Mountain Sanctuary
Lenora Worth

To Valerie Hansen, my treasured Arkansas friend!

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 One

Adam Callahan slanted his head sideways so he could read the crooked sign in front of him.

Sanctuary House Inn Bed-and-Breakfast. Established 1888. Underneath the faded etched letters, a handwritten message announced Under New Management. Instead of a No Vacancy sign, someone had written—in what looked a child’s scribblings—Lots Of Vacancies.

Well, he needed a bed and he needed breakfast. And this was apparently the last place in Hot Springs, Arkansas, that had both. Just his luck that he’d come rolling into town during some sort of art festival. Every hotel and bed-and-breakfast in Hot Springs and the surroundings areas of Lake Hamilton and Lake Catherine was booked solid for the next three days.

Except this one.

“Lots of vacancies,” Adam said out loud as he straightened his head, the tight muscles in his neck reminding him why he’d left New Orleans in the first place.

“I need to rest,” he said as he headed up the cracked, aged bricks of what once must have been a carriage drive. Looking up at the Gothic-like, Victorian-style turreted house with the peeling white paint and the broken green shutters, Adam wondered if he’d find any rest here. In the first light of an unforgiving yellow-gold dawn, the old house had the lost, forlorn look of a granny woman with dementia.

Adam could identify with that feeling. He’d been traveling all night and was bone weary. But he’d felt lost and forlorn for months now, his gut twisting with an emptiness that food couldn’t fill. He also felt as if he’d been wandering in the wilderness for forty days, confused and dazed, after all the anguish he’d seen in his ten years as a police officer in New Orleans.

But you resigned from the force, he reminded himself, his gaze taking in the dead blossoms on the geraniums sitting in cracked pots by the side entrance to the B and B. The once-red blooms looked as burned-out and lifeless as Adam felt right now. With automatic precision, he reached down and plucked a few of the dried-up red blooms. Then he caught himself and stopped. He just needed sleep. Lots of sleep.

He’d just put one booted foot on the lopsided wooden steps, when he heard weeping coming from the open window right next to the porch.

Startled, Adam pivoted off the porch steps to stare into the long, wide window. The sight he saw immediately caught his attention and made him forget he was tired and sleepy.

A petite woman with waist-length, flowing strawberry-blond hair stood at the aged butcher block table in the middle of the long, narrow kitchen, her hands covering her face as she leaned her head over and sobbed openly. The woman wore a flowery, gauzy dress covered by a smudged white apron that had so many ruffles they seemed to overpower both the dress and the woman wearing it. The smell of something burning caused Adam to glance from the distraught woman to the smoke coming out of the ancient six-burner stove sitting haphazardly against one wall. The woman seemed to be ignoring the smoke, but Adam saw a burned batch of what once must have been muffins spilled out on parchment paper on the messy butcher-block table. As he watched, the woman wiped at her eyes, then picked up one of the charred muffins and threw it across the kitchen, causing dishes to rattle in the wide, deep white porcelain sink.

Then she burst into tears again.

Which caused all of Adam’s ingrained protective instincts to kick into overdrive, even while the practical part of his brain warned him in flashing, glaring banners to just turn around and keep walking.

“Excuse me,” he heard himself saying into the window. “Uh, ma’am, could I possibly get a room?” Then, because he just couldn’t stop himself, he added, “And is there anything I can do to help you?”

The sound of his voice caused the woman to look up in surprise, her expression changing from disturbed to mortified as she glared at Adam through the window. “What?”

“I need a place to stay,” Adam said, his tone gentle now. “Can I come in?”

“Do you know how to make blueberry muffins?” the woman asked on a loud sniff, her daring expression telling him this might be the deal breaker.

“I sure do,” he said with a soft smile. “I happen to make the best blueberry muffins this side of the Mason-Dixon line.”

“You’re teasing me, right?” she asked, tossing her long wavy hair back over her shoulder, her brilliant green eyes flashing. “And, mister, I am in no mood to be teased this morning.”

“I’m not teasing,” Adam replied, determination making him want to win entry into this strange, intriguing house so he could find out what was the matter with this strange, intriguing woman. “I was a cook in the navy. And on the police force back in New Orleans, I was the unofficial designated cook for all of our get-togethers. I did all the cooking for the guys—” He stopped, remembering cookouts and crawfish boils back on the bayou. “I can make muffins,” he said, his tone turning blunt and businesslike as he shoved the memories away. “But first, you have to let me in. Oh, and you might want to check on whatever’s in the oven.”

At that, she let out a wail and rushed to the oven, then opened it to let out even more smoke. Shouting to Adam over her shoulder, she said, “C’mon on in. And hurry.”

Adam didn’t waste time getting there. He rushed up onto the side porch, found the door unlocked and entered, the big stained glass door squeaking his arrival.

