скачать книгу бесплатно
A Home Of Her Own
Cathleen Connors
THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTERNo matter how far she roamed, Melodie Coleman had never quite shaken the dust of her Wyoming hometown–nor the bittersweet memories. Now, widowed and pregnant, she was back in high country for her mother' s funeral. Back to face a charismatic cowboy–and the truth about why she shattered his heart so long ago…For Buck Foster, seeing Melodie again renewed not just the pain of being jilted, but the spark of first love. As they shared a threadbare ranch house and an unexpected journey down memory lane, Buck realized Melodie truly sought forgiveness–from him, and from the Lord. But it was too late to reclaim what might have been…or was it?
Suddenly, Buck’s anger was overcome by a staggering sense of loss.
Had he not been holding so tightly on to his splintered ego, he might have made an attempt to reach out to this shadowy vision of his past, envelop her in his arms and offer her a measure of comfort on this sad, dreary day.
Bewildered by the idea, he abruptly announced, “I’ve got to feed the stock. Make yourself at home.”
“I’ll do that,” Melodie replied evenly, starting toward her old room, certain that nothing in this old house had changed at all.
But what she discovered behind that familiar closed door was enough to send her reeling.
CATHLEEN CONNORS,
a Wyoming native, teaches English to students in grades 6-12 in a rural school that houses kindergartners and seniors in the same building. She feels blessed to have married a man who is both supportive and patient. When she’s not busy writing, teaching or chauffeuring her sons to and from various activities, she can most likely be found indulging in her favorite pastime—reading.
A Home of Her Own
Cathleen Connors
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Jabez prayed to the God of Israel:
“Oh, that you may truly bless me
And extend my boundaries
That your hand would be with me
And that you would keep me from evil.”
And God granted his prayer.
1 Chronicles 4:10
To Joan, whose unwavering faith and gentle guidance have been a constant in the Connors family for as long as I can remember.
Dear Reader,
This book has truly been a labor of love for me. Numerous hurdles had to be overcome before it ever reached your hands. Know that I am honored that it has found a home with you. The theme of redemption explored in these pages gives meaning to my own life, and I dearly hope to yours, as well. May your sojourn with the characters who are such a part of my heart touch you as deeply as they have me. God bless you and keep you ever close to your dreams.
With sincere appreciation,
Cathleen Connors
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
The sound of snow crunching beneath Melodie Coleman’s boots echoed in the empty caverns of her heart. Details that accompanied each step along the familiar pathway seemed to leap out at her. It felt so surreal that had she happened past a mirror she wouldn’t have been much surprised to see herself as she looked at twelve years of age. A toothy tomboy clad in jeans, her twin blond braids slung carelessly over her shoulders. Eyes bright with hope. An irrepressible spirit as yet untouched by the perversity of fate.
Blinking against the spitting snow, she wondered how many snowmen she had erected in this same front yard only to see them dissolve into puddles over time.
Like her dreams.
Bending down as if to attend to one of the struggling flowers her mother insisted on planting along this pathway every spring, Melodie brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. There were no blossoms, of course. It was snowing in the high country, and her mother would be planting no more seeds. Bulbs separated and nurtured by those gentle, hardworking hands lay as dormant beneath the frozen ground as Melodie’s faith in herself. And in God, for that matter.
Melodie! Melodie Anne Fremont! You get in here this instant. Your dinner’s getting cold.
Straightening at the sound of her mother’s voice echoing in her memory, she could almost see Grace Fremont standing in the doorway waiting for her. Despite the scolding tone of her voice, there was a smile upon her weathered face as wide as the open expanse of the wilderness abutting their property.
Oh, how Melodie longed to drop the vestiges of time and run headlong into that blithe memory, to bury herself in her mother’s forgiving arms and breathe deeply of the spices that always surrounded her. Instead she stood rooted to her spot, wishing only happy ghosts awaited her behind that closed door.
She forced herself to move forward. Each step was as leaden as her frame of mind. Fingering the key in her pocket, she halted on the front porch and contemplated the old brass knocker screwed into the front door. How strange it was to stand here wondering whether to knock or not. After all, the home in which she had been raised belonged to her now. Yet after so many years away, it felt presumptuous to barge right in.
What is the proper way to greet specters of the past?
I’m home, Mom, she wanted to call out. Like the prodigal son, she yearned to openly admit her mistakes and beg forgiveness. You were right all along. Marrying Randall Coleman was the biggest mistake of my life. I’m sorry for hurting you. For disappointing you. So very sorry…
Unlike the fortunate lad in the Bible, it was too late for Melodie to make amends. Too late to tell her mother how much she loved her. Too late to ask forgiveness for cutting off all but the most superficial of contact during her terrible bout with cancer. Too late for self-redemption.
