The Rain Sparrow

by Debbie Macomber

  “I was afraid we’d run into one of the boys.”

  More logic, and she was in no mood for it. “You didn’t introduce me to your friend the night we went to that French film.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You can bet I wasn’t going to introduce you to Tom Dailey. He’s a lecher. I was protecting you.”

  “What about the night of the Christmas party? You only introduced me to a handful of people.”

  “Of course. Every man in the place was looking for an excuse to take you away from me. If you’d wanted to flirt with them, you should’ve said something.”

  “I only wanted to be with you.”

  “Then why bring up that evening now?”

  “I was offended.”

  “I apologize,” he shouted.

  “Fine. But I didn’t even meet your assistant....”

  “You left so fast, I didn’t exactly have a chance to introduce you, did I?”

  He was being logical again, and she couldn’t really argue.

  The bus arrived then, its doors parting with a swish. But Ellen didn’t move. Reed’s gaze commanded her to stay with him, and she was torn. Her strongest impulse, though, was not to board the bus. It didn’t matter that she was cold and the wind was cutting through her thin coat or that she could barely feel her toes. Her heart was telling her one thing and her head another.

  “You coming or not?” the driver called out to her.

  “She won’t be taking the bus,” Reed answered, slipping his hand under her elbow. “She’s coming with me.”

  “Whatever.” The doors swished shut and the bus roared away, leaving a trail of black diesel smoke in its wake.

  “You are coming with me, aren’t you?” he coaxed.

  “I suppose.”

  His hand was at the small of her back, directing her across the busy street to a coffee shop, festooned with tinsel and tired-looking decorations. “I wasn’t kidding about lunch.”

  “When was the last time you had a decent meal?” she couldn’t resist asking.

  “About a week ago,” he grumbled. “Derek’s cooking is a poor substitute for real food.”

  They found a table at the back of the café. The waitress handed them each a menu and filled their water glasses.

  “I heard about the fire.”

  Reed groaned. “That was a comedy of errors.”

  “Is there much damage?”

  “Enough.” The look he gave her was mildly accusing.

  The guilt returned. Trying to disguise it, Ellen made a show of glancing through the menu. The last thing on her mind at the moment was food. When the waitress returned, Ellen ordered the daily special without knowing what it was. The day was destined to be full of surprises.

  “Ellen,” Reed began, then cleared his throat. “Come back.”

  Her heart melted at the hint of anguish in his low voice. Her gaze was magnetically drawn to his. She wanted to tell him how much she longed to be...home. She wanted to say that the house on Capitol Hill was the only real home she had now, that she longed to walk through its front door again. With him.

  “Nothing’s been the same since you left.”

  The knot in her stomach pushed its way up to her throat, choking her.

  “The boys are miserable.”

  Resolutely she shook her head. If she went back, it had to be for Reed.

  “Why not?”

  Tears blurred her vision. “Because.”

  “That makes about as much sense as you being angry because I drove the Porsche.”

  Taking several deep, measured breaths, Ellen said, “If all you need is a cook, I can suggest several who—”

  “I couldn’t care less about the cooking.”

  The café went silent as every head turned curiously in their direction. “I wasn’t talking about the cooking here,” Reed explained to the roomful of shocked faces.

  The normal noise of the café resumed.

  “Good grief, Ellen, you’ve got me so tied up in knots I’m about to get kicked out of here.”

  “Me, tie you in knots?” She was astonished that Reed felt she had so much power over him.

  “If you won’t come back for the boys, will you consider doing it for me?” The intense green eyes demanded a response.

  “I want to know why you want me back. So I can cook your meals and—”

  “I told you I don’t care about that. I don’t care if you never do another thing around the house. I want you there because I love you, damn it.”

  Her eyes widened. “You love me, damn it?”

  “You’re not making this any easier.” He ripped the napkin from around the silverware and slammed it down on his lap. “You must have known. I didn’t bother keeping it secret.”

  “You didn’t bother keeping it secret...from anyone but me,” she repeated hotly.

  “Come on. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, you do now,” he yelled back.

  The waitress cautiously approached their table, standing back until Reed glanced in her direction. Hurriedly the girl set their plates in front of them and promptly moved away.

  “You frightened her,” Ellen accused him.

  “I’m the one in a panic here. Do you or do you not love me?”

  Again, it seemed as though every customer there had fallen silent, awaiting her reply.

  “You’d better answer him, miss,” the elderly gentleman sitting at the table next to theirs suggested. “Fact is, we’re all curious.”

  “Yes, I love him.”

  Reed cast her a look of utter disbelief. “You’ll tell a stranger but not me?”