A small boy wearing action-figure-embellished pajamas stood waiting for him, his hair the same thick strawberry-blond color of the woman’s. The boy slanted big hazel eyes underneath long bangs, then flapped his hands in the air. “Wow, am I glad to see you. This is the third batch she’s tried this morning, and most of our visitors have done left and gone to get a sausage biscuit out on the highway.”

Adam had to chuckle at the kid’s dead-serious expression. “And just who are you?”

“Kyle Watson Forsythe,” the boy said, extending a hand in a very grown-up manner. “I’m trying to help my mom. But she says this place is nothing but a big, ol’ money pit and she wishes she’d never in-hair-it-ted it in the first place.”

Adam wondered what else the kid, who looked to be around six or seven, had learned from his mama, but he refrained from asking that right now. “Show me the way to the kitchen, son,” he said in his best cop voice, his instincts on full alert.

The boy rubbed his nose, then pointed. “Down that hallway to the right.” He pointed again, his expression bordering on panic. “She thinks the stove is messed up.”

“Thanks.” Adam dropped his leather duffel bag onto the hardwood floor and stalked across the formal Victorian parlor toward the kitchen and the sobbing woman.

Stella’s head came up at the swishing of the swinging door, her mind numb with failure and a definite lack of faith. Everyone had assured her that running this place would be an ideal job for her since she was organized to a fault and had a good business head. They said the Sanctuary practically took care of itself. Well, they had all been somewhat misinformed. And she’d been gullible and crazy to think she could do this on her own. Wishing the older couple that had helped her mother hadn’t retired to Branson, Stella squared her shoulders and took a deep breath as she waited for the muffin man.

She’d take whatever help she could find, including help from a perfect stranger.

The man who came barreling into the kitchen seemed to fill the vast space with his very presence, causing Stella to inhale the leftover sob she’d been about to emit into the air. Wiping her eyes with one of the annoying frilly ruffles of her dead mother’s apron, Stella tried to focus on this interesting person who’d apparently come to her rescue.

He was tall, but not too tall. His hair was clipped and edged into brittle brown tufts across his forehead and around his ears. His eyes, wide and hesitant right now, were a rich grayish blue. But it was his face that held Stella’s attention. His face looked as worn and aged as the masculine tan wallpaper in her daddy’s study across the hallway. It was a face etched in hard living, all planes and angles, all rough male, muscular and scarred. This man, whoever he was, sure didn’t look like someone who could make blueberry muffins. More like he could take down a band of ragamuffins with one strong-armed swipe.

“Did you say the navy?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“Yeah, two tours of duty. Then ten years on the police force in New Orleans. I’m retired now.”

The way he said that made Stella think it might not have been a voluntary retirement. “Is it still bad from the storms down there?” she asked, not one for making small talk.

“As bad as things can get and then some, but I still love the place.” He opened the refrigerator and found the fresh blueberries, then grabbed a mixing bowl from the ones stacked along an open bottom shelf underneath the butcher block. “Flour?”

Stella pointed to the tin canister sitting on the counter. “I have the recipe—”

“Don’t need it. I have my own recipe.” He tapped his forehead. “Right here.”

She leaned across the counter. “That’s real nice, but do you have a way of fixing an oven that refuses to cook at the correct temperature? I’m pretty sure the thermostat has gone haywire.”

He opened the door of the oven. “I think I see the problem, but it’ll have to cool down before I can get in there and fix it. Do you have a microwave or a toaster oven?”

She nodded. “But—”

“I know how to make microwave muffins.”

“Amazing,” Stella said through a sniff. “Uh, what’s your name?”

“Adam,” he said, eyeballing flour into the bowl. “Adam Callahan. And you?”

“Stella Forsythe.”

“Nice to meet you, Stella.” Then he motioned with his head toward the refrigerator. “I need about two eggs.”

She managed to find him “about two” eggs and “about a half cup” of oil and several other ingredients he called for in precise order. Then she stood back and watched as he went to work, his gray gaze centered on the creamy mixture inside the big white bowl.

“Do you need the mixer?” she asked.

“Nope.” He floured the blueberries, then whipped them right into the mix, lifting an eyebrow toward her. “But I do need a clean muffin pan. One that works in the microwave.”

Stella scrambled to find a pan that wasn’t coated with burned muffin remains. “I have this plastic one I use in there. Should I grease it?”

“Yeah. Grease and a little flour all over.”

She did as he told her, glad the splotchy red patches she always got along her neck and throat whenever she was under emotional stress had seemed to settle down into just freckles now. She hated getting all splotchy, but today had been a triple splotchy day, and it wasn’t even 7:00 a.m. yet.

“I’d planned an egg casserole, too,” she told him as he put the muffins into the microwave. “But—”

“Give me the ingredients,” he told her, his hands on his hips, a wet, white dish towel with tiny daisies on its hem thrown across his broad shoulder.

