Stay with Me (Misty River Romance, A Book #1) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Becky Wade

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239 pages

English

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Winner of the Contemporary Romance category of the Christy AwardWinner of the Romance Category of the Kipp Book AwardLoving her is a risk he can't afford . . . and can't resist.When acclaimed Bible study author Genevieve Woodward receives an anonymous letter referencing her parents' past, she returns to her hometown in the Blue Ridge Mountains to chase down her family's secret. However, it's Genevieve's own secret that catches up to her when Sam Turner, owner of a historic farm, uncovers the source of shame she's worked so hard to hide.Sam has embraced his sorrow, his isolation, and his identity as an outsider. He's spent years carving out both career success and peace of mind. The last thing he wants is to rent the cottage on his property to a woman whose struggles stir his worst failure back to life. Yet can he bear to turn her away right when she needs him most?"Wade launches the Misty River Romance series with this crafty mix of tragedy, intrigue, and romance. . . . Wade's endearing love story will appeal to readers of Susan May Warren."--Publishers Weekly

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	05 mai 2020
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781493425204
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	3 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0384€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2020 by Rebecca C. Wade
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2020
Ebook corrections 02.10.2022
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-2520-4
Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
Author represented by Linda Kruger
Dedication
For Rel Mollet, Crissy Loughridge, Amy Watson, and Joy Tiffany.
Thank you so much for your generous help with this novel.
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
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21
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23
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25
Scripture
Discussion Questions
Extended Preview of “ Let It Be Me ”
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Genevieve
JULY 12, EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO SAN SALVADOR, EL SALVADOR JUNIOR HIGH MISSION TRIP
The hallway floor jolts downward beneath my feet, throwing me off balance. The mesh bags full of soccer balls I’m holding bump against the concrete walls of the basement hallway. “Wh-what?” I gasp. What’s happening?
The building lurches from side to side more violently.
It’s not me that’s unstable. It’s the earth. Through my tennis shoes and the concrete floor, I can feel movement coming up from deep, deep below.
“Earthquake!” a boy ahead of me shouts as terror clamps my heart.
The ground begins to roll and the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling blinks out.
Chapter One
L ike Papa Bear in the Goldilocks story, Sam Turner had discovered a strange woman sleeping in the bed of a house he owned.
He stood inside Sugar Maple Farm’s small guesthouse, hands on his hips, staring down at her as mid-August sunlight flooded the space through the uncovered windows. Neither the sunlight nor the sound of his entrance just now had woken her.
Was she dead?
A bolt of worry pierced him hard, so he leaned over to make sure he could see the rise and fall of her breathing. He could.
Good. Interruptions to his routine and his solitude weren’t part of his plans any day of the week. Discovering a dead woman definitely hadn’t been part of this particular Monday morning’s plans.
What he had here was a trespasser, very much alive, who’d decided to help herself to his guesthouse.
She’d stretched out on the only piece of furniture in the place: a bed. Back when he’d moved onto this property four years ago, he’d taken this metal headboard and frame out of the main house and stored it here. More recently, he’d added the mattress and box spring set he’d received as a hand-me-down from his dad.
This stranger didn’t seem to mind that the mattress was bare. Or that the guesthouse offered nothing but old pine floors and a cold fireplace.
She’d made do by cracking open her suitcase and tossing every item of clothing onto the bed to function as her sheet. She’d cov ered her bottom half with a black jacket and slipped her top half into a pink robe. Except she’d turned the robe the wrong way, so that the robe’s back covered her front.
Her head rested on a light blue pillow, chin tipped to the side in a way that revealed a pretty profile. The smoothness of her expression communicated deep, worriless dreams. Due to his responsibilities and regrets, Sam couldn’t remember sleeping that soundly since he was a kid.
She had prominent cheekbones, a delicate nose, a perfectly shaped mouth. Her hair started out a medium brown color near her scalp then magically, through some kind of dye job he couldn’t imagine, started to turn different, lighter blond colors toward the ends. Her hair was big, but she was small. When she stood, he’d bet that hair would fall almost to her waist.
