Most of the time, however, she only remembered the expression on his face when he’d asked, “Was that Jimmy McPhee?”
Apparently they weren’t going to ride into the sunset together. Not that she’d expected him to chase after her, but his silence only confirmed that some things couldn’t be forgiven.
“He’s pretty hot too.” Marci made a sound of appreciation.
Piper rolled her eyes. She tossed the overalls back into the box. “I need a cookie.” Rising, she saw that Carter had finished lugging the rest of the boxes inside and was shucking off his jacket. “Thanks, Carter.”
His brown eyes twinkled. He hadn’t suffered too much by her recent change in careers. Her absence left a void he easily filled at the Kalispell Gazette. So long, food critic—hello, features editor. The day she’d returned to the Gazette, cleaned out her desk, and hung out her shingle as a freelance writer had been the day her life truly began. And who knew that inside her inquisitive mind she had a storehouse of ideas and stories she could use to raise support for Hope House? Her newsletter and features in the local papers had actually doubled Hope House’s summer revenue.
Most of all, she’d found a way to reach out and find healing. For herself. For other women who still bled. A way to reach out that didn’t endanger her life.
“Want a cookie?” she asked Carter as she headed to the kitchen.
“Are you doing the baking?”
“Oh, ha-ha,” she said, hiding a smile. Just because a girl burned a few biscuits . . . and she was getting better. Much better.
She found Jodie, the housemother, bending over the oven, retrieving another batch of snickerdoodles. The widowed grandmother made them all feel like kids at Christmas with her pampering. Precisely what a group of hurting women needed. Piper snuck behind her and snatched a cooling cookie just as Jodie turned. She made to slap Piper’s hand.
Piper waggled her eyebrows. “I think we should print your recipe in the next newsletter. Mmm.”
“Flattery won’t get you another cookie.” Jodie set the tray on a hot pad and loaded another into the oven.
Piper leaned her hip against the counter. “A few more tries and I might get this figured out.”
“Piper, I’m sure that someday soon you’ll make excellent cookies,” Jodie said. “You’ve got the touch.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” The voice came from the doorway. Slow and drawled out, with a hint of arrogance in the tone.
Piper’s breath caught, and she turned, shock turning her mouth dry.
Nick?
Carter stood behind him, giving her a sly grin.
What—? Her mind reeled, trying to sort fact from fantasy. Sure, she’d dreamed this, but—
“Hi, George.” Nick entered the kitchen, his smile and devastating good looks sucking every thought from her.
She stared at him, mouth agape. Cookie half eaten.
He tipped his hat to Jodie. “Ma’am, can I have a moment, please?”
Jodie glanced from Piper to Nick, then back to Piper. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, honey.” She gave Nick a grandmother glare on her way out.
Piper let herself smirk.
Three months of recuperation had revived Nick’s rugged cowboy looks, and in a leather jacket, a pair of jeans, boots, and his familiar black Stetson—well, she just might swoon.
He swept his hat off, looking suddenly sheepish. “You’re hard to find.”
She wanted to leap at him, to let her feelings and everything inside spill out. But it all came back to her in a whoosh—the deception, the game she’d played, hoping to hurt him. She put her cookie down, her stomach roiling, and wiped her hands on her jeans. “How did you find me?”
He harrumphed. “I was a detective, remember?”
“He called the newspaper,” Carter piped up from the other room.
Piper shook her head. “Apparently I need to pay my sources better.”
Nick lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I called the magazine first. They gave me your old number.”
And she suspected that Carter had answered.
Nick held his hat in his hands and didn’t make another move toward her. Except, of course, for having traveled over three hundred miles to Kalispell.
“What are you doing here?” She didn’t mean for her tone to be so sharp. Nick had never been anything but kind to her. But a good defense is a strong offense, and right now she didn’t know what else to say to keep her heart from springing right out of her chest and into his arms.
Nick didn’t flinch. Simply fastened his dark eyes on her, probing, paralyzing. “Why did you leave, Piper?”
She gave a cry of disbelief. “Why do you think? Because . . . I . . .” She turned away, unable to say the words. Because I was ashamed of myself. Because I loved you, and I couldn’t watch you hate me. She shook her head. “Because I was sorry, but I didn’t know how to say that.”
She heard him put his hat on the counter. Felt his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened.
“You said it now.”
She shrugged.
“Did you come to the Silver Buckle to spy on me, Piper? to get me to say that I framed your brother?”
Piper closed her eyes.
“Oh, George.” Nick turned her around, lifted her chin, but she couldn’t look at him. She stared instead at his chin. At the smattering of dark whiskers. “I wish you’d trusted me. Given me the benefit of the doubt.” He blew out a breath. “I learned the hard way that jumping to conclusions only leads to pain. I would have listened.”
“Would you have forgiven me?” She hated how feeble her voice sounded.
“I would have. And I have.”
Her eyes flickered up to his. She frowned, trying to comprehend his words.
He cupped his hand to her cheek, running his thumb down it. “Don’t you get it, Piper? God used you to help me see what He had for me. All that I could have, all that I’d missed out on. The ranch, a life. A family. I fell in love with you.”
