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A Place to Belong
Linda Goodnight
Faith and warm memories have helped widow Kitty Wainwright endure the loss of her husband.That's all she's ever neededuntil she hires contractor Jace Carter to repair her motel. Kitty has no idea the silent, scarred Jace has admired her since they set eyes on each other. Although Kitty's wary of letting anyone into her heart, Jace can't ignore his feelings for her.But with old secrets threatening to ruin his future happiness, Jace has to put his past to rest before he can convince Kitty that she belongs by his side.
Lord, help me. I’m in love with her.
It was the first time he’d ever allowed himself the full thought, though the emotion had been hovering in his heart for years.
He focused on the distant, shining body of water and beyond to the narrow line he knew to be Redemption River.
“We should head back down.”
One hand holding the puppy steady, Kitty said, “You must be starving.”
“I could use a bite.” And more space between the two of us.
“Me, too.” She stepped away from the window but lingered in the oddly shaped room for a few more minutes while he stood like a helpless teenager watching and yearning.
“I love this room, Jace. I’ve never seen anything like it. If I lived in here, I would turn this space into something I could use every day. It’s far too wonderful to be hidden away in an attic.”
Her innocent phrasing caught in his brain and spun in repeating circles.
If she lived in this house—an impossible thought he’d never get out of his head now that he’d seen her here.
LINDA GOODNIGHT
Winner of a RITA
Award for excellence in inspirational fiction, Linda Goodnight has also won a Booksellers’ Best, an ACFW Book of the Year and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from RT Book Reviews. Linda has appeared on the Christian bestseller list and her romance novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages. Active in orphan ministry, this former nurse and teacher enjoys writing fiction that carries a message of hope and light in a sometimes dark world. She and her husband, Gene, live in Oklahoma. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
A Place to Belong
Linda Goodnight
But the vessel he was making did not turn out as he had hoped, so the potter crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over.
—Jeremiah 18:4
For His glory. 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
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
The day should have been perfect, one of those freshly-washed days after a spring rain when buds burst free from winter, birds sing and the world smells green.
Window rolled down and the engine of his Ford Super Duty rumbling pleasantly, Jace Carter was feeling good. Progress on the 1902 Victorian remodel was going well.
Overhanging oaks dappled sunlight onto the highway as he rounded the curve headed toward home. Ahead, a historic bridge spanned Redemption River and led into the small town of Redemption, Oklahoma.
He slowed to enjoy the view of the river, the way the willows wept over the railing, and the bridge itself, hand built by the town’s early pioneers. A man who made his living in wood appreciated good workmanship, especially when it had lasted more than a century.
The familiar thump of the road projected him onto the long historic bridge. He was craning his neck toward the rain-flushed river when the unexpected happened. A pair of screaming, water-soaked men bolted over the railing, arms waving frantically.
Jace’s heart bolted, too. He slammed on his brakes, yanked the wheel.
“Help! Help us!” Two hysterical men rushed to his window. Pale as plaster, terror dripped from both like the muddy red of the river dripped from their jeans and T-shirts.
Fear prickled Jace’s scalp as he listened to a disjointed, breathless rendering of the basics. Their boat had capsized. There was a man in the water. They couldn’t reach him.
He slammed the truck into park, killed the motor and leaped out to run down the slippery slope to the river. At first, he saw nothing but the thick, muddy water, swift and dangerous with the swell of spring rains.
“Call 9-1-1.” He tossed his cell toward one man and ran with the violent current, searching and praying for a chance to reel in the hapless victim.
His boots slipped. The thick bog slowed his progress. He spotted a red ball cap snagged on a branch. Hope leaped.
With his boot toes clinging to the muddy bank, he stretched. Missed. The swirling maelstrom ripped the cap away.
Behind him one of the men choked, “Jerry. Jerry.”
The noise of the current sucked the sound downstream with the red cap. With a sinking heart, Jace was convinced the same had happened to a stranger named Jerry.
By the time emergency vehicles arrived, Jace’s legs and lungs ached and he was wet and muddy to the waist. The two survivors wandered aimlessly along the banks in shock and grief of a day that had begun as fun and ended in tragedy.
Within the hour half of Redemption had joined the search. Jace didn’t hold out much hope at this point, but there was always a miracle.
“He could be halfway to the Gulf by now.”
Jace lowered a pair of binoculars to look into the grim face of Sloan Hawkins. They stood together with other volunteers on the bridge. The preacher was here. So were Trace and Cheyenne Bowman. Cheyenne, a former policewoman, had helped organize the search with efficient skill. The old Dumpster Divers, GI Jack and Popbottle Jones had arrived with the sirens. They knew the river well and were guiding police boaters toward hidden inlets and snaggy coves.