She wore makeup on her flawless skin. Large silver earrings. A ring with three interlocking silver bands, each band set with diamonds.
Had she come straight from a photo shoot to break and enter his guesthouse?
“Hello,” he said.
No response.
One of his eyebrows twitched with irritation. “Excuse me,” he tried, slightly louder. He didn’t want to terrify her by raising his voice or by shaking her shoulder. “Hello?”
Nothing.
“Good morning. Miss?”
Not even an eyelid flickered. Most likely, she’d taken too much of some kind of substance. Sleeping pills, alcohol, drugs?
Sam picked up the huge purse that slumped on the floor beside a pair of tall leather boots. As far as he was concerned, she’d forfeited her right to privacy as soon as she’d become a squatter on his property. Grimly, he squashed a flash of conscience and rummaged past car keys, sunnies, a zippered case, feminine products, and a cell phone before pulling free her wallet. Within it, he found the usual credit and debit cards, then the thing he’d been looking for—her driver’s license.
It read Genevieve Woodward next to a picture of her smiling brightly. She’d been born three years after him, which made her thirty. Her height was listed as 5'4" and her weight as 125. Eye color: hazel. Address: Nashville. Which meant, here in the north Georgia mountains, that she was more than a four-hour drive from home.
The last name Woodward stirred his recognition. Judson Woodward served as their county’s district attorney. Sam had talked with him and his wife, Caroline, a couple of times. They had two adult daughters. Was this one of their daughters? If so, why would she have slept at his farm when her parents’ house in town was only fifteen minutes away?
He carried her car keys into the cool morning and unlocked her Volvo XC-40. The compact SUV’s interior smelled like the beach, crisp and fresh. He lifted items—a pink sweater, a laptop—as he searched for the substance she’d likely taken last night. A Starbucks travel mug filled one cup holder, hair bands and a lip gloss the other. In the back seat, a bag full of books and notebooks rested on the floor.
No liquor bottles. No drug paraphernalia.
Even so, his instincts were telling him that something was off.
He made a scoffing sound. He didn’t need Sherlock’s instincts to know something was off. Any ten-year-old kid would know that sleeping on a bare mattress in a stranger’s empty house wasn’t what sober women did.
He strode back inside. Genevieve hadn’t moved.
As he returned her keys to her purse, his attention landed on a metallic silver tin tucked in a side pocket. He pulled it free. Around the size of a box of Altoids, a cursive G engraved its top. He flicked the case open. Inside rested at least forty pills.
The pills were round and brown. Some marked with OP , others with 20 .
OxyContin.
He frowned as old memories slithered into his mind. Terrible memories that made his body brace and his stomach tighten with grief.
Grief and regret were never far from him.
They walked beside him every day. Laid down with him at night. Waited for chances to punch him in the gut and remind him of his failures.
For seven years, they’d been his two closest companions.
Oxy required a prescription. Either Genevieve had gotten these legally and was taking them for justified medical reasons. Or . . . not. Given where he’d found her, he was leaning toward the latter.
He returned the metal tin to her purse and moved to stand at her bedside.
Oxy. A fashionable suitcase. Successful father. New car. China doll face. A pillow that traveled with her so that she didn’t have to lay her precious head on anyone else’s pillow.
Genevieve Woodward was messy in ways that had nothing to do with organization, and Sam didn’t do mess.
He wanted nothing to do with her. In fact, he wanted her far away from him as fast as possible.
“Genevieve,” he said.
She didn’t stir.
“Genevieve.”
Genevieve jerked awake on a yelp that sent her lunging into a seated position. Her heart whacked against her chest wall. Confused and startled, she squinted against the sunshine.
A man —an unfamiliar man—stood nearby, staring at her.
Panic vanquished every shred of sleep from her brain.
Where am I? She was . . . sitting on a bed in an unfamiliar room. Automatically, she scrambled away from him until her back clunked against the metal headboard.
The man took two steps back, holding up his palms. “No need to be afraid. My name’s Sam Turner, and you’re inside my guesthouse at Sugar Maple Farm.”
Did he slip me a roofie and kidnap me? Her thoughts careened against the inside of her skull like horrified marbles. He didn’t look like a kidnapper! But how was she supposed to know what kidnappers looked like?
“As far as I can tell, you broke in, then decided to spend the night.” He spoke with what sounded like a British accent. Moving slowly, he slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “When I saw your car this morning, I came to investigate. You’re not hurt as far as I can tell.”
Perish! What! No. She hadn’t broken into this person’s guesthouse, then . . . slept here.
Had she?
She’d been driving to her parents’ house last night. She’d been stressed and anxious about the magnitude of her workload. She hadn’t been able to face the prospect of confro