Instead of the joyous reunion she had envisioned, Melodie was here to lay her mother to rest.
Snow on April Fools’ Day seemed truly fitting. Fool that she was, the wide-eyed girl who had left home so long ago to find a destiny broader than the piece of land that was her heritage stood upon her own stoop a bona fide failure. Failing not only in her marriage but also in her obligation to her widowed mother. Taking the cold, smooth metal of the knocker into her hand, she rapped twice upon the door certain that nothing in her life could ever be harder than facing her mother’s memory.
Nothing except being greeted by the man she jilted so long ago.
And had regretted losing every day since.
The door to her past swung open without so much as a creak.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he drawled in a way that haunted Melodie’s dreams to this day. “For quite some time.”
The irony of his words was not lost on either of them.
“Hello, Buck,” she said casually over the hammering of her heart. “You’re looking good.”
It was a gross understatement. Time had turned the gangly beau she remembered into as fine looking a man as could be found gracing the pages of any slick magazine ads. In truth, Buck Foster was far more appealing than any of those glistening boy toys with their fake smiles and steroid-enhanced muscles. His worn boots matched a pair of jeans that accentuated the fact that this was a real working cowboy. Melodie wondered if that Western-cut shirt he was wearing had been custom tailored to accommodate his well-muscled upper body. One good flex would surely rip the seams out.
You’ve filled out nicely, she almost blurted out. Not that such drop-dead good looks needed to be underscored by any such fawning observations.
Buck’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, blocking her as effectively as any bouncer intent on keeping riffraff out of an establishment. Hair the color of dark, spiced rum showed no hint of gray yet. It was styled just as she remembered it in a no-nonsense manly cut that made Melodie smile inwardly. Needless to say, an upscale salon like the one Randall had frequented would hold no allure for a man such as Buck Foster.
She stuck her trembling hands into her pockets.
How did I ever let this one get away? she asked herself.
Stupidity. Sheer stupidity came the resounding response.
Memories, long suppressed, washed over her. It was with a certain amount of embarrassment that she remembered how hard she’d worked just to get him to notice her all those years ago. If Buck had any awareness of her girlish crush on him back then, he’d never so much as given a hint of it. Melodie recalled with aching tenderness the times she perched herself atop the corral fence like some raucous love bird, chattering inanely. It was upon that splintery old fence that she had fallen hopelessly in love with her mother’s hired hand, the one that everyone in the community was so quick to condemn.
One day in particular stuck in her mind. It seemed it happened just yesterday. A wild-eyed bronco had just tossed Buck into the air like some rag doll, leaving him to take cover in the dust amid a flurry of hooves. Tears streaming down her face, Melodie screamed in alarm.
With all the dignity he could muster, Buck had picked himself up off the ground, dusted himself off and limped over to where she sat clenching the rail fence in white-knuckle terror. She’d urged her heart to start beating again as he braced himself by placing both hands on either side of her trembling body. It seemed that the entire world was contained in the span of Buck’s loving arms. The scent of horseflesh and sweat and blood and pure cowboy filled her lungs. She feared she might actually swoon as he proceeded to brush aside her tears with the pad of his thumb.
“Don’t you worry about me, Little Bit,” he’d assured her. “I’m indestructible.”
Vowing to be the one to prove him wrong, Melodie threw her arms around his neck and whispered fiercely, “No you’re not. You’re far more breakable than you know.”
He’d laughed, and the sound had inflated her heart like a cheap red balloon.
“Thanks for your concern,” he’d said. “Nobody else ever much cared whether I lived or died.”
The memory alone still had the power to dust Melodie’s flesh with goose bumps.
Seeing her shiver, Buck reluctantly stepped out of the way.
“Since you own the place,” he growled, “I guess there’s no need to invite you in.”
Deliberately avoiding his eyes, Melodie trained hers on the middle button of his shirt—right where his heart used to be before she’d ripped it out and fed it to the wolves. It took every ounce of Buck’s self-restraint to keep from slamming the door right in her face. A face, he noted with a trace of all too human satisfaction, that looked far more drawn than he remembered it.
In comparison to his six-foot-two-inch frame, Melodie looked very small indeed standing there upon the front step like some stranger stranded in a freak spring storm. Little Bit he used to call her when she was just a tagalong pest clamoring for his attention. Buck could discern no sign of that impish child in the tired-looking woman standing before him. Years of bitterness and anger left him unprepared for the sight of her looking so vulnerable and still so darned pretty with snowflakes clinging to those unbelievably long eyelashes.
Something twisted painfully in Buck’s chest. He had once heard that amputees could actually feel an itch in their missing limbs. Maybe he was experiencing similar symptoms.
