Coming Home to You

by Fay Robinson

  “What gives you the right to mess with my life, Morgan?

  “You know what you remind me of?” he went on. “That character in the cartoon that whirls around like a tornado and chews up everything in its path.”

  “That’s not fair! I’m not like that.”

  “Yeah, you are. Ever since you whirled into town, you’ve done everything in your power to make me miserable. Do you think I don’t know you’ve been running around all day, asking questions about me and my brother, bothering my friends—”

  “Your friends? I’ve got news for you, Hayes. You’re grossly lacking in the friends department. I couldn’t find ten people in this town who could even recall talking to you, much less counting you as a friend.” Kate poked him in the chest. “And it’s pretty obvious why. You’ve got a personality problem only electric shock could fix.”

  Bret gave her an incredulous look. “You think I’ve got a personality problem? Well, lady, let me tell you something. You’re the most irritating person I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. You’re annoying. You’re devious. Your mouth stays open so much I’m surprised something hasn’t nested in it by now. You’ve trespassed on my property, ruined my breakfast, followed me around with no purpose but to harass me. And I’ve had enough!”

  Dear Reader,

  In Coming Home to You, the worst nightmare of horsebreeder Bret Hayes has rolled into Lochefuscha, Alabama. She is Kate Morgan: beautiful, intelligent but also very dangerous. Her unauthorized biography of his late brother, James, will cause more pain for his family. And she could uncover their complicity in the death of the once-famous musician.

  Bret is determined to do whatever it takes to get rid of the “ratchet-jawed” Kate. If he can guide her away from the truth—and tape her mouth shut—everything could work out. Or maybe not. He’s fallen in love, and she’s the one woman in the world with the power to destroy him.

  I thought it would be interesting to pair a journalist with a man who has dark secrets and to explore the issue of personal rights versus the public’s right to know the truth. But the heart of this story is a wonderful romance between two people who are perfect for each other. It simply takes them a bit of time to figure that out.

  I loved writing this story. I hope you enjoy reading it.

  Sincerely,

  Fay Robinson

  Coming Home to You

  Fay Robinson

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Fay Robinson believes in love at first sight and happily ever after—beliefs based on experience. Some years ago, she wrote a story on a firefighter for her local newspaper and that night she told her best friend, “Today I met the man I’m going to marry.” She and her firefighter recently celebrated their twenty-fifth anniversary.

  Fay lives in Alabama within one mile of the place where her paternal ancestors settled in the early 1800s. She spends her spare time canning vegetables from her husband’s garden and researching her family history. You can write Fay at P.O. Box 240, Waverly, AL 36879-0240. And she invites you to visit her Web site at http://www.fayrobinson.com. You can also check out the Friends and Links section at http://www.eHarlequin.com.

  Praise for Coming Home to You

  “Fay Robinson is a writer with a great feel for human emotion. Coming Home to You is a wonderfully moving story of a family’s loss and a man’s guilt over his brother’s death. It’s a lesson in learning to trust and love, and I absolutely couldn’t put it down.”

  —Sharon Sala, author of Butterfly, MIRA BOOKS

  “Coming Home to You is top-notch. A compelling, delightful blend of the tense and tender. Ms. Robinson has outdone herself.”

  —Vicki Hinze, author of All Due Respect

  “Coming Home to You is unforgettable. Fay Robinson made me laugh and made me cry. A wonderful love story of great breadth and depth. I wish it hadn’t ended.”

  —Lindsay McKenna, author of Morgan’s Mercenaries: Heart of Stone

  For my mother, who was fearless.

  And for Jan Nowasky, the sister of my heart, for cutting the path and leaving the light on for me to follow.

  Acknowledgment

  My deepest appreciation to Mayo Lancaster for his help with the research on horsebreeding. And to Auburn, Alabama, Police Chief Ed Downing for answering my questions and letting me cool my heels temporarily in a jail cell. You’re right, Ed. It sucks. Any errors in this material are mine and not theirs. Thanks also to my husband, Jackie, whose gentleness and love of horses inspired the hero of this book.

  CONTENTS

  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

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE GROWL STARTED low, deep in the dog’s throat, then exploded into an earsplitting yodel. Kate froze with her hand outstretched toward its misshapen head and her body bent at an uncomfortable angle. The ugly mutt couldn’t weigh more than twenty pounds, but most of that was teeth. Long sharp-looking teeth. And they were inches from her fingertips.

  “Sweet little dog,” she cooed, trying to calm it.

  Her words had the opposite effect. A ridge of fur shot up on the dog’s neck. Another yodel burst from its throat, then settled into a long menacing growl. Its one erect ear flattened against its skull.

  Oh, great. Now what?

  She considered jumping up on one of the porch chairs, but discarded the idea. None were tall enough. The pickup truck she’d noticed parked at the side of the farmhouse wasn’t an option, either. Too far away. Getting inside the house seemed her best chance for escape.

  Two feet to her left, the front door stood open behind a rusting screen. Moments ago she had knocked, then cupped her hands and peeked in, admiring the hardwood floor and the old washstand covered with family photographs.

