I had just cut it on Monday, but with all the rain we been having, I decided to cut it twice this week. So, when I stopped by her place today, like I always do on Thursdays, I decided to cut her grass again, and when I was around on the side of the yard closest to your house, I heard water runnin'."
Josie could have gotten lost in the verbal maze, but instead, a bell went off in her head. Cole Craig. Of course. How could she ever forget him? A couple of years older than her, they'd gone to middle school together, but he had to drop out of high school to help his ailing father keep their farm going. He'd never finished school, but he, like his father and grandfather before him, had not only supplied the town grocer with produce and the butcher with meat, but had also built houses for the poor and rich alike.
The Craigs were the founding family of Angel Ridge, much to the chagrin of the more prominent McKays and Wallaces. The Craigs had never been rich, but they'd worked quietly and with dignity in the community for generations. They were always the first to lend a helping hand around town.
"I hope you don't mind," he continued, "but I looked around a little and noticed water running down your sidewalk to the street, so I took a peek at your crawl space."
"Of course I don't mind. What did you find?"
"Well, it was just what I thought."
Josie waited. When he didn't supply any further information, she prompted, "What was that, Mr. Craig?"
"Oh, please. Call me Cole."
That odd warmth poured through her veins again. He had the most lyrically beautiful voice for an uneducated man. Cole. The name seemed incongruent with the voice. "What did you find?"
"A busted pipe."
"Oh, my." She involuntarily winced at the slang usage of the verb "to burst."
"I went down to the water meter and shut off the main. But there's no tellin' how long that thing had been spraying water. You've probably got some wet floors in your house."
"Yes, I'm sure you're right."
"I'd be happy to fix it Jos-um...I mean, Dr. Allen."
He said the word "doctor" like it felt foreign on his tongue. It was probably difficult for him to reconcile the young girl he remembered to Dr. Josephine Allen, Director of Library Science to The Angel Ridge Library. She wondered if he'd ever set foot in the library? Probably not.
"That's kind of you, Cole, but I'm sure you had other things planned for today. I'd hate to put you behind."
Josie hadn't been back in Angel Ridge long, but she'd noticed Cole Craig was in demand. Anyone in town who had something that needed fixing called Cole. She smiled. Her memories of him were of a big, beefy boy who'd always been kind to her despite the teasing she'd received in school for her bookwormish ways.
"Oh, it's no trouble, ma'am. That place of yours must be a handful since you don't have your folks around tendin' to things. It was a terrible loss for the town when they moved away. They were fine people.
He made it sound as if her parents had passed away, when what they'd really done was left her holding the bag in the form of a drafty old house that needed constant attention. "Yes, I don't really have the time or the knowledge needed to keep up such an old house."
She'd thought of taking a condo in Maryville, but her parents had nearly had heart attacks when she'd suggested it. So, she'd resigned herself to living here. It was her home, after all, and she did enjoy the short walk to work. How many towns remained in America where one could walk to work?
"You're lucky to have it. They don't make 'em like that any more."
Josie wouldn't know. How she longed for a nice, cozy place that was warm in the winter with no yard work in the summer. Something that wasn't in the middle of a town where she'd always been under a microscope and had never fit in.
"I'm more than happy to oblige," he was saying.
She couldn't help smiling at the quaint turn of phrase in Cole's slow, southern drawl, even though she wasn't quite sure what he meant. "I'm sorry. You're happy to oblige?"
"Sure. I can crawl up under the house and have a look at that pipe, then I could run down to the hardware and get what I need to fix it. I expect I'll need to get a look inside to see if there's any trouble in there, though."
"Of course-"
"I'll just mosey on into town to get some supplies, then. If you could swing by here at lunch to let me into the house?"
Josie looked at her watch. "I could leave now-"
"Oh, no ma'am. There's no need for that. It'll take me a bit to get what I need and come back here to start work on it. Noon'll be fine."
"Noon it is then. Um, Mr. Craig?"
"Cole, please. Mr. Craig sounds like my daddy."
His warm, soft chuckle heated every ounce of her blood. The images running amuck in her mind weren't the least bit fatherly.
"I'll call Mr. DeFoe at the hardware and ask him to bill me for the supplies."
"No need. We'll settle up later."
"You're sure?"
"Yep. See you in a bit."
The line went dead. Josie replaced the phone and sat back in her leather chair. A burst water pipe. Her house was probably a mess. She should go assess the damage. But Cole seemed to have everything under control. She rolled the mouse to disable the screensaver on her computer, and the stupid thing locked up again.
If only Cole Craig could work his magic on her hard drive....
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