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A Wife For Ben
Cheryl Wolverton
THE GOOD NEIGHBOR–ACTUALLY, THE BESTA woman couldn' t ask for a better neighbor than Ben Mayeaux. He' d saved Stephanie Webber and her daughter from their burning house, and this single mom couldn' t thank him enough. Kind, strong and handsome, Ben had opened his home to them and helped in more ways than she could count, and soon Stephanie' s feelings were taking on a more-than-neighborly slant.When days of healing and house repair turned into tender evenings, Stephanie wondered if this tried-and-true bachelor' s home–and heart– would open permanently to a wife and rambunctious five-year-old.And if they did, could she heal her own past wounds, and love again?
“This is so much to take in,” Stephanie said.
Ben crossed the room, his forehead creasing into a small frown. His strides were long and quick as he closed the distance between them. Before she knew it, he’d reached up and clasped her shoulders. Squeezing them gently, he held her.
The warmth of the long, curved hands providing support and understanding was her undoing. She shuddered, and a sob escaped.
Mortified, she tried to pull away, not knowing why the floodgates of Hoover Dam had suddenly opened. Ben wouldn’t let her. Pulling her in to his chest, he wrapped his large arms around her. “This has been coming for a long time,” he said. “Let it out.”
She didn’t know what he meant, but his words had the desired effect. Her arms going around him, gripping to keep her from sliding into a puddle at his feet, she cried.
CHERYL WOLVERTON
RITA
Award finalist Cheryl Wolverton has well over a dozen books to her name. Her very popular HILL CREEK, TEXAS, series has been a finalist in many contests. Having grown up in Oklahoma, lived in Kentucky, Texas and now Louisiana, Cheryl and her husband of twenty years and their two children, Jeremiah and Christina, consider themselves Oklahomans who have been transplanted to grow and flourish in the South. Readers are always welcome to contact her via: P.O. Box 207, Slaughter, LA 70777 or e-mail at Cheryl@cherylwolverton.com. You can also visit her Web site at www.cherylwolverton.com.
A Wife for Ben
Cheryl Wolverton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
He will not forget your work and the love
you have shown Him as you helped His people and continue to help them.
—Hebrews 6:10
Writing a book is always a fun process. And the acknowledgments are always something I like to do. I want to thank the librarians—all three of them—from Pride Branch in Pride, Louisiana. They were so helpful in finding the information I needed.
I would like to acknowledge Christina Wolverton.
Also Jeremiah Wolverton and my husband, Steve—a wonderful man. Without him, I wouldn’t be able to find my computer on some days!
Dear Reader,
Not too far from here there is a town called Pride, Louisiana. I thought it would make a wonderful setting for a story. Pride represents any small town, perhaps even the one that you live in. Its residents are everyday folk, people that you know.
In Pride and other communities all over the world, people become heroes by their simple actions. Giving a cup of water to someone who is thirsty or calling someone who is in the hospital or visiting someone who lives by himself or herself can be in itself a heroic act. You don’t have to save someone from a burning building or from something horrific to be a hero. Sometimes the simplest act of kindness is heroic to the person who receives it.
I’m sure we all can come up with someone who is an everyday hero to us. Take time to let those people in your life know how much you appreciate them. Let them know how much they mean to you. And remember that by helping someone, you might just become an everyday hero, too!
Blessings,
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 One
When you think life is going along just fine, life pulls an April fool.
—Ben’s Laws of Life
I still can’t believe it. Here I am, Ben Mayeaux, standing at the altar, about to commit myself to the best person I could have ever met.
Instant family.
I’ll have a five-year-old stepdaughter.
Who would have thought?
A staid and sure bachelor at thirty-eight years old. Not husband material. Not father material. And certainly not hero material.
At least, not until that day that turned my world on its axis like a top out of control…
Let me tell you about it.
Push it, Ben. Almost halfway there.
Sneakered feet pounded the asphalt as Ben Mayeaux worked to make the four miles. Ahead he saw the tree that marked the two miles where he would turn and head back to his house.
It was still dark in the predawn hours in Pride, Louisiana, dark and already humid. A thick early-morning fog was starting to build and cover the road where he ran, filling the wooded pine forests around him, making his feet echo hollowly as he pounded onward.
Come on, Ben. You can do it, just like when you were twenty. So, what if you’re thirty-eight, nearly thirty-nine. You’re at your best right now, at your prime. You have everything in life you want.
In and out, in and out, his breathing continued, if a bit labored.
He might feel like he was still twenty, but his body was telling him he should have called it quits at the mile marker.
He reached the turnaround point and headed down the road, inhaling the scent of crisp budding pines and exhaling in cadence with his running.
Pace yourself, Ben. You can do it.
Inhale…pound, pound, pound…exhale…pound, pound, pound.
Inhale…pound, pound… What was that smell? He continued another mile inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling, as the smell got stronger.
Distracted by the scent of wood burning so early on a spring morning, Ben slowed, glancing about. Stumbling to a halt, he bent, dropping his hands to his knees and inhaling as he tried to catch his breath. The odd smell was a good excuse to stop, and he didn’t have to admit he wasn’t as young as he used to be.