  “I love you, Reed Morgan. There, are you happy?”

  “Overjoyed.”

  “I can tell.” Ellen had thought that when she admitted her feelings, Reed would jump up from the table and throw his arms around her. Instead, he looked as angry as she’d ever seen him.

  “I think you’d better ask her to marry you while she’s in a friendly mood,” the older man suggested next.

  “Well?” Reed looked at her. “What do you think?”

  “You want to get married?”

  “It’s the time of year to be generous,” the waitress said shyly. “He’s handsome enough.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” Ellen agreed, her sense of humor restored by this unexpected turn of events. “But he can be a little hard to understand.”

  “All men are, believe me,” a woman across the room shouted. “But he looks like a decent guy. Go ahead and give him another chance.”

  The anger washed from Reed’s dark eyes as he reached for Ellen’s hand. “I love you. I want to marry you. Won’t you put me out of my misery?”

  Tears dampened her eyes as she nodded wildly.

  “Let’s go home.” Standing, Reed took out his wallet and threw a couple of twenties on the table.

  Ellen quickly buttoned her jacket and picked up her purse. “Goodbye, everyone,” she called with a cheerful wave. “Thank you—and Merry Christmas!”

  The amused customers broke into a round of applause as Reed took Ellen’s hand and pulled her outside.

  She was no sooner out the door when Reed hauled her into his arms. “Oh, Ellen, I’ve missed you.”

  Reveling in the warmth of his arms, she nuzzled closer. “I’ve missed you, too. I’ve even missed the boys.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, they’re on their own. I want you back for myself. That house was full of people, yet it’s never felt so empty.” Suddenly he looked around, as though he’d only now realized that their private moment was taking place in the middle of a busy street. “Let’s get out of here.” He slipped an arm about her waist, steering her toward the cam
pus car park. “But I think I’d better tell you something important.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t bring the truck.”

  “Oh?” She swallowed her disappointment. She could try, but she doubted she’d ever be the Porsche type.

  “I traded in the truck last week.”

  “For what?”

  “Maybe it was presumptuous of me, but I was hoping you’d accept my marriage proposal.”

  “What’s the truck got to do with whether I marry you or not?”

  “You’re asking me that? The woman who left me—”

  “All right, all right, I get the picture.”

  “Okay, I don’t have the truck or the Porsche. I gave it to Derek.”

  “I’m sure he’s thrilled.”

  “He is. And...”

  “And?”

  “I traded the truck for an SUV. More of a family-friendly vehicle, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh, Reed.” With a small cry of joy, she flung her arms around this man she knew she’d love for a lifetime. No matter what kind of car he drove.

  * * * * *

  THE RAIN SPARROW

  Linda Goodnight

  In memory of Travis Goodnight and with gratitude for the time we had. Though your life was far too short, you made a difference in so many others, especially in those of your family. We miss your larger-than-life personality, your brilliance and wisdom, your giant laugh and your bigger heart.

  Love you forever and always.

  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

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM THE INNKEEPER’S SISTER BY LINDA GOODNIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m tired, boss...tired of bein’ on the road, lonely as a sparrow in the rain.

  —The Green Mile

  Present Day, Honey Ridge, Tennessee

  BRODY HATED FRIDAYS.

  He knew what would happen if he went home. So he didn’t. He hung out at the library until it closed, and then, wishing he had money for a hamburger, he wandered down to his spot on Magnolia Creek. It was a pretty good hike, a couple of miles out of town past the Griffin sisters’ peach orchard and through a hundred yards of tangled weeds, but at eleven, he was up for it. He could have run that far and not been out of breath.

  When the night surrounded him and clouds gathered in the inky sky, he once more contemplated going home. He was hungry, but food wasn’t always worth the trouble. He wasn’t afraid of the dark or of being alone deep in the country. Home was a whole lot scarier.

  Stretched out on the cool earth with his hands stacked behind his head, he listened to the peaceful night sounds, the sawing rhythm of katydids that sometimes grew so loud he felt as if they were inside him, and the splash of bullfrogs diving from the nearby bank.

  A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. It was probably somewhere far off, clean over in the mountains. He wouldn’t worry about that. He didn’t mind a little rain. If he had to, he could hightail it past the inn to the abandoned gristmill, even though the place was kind of spooky.

  The mill was probably haunted. That’s what his buddy Spence said. The last time they’d gone there to explore, Spence had heard something and freaked out, so Brody would rather not go to the mill unless he had to.

