Home to Stay

Home to Stay
Annie Jones

Country veterinarian Hank Corsaut isn't surprised to learn that the newest folks in town are Newberry women–of the boisterous Louisiana family. A quiet, orderly guy like Hank usually tries to avoid energetic females, though the adorable five-year-old and her pretty single mother are hard to resist.As he gets to know kind, caring Emma Newberry, he realizes she needs a strong shoulder to lean on. Problem is, Emma's returned to her roots only for the time being. Unless a changed man can convince her she's exactly where she belongs.

“Call me Hank.”

“I have a policy. Once I’ve carried a woman over a threshold in a wedding gown, we’re on a first-name basis from that point on.”

A shiver snaked up Emma’s spine. Try as she might she could not contain her own smile. She tried looking away to keep him from seeing how much she found herself drawn to him with his easygoing approach, kind wit and seemingly endless patience. He wasn’t bad to look at either.

Emma shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath. The familiar smells of the old kitchen eased into every nuance of her mind and memory. The ever-present hint in the air of Louisiana loam and moss and river grasses, of lemon oil used to polish all the wood in the old house and of fresh cotton from all the kitchen linens aired on the clothesline. It all comforted her but did not blot out the image of Hank Corsaut in faded jeans and a denim work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his tanned forearms.

ANNIE JONES

Winner of a Holt Medallion for Southern-themed fiction, and the Houston Chronicle’s Best Christian Fiction Author of 1999, Annie Jones grew up in a family that loved to laugh, eat and talk—often all at the same time. They instilled in her the gift of sharing through words and humor, and the confidence to go after her heart’s desire (and to act fast if she wanted the last chicken leg). A former social worker, she feels called to be a “voice for the voiceless” and has carried that calling into her writing by creating characters often overlooked in our fast-paced culture—from seventysomethings who still have a zest for life to women over thirty with big mouths and hearts to match. Having moved thirteen times during her marriage, she is currently living in rural Kentucky with her husband and two children.

Home to Stay

Annie Jones

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

—Isaiah 40:31

For Natalie and Patrick, for being my inspirations and joy

For Bob for being my hero

For my family for being themselves, and being my touchstone

For my by-marriage family for being so much fun

For the next generation of “Joneses”: Ethan, Wyatt, Evie, Waylon and whoever comes along next, Aunt Annie and Uncle Bobby love you always (and will keep the toy closet stocked)

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

Letter to Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Chapter One

“If I’m not mistaken—and the twist in my gut tells me I’m not—that there—” Hank Corsaut fixed his eyes on a puff of dirt stirred up on the road a quarter of a mile in the distance “—is trouble.”

The silver SUV went sailing over the bumps in the old dirt road that led from the highway to the sanctuary proper and disappeared down a hill.

Hank braced his hand against the dinged-up fender of his old truck and shifted his white straw cowboy hat to the back of his head. He had come out to check on things at the Gall Rive Migratory Bird Sanctuary this morning with all the good humor and enthusiasm of a feral tomcat facing a flea dip. He was a large-animal vet, after all, not a watchdog.

The car slid around the last long curve then went whisking by where he had pulled off to the side of the road without so much as the customary “hey, I see ya there” wave of her hand.

“Yep. That’s trouble all right. Wavy-haired, heart-stompin’, stubborn-as-she-is-beautiful trouble,” he muttered.

This new development was doing nothing to brighten his mood.

Not that he had been particularly cheerful since Samantha Jolene Newberry, the woman who single-handedly ran the bird sanctuary and more often than not thought she ought to run Hank’s life, had fainted dead away in his arms. Dead away. In this case it was not a colorful turn of phrase.

He wasn’t sure for how long, but being a doctor of veterinary medicine he knew that when her body fell into his arms her heart had stopped beating. And Sammie Jo’s being one of the biggest hearts he’d ever known, it had grieved him like nothing he’d ever experienced. Then her eyes opened again, and she let loose on him a whole new wave of grief—of the bossing him around, getting him to agree to do things he didn’t have the time or inclination to do variety. He had had to agree to do her bidding before she’d let him call for help.

Hank rubbed his eyes, clenched his teeth and wondered what he was thinking when he had taken on the task. These acres of untouched natural habitat swept with tall grasses, live oaks hung thick with moss, isolated with nothing but dirt roads to connect them to the highway and nearest neighbors, had withstood hurricanes and the high-strung females that lived here. What could happen in the few days Sammie Jo would have to be under a doctor’s care as she recovered from her near brush with a heart attack?

The silver SUV didn’t just make the turn into the drive that most people, even ones who had been out to the Newberry family home dozens of times, missed. It went gliding around the bend and through the crookedly hanging open iron gates like a plane coming in for a perfect landing.

Hank’s feet seemed to grow roots, anchoring him in place. He’d pulled over just shy of Sammie Jo’s yard to let the dogs run for a minute to expend some energy so the animals would be less inclined to chase any wounded or unsuspecting birds on the sanctuary proper. That’s what he’d told himself. In truth he’d needed a moment alone with his thoughts, alone with the Lord, to regroup and go back to the place where not twelve hours ago he’d thought he’d lost one of the first people who had ever believed in him.