Stella moved like a sleepwalker, gathering ham and eggs, cheese and bread, her thoughts running together mumbo jumbo. Lord, how did I get so lucky? she asked the heavens in a silent prayer of thanks. Dear God, did You finally hear my pleas? The smell of blueberry muffins answered her, sweet and plump and intoxicating.

In minutes, the man had created a big glass Pyrex dish full of the breakfast-casserole concoction, adding a sprinkle of nutmeg to the top to make it look pretty. After the muffins were done, he shoved that into the microwave, then he meticulously went about tidying up the kitchen, stopping here and there to grunt out questions to Stella.

“How old’s your boy?”

“Six.”

“How long you been in Hot Springs?”

“About two months.”

“What happened with the muffins this morning?”

“I don’t know how to cook very well and the oven doesn’t, either.”

“Why is this place such a mess?”

“Because of the oven. I got backed up with the first batch of muffins, so I tried another one. Things went downhill from there.”

About forty minutes and twenty questions later, the casserole bubbled its way to perfection. Announcing it almost done, he turned back to Stella. “How many?”

“How many what?”

“How many people are you expecting for breakfast?”

A little voice from the corner of the room shouted out. “We only got about four people waiting in the parlor, Mama. The rest left.”

Stella glanced over at her son. “Oh, Kylie, why are you still in your pajamas?” She’d told him to get dressed, but the boy had a mind of his own.

Kyle grinned, showing the gap where he’d lost two teeth. “I was just talking to everyone.”

The boy could talk, no doubt about that. “Run on up and get dressed and then you can eat. I’ll take care of our guests.” Since his father had died, Kyle somehow thought he had to be the man of the house. That realization brought more tears to her eyes, but Stella held this batch of sobs back for her son’s sake. “Thank you, honey, for entertaining our guests. You can tell them to meet us in the dining room. Breakfast will soon be served.”

“Did this man cook all that food?” Kyle asked, clearly impressed.

Stella sent a shy glance toward the big man washing dishes. “He sure did.”

“Sweet,” Kyle said, his eyes bright with unbridled delight. “I’m starving to death.” Then he looked back toward Stella, his big brown eyes breaking her heart with love. “Can I go get Papa?”

“Yes, go tell Papa to come and get it while it’s hot.”

Kyle grinned. “Ain’t he gonna be surprised?”

Stella smiled. Answering her son with an example of correct English, she said, “Yes, Papa certainly is going to be surprised. Not ain’t gonna.”

“Whatever,” Kyle said with kid practicality. “He ain’t gonna believe his eyes, that’s for sure.”

Stella shook her head, then tossed her hair back.

Adam eyed her over his shoulder. “He’s a handful, I reckon.”

“You can say that again.”

“What’s your husband do?”

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s probably better off that way. And I know we’re better off for it.”

Realizing the man was staring at her with such intensity it bordered on shock, Stella waved a hand in the air. “I shouldn’t have said that. Lawrence was a no-good, cheating, drinking vagrant who pretty much robbed me blind, but I guess he had a soul. Or at least I hope so, anyway, for Kyle’s sake. He had a bad wreck on I-30 one rainy Saturday night about a year ago. Wrapped his souped-up Mustang around a steel pole on an embankment. And that was that.”

“Is that why you moved here?”

“No.” She wondered just when he’d get enough and leave. Everybody usually did. “I moved here after my mother died last year. This was her house.” She shrugged. “I mean, she lived here, but somebody ran the place for her. She spent most of her time out back in the studio. She was…an artist.”

He nodded at that, his expression blank as he rinsed a now-scrubbed muffin pan. “And Papa?”

Well, the man didn’t miss a thing. Figured, him being a cop. Always aware of his surroundings, she reasoned. She knew how cops operated, since her dearly departed husband had several run-ins with the law over the years she’d been with him. “Papa is my daddy, Watson Clark. Everyone calls him Wally, though. My mother left him when I was ten, but they never divorced. After she died, I brought him here to live with us and help out. But he can’t do a whole lot. He has a lot of health problems.”

She finished wiping down the counter, then prepared the plates for the guests, careful to make sure each plate was distinctively different in style and pattern, just to mix things up. She’d read somewhere that it was okay to do that, and besides, she didn’t really care about proper etiquette at this point.

“Got any fruit?” Adam asked over her shoulder, causing her to almost drop a delicate blue-etched plate.

“In the refrigerator. Strawberries, I think. And maybe some grapes.”

“We’ll add a few bites to each serving,” Adam said, already digging through the stuffed refrigerator. “You need to clean this thing out.”

“I’ll get to it,” Stella said, thinking one day she’d get to every little thing around here. “Soon.”

“Let’s get in there and serve our guests,” Adam said, holding a silver tray full of food in his hands. “Got the coffee ready?”