She felt her emotions flicker across her face, her resolve start to shatter. She touched his chest, flattening both palms against it, knowing she should push him away but longing with everything in her to curl inside his protective embrace. “Nick . . .”
“You probably think I don’t know the real you, Piper, but I do. I know that you’re tenderhearted, and you fight for what you believe in. I know that you have wounds, but you’re reaching past them to help others. I know that you’re a hard worker, you’re so stubborn I’d like to strangle you, and you have a wallop of a roundhouse kick.”
She smirked.
“I know that you are afraid of getting hurt, but you put yourself at risk for other people . . . otherwise you wouldn’t have stuck around the hospital for three days just because I asked you to—”
“They had real food—”
“I know that you have a wicked throw, and you’re willing to learn new things even if you’re afraid, like riding a horse or cooking. I also know that you love the Buckle. I saw it in your face, in your eyes. And most of all, I know you love me too.”
His words had tangled her emotions in knots. Now she felt a spurt of panic. “How—?”
“I read your article. I’ve had a lot of names thrown at me over the years . . . but hero has never been among them. Thank you.”
“Nick, you are a hero. You’re brave and kind, and you do the right thing. You made me believe that a man could be honorable. Noble.” Her mouth tweaked up at her words. “There’s something else too. Remember when you said that you thought God had brought you to the Buckle to find me?” She felt herself begin to tremble, but she had to get the words out. “I think He wanted me to find you, too, and to learn that He’d been looking out for me all along. That He could heal me and give me a fresh start.”
She shrugged, trying to deny the impact of her words, but his eyes misted, and it curled a wave of warmth inside her. Yes, God had sent her to find Nick. And so much more.
Nick’s gaze traced
her eyes, a look filled with amazement, with hope, with desire. Then he cradled her face in both hands and kissed her. Sweetly, gently, the essence of the man she’d come to know.
She closed her eyes and kissed him back. Nick. He tasted of sweet coffee, of sunshine, and of strength and hope.
Nick pulled away, just enough to lean his forehead to hers. “I love you, Piper. And I know this is a lot to ask, but please, will you come back to the Silver Buckle with me?”
Piper backed away, a slight frown on her face. “As a cook?”
He broke into a grin. “No! For an investigative reporter, you have trouble putting the facts together.” He caught her hands, then knelt on one knee before her.
Every muscle inside Piper stiffened, caught in shock.
“Piper George Cookie Sullivan, will you marry me?”
Silence trickled out as she stared at him, her mouth falling open.
“Yes! Say yes!” Carter yelled from the other room.
A smile slid up Nick’s face.
Heat filled Piper’s cheeks, but tears pricked her eyes. Marry Nick? The arrogant, swaggering outlaw who’d broken through her defenses, roped her heart, and stolen it clean out of her chest? Could she be his wife, let him be her hero?
“Your faith has made you well. Go in peace.” A wave of heat, of realization, of something that tasted like joy swept through her. God had redeemed her, healed her . . . and now crowned her with love. He’d sent her to the wide spaces of the Silver Buckle to break through the pain and fears that had held her prisoner for so long, to a new life. A life of love, a life of healing. A big sky kind of life.
Piper’s nod started small, her smile peeking through the layers of fear to emerge full out and whole. “Yes, Nick. Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Nick’s expression left her breathless. He stood and swept her up, holding her tight. He smelled like his own brand of cologne—leather and hard work and sunshine and laugher and passion. “You are the proof that God is compassionate and abounding in love.” He buried his head into her neck. “I love you, Curious George.”
“I love you too, Nick.” Piper leaned back, catching his face in her hands, and kissed him. Thoroughly. Freely.
Without fear.
When she released him, his eyes twinkled. “But you have to make me one promise.”
She raised her eyebrows, one eye tightening. “What?”
“Please, please let me do the cooking.”
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
I have two friends. Let’s call them Jim and John. Both are great guys, men I grew up with. They’re friends. One day Jim gets sick. He’s sick for a long time until the doctors discover he has liver failure. He has a beautiful wife and four sweet children. Jim is dying, and without a liver transplant, he won’t live to see his children grow up. His entire family (and it’s a large one) is tested. No one is a match. A prayer request goes out to churches far and wide. For two years nothing happens.
Then one day John, who has been praying for Jim, decides to go to the doctor and get tested to see if he’s a match. Miraculously, though they are unrelated, he matches. Although he has a wife and three little boys, John decides to give part of his liver to Jim. John spends the next year preparing for this surgery, taking care of himself, eating right. And then one day he risks his life to save the life of his friend.
Jim lives. John lives. And it makes me ponder the gift of grace—what it means to give—and receive.
Meanwhile, I am studying Philippians—especially verse 1:6: “I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.” I’m overjoyed with a God who is constantly at work in my life, through all times and circumstances, and I wonder what that might look like from the view of a person with a tainted past, whatever that might be.
For a year, God kept bringing these two events to my mind, tangling them with the love I have of all things cowboys (trucks, horses, country music). Then one day . . . I went fishing. While I was trying to land a walleye, I told my fishing pals (Dan, Bob, and Andrew—yeah, I see the oddball in the group) about my story. I discovered that Bob just so happened to live on a ranch.
