The Parson's Waiting

by Sherryl Woods

  Don’t miss this reader-favorite tale of healing hearts from New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods.

  Cynical and soul-weary foreign correspondent Richard Walton had traveled the world and found only pain and misery. He believed there was nothing—and no one—good left in the world. Then he met kind and generous Pastor Anna Louise Perkins. Could this very special woman take away the nightmares and give him the peace his jaded soul is searching for?

  Sherryl Woods Booklist

  The Sweet Magnolias

  Stealing Home

  A Slice of Heaven

  Feels Like Family

  Welcome to Serenity

  Home in Carolina

  Sweet Tea at Sunrise

  Honeysuckle Summer

  Midnight Promises

  Catching Fireflies

  Where Azaleas Bloom

  Swan Point

  Chesapeake Shores

  The Inn at Eagle Point

  Flowers on Main

  Harbor Lights

  A Chesapeake Shores Christmas

  Driftwood Cottage

  Moonlight Cove

  Beach Lane

  An O’Brien Family Christmas

  The Summer Garden

  A Seaside Christmas

  The Christmas Bouquet

  Dogwood Hill

  Willow Brook Road

  The Devaney Brothers

  The Devaney Brothers: Ryan & Sean

  The Devaney Brothers: Michael & Patrick

  The Devaney Brothers: Daniel

  The Calamity Janes

  The Calamity Janes: Cassie & Karen

  The Calamity Janes: Gina & Emma

  The Calamity Janes: Lauren

  The Adams Dynasty

  A Christmas Blessing

  Natural Born Daddy

  The Cowboy and His Baby

  The Rancher and His Unexpected Daughter

  The Littlest Angel

  Natural Born Trouble

  Unexpected Mommy

  The Cowgirl and the Unexpected Wedding

  Natural Born Lawman

  The Unclaimed Baby

  The Cowboy and His Wayward Bride

  Suddenly, Annie’s Father

  The Cowboy and the New Year’s Baby

  Dylan and the Baby Doctor

  The Pint-Sized Secret

  Marrying a Delacourt

  The Delacourt Scandal

  The Parson’s Waiting

  Sherryl Woods

  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 ONE

  Richard Walton stood atop the hillside in Kiley, Virginia, and looked out over his grandmother’s apple orchards and beyond to the Shenandoah Valley. For as far as the eye could see there was nothing remarkable on the horizon, just green treetops against a crystal-clear blue sky. He drew in a deep breath of the cool morning air with its hint of the approaching fall and waited for some sort of serenity to steal over him.

  Wasn’t that why people retreated to remote places in the mountains? Wasn’t there supposed to be something in the eternal stillness, in the quiet shifting of the seasons that gave a man peace of mind? So where the heck was it? he wondered irritably.

  Coffee cup in hand, he leaned against a post on the front porch of the white clapboard house that had been in his family for four generations and waited impatiently for the place to work its healing magic.

  Nothing. Just as it always had, the quiet got on his nerves worse than bullets flying past his ear. And Lord knows he’d had enough of that in the past few years to be able to make the comparison. Even here, where the noisiest thing around was Nate Dorsey’s rusty old pickup, he could still hear the thunder of bombs exploding in Iraq, the shelling in the streets of Bosnia, the sniper fire in Somalia.

  But as chilling as those sounds had been, they were nothing compared to the cries of starving children, the screams of tortured women. He still woke up some nights in a cold sweat, hearing those awful moans of anguish. He’d known in his gut that for every one of the children he reported rescued by UN troops or Red Cross workers, for every one of the women whose stories of daring escapes he wrote about for his Washington, D.C., newspaper, there were hundreds or thousands more that no one could save.

  For nearly ten years he had been highly paid to report from the world’s hellholes. Bloody civil wars, famine and strife were the lifeblood of a foreign correspondent known for his willingness to go anywhere, to brave any danger for the sake of an illuminating interview and a front-page byline. There was little in the way of human depravity that Richard Walton hadn’t witnessed. He seriously doubted that an orchardful of apple trees and a lungful of fresh air could ever wash away those memories.

  He sipped his coffee, which didn’t taste strong enough. Not nearly as potent as the coffee he’d relied on to keep him awake during endless hours in the field and even more exhausting hours at his laptop computer. He wondered just how long he’d be able to tolerate the quiet. Hopefully it would be long enough.

  He thought of his grandmother, Maisey Walton, whose fragile heart was finally showing signs of slowing down after nearly eighty years. Only Maisey could have drawn him home again.

  Not that she’d asked. Maisey knew that he hadn’t been able to leave this town with its small-minded people and bitter memories fast enough. She’d sent him off to college with her blessing and she’d proudly kept a scrapbook of clippings from the Washington paper that had eventually hired him to report on the world’s trouble spots. She’d told him last night, though, that she hadn’t read most of them.

  “You’ve got an eye for detail and a vivid style that makes those horrible things come alive,” she’d said. “I can’t sleep nights when I’ve read one of your stories. I shed too many tears for all of that senseless suffering.”