“Yes, I do know how to make coffee at least.” Then she winced. “Well, you might want to test it before we take it out.”

“I think I just might.”

He grinned, then headed through the swinging doors to the dining room. Stella grabbed another tray of food, thinking she liked the way he’d said “serve our guests.”

Don’t be silly, she admonished as she served the pleasantly surprised guests who were loyal customers from past years, bless them. He’s just passing through. He just happened up when you were in a fix. He just happened up when you needed him the most. And he’ll be gone before you even miss him. But the sweet smell of those incredible blueberry muffins made Stella hope Adam Callahan wouldn’t be in too big of a hurry to keep moving.

Chapter Two

“So…can I get my room now?”

Adam stood in the kitchen with Stella, watching as she put away the last of the breakfast dishes. The meal had been a success. The older couple from Florida and the honeymooners from Texas had all raved about the breakfast, all four of them fascinated and in awe as they asked Stella over and over how she’d pulled it off.

“First breakfast we’ve had in two days that wasn’t either burned or raw,” Mr. Gilchrest said with a wink. “Stella, did you find a new cookbook somewhere?”

“No, just a new friend,” Stella told the senior citizen, her eyes glowing with pride while her father and her son looked on with that same pride.

“Are you gonna keep him?” Joyce Gilchrest asked, her hazel eyes full of curiosity as she gave Adam the once-over.

Stella laughed and tossed her incredible hair. “I’m sure gonna give him that room he came looking for, you can count on that. Adam has to be exhausted after whipping up this great breakfast so lickety-split.”

Joyce smiled over at Adam. “We’ve been coming here every spring for the last ten years. We miss Estelle, but we love Stella just about as much as we loved her mother. So we came back this year to lend her our support.”

“It’s mighty nice of you to be that loyal,” Adam said.

“We love it here,” Joyce replied. “I think you will, too. Don’t you think so, Wally?”

Wally Clark gave Adam a long appraising look that was part gratitude and part protectiveness. Stella’s father was a quiet man, unassuming and undemanding, but Adam sensed a steel-encased dignity behind the calm, stoic exterior.

“Hot Springs—you either love it or hate it,” Wally replied, his smile serene.

“I liked those muffins,” Kyle offered up, his big eyes solemn. “But not the burned ones.”

“Kylie, finish your breakfast,” Stella said, turning red in the face. But she sent her son a sweet smile, all the same.

The honeymooners sitting across the dining room cooed and grinned, obviously too in love to expect anyone else to have problems in this life. “It was good,” the pretty blonde said, smiling over at her doting husband. “But then, I can hardly remember any of the meals anyway. We’re having so much fun.”

“I sure remember ’em,” Mr. Gilchrest replied with a grimace. “Had indigestion to remind me.” He chuckled then nodded toward Stella. “But I have very high hopes for our Stella. She’s gonna turn this place into a showcase one day.”

Adam watched as Stella basked in the compliments. “This place has a lot of potential,” he said, sending her his own smile of confidence. “And so does the hostess.”

Stella waved a hand in the air in dismissal. “Okay, now, don’t go giving me a big head. I still got a lot to learn. And the first rule—hire good help.”

“Amen,” Mr. Gilchrest said, lifting his coffee cup.

They all laughed out loud at that, including Adam.

Now that everyone had been fed, and the guests had headed out to the festival, Stella bobbed her head in response to Adam’s question, her long hair cascading over her shoulder. “Papa’s putting fresh sheets on the downstairs bedroom right across from the parlor. It’s a smaller room near our private quarters, but it’s usually nice and quiet toward the front of the house. And we have a creditable library down there, too, if you like to read.”

Adam lifted his head. “And far enough away from the stove?” At her confused look, he added, “Smoke.”

“Funny.” Then she looked down at the now-polished and shining butcher-block counter. “I want to thank you, Adam. I don’t know what I would have done this morning if you hadn’t come along. I’m good at multitasking, so I usually have things under control, but I might have taken on too much with this place. I’m not normally so emotional, but well…it just all hit me at once this morning. A lot has gone wrong around here since I took over. But I’m determined to make it work.”

Adam could see that although she was pretty and petite, Stella Forsythe seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on her tiny shoulders. “You’re in a tough spot,” he said. “We just have to figure how to get you out of it.”

“If I knew what I was doing, that might help,” she said with a self-deprecating snort. “My mother left me this place, and at first, I saw it as a new beginning. I’d been living hand to mouth up in Little Rock, working odds jobs here and there just to keep Kyle fed and clothed.” She shrugged, started gathering up dish towels. “My mother and I weren’t exactly close. She left us when I was young and I never forgave her. So I was shocked when I found out I’d inherited this old place. Shocked and amazed.”