Hating himself for feeling anything at all for this woman, he donned a sardonic smile.
“Welcome home, Little Bit,” he said, gesturing as grandly as any of the butlers he’d seen portrayed on television. He was not, however, moved to carry the charade so far as to help her off with her coat.
She shrugged it off without comment and hung it on the wooden peg in the entryway. Though made of wool, the garment was inadequate for Wyoming’s harsh weather—much like its owner, Buck thought ruefully to himself. Its classic Southwestern design was slightly out of place as well, serving as a reminder that this native had abandoned her birthplace for the warmer clime of Arizona.
Melodie flinched at the sound of the old endearment that Buck flung so carelessly at her feet. She had forgotten how cold this little house could get, and the chilly reception she’d received nudged the temperature several degrees lower. Memories of her mother standing at the stove came back to her with all the pungency of Grace’s mouthwatering cinnamon apple pie. So strong was the image that Melodie almost stepped up to the stove to warm her cold derriere like she had in times gone by.
Unfortunately without her mother’s love to warm it, the little house was as frosty and unwelcoming as Buck’s eyes. Those amber orbs reminded her of a cougar warily sizing up its prey.
Focusing on her surroundings seemed safer than meeting those eyes directly. The faded floral wallpaper in the kitchen seemed as depressing to Melodie as the matching mail-order curtains that hung limply over the sink. Linoleum, scratched and freckled by the sun, was beginning to curl in the corners. Dusty knickknacks seemed glued to their spots on equally dusty shelves. Nothing much seemed to have changed since Melodie’s childhood—other than the fact that everything seemed smaller, colder, paler….
Like a corpse set out for viewing.
Melodie shuddered at the thought of tomorrow’s funeral. Sagging wearily into a pearl-colored vinyl chair, she rested her elbows on the matching dinette table and allowed herself a heartfelt sigh.
“Sorry to hear about Randall,” Buck offered, his voice flat.
Guarded.
Melodie glanced at him sideways trying to discern just how much he knew about her husband’s death. She so hoped to leave that heartache behind her in the deserts of Arizona. The last thing she needed right now was to be reminded that she was supposed to be a grieving widow when, in fact, it was her mother’s passing that truly left her feeling gutted and bereft. As tragic as Randall’s suicide several weeks ago had been, it had given Melodie a sense of freedom denied her throughout their complicated and troubled marriage. As it was impossible to gauge Buck’s sincerity, she merely nodded her head to acknowledge his proffered condolences. Genuine or not, she appreciated his civility under such strained circumstances.
“Would it be too much to ask for a cup of coffee?” she asked, deliberately changing the subject.
At the request, Buck’s expression tightened. He’d be hanged if he was going to wait on her. He wasn’t the same whipped, eager to please, little puppy she remembered anticipating her every whim.
“Do I look as if I have Maitre d’ stamped on my forehead?”
A smile twitched at one corner of Melodie’s mouth. “Not that I can see,” she admitted. Gesturing toward the coffeepot on the counter, she asked, “Mind if I help myself?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Accepting his open hostility with the tiniest of shrugs, she rose to her feet and crossed to the cupboards. It came as no surprise to find the cups exactly where she remembered them, lined up behind the jelly jars that served as juice glasses. Melodie felt a twinge of irritation. Where was the expensive set she’d sent her mother? Probably gathering dust in the back of a closet with the rest of her gifts or possibly rewrapped and recycled as a present for someone “more needy.”
Melodie picked up the mug closest to her. The words To Mother With Love were handpainted across the dull white enamel and emblazoned with foolish-looking tulips. It had been Grace’s favorite, a Mother’s Day gift from her second-grade daughter. The rim was chipped, the handle had been glued back on and much of the paint had not survived countless washings.
It seemed that her mother’s entire life was embodied in that sentimental mug. A life spent in selfless devotion to others. A life based on the principles of hard work and an unwavering faith in God. A life so filled with frugality that no two glasses on the shelf matched.
Accepting for a fact that she in no way deserved the love that her mother had lavished on her since the day she’d been born, Melodie pulled the garbage can out from its concealed space beneath the sink and dropped the mug in. One by one she tossed in every single jelly glass as well. It was doubtful that Buck would have attempted to extract them as Grace surely would have done, but Melodie was nonetheless determined that every glass shattered as it hit its mark. The sound covered a muffled sob. Her tears glistened amid shards of broken glass.
Seeing her shoulders shake, Buck conjectured the cause of Melodie’s distress. Once upon a time a mismatched table service would have held no shame for the sweet, guileless girl who had been raised within these four walls.
“Must be hard coming back here after living in a mansion,” he ventured.
The tone behind that simple observation was sharper than the icicle dagger he seemed intent upon driving through her back.