Below the bridge, ATVs revved and spit mud beneath their tires in a desperate attempt to find the man. That was the way of Redemption. People here cared. That warm acceptance was what had drawn him to the little town fourteen years ago when he was searching for a place to begin life for the second time.
Regardless of fatigue and the shivers of cold running from his muddy, wet feet to his torso, Jace couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Once, long ago, he’d been drowning, though not in water, and someone had reached out a saving hand. How could he not do the same?
The vision of a red ball cap floated relentlessly in front of his mind’s eye. If he’d been a few seconds faster could he have saved a man’s life?
A helicopter chop-chopped over the water.
A television news van rolled to a stop on the bridge, blocking the slow crawl of traffic to film the beehive of activity. A brunette in a blue News 12 windbreaker stuck a microphone in Jace’s face.
“Sir, anything you can tell us about the missing man? Did you see anything? What do you know about the incident?”
Jace shook his head and turned away, lifting his binoculars to scan the scene below. Tension tightened the muscles in his neck.
Sloan Hawkins, a securities expert with experience in handling situations with aplomb, stepped in to answer.
“From all reports, three men were riding the current. They capsized. Two made it out. One didn’t.”
“Did you witness the incident? Or talk to any of the victims yourself?”
Jace held his breath, hopeful that Hawkins wouldn’t point him as out as a possible witness.
“Sorry. Didn’t see a thing.”
Jace released the breath. Talking wasn’t his favorite activity, especially to strangers. Words could trip a man up if he wasn’t careful.
“Do you know the victim? Where are the other two men?” The reporter’s quick eyes scanned the bridge.
Sloan deferred, pointing the woman and her cameraman toward the gaggle of police units stationed on the flats directly south of the bridge.
The reporter sprinted away.
“Be dark soon.” Jace squinted into the western sky. He dreaded the moment when light would fail and hope would diminish.
By midnight, weary, disheartened searchers began to slowly leave and the search was called off until daylight.
“There’s a man down there somewhere.” Jace drew in a long breath and repeated softly, “Somewhere.”
Sloan clapped Jace on the shoulder. “Come to the house with me. Eat. I know you haven’t.”
“I couldn’t.” But he wanted to. He didn’t relish being alone on a night when he’d become too aware—again—of his own mortality.
“Sure you could.” Hawkins whipped out a cell phone—one of the fancy kind—and touched a single icon. “Annie, I’m heading home. Jace Carter’s with me. They’re calling off the search for the night.” He listened then laughed softly, though his expression was humorless. “Starved. Love you, too.”
The endearment made Jace uncomfortable. Or maybe envious. He’d never had that kind of casual, confident relationship with anyone. Never would.
But he’d accepted his lot in life. He’d created it, and he’d learned to be grateful for what he had. He made one final glance toward the river. Not everyone got a second chance.
Kitty Wainright stirred the pot of chili on Annie Hawkins’s beautiful vintage cookstove. “This will taste good to them after being out on that river.”
She and Annie, along with Cheyenne Bowman, had been in the middle of planning a fundraiser for the Redemption Women’s Shelter when word of the accident had come. Both Cheyenne and Sloan had left immediately to join the rescuers. Annie and Kitty stayed behind with the children, Cheyenne’s stepdaughter Zoey and Annie’s pair, Justin and Delaney. Annie had long ago put the two nine-year-old girls to bed after a call to Cheyenne. The preteen Justin still dragged his feet, miffed at being considered too young to join the search and rescue effort. Annie was allowing the late night as a salve to his wounded pride.
Outside a motorcycle engine rumbled. Justin leaped from the couch. “There’s Dad.”
He was out the door in an instant.
Kitty smiled inwardly. The snarly boy had blossomed under the tender-tough care of his father.
“I’ll set the sandwiches out.” As she moved past the coffee pot to the refrigerator, she hitched her chin. “Do you think they’ll want coffee this late?”
“Sloan won’t. I don’t know about Jace.”
“Me, either.” A building contractor who’d gone out of his way to help her after her husband’s death, Jace Carter had been in Kitty’s motel many times, but she couldn’t claim to understand him. “He’s so quiet.”
“Still waters run deep.” Annie grimaced. “Sorry. Poor choice of words. Jace is cute though. Nice guy, too.”
Kitty made a noise of agreement but didn’t pursue the conversation. Annie wasn’t finished.
“He looks good. Works hard. Obviously thinks you’re someone special.”
The comment surprised her. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come on, Kitty.” Annie waved a jar of mayo. “He spends more time at your place than anywhere.”
“I run a motel. An old motel that needs constant repair.”
“Uh-huh. There are a lot of old buildings in this town.”