She glanced around, her green eyes lifting toward the high ceiling of the kitchen. “I used to dream of living here with her. I got to visit her during the summer, but I wanted to live here all the time, with both my parents. My dad did the best he could, working hard to raise me, sending me to school, cooking dinner for us at night, helping me with my homework. But…I guess I needed my mama, too. That’s why I was crying this morning. I needed my mama.”

Adam looked down at the aged wooden floor where the slant in the boards met in the middle of the big room with a soft sag. “That had to be tough. Why didn’t you live with her? I mean, fathers rarely win custody of a child.”

Stella let out a soft chuckle, then shook her head. “My family doesn’t go by the book on such things. They never divorced, never consulted any lawyers. They just kind of agreed that I’d stay with Daddy. You see, he was the more solid of the two.” She started walking toward the little laundry room just off the kitchen. “My mother’s only passion was her art. She could paint a pretty picture, but she didn’t have a pretty life.”

Adam didn’t question her anymore. She looked drained, washed out, defeated. “Uh…I guess I’ll go get a shower and some sleep.” At her nod, he stopped. “Stella, maybe we could negotiate an arrangement of sorts.”

She lifted her slanted brows. “What kind of arrangement?”

The question was asked with a not-so-subtle suspicion, as if she’d made arrangements before and lived to regret them.

“In exchange for room and board, I could help out around here for a while. Fix things up, cook. I’m good at things like that—you know, fixing up, cleaning up and cooking.”

Adam hated the plea in his voice, but he didn’t want to leave the Sanctuary Inn just yet. Something about the needy old house had captivated him. Or maybe it was something about the need he saw in the woman standing beside him that had captivated him. Besides, he wasn’t intent on going anyplace in a hurry. He’d come here to get as far away as possible from his past and his old life. Why not stay awhile and just…rest?

Stella looked at him as if he might be crazy, her eyes going wide, her mouth opening and then closing. “You’d be willing to do all that just for a place to sleep?”

“Sure. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not destitute. But I am on a budget, being retired and all. And it’d just be until I can find…until I can decide what to do next.”

She stood with her foot propped against the partially open door to the laundry room, the bundle of towels in her hands. “I’ll have to discuss it with Papa and Kyle, but I think we might be able to work something out. I mean, if you can make meals like the one you made this morning and help me get this place back into shape, well, who am I to turn you away?”

“I can fix that oven, too,” he reminded her. “Easy.”

“Then you’ve got a job.” She named her terms. “Room and board—and a weekly salary—I insist on paying you for your time and trouble.” She told him what the last maintenance man got paid. “Is that reasonable?”

“More than reasonable. Thank you,” Adam said, no other words available. It had been a long time since anyone had just accepted him. But then, he figured Stella had just about reached the end of the road, same as he had. “I’m going to my room now. I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, later,” she said, her expression puzzled and questioning. She turned to head into the laundry room, then whirled back around. “Adam?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you here?”

Adam braced one hand on the swinging door opposite her, wondering how to answer that very loaded question. “It’s the first place I saw that had a vacancy,” he said. “Seemed like a good place to lay my head.” And before she could question him again, he turned and went through the swinging door, the swish, swish of it moving behind him, sending little currents of air chasing at his retreating back.

Stella went about the business of getting all the linens washed. This work she didn’t mind so much. This work had meaning. Washing away the old, bringing out the fresh and clean. She liked to fold the sheets and towels just out of the dryer, the smell of sunshine and tropical breezes making her put her nose to the crisp white linens.

At least her mother had had the good sense to buy nice linens. Or maybe it had been Mrs. Ebard. Mrs. Ebard and her husband had managed the Sanctuary up until the day Stella had taken over. Tired and old and cranky, the married couple couldn’t wait to leave and be done with the falling-down old house. Stella remembered Louise Ebard’s words to her the day she’d called to tell Stella that Estelle Forsythe had died.

“She just went to sleep and never woke up. Heart attack. At fifty-five. And her a little skinny thing, at that. ’Course, it might have been the smoking and drinking or the late nights out in that studio, who knows.” After much sniffing and crying, Mrs. Ebard had added, “She wanted you to have the inn, honey. Told me long ago—that’s in her will. But I have to tell you, things are bad here. It’s a bit run-down. We don’t get many visitors except the ones that have been coming here for years. Just the regulars or the occasional traveler who can’t find anything better. I still cook and Ralph works on the yard and house, but we can’t keep at this anymore. It’s just bad.”

“Really bad,” Stella said now, hearing the sound of her son’s laughter out in the back garden. Her daddy was out there with Kyle, trying to clip the wisteria back before it took over the studio. Her mother had loved wisteria. But as beautiful as the purple, scented blossoms were this time of year, Stella knew even wisteria, left untamed, eventually suffocated everything in its path. The same way her mother had filled a room and suffocated everyone and everything in it, taking over, demanding, manipulating, the sweet scent of her perfume mixed with the charcoal smell of cigarettes wafting through the air until Stella would almost choke with the pain and grief of not measuring up, of not understanding that her mother was both brilliant and a bit mad.