A year later I found myself on a ranch outside a little town called Otter, Montana. I fell in love with the big sky, the quiet wind, the wide-open spaces, and the passage I was studying at the time—Psalm 103—came to life for me. As I stood on the bluffs, I got a glimpse of what it might mean for God to separate us from our sins so much that we can no longer even see them! And loving us beyond even the heavens. Right there, Nick’s story took life.
Reclaiming Nick is about God drawing a man back to the person he could be, helping him reclaim the legacy he’d lost, and then giving that blessing to others. It’s a story for all of us really. The truth is that God throws out our mistakes “as far from us as the east is from the west” and allows us to start over. Again and again, if necessary. It is possible to be healed in our spirits, like the woman who touched Jesus’ robe. Or like Cole, with new life inside.
God is at work in our lives. This is both a hope and a promise. And most importantly a gift of grace. I pray that you are able to get a view of His love for you, through all circumstances, all times.
Thank you for reading Reclaiming Nick. I hope you’ll join me for the next installment of the Noble Legacy—Rafe’s story. In the meantime, “Praise the Lord, everything he has created, everything in all his kingdom.” As for me—I too will praise the Lord!
God bless you!
In His grace,
Susan May Warren
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUSAN MAY WARREN recently returned home after serving eight years with her husband and four children as missionaries in Khabarovsk, Far East Russia. Now writing full-time as her husband runs a lodge on Lake Superior in northern Minnesota, she and her family enjoy hiking and canoeing and being involved in their local church.
Susan holds a BA in mass communications from the University of Minnesota and is a multipublished author of novellas and novels with Tyndale, including Happily Ever After, the American Christian Romance Writers’ 2003 Book of the Year and a 2003 Christy Award finalist. Other books in the series include Tying the Knot and The Perfect Match, the 2004 American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year. Flee the Night, Escape to Morning, and Expect the Sunrise comprise her romantic-adventure, search-and-rescue series.
Reclaiming Nick is the first book in Susan’s new romantic series.
Susan invites you to visit her Web site at www.susanmaywarren.com. She also welcomes letters by e-mail at [email protected].
TAMING RAFE
RAFE NOBLE, TWO-TIME world champion bull rider and current king of the gold buckle, had never met a bull he feared. Oh, sure, he’d been afraid before, that sort of nervous tension before a ride that buzzed every nerve ending and slicked his hand inside his taped-tight leather glove. But normally he shook it off the second he wound the bull rope, sticky with rosin, around the animal’s chest and wedged it around his grip. Then the adrenaline, the heat, took over.
And for eight long, harrowing seconds, it was just man against beast.
With rare exception, man won.
However, as Rafe now straddled the champion bull known as Doc, coldness rushed through him. Something foreign and overwhelming ignited a tremble from deep within his bones.
For the first time since he was thirteen he felt . . . terror.
Maybe it was just the residual agony of watching one of his fellow bull riders being carried out on a stretcher only minutes earlier. Maybe it was the roar of the crowd hammering at the raging headache he’d nursed most of the day. It could be the fact that he rode in pain, that he’d had to tape his hand, wear his knee brace, and the sports medicine doctor had reminded him that one more fracture to his neck would land him in a wheelchair permanently.
Or perhaps it was just the eerie feeling that hung in the air tonight, along with the smells of animal sweat an
d popcorn and leather and dirt, a surreal sense that tragedy hovered right outside the ring of spectators.
Whatever the reason, as Rafe worked his rope around his hand, through his index finger, then hit his grip with his fist to tighten it, he couldn’t shake the bone-deep feeling that tonight someone would die.
Even the bullfighters, the brave men who distracted the bull as the thrown or triumphant riders scrambled to safety, seemed jumpy. Rafe caught eyes with his pal Manuel. Dressed in his blue-and-red vest, a black cowboy hat, and long shorts and cleats, the man had agility that kept him ahead of horns and made the crowd gasp. And he’d saved Rafe’s hide on more than a few occasions.
Manuel nodded, and despite the distance between them, the roar of the crowd, the announcer, and the advice from fellow cowboys as Rafe settled into his mount, he could hear Manuel’s mouthed words: “Get ’er done.”
Rafe returned the slightest nod and refrained from searching for Manuel’s six-year-old son and pretty wife, Lucia, in the audience. Rafe had arranged their tickets and trip up from New Mexico to see Manuel perform under the big lights of the PBR World Championship in Las Vegas.
“You’re my favorite bull rider,” little Manny had said as he handed Rafe his hat to sign at the pre-event celebrity showcase.
Behind Manny, a leggy blonde cowgirl with a black T-shirt emblazoned with the Professional Bull Riding logo gave him a loaded smile.
Rafe winked at her and returned his attention to Manny. “Are you going to be a bullfighter like your daddy when you get big?” he asked, signing the brim.
“Oh no. I wanna be just like you,” Manny had said.
Rafe gave a half chuckle and plopped the hat back on Manny’s head, but the kid’s words and his shiny, dark, hero-worshiping gaze made his gut twist. The feeling came too often these days.
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