  Something else had caught her attention as she snooped, something that only now penetrated the conscious part of her brain. The hook on the screen door was in the eyebolt. The door was locked.

  Wonderful.

  The dog inched closer.

  She remained rigid, poised for flight. Sweat poured from her hairline down her face, but she dared not wipe it away. The dog returned her stare. Sporadic fits of a loud throaty bark punctuated its growl.

  Twenty seconds.

  Thirty seconds.

  Her arm quivered from the strain of holding it out.

  Forty seconds.

  Her watch unexpectedly chimed the hour—six o’clock—with a soft beep beep that seemed ten times louder than normal. She jerked. The dog lunged. Moving faster than she ever had in her life, Kate cleared the porch and ran, the angry mass of fur nipping at her heels.

  At the edge of the yard, shrubs of some kind formed a low hedge. Beyond it she’d parked the white Ford she’d rented at the airport in Birmingham. Her vivid imagination created a picture of what would happen if the dog overtook her before she made it to the car. Blood. Gallons of blood. Great chunks of flesh ripped from her legs. She’d die in a tiny redneck town in Alabama and never see her father or brothers again.

  The thought made her move faster. She plowed through the hedge rather than trying to jump over it, remembering the name of the plant when the prickly leaves hit her skin. Holly.

  “Aaaawww!”

  Now she was decorated and about to be mauled. Leaves h
ung from her skirt and stockings, the needle-like points stabbing her with every movement.

  The dog almost had her. In desperation, she made a flying leap for the limb of a nearby pine tree, losing her shoes on the way up. She wrapped her legs around the branch and dangled precariously from its underside while the dog jumped and snapped, twice catching her clothing and nearly jerking her back to the ground.

  Using all her strength, she hauled herself upright. After a few calming breaths, she took inventory: only minor scrapes on her arms and legs from the tree’s scaly bark, but her clothes were ruined. Her skirt and blouse, a lovely bone color that morning, were streaked with the red dust that always seemed to hang in the air. The torn lining of her jacket drooped below the hem, resembling paper after it’s been put through a shredder. She felt her hair. Even the clip that kept the unruly tendrils out of her face was gone.

  But she wasn’t seriously hurt. And as long as she didn’t fall off the limb, the beast below couldn’t do further damage.

  “Bad dog!” she yelled down, then groaned as it went for her new shoes.

  EVEN BEFORE HE SAW the animal, Bret knew Sallie had treed something dangerous in the yard. The dog had a unique voice for each type of prey. A series of short yips meant she was chasing a rat or a chipmunk. A yodel was for something larger, like a rabbit or one of the bobcats that lived in the swampy area at the far end of the pasture, near the creek.

  Sallie only barked in answer to the late-night calls of dogs on neighboring farms. Growls she reserved for Willie and Aubrey, the men who helped him with his horse-breeding business.

  This wasn’t a rat or even a bobcat. The way Sallie was carrying on, it had to be bigger. And meaner.

  With only a rope halter to control the stallion, Bret raced from the barn to the house. The powerful bay moved under him like an extension of his body, reacting instinctively to the pressure of his legs and his booted heels against its sides.

  His concern for Sallie turned to annoyance when he saw the unfamiliar car. Not a bear in the yard, as he’d thought. A human. A trespasser.

  He slowed the horse to a gentle lope. Sallie had stopped her wailing and stood at the base of the big pine tree near the drive. She had something in her mouth, angrily shaking it from side to side. At first Bret didn’t see the driver of the car. Then he spotted two shapely legs hanging from the tree.

  “Stop that!” a feminine voice yelled as a stick came sailing down, clearly intended for Sallie, but missing her by at least three feet. “Leave those alone!” Another stick and a barrage of pinecones showered the ground.

  Bret nudged the horse closer to get a better view of Sallie’s catch. It was female all right; she straddled the lowest branch. Her skirt was hiked to the middle of her thighs, showing holes and runs in her stockings.

  She’d twisted off another small branch and was getting ready to pitch it at Sallie when she noticed him.

  “Oh, thank God, you’ve come! That ugly thing almost got me.”

  He gave her the hardest most unfriendly look he could muster, but it wasn’t easy. She was the prettiest thing Sallie had ever treed. She definitely had the best set of legs.

  “Ma’am, you’re trespassing. The Keep Out sign on the gate is plain enough for any idiot to read.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows in a gesture that made him feel as if he was the one who’d done something wrong, then amusement lit her green eyes. “An idiot? Really?”

  Bret took off his baseball cap. Sweat beaded his brow and he wiped it away with the back of a gloved hand. He slapped the cap against his leg, not so much to dislodge the dust that covered the brim, but to give himself time to ease his irritation. It didn’t work.

  The gate and the fences leading to the house were plastered with warnings. No way could she have missed them.

  “This is private property. You’ll have to leave,” he said, putting the cap back on.

  “Just like that? You’re not going to ask me why I’m here?”