“Flighty.” That’s what her father had called his Estelle. Flighty and scatterbrained and tormented and talented. Not a woman made for maternal instincts, not a woman made to stay with one man. Not a woman to want her only daughter to bother her when she was working. One simple, hardworking man and one small, scared little girl, left behind, with only the scent of wisteria to comfort them.

And yet, they’d both willingly come here to the home where the woman they’d loved had lived alone amongst strangers. And died alone, all of her guests gone. Maybe they were each hoping to catch a bit of Estelle’s elusive spirit, to be near the places she’d been near, to touch the things she’d touched.

Stella hoped her father tamed that wisteria vine, once and for all. And she had to wonder for the hundredth time why she’d even bothered coming here. Did she want to be reminded of all that her mother had given up in order to have her freedom, her art? Did she want to be here so she could remember, or had she brought her son and her father here to start over, to forget?

Daddy would tell her to put her trust in God. Daddy was a good, Christian man with a solid work ethic, but he’d had his heart broken long ago. Had that been a part of God’s grand plan for him?

Stubbornly, Stella put her nose to a white lace-trimmed pillowcase, closing her eyes to take in the freshness of it. New, clean, washed. She prayed God would one day make her feel that way. And then she thought about Adam Callahan and wondered what his story was. What was he running from, to come here to this sad old house, to ask to be able to stay here? He’d called the Sanctuary a good place to lay his head. Maybe he was right there. It certainly was a place for confused, wayward travelers. Even if some of those travelers thought they were coming home.

“Mama, why you got your nose in that pillow cover?”

Her son’s words jarred Stella out of her musings. Opening her eyes, she tried to focus. “Oh, I was just enjoying the nice smell.”

“Papa and me are thirsty. He sent me for lemonade. That store-bought stuff is pretty good. Papa said we can keep buying it, since the last time we tried to make it fresh, you poured the juice down the drain by accident.”

Stella remembered. Five crushed lemon rinds and no juice to show for it, since she’d somehow managed to pour out the juice instead of the rinds. “I kind of got things backward that day, didn’t I?”

Kyle grinned. “It’s okay. The kind we get at the store is powdery and already squeezed.”

Stella looked down at her child, her heart unfolding toward him with a maternal surge of hope and pride. She loved her son, had loved him enough to fight for him, and she couldn’t imagine leaving him, ever. His daddy had been bad to the bone, but so good-looking and persuasive, so intense, that Stella had somehow overlooked that one big flaw. Stella had married Lawrence Forsythe on an impulsive whim, tinged with a passionate need to love and be loved.

But their son, ah, their son was priceless, as perfect and pure as a fine piece of porcelain. As sturdy and strong as the timbers in this old house. He’d had to grow up too fast after his father’s death, but soon Kyle would have better. Kyle would survive and thrive, because Stella had her father here to guide him. And in spite of her own bent toward wanting to paint pretty pictures on everything from benches to teacups, Stella had to be practical and sure. She had to work to get this place back up and running. For Kyle’s sake. She wanted to be the one to take care of her son, not the other way around.

Kyle had a keen sense of responsibility. Her father called him an old soul. But Stella didn’t want him to miss out on just being a child. She’d had to grow up too quickly in order to take care of her mother at times. Kyle wouldn’t have to do that.

And that meant she certainly wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and turn him away. Adam Callahan had offered to help out. Stella, being practical in spite of her artistic side, aimed to take him up on that offer. Just as soon as she explained things to her father and her son, of course.

Adam heard laughter. Maybe he was dreaming, but the sound brought him a kind of gentle peace. The laughter floated through his subconscious mind, reminding him of lazy days spent fishing with his father and brothers out on the bayou, of time spent riding the big boat out on Lake Pontchartrain, good times. Happy times. Laughter.

He woke with a start, wondering where he was. He was hot and sweaty, his brow wet, his pulse pounding. Lifting his head, he slowly glanced around the darkened room, his gaze taking in the shiny mahogany armoire, the old-fashioned washstand with the white bowl and pitcher, the four-poster bed with the soft, fresh sheets and the rose-quilted cover. Sanctuary.

He was at the Sanctuary House Inn in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Hundred of miles away from New Orleans. A million miles away from his past. Had he come far enough?

Adam got up and took a long shower, enjoying the soft spray as he reminded himself to check the pressure later. The old claw-foot bathtub was respectable, even if it was ancient, but the shower could use a few tweaks. Maybe he’d install one of those fancy newfangled showerheads. That would certainly be a plus for guests.

