Chasing Home

by Emma Woods

  Chasing Home: Christian Contemporary Romance

  Triple Star Ranch Romance, Book 1

  Emma Woods

  Fairfield Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 Emma Woods

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Except for review quotes, this book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author.

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Thank You

  1

  I used the gas station bathroom that was only mildly disgusting compared to some, and then walked around the store, stretching my legs. In all my traveling, I’d developed a fondness for gas stations that baffled many people. There’s just something about a little oasis in the midst of the endless highway system that makes me feel a camaraderie with other travelers.

  Sure, they might be dirty and a bit stinky. I have most certainly used their bathrooms to hone my hovering skills. Still, I adore the glistening hot dogs shining under their heat lamps, the orangey nacho cheese with its dry top layer, and the liquid-magma-hot toffee cappuccino that pours out of the machine and always threatens to scald your hand if you move your cup the wrong way.

  This was my last planned stop before arriving in Birch Springs, Wyoming. I had to make the most of it. So, I grabbed a large bag of chips and a soda in a Styrofoam cup the size of Rhode Island, and I couldn’t resist buying a stiff, nylon baseball cap in shades of neon that boasted “Esto Perpetua” with the outline of the state of Idaho. I happened to know that “esto perpetua” was the state motto of Idaho, and that it meant “Let it be perpetual.” Since I didn’t know when I’d be in this state again, I simply had to add the cap to my cheesy-gas-station-state-memento collection.

  Soon I was back in my Dodge Caravan, rolling down the road toward my new adventure, the wind caressing my face through the open windows. Since my long, almost-black hair was tucked up under my new ball cap, I didn’t have to worry about it blowing into my face.

  I couldn’t stop myself from grinning. Man, this was what I loved.

  There are some things you should know about me. My name is Emily McBride. I’m twenty-six years old. I love running, traveling, and meeting new people. I’m five-foot-seven and slim, which is probably in part due to my Chinese grandmother. She also contributed to my dark, stick-straight hair and brown almond-shaped eyes. My three Irish grandparents contributed the pale skin and freckles.

  But, what’s most important to know is that I committed some years back to never owning more than I could easily carry in my car, and to never live anywhere for more than a year. I have three pairs of shoes. Seriously. My one splurge is my state memento collection. I happen to own a magnet from Vermont, a glass dragon with “Nebraska” on it (why would someone put “Nebraska” on a glass dragon?), and a really ugly stuffed pig wearing a Louisiana t-shirt, in addition to a number of articles of clothing with various state mottos splashed across their fronts. I also own a pair of socks with palmetto trees on them from South Carolina.

  I know what you’re thinking: why would anyone choose to live this way? To be honest, I don’t really tell a lot of people about my commitment to the nomadic life, because most people look at me like I must be crazy when I tell them. So I mostly keep that quiet and just move on when I’m ready.

  I think growing up as an army brat was a major contributor. I was born in Hawaii, and my family proceeded to live in Kansas, Germany, Texas, North Carolina, and South Carolina as we followed my dad around the world throughout his career. When I went off to college in Michigan, I found myself chafing that I had to live in the same place for four years. I spent every vacation traveling, volunteering, and basically escaping the same old scenery I saw every day.

  The minute I had my diploma in hand, I packed my minivan and drove off into the sunset. Okay, not actually the sunset, but you get my drift. Since leaving school five years ago, I’ve spent significant periods of time in Iowa, Illinois, Texas, California, and most recently, Oregon.

  As I drove along the almost-empty Idaho highway, I reflected on my time in Oregon. I’d worked for the parks department, putting my love of the outdoors and my biology degree to good use. It hadn’t paid enough to make rent, so I’d also worked part-time at one of Oregon’s plethora of coffee shops. I was proud to now boast superior barista skills.

  While I found the work interesting and made some very nice acquaintances who bordered on friends, after nine months, I was itching to move on. I always know it’s time to go when I start scouring job boards online, looking for opportunities in distant places.

  I had been thrilled to stumble across an ad for a barista job at the Birch Springs Beanery in Birch Springs, Wyoming. The shop was owned by a Mr. Matthew Donovan, who also roasted his own beans. It sounded like the sort of place for which I was well groomed. I’d spent too much time around coffee snobs to be able to work anywhere less millennial.

  After a video conference interview, I put in my notice at my other jobs. It turned out that Matt was about my age and was able to recommend a house that rented rooms in town. I was used to dingy apartments and dated rental houses. Renting a room sounded like a great adventure. When Matt mentioned that his younger sister lived there and loved it, I decided to contact the owner. Now, just two weeks later, I was headed toward the next stop on my life’s journey. In fact, I was feeling rather poetic about the whole thing.

  I saw signs for the exit just as I slurped the last of my soda. I flipped on my blinker and puttered onto the exit ramp. A quick glance down at my trusty road atlas told me to turn left to get to Birch Springs.