  He already had a good idea. She wasn’t local; her clothes and jewelry were too fancy. She wasn’t a client, because he only worked with a select number, all personally known to him. That meant she was probably a reporter. A couple of the more determined ones had tracked him down over the years. He’d thrown them out, just as he was about to throw this one out.

  “Ma’am, I’m not interested in why you’re here, only in seeing you leave. Now please climb down and get in your car.”

  “Okay, but you’ll have to help me. I’m stuck.”

  The muscles in his face tightened even more. “What do you mean you’re stuck?”

  “Stuck as in…can’t move. The lining of my skirt is caught on something back here and I can’t pull it loose.”

  She twisted and tugged at her skirt, trying to free it, but the movement only made it ride higher on her thighs.

  Bret shifted with uneasiness as a long expanse of leg became visible and he caught a glimpse of ivory lace. “Lean forward,” he snapped. He nudged the horse up to the branch where he could investigate the problem. Damn fool woman. She had no business climbing trees if she couldn’t get down.

  He took off his gloves and hurriedly tried to work the fabric loose, but her sweet scent filled his head and made it hard to concentrate. He had the disturbing sensation that he knew her from somewhere. Those big green eyes. That slightly crooked mouth….

  Glancing up, he found her watching him. She tucked a strand of long hair behind her ear, hair that was chestnut-colored and looked as soft as the coat of a newborn foal.

  “Are you really throwing me off your property?” she asked.

  He yanked harder at the tangle of threads. The sooner she was on her way, the better. Strangers, even pretty ones, could be trouble.

  “I guess so,” she answered for him. “And here I thought Southerners were famous for their hospitality.”

  He reached in the pocket of his jeans for his knife. When he had cut away that part of the trapped material, she eased forward on the limb and pulled her skirt free.

  “Climb down,” he told her.

  “I will, but—” she pointed at Sallie “—can you get rid of that first, please?”

  “Sallie, go to the house.” The dog ran to the porch and curled up in front of the screen door.

  Bret slid from his horse, scooped up the woman’s shoes and remounted. “Here.” He thrust them at her. They were covered in dog slobber and puckered with holes.

  She held them up and sighed. “Great. The next time I need to strain vegetables, I’ll know what to use.” She steadied herself on the branch with one hand and used her other to slip on a shoe, making a sound of disgust. “They’re wet.”

  “Climb down,” Bret ordered again.

  “You know,” she said, easing into the other shoe, a pained expression on her face, “you didn’t even ask if your dog bit me. I felt her mouth on my ankle, and I think I should go in the house and put antiseptic on it.”

  “She didn’t bite you.”

  “I believe she did.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “How can you say that when you haven’t looked?”

  “Lady, the dog didn’t bite you. Stop stalling and get down.”

  “I’m not stalling.”

  “If Sallie had bitten you, we wouldn’t be arguing about it. She’d still be hanging on.”

  The woman shuddered. “You’re kidding. Does she often hang on to people?”

  “Always.”

  “You mean she clamps down and won’t turn you loose?” When he nodded, she asked, “Did you train her to do that?”

  “Of course not. She just does it. Now, I’m tired of telling you. Get in your car.”

  She stared off into space, apparently deep in thought, then glanced at his horse. “I guess things like that are bred into dogs, like racing and working are bred into horses. That’s what they call a quarter horse, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen an animal so beautiful. Is he your only stallion?”

 
“No, I have three.”

  “Three? Gosh. And I bet they’re all that healthy-looking. And how many mares do you have?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “So how many of those would you normally breed in a year’s time, and how many babies would you get?”

  “Usually I’d breed all of them if they’re—”

  He swore, realizing she had somehow dragged him into conversation. Did she know he bred horses for a living or had she made an educated guess?

  “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Doing what?”

  “Chattering. Trying to make me forget you’re not supposed to be here. Confusing me.”

  “No, I wasn’t. Are you easily confused? You know that can be one of the first signs of a serious illness. A brain tumor. Alzheimer’s. Dementia. Although I would think you’re too young to have Alzheimer’s. This confusion you have, is it like short-term memory loss or more cognitive?”

  He groaned loudly. “You’re the most exasperating woman I ever tried to talk to.”

  “Do you have trouble talking to women?” She clucked as if she felt sorry for him. “No need to feel embarrassed. An estimated two million men in the United States have the same problem. There’s even a name for it. It’s called Fe—”

  “Stop!” he yelled, holding up a hand.

  She casually plucked a pine needle from her skirt. “Are you confused again?”

  He eyed her with suspicion. “Are you purposely trying to drive me crazy?”

  “Why, heavens, no. Are you paranoid, as well as confused?”

  He raised his arms and grabbed her before she understood his intent, lifting her from the branch and setting her sideways on the horse in front of him.

  “You’re leaving,” he said gruffly, kicking the horse into a trot. His arm came around her waist to hold her. She clung to it in panic.

  Bret pulled her closer, his anger fizzling the moment he felt her fear. He stiffened as he got a stronger whiff of her perfume. The fragrance was exotic, like some delicate flower. He’d forgotten how good a woman could smell, how soft she could feel.