He got dressed, his mind already at work as he made a mental note of all the things he’d noticed around this place that needed to be fixed. Shutters that needed to be repaired and repainted. Porch steps that needed to be straightened and steadied. Rugs cleaned, trees trimmed.

He was already out in the hallway across from the dark paneled library when it hit him that somehow in the space of about six hours and several sweet dreams, he’d made a commitment to a place he didn’t even know. And to a woman he surely didn’t even begin to understand. Not a good idea. Not good at all. What if things became all tangled, like the ivy vine growing down on the sign post? He might just have to tell Stella that he’d changed his mind, that he couldn’t stay after all.

But then, Adam came down the steps leading to the back gardens and stopped, his heart slamming against his chest, his breath halting in his lungs as he watched the scene playing out before him.

Mr. Clark sat in an old rusty wrought iron lawn chair, gently rocking it back and forth, while Stella and Kyle laughed and moved around in the un-mowed wildflower clusters at the back end of the long, wide yard. They were playing ring-around-the-rosy. The afternoon sun surged around them like a halo, all bright and white and piercing. Kyle looked up, giggling, as his mother held his hands, skipping in a circle with him, her long, bright hair falling down toward the floral skirt of her dress. Stella threw her head back, laughing, teasing, while Kyle squealed with delight as they swirled faster and faster in the red clovers and tiny wild onion flowers, daffodils and black-eyed Susans frolicking in the wind right in step with them.

Adam held on to the porch rail, his eyes tightening against the too-bright swell of emotions filling his insides. Once long ago, he’d dreamed of just such a picture in his own life. But his job had eaten away at any intimacy, any type of happiness he might have found. He’d loved and left a lot of women, or more likely, they’d loved him and he’d left them. The job had always taken what little soul he had to give. And in the end, the job had taken all of him, all of his strength, all of his energy, all of his dreams. Adam had been too involved in real life to have any dreams in his own life.

But standing here now, watching the sweetness of a simple spring afternoon, hearing the drone of bumblebees on the rosebushes and the fussing and chirping of mockingbirds up in the big old live oak just beyond the house, and seeing this woman and her child playing with joy and abandon in the flower-filled yard of an old house that seemed to sigh in its contentment, Adam thought again about his dreams. And his torments. And he wished he could play with them, wished he could laugh out loud again.

But he couldn’t move. So he just stood there, watching, observing, with all of his cop instincts on full-throttle warning, while his heart sent out a warning of its own. Turn away, it told him inside each erratic beat. Don’t dream. It hurts too much. But he couldn’t turn away. He just couldn’t. The image of Stella and Kyle laughing and playing would stay with him for a very long time to come, like a faded picture held just out of his reach, a sweet reminder of all that was good and great in life. A reminder of all that he would never have.

Then Stella stopped skipping and fell down into the wildflowers, giggling as Kyle fell with her. She lifted her head, taking a breath, and saw Adam standing there. Her eyes held his, a soft surprised smile on her pink lips.

And she called out to him. “Adam, come and join us.”

Adam Callahan closed his eyes, images of death and crime, of drugs and killers and abuse and anger, moving through his tired, jaded brain to remind him that he’d dropped out of life. He’d once been a good cop. But then, he’d done something to change all of that. It didn’t matter that he was only trying to save a family member, it was still wrong. So wrong that Adam hadn’t used good judgment. Now he was paying for that with this self-imposed exile.

“Adam?”

Stella’s soft, melodious call seemed to push away all the dark-edged ugliness he’d seen in his head. Adam opened his eyes, smiled at her, then slowly starting walking through the overgrown garden toward the source of all that laughter and sunshine.

Chapter Three

The next day, Adam stood on a ladder on the side of the house, working on putting a decrepit shutter back in place. His goal for today was to get all the shutters cleaned, repaired and lined up straight, so he could decide how to paint the old house. He’d have to take them all down to really clean and paint them, but for now just setting them straight would have to do. He’d do some scraping and cleaning, and some sandblasting before he could actually worry about a new paint job. That and the fact that Stella didn’t have a whole lot of money for paint, meant Adam might be here a little longer than he’d originally planned.

But then, he reminded himself as green paint flecks showered his head, he hadn’t really had an original plan.

He’d just wanted to keep moving, until he’d arrived here. And now, the lovely owner of this inn and her family had talked it over and had all agreed to let Adam stay here for a while. He couldn’t say no to that kind of appreciation, that kind of tight-knit acceptance.

As if reading his thoughts, Kyle appeared next to the camellia bush near the window. “I sure am glad we voted to keep you, Mr. Adam.”

Adam grinned down at the energetic little boy. “Me, too, Kyle. It’s nice to have something to occupy my time while I’m here.”

Kyle bobbed his head, ran a dirty hand across his nose. “Mama said you needed a place to sleep, and I can be your friend.”