  Of course, to his way of thinking that was high praise. That was just the effect Richard had hoped to have on readers. He’d wanted people to know what it was like in those distant, terrible places. He’d wanted their discomfort to become a rallying cry for change.

  But over the past nine years, if he’d learned nothing else, he’d learned that change was slow in coming, even when all the world’s forces for good were intent on making it happen. Mankind seemed to have a boundless capacity for doing harm, but very little understanding of how to do good. That knowledge had made his stories hard-hitting and relentless. It had also turned his heart cold and cynical.

  Maybe it was time for a break, time to use up all that vacation time he’d accumulated with his long, uninterrupted stretches on assignments that had other reporters bailing out after weeks. He was finally willing to admit that he was very close to a bad case of burnout.

  That alone wouldn’t have brought him back to the States, though. His grandmother had done that. Hearing Maisey’s voice turning increasingly frail, even when her words had been stubborn, had worried him into taking an extended leave from the newspaper. He owed her for taking him in after his parents had died. He owed her even more for letting him go.

  He’d vowed to stay in this crummy little pinpoint on the map through fall when the apples would be picked and when, with any luck, his grandmother’s health would be a bit stronger. He had no doubt that there would be another big story to tempt him then. There were always hot spots and too few reporters willing to
risk their necks to cover the stories the way they needed to be covered.

  Finishing his coffee, he took the cup inside, rinsed it and left it on the old-fashioned porcelain drainboard. If he was going to help out around here, it was time to get started. He needed to walk through the orchards and get a fix on what had to be done first. Maisey had sold off some of the land when keeping up with the acres of apple trees had gotten to be too much. But she’d been adamant about holding on to a few acres for him, declaring stubbornly that one day he might see this place as a refuge. There were enough trees left, their branches heavy with bright red fruit, for Maisey to make her locally famous pies and cobblers all through winter, plus extra to provide her with a small income from sales down at Luke Hall’s general store. She’d tended those remaining trees with loving care.

  The rest of the property hadn’t fared as well, though. The barn, which had once housed Maisey’s tired old mare Lucy and Richard’s first cantankerous pony, was empty now. The white paint and green trim that had once matched the house had peeled so badly that the barn was mostly the soft gray shade of weathered wood. He doubted he needed a horse, but he vowed to give the barn a fresh coat of paint one of these days. Maybe it would be a symbol of hope for his grandmother. It was no wonder she was feeling so decrepit, when everything around her was falling into a sorry state of disrepair.

  He’d noticed the same thing in the house. Even though the rooms smelled of lemon oil and the sturdy antique furniture gleamed from weekly polishing, the wallpaper was the same fading rose pattern that had already been old when he’d been a boy. It was time for a change. He resolved to take Maisey shopping for new paint and wallpaper in Charlottesville before the end of the week. Maybe his prejudice was showing again, but he doubted the hardware store in Kiley carried anything that hadn’t been on the shelves since the turn of the century.

  His thoughts were still on changes to be made to the house when he finally reached the first dwarfed trees in the orchard, trees that had been pruned back for a century or more to keep the apples low to the ground for easier harvesting that wouldn’t damage the fruit. The scent of apple blossoms was long past, but he imagined he could smell them anyway. In reality, though, where the blooms had been, back in the spring, the branches were now loaded with nearly ripe apples. A few were actually ready for picking.

  He reached up and plucked one to sample, rubbing it against his denim-clad leg until the red skin was polished to a shine. Just as he was about to take a bite, he caught a glimpse of color in a tree in the heart of the orchard. Attuned by years of self-protective instincts to paying strict attention to anything that seemed out of place, he moved cautiously toward that bright, unexpected patch of turquoise.

  It was probably nothing more than a kid stealing apples, but Richard used a fair amount of care as he quietly approached the intruder. Slipping past the last row of trees, he suddenly came to an amazed stop. He felt a little like Adam must have felt coming upon Eve in the Garden of Eden.

  The turquoise he’d spotted from a distance turned out to be a T-shirt worn atop a pair of shorts that, despite their modest cut, managed to show off an intriguing amount of long, shapely legs. The woman’s topknot of red hair had tumbled loose, falling in waves that hid her face. Her bare feet, unadorned by nail polish, were braced against the tree trunk as she clung to a branch with one arm and stretched to reach an elusive apple with the other. Despite her awkward position in the tree, her face, when he finally caught a glimpse of it, bore an expression of radiant serenity.

  Richard was entranced. It had been a long time since he’d met anyone who looked so thoroughly, delightfully carefree.

  “Is there something special about that particular apple?” he asked in a lazy, interested voice.

  The woman’s grip on the branch slipped and she started to topple headfirst toward the ground. Fortunately for both of them, she wasn’t all that far off the ground and Richard had lightning-quick reflexes. He caught her and held her close, absolutely captivated by the flecks of gold in eyes the exact shade of warm brandy. His heart, which he could have sworn had turned to ice years ago, suddenly seemed not just to have thawed, but to have turned capable of pumping blood fast and furiously through his veins.

  Maybe he’d just been too long without a woman in his arms. Thinking back to his recent last days overseas, though, he dismissed that. More likely, it was just the unexpected discovery of someone with such an intriguing combination of loveliness and innocence in a place where he’d least expected it. It felt something like finding a wildflower stubbornly blooming in a field where soldiers had died.