  I suppose I should mention that I don’t like technology much. I have a dinky flip phone that I keep in my glove box for emergencies. And texting. It makes it much easier to stay independent when I don’t have the ability to be reached by people who want to “grab coffee” or “get together sometime.” I have a laptop for using the internet, and my brain and an atlas for GPS. I suppose it’s unusual, but it suits me.

  Driving the 6.2 miles from the highway to Birch Springs was very enjoyable. I flipped my old iPod to my Dolly Parton playlist and watched the wide open land ripple past on all sides of me. There were mountains off in the distance whose white tops seemed to greet me with a friendly salute.

  I’d seen cattle farms in Iowa and sheep ranches in Oregon. I wasn’t sure what type of ranches I was passing now, since I saw miles of fence but no actual animals. Still, it was picturesque country and I sighed happily. Wyoming would suit me well for the next few months.

  Birch Springs itself was a cute little town. About a mile and a half from Main Street, the houses began to resemble neighborhoods. I slowed to the required twenty miles per hour and drank in the sight of the small town. There was a Yard of the Month sign proudly displayed on a perfectly manicured lawn. Kids chased each other at the town park. I heard familiar splashes and shouts as I drove past the town pool.

  Even though I didn’t have to, I took the time to drive down Main Street so that I could see where Birch Springs Beanery was located. I’d told Matt I would meet him there tomorrow, if all went according to plan. To my delight, I saw that the old buildings of the downtown had undergone a renovation and were now adorable little shops. I spotted a drug store,
a diner, the old bank, the library, a hardware store, and the Beanery.

  On a whim, I pulled into one of the slanted parking spaces in front of the coffee shop and went inside. It was a long, thin building with a spacious café at the front, complete with a raised platform that was probably used for a stage sometimes. I took in the little tables with their pairs of chairs, the long wooden counter with a display of prepackaged snacks, and the hand-lettered menu hung on the far wall. I breathed in the scents of coffee beans, caramel, vanilla, and coconut. The building was old, and the floors creaked as I walked. However, a fresh coat of blue paint and some crisp black-and-white photos set in modern black frames kept the place from feeling out-of-date.

  I meandered to the counter, where a high school girl stood chewing gum and fiddling with a fresh packet of napkins.

  “Hi, I’ll be with you in a sec,” she said, then continued to try and open the napkins.

  “Actually, I was wondering if Matt was in. I’m supposed to start work tomorrow.”

  The girl turned her attention to me, and her mouth dropped open, giving me a full view of her gum. “Oh, wow. Matt literally just told me that you were going to start tomorrow, and here you are. Let me go get him. He’s in the office.”

  She turned and flounced off, sleek ponytail swinging. I grinned ruefully. Had I been like that back in high school? Probably. I rubbed my forehead and chuckled.

  Just then, the front door opened and the sound of bells jingled. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw a young man enter, wearing well-cut jeans and a t-shirt that sported a vintage band I was pretty sure he didn’t actually listen to. Our eyes met across the café, and I felt a jolt of electricity. He had clear, sea-green eyes that were set in a too-handsome, tanned face.

  I stared at him, and my brain stopping working momentarily. However, my appearance clearly did not have this effect on him, since his mouth split into a smile that revealed perfect white teeth.

  This was one seriously good-looking guy.

  And while I was obviously not immune to his attractiveness, I did have enough experience with such pretty-boy charmers to be able to resist any attempt he might make toward me. Once my brain kicked back into action, that is.

  So, when he strode over to the counter and gave me a flirty half-smile, I merely raised an eyebrow.

  His smile froze for a second, but my lack of enthusiasm didn’t stop him for long. “You’re new in town. I’m Nate Weisert. Welcome to Birch Springs. Are you just passing through or here to stay?”

  “Emily McBride,” I responded coolly. I shook his proffered hand only to be polite. “I’m going to be working here at the Beanery.”

  He leaned back and slid his hands into his jeans pockets. “Cool. I grew up here, so if you need a tour guide, let me know. Not that there’s all that much to see. Small town, you know.”

  “I noticed,” I said shortly.

  I settled nonchalantly with my back against the counter, elbows propped on top. Nate took the same stance next to me, our elbows touching. For a moment, his beautiful eyes flashed at me, and I gulped.

  But I’d known guys like this before. Nate belonged to that fraternity of men who always had women doing whatever they wanted. They were handsome and flirtatious, and we couldn’t seem to resist them. One of my college boyfriends had been very similar to Nate, and things had not ended well. I still remembered the punched-in-the-gut feeling I had when I’d spotted him kissing another girl in the front booth of a restaurant window as I walked past.

  Holding that bitterness close, I kept my voice even and said, “Listen, Nate, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested.”

  His eyebrows shot up toward his dark-brown hairline. I got the impression that he wasn’t refused very often. He considered me for a few heartbeats, and then offered, “Well, let me know if you change your mind. I come in here for coffee pretty often, so I’m sure we’ll see a lot of each other.”

  “Oh, goody.” My sarcasm got the best of me, and I cringed inwardly when his smile fell. I didn’t mean to be rude, really. My mouth just got away from me sometimes.