Ah, age. The wonderful joys of it. He was satisfied with all he had, where he was in life and everything else. But his body told him he was getting older.
Lifting his head, he again inhaled.
Yeah. Definitely wood smoke.
He wondered who would be outside burning trash or dead trees this early in the morning. The haze of dawn was just rearing its head. Walking forward to cool down until he caught his breath, he glanced around, speculating just who else might be up this early.
The road was deserted except for the shift workers who left around five to make it into Baton Rouge for shift change. Soon he’d be seeing buses as the local schools got ready to pick up kids for class. Then the everyday crowd of cars heading into Baton Rouge, the only place that really had a job market around, would finally start making its way toward town.
Pride, with a population of a few thousand, and neighboring Zachary, with less than ten thousand, certainly couldn’t support them selves.
So most folks traveled into Baton Rouge for work.
Taking a deep inhalation of the muggy morning he searched again, wondering just who might be up. It was possible a straight day, eight-to-five worker had some chores that needed doing and was performing them before he left for work.
But Ben didn’t have that many neighbors. Along this road there were maybe six houses in a six-mile area.
A haze caught his attention. That way, he realized, spotting where the haze drifted from. He instinctively started off the road toward the nearest neighbor he had. A woman lived there, if he remembered correctly. He’d seen her out occasionally in the evening when he ran. She was usually taking out trash or heading into the house. Sometimes he’d spotted her trying to clear out the front garden.
A cold chill worked its way up his sweat-covered body as he walked partway up the two-hundred-yard driveway. It wasn’t like him to interfere with neighbors. He was a bachelor and a loner and liked it that way. But he couldn’t picture this woman out at dawn burning excess wood as she cleared away her yard. And if that wasn’t enough to cause his unease to grow, the fact that few people had fireplaces and those that did didn’t use them in spring-time—unless they were crazy—really caused his spine to tingle with foreboding.
He’d just take a quick peek to see what she was doing and make sure she was okay and…
And call for help, he realized as he saw smoke billowing from the side of the house.
The back part of the house was in flames.
His heart leaped to his throat as he realized he was witnessing a house fire. He rushed to the front door and pounded on it. The sound of crackling flames could be heard echoing in the early-morning stillness.
Ben couldn’t perceive any movement inside the house. He hit the doorbell, then quickly pounded again. “Fire! Get up!” he called.
Impatiently he stood on his toes to peek in the door window.
He should call the fire department, but it was over a mile to his house. And he knew the woman had to be in there, most likely asleep. Her car was in the driveway.
Glancing around, he saw a flowerpot on her front porch.
He grabbed it and slammed it through the spacious front bay window. “Anyone home? Fire!” he called, all the while clearing the glass from around the frame with the red clay pot.
As soon as he had a spot cleared, he shoved back the curtains and climbed in. The semidark living room was scattered with old furniture including a couch that he stumbled over. Across from him were the kitchen and a window that showed the backyard. No one was in sight.
The smell of smoke hung in the warm air. A clock ticked loudly. Ben covered his mouth and nose with his hand and rushed toward the hallway, certain the woman would be down that way, more certain than ever that she had to be in trouble, otherwise she would have answered by now.
“Fire! Get out!” he shouted, choking on his words as the acrid smell hit him. He saw a phone on a small table next to the entrance to the hall, snatched it up and dialed 911 before dropping it and continuing. He knew someone would respond, since the number had been dialed. That was enough.
Down the hall the smoke was thicker. Something out back was on fire, and this was the side of the house affected, he thought dimly. Suddenly the fire alarm in the front room started blaring.
If anyone was asleep, that would wake him or her up, he thought, glancing through the smoke, wanting to believe no one was there, that surely he was overreacting. His eyes burned and watered from the thickening smoke. Still, he was able to see enough to spot a closed door.
He started toward the closed door a few feet away. He had only taken two steps when his foot snagged something on the floor.
With a grunt he went down hard on the carpet, skinning both knees. Turning, feeling for what he’d tripped over, his hands met with flesh.
It was a woman. The woman, he realized. The one he was looking for. Enshrouded in pink pajamas, the woman lay still, one arm outstretched, her blond hair covering her face, keeping him from seeing it.
The smoke intensified and choked him. Galvanized, he worked to get the woman in his arms. Coughing, his eyes watering and burning, he grabbed her limp arm and swung her over his shoulder.
A gasp and raspy cough broke from his bundle. He felt relief to know she was still alive.
He headed toward the front door. The heat had already increased drastically.
“No.” She coughed. He could hardly hear the feminine voice over the blaring sound of the alarm as he rushed through the living room.
“Fire, ma’am,” Ben said.
The woman started fighting him.
“Be still, I don’t want to drop you.” He shifted her weight and anchored her firmly, visions of dropping her and not making it out of the house flashing in his mind.
He reached the door and fumbled with the lock, then jerked it open and rushed out. Air, clean and plentiful, met them. He got away from the house and deposited his bundle on the ground, working to breathe and clear his lungs.