  “So,” he said softly, “tell me about the lure of that particular apple, when there’s a whole orchard filled with choices. Did it have anything to do with its being the least obtainable?”

  She smiled and her whole face seemed to light up. “There is something about a challenge that I can’t resist,” she admitted.

  “I suppose that makes us kindred spirits, then. In which case we should properly introduce ourselves. I’m Richard Walton.”

  “I know. Maisey told me you were coming home.” Her thoughtful gaze held his. “She’s missed you, you know.”

  Richard listened for a judgmental note in her voice, but it wasn’t there. It was just a statement of fact. He matched it with the same even tone. “I’ve missed her, too.”

  The woman in his arms nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Now suppose you put me down,” she said briskly.

  He shook his head. “Not until you tell me your name and what you were doing snitching my grandmother’s apples.”

  “Planning to have me arrested?”

  “Persuade me I shouldn’t.”

  “It seems like a lot of trouble for one apple, which I would like to point out, I never did reach.”

  “How do I know you don’t have a whole bushel basket filled with them hidden away behind another tree?”

  “Trust me, thievery wouldn’t do a lot for my reputation,” she said with a dry note that puzzled him. “Besides, Maisey told me I could pick all the apples I want.”

  “I only have your word for that,” he said, reluctant to let her go even though it was entirely likely that Maisey had given her permission to plunder the orchard at will. It had been far too long since he’d met anyone whose expression radiated such unabashed joy. He felt a little like he was basking in the first rays of sunshine after a long, gray winter. This woman, not the peace and quiet, might be exactly what he needed to heal his battered psyche. If she happened to be as adventurous as he hoped, she would certainly brighten his stay in Kiley.

  “I’m baking a pie for the church bazaar,” she said, as if invoking the mention of church should prove her good intentions.

  “When is this bazaar?” he asked skeptically.

  “Saturday afternoon. Maisey also told me you didn’t have a lot of trust left in your heart,” she informed him. “This is Kiley, not Bosnia or Somalia or any of those other places you’ve been. You can let down your guard.”

  The reminder broke the magical mood. “Hey, I grew up here, remember? Just being Kiley isn’t a great recommendation. People may not be shooting each other with guns, but they’re just as capable of destroying a man,” he said bitterly, finally lowering her to her feet.

  Her eyes immediately turned sad and she reached up and touched his face with a feathery-light brush of her fingers. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got to get back to the house and check on Maisey. No doubt I’ll be seeing you around.” Ignoring her puzzled expression, he turned his back on her then and walked away.

  “No doubt,” she called after him.

  Five minutes earlier and the promise would have sparked anticipation. Now, though, with unexpected memories of all the things that had made him want to leave Kiley in the first place suddenly crowding in again, Richard felt only the same dull ache he’d carried in his chest for the past ten years.

  * * *

  Anna Louise Perkins spent an inordinate
amount of time on Saturday afternoon gazing up the road toward the Walton place. To her regret, her distraction was noticed by half the people attending the church bazaar, including Maisey Walton. Maisey might be nearing eighty, but she had a sharp mind and observant blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence. She also had the heart of a matchmaker. Anna Louise had been a tough challenge for her, refusing to cast a second look at any of the single men in town.

  “What did you think of my grandson?” Maisey inquired casually, her gaze following the direction of Anna Louise’s.

  “How did you know we’d met?”

  “He mentioned something about finding a woman up in one of my apple trees. That could only have been you. Everyone else is satisfied with picking what they can reach from the ground.” She patted Anna Louise’s hand. “Stop peering up the road like that. He won’t be coming. Said he wanted no part of the town. He just came home to look after me.”

  “But you’re here,” Anna Louise noted. “How did you get down the hill? You didn’t walk, did you?”

  “Young lady, I’ve been walking up and down that hill for the better part of eighty years. I suppose one more trip won’t kill me.”

  “Maisey, you know what Doc Benson told you. You’re not as young as you once were. Your heart...”

  “Oh, fiddle-faddle. I’ve had a few pains. I’m an old woman. And I’d rather go out doing the things I’ve always done than wasting away in that old house, bored to tears.”

  Anna Louise embraced the woman she’d come to think of as her own relation. “Regardless, you are not to walk home. I’ll drive you whenever you’re ready to go. Got that?”

  Maisey smiled tolerantly. “Whatever you say, dear.”

  Anna Louise regarded her suspiciously. Such easy acquiescence was out of character. “What are you up to, Maisey Walton?”

  “Me?” the older woman replied with exaggerated innocence. “I’m not the one looking for excuses to sneak another peek at my grandson.”

  “I hope you remember to pray for forgiveness tomorrow regarding that tart tongue of yours,” Anna Louise cautioned, trying not to laugh.

  “You let me worry about my soul, young lady. You’ve got plenty of other work to do. Now go on about your business. I think I’m going to go over to that kissing booth where that handsome young doctor is puckering up for a dollar. Now that will be a test of the shape my old heart is in.”