  Luckily, the high school girl returned. “Emily, Matt asked you to head back to the office. He’s on the phone, but he won’t be much longer.” She gave me directions, and I scooted around the corner without giving Nate another look.

  As I walked toward the hallway heading to the back rooms, I heard Nate say, “Hey, there, Sophie. How’s my favorite girl?”

  From Sophie’s giggle, I knew she’d fallen into his Mr. Charming trap. I rolled my eyes and made a concentrated effort to shove any thoughts of Nate Weisert out of my mind.

  The front half of the Beanery was made up of the café, and the back half consisted of storage rooms and offices. I smelled the heavenly scent of coffee beans roasting. Instantly, the tension from my awkward run-in with Nate left my shoulders.

  I spotted a large man who had to be Matt Donovan talking on a phone and pacing around a small office. He saw me and waved me in, flashing a welcoming smile. I stepped into the office and looked around as I waited, taking in the messy desk, the untidy bookshelf, and the really cool band poster on the wall. I walked closer and nodded my satisfaction. Unlike Nate, this was undoubtedly a band that Matt actually listened to. It was one I liked too, which cemented my good approval of my boss for life.

  “Sorry about that,” he said as he returned his phone to his pocket.

  I turned and shook hands with Matt. Though we’d had a video conference, there was a lot about him I hadn’t realized. Like his completely tattooed arms. He sported two full sleeves of tattoos and even had a few peeking up through the vee of his t-shirt. Matt was a big guy. He towered over me and was clearly a longtime fan of weightlifting. However, his bushy beard and twinkling eyes made him seem more like a giant teddy bear than any sort of threat.

  “No problem,” I replied. “I noticed you’ve got a signed poster of Project 86. Nice.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You like Project?”

  “I do. When did you get it signed?”

  We talked music for the next ten minutes. My first impression was confirmed: I liked Matt a lot. He had that big-brother vibe, which I preferred so much to Nate’s charmer routine. I had a good feeling about being able to work for him. Who knows? Maybe I’d stay in Birch Springs for a full year this time.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind opening tomorrow?” he asked once we’d moved on from discussing our favorite bands.

  I shrugged. “No problem. If you don’t mind showing me the ropes today, I could definitely open tomorrow.”

  Matt gave me a wide smile, showing off his slightly crooked front teeth. “I knew I hit the lottery when I hired you, Emily!”

  “What can I say? I’m a catch,” I joked.

  My new boss chuckled and motioned for me to follow him. Back up front, Sophie was again popping her gum and restocking the napkin dispenser. Nate Weisert was nowhere in sight, I tried not to notice.

  Between Matt and Sophie, I was given a quick introduction to operations at the Beanery. It was pretty standard. Though the cash register was different and the menu was, of course, unique, I got the hang of things without much explanation. Coffee was coffee, and it was made the same way all across America.

  Before leaving, Matt gave me a stack of Birch Springs Beanery t-shirts and a set of keys to use for opening in case I beat him there the next morning. He promised to do his best not to leave me hanging, but he seemed extremely relieved that I could handle things if I was on my own.

  I bid my new co-workers goodbye and returned to my car. I had every reason to hope that I would have a good work experience here. If only I could stop thinking about Nate’s electric eyes, I could call my first stop in my new town a raging success.

  2

  My grandparents had lived in a small town when I was young, and I’d always liked visiting them. Something about Birch Springs made me feel right at home. As the opening notes of Dolly’s “Two Doors Down” came on over the speakers, I eased
up on the accelerator and let myself cruise down the streets toward my new home, contentment and excitement filling my heart.

  When Matt had told me that his sister lived at the Bumblebee House, I’d wondered what to expect. Having seen Birch Springs for myself, I was beginning to understand how a rooming house for women made sense. There was something sort of old-fashioned about the idea, but Birch Springs was an old-fashioned sort of place.

  The road leading up to Bumblebee House was edged by a rough wooden fence, which served as a jungle gym for climbing roses. There was a cheerful iron sign at the entrance to the driveway with a wrought iron bee in a circle. Trees blocked the actual house from view, and I was surprised by the length of the winding driveway once I’d turned off the street. I passed a small, neat cottage and many trees that boasted skirts of tidy flower beds as I drove further from civilization and into what seemed to be a bit of a fairy tale.

  Finally, Bumblebee House itself appeared around a curve. My eyebrows rose as I looked over the large Victorian dwelling. There was no question that it was a lovely home. The white paint was immaculate, and the green trim was fresh. The windows gleamed and the front porch seemed to beckon visitors to come inside. There was a round turret on the left side of the house and dormer windows perched jauntily on the roof. Bright flowers filled window boxes, rocking chairs dotted the porch, and even a cozy swing swayed gently in the breeze.

  I parked the van and sat looking over the house, dumbstruck. Never in my life had I lived in anything like this. I had to admit that I was a bit intimidated. Dank apartments with stained sinks and not enough windows, I knew how to handle. Here, I half expected a footman to bustle out and open my door for me.