  Would the old man be passed out by now? Or would he be waiting with clenched fist and a hankering to take out his hatred of life on the good-for-nothing son of the good-for-less woman who’d left them both so long ago the boy had forgotten her? Mostly. Somehow it was Brody’s fault that his mother had left, and the old man never let him forget it, though he never gave a reason. Brody was pretty much clueless about his absentee mother. His angry father he understood, but thoughts of his mother left him lonely and nursing guilt he didn’t understand. He must have done something really bad to make her up and leave that way.

  A mosquito buzzed somewhere in the humid darkness. He listened close while the pest came in for a landing, waited until the sound stopped and then he swatted. A few bug bites was better than the alternative.

  He didn’t like killing anything, even bugs, but as the old man would say, “It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Eat the dog before he eats you.”

  Something about that didn’t sound right to Brody, but what did he know? That’s what the old man always said. A punk kid like Brody didn’t know nothing.

  He sighed at the moon and closed his eyes.

  Better catch some z’s and wait awhile longer. The old man was a bull, and once enraged, he had blood in his eyes. Clint Thomson was seldom anything but enraged on payday, especially when it came to his good-for-nothing son.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS A dark and stormy night, a cliché Hayden Winters dearly loved. These broody, moody nights of lightning and thunder and violent wind fueled his imagination like no other. A man intent on committing murder...

  The storm had moved in around midnight, interrupting his original plans to sleep. He could never sleep on a night like this. Didn’t want to, especially here in a house filled with memories and secrets.

  Everyone, he believed, had a secret, and the South was filled with them. That’s why he’d come.

  Hayden had a secret, too, a psychological cankerworm. One that was eating a raw, black hole in his soul. Not that he’d ever let anyone see inside to know that much about him. To the world, Hayden Winters was a winner, a success, a man who brushed problems away with a charming smile. He was a man invited to the best parties he seldom attended and who gave rare but coveted interviews. A man with a charmed life.

  But on these dark, moody, broody nights the demons danced around the edges of his fertile mind. He wondered at his sanity, and he knew it was only by a merciful God that he was strong of constitution and could keep the demons in their rightful place. Most of the time.

  So he killed people. Dozens of them. Books littered with bodies fed some perverse need in the populace and kept his bank account fat and happy.

  In the elegant rented bedroom—the Mulberry Room—lit only by the glow of his laptop, Hayden rose, went to the windows to watch and listen as rain lashed the sides of Peach Orchard Inn with its silver-on-black fingers clawing to get in.

  The view outside was far different from what it had been upon his arrival earlier today. An Australian shepherd, graying around the edges, had drowsed on the long and glorious antebellum veranda. Hayden had immediately envisioned himself on the wicker furniture, feet up on the railing with a glass of Julia Presley’s almost-famous peach tea and his imagination in flight.

  The two-story columne
d mansion had shone in the sun, glowing in its whiteness with dark-trimmed shutters, flowers spilling everywhere and thick vines twining like great green arms around the oak trees. He’d driven down the winding lane of massive magnolias right into an antebellum past, far from the distractions and manic pace of the modern world.

  Peach Orchard Inn, a simple name for a magnificent house, restored, he would bet, to better than its former glory. His assistant, who knew him better than most, though not well, had discovered the inn while on vacation and suggested he write the next bestseller here. Exhausted by the city bustle and another romance gone sour, he’d jumped at the idea. His ex should have taken him at his word. He’d told her from the beginning that he was neither husband nor father material. The reasons for this aversion he’d kept to himself, more for her protection than his. She didn’t know that, though, and had been hurt.

  He hated hurting people. Other than in his books. And the latest episode had driven him deeper into himself. A man like him ought not to need other people.

  He could work here, rest here, research small-town secrets for the next thriller. There were plenty of interesting places to commit murder.

  Across the road, a single light glowed like a beacon in the storm. The source was the abandoned, dilapidated gristmill that had once been part of this farm. He knew this because he was ferociously curious and knowing was his business. Abandoned buildings provided perfect places to get away with murder. He’d be suitably inspired here among the hills and hollows of southern Tennessee.

  A blue-fire javelin of lightning, fierce as a bolt straight from the hand of Zeus, slit the night like a fiery blade. Gorgeous stuff.

  Hayden stretched, rolled his neck, considered a walk in the violence.

  He’d be up most of the night during a wild thunderstorm of this magnitude. He could feel the yet-unformed story brewing in his blood, a bubbling cauldron of energy and creativity.

  Coffee, and plenty of it, was a must. He wasn’t a Red Bull kind of guy. Something about it seemed addictive to him, and if there was anything he feared greater than losing his only useful resource—his fertile mind—it was addiction. Addictions came, he knew, in many forms.