“I did need a place to sleep, and I sure could use a friend,” Adam replied, careful to keep his tone even and unassuming. This little boy and his pretty mama were a bit too astute. Adam had come on this trek seeking seclusion and time to relax and get his head straight. If he got too involved with Kyle and Stella, he might not reach any of those goals. But his couple of days here so far had been relaxing, in spite of the work that running a bed-and-breakfast demanded. And he liked that right now. He liked staying busy in a mindless sort of way that didn’t require guns and handcuffs or criminals and lost souls. “So you think I need a friend, huh?”

“Yep. My mama said she reckoned you were hurting real bad.” He shrugged. “What’d cha do, scrape your knee or something like that?”

Adam lowered his head to stare down at the cute little boy, wishing he still had such an innocent, wise heart. “Yeah, something like that.”

Kyle jumped as the door to the back porch slammed. Stella came down the stairs, her long blue-and-white paisley skirt swirling around her legs. “Kyle Watson Forsythe, are you talking this man’s poor head off again?”

Kyle squinted, then gave Adam a hard stare. “He’s still got his head, silly.”

“I’ll silly you if you don’t get inside and eat your peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” Stella retorted, her green eyes full of mirth. “C’mon now.”

“Are we going to the festival later, like you promised?” Kyle asked, dragging his sneakered feet until she replied.

“Yes, but only if you pick up your toys and help Papa empty the trash.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kyle started for the door, then turned, his hands on his hips. “Hey, Mr. Adam, you coming to the festival with us?”

Adam shot a glance toward Stella, to see how she might react to this gracious invitation. She looked embarrassed, confused and unsure. But she gave him a quick little smile. “You’re welcome to come.”

He doubted that, but he played along. “Are you sure?”

“We’re as sure as corn shucks,” Kyle replied, bobbing his head.

“Get inside,” Stella said, pointing a finger toward the kitchen. “Now.”

Adam shook his head, then grinned as the back door slammed. “He’s a pistol.”

“Tell me.” Stella plopped down on the steps to stare up at him. “He was born an old soul, according to my daddy. Much too wise for his young years.” She surveyed his work for a minute. “How’s it coming with the windows and shutters?”

Adam let out a mock groan. “Well, considering there are about twenty-six shutters on this house, I’d say it’s coming along very slowly. Should take a few days, at least, to do it right.”

“So you might just need a break later this afternoon?”

Adam eyed his progress so far. He’d managed to get about six shutters cleaned off, scraped and hinged back into place and the day was already half-done. “I just might at that.”

Stella got up, tossed her long ponytail over her shoulder. “Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day. You don’t have to do everything at once.”

Adam finished his work, then came down the rickety ladder to face her. “I’ve got it all worked out. Shutters and windows cleaned and fixed first. Then scraping and sanding these old boards for some primer. Then a whole new paint job—”

Stella held up a hand. “You’re talking a lot of money.”

“I know. But I can find discount paint on the Internet.”

“You can?”

“Sure. And speaking of that, do you have a Web site? You need one, you know, to attract customers.”

Stella backed up, stared at him. “You sure move fast.”

Adam thought he’d been standing still long enough. Or at least it felt that way now that he had something to focus on. The house, he reminded himself, not the woman. “Just trying to get things lined up. I mean, if you still want me to stay and help you out.”

“Oh, I’d like that, but I don’t have the money for a major renovation. I’ll just be happy that all the shutters are stable and secure again.”

He nodded, then looked down at his work boots. “When I get my mind set on a thing, I can be a steamroller at times.”

She looked skeptical and full of wonder, as if she wished she could figure him out. “Really now?”

He grinned at the teasing light in her eyes. “Okay, I can be a real pain at times. But that’s just my nature. I like to stay busy and I like things in order.”

Stella put a hand in the air. “We might be in trouble then. I’m slow and steady and I used to be efficient and organized. But I’m still learning this business.” Then she looked out toward the wisteria wrapping around the garage. “Of course, that’s why you found me burning muffins the other day. I got so overwhelmed, I let things slide. Maybe I do need to be more organized, considering this place is my only livelihood now. Starting with a Web site. But one thing at a time, Callahan, okay?”

Adam took that declaration in stride. “I understand. In other words, I don’t need to be rushing you, right?”

She shrugged, glanced down at the wilted petunias by the back steps. “No, no. Somebody sure needs to set me on the right path. I know it looks bad around here, but I have every intention of getting this place back up and running. Somehow, my mother managed to make a living between the inn and her art. Of course, she did have good help.” Then she sank back down on the steps. “I’m just not quite sure how I’m gonna do that. I like all of your ideas, but I need to think them through. Make the right choices.”

“Do you have any guests booked after the festival is over?” Adam asked as he sat down beside her, then started yanking weeds away from the steps. The two loyal couples who’d stayed to endure Stella’s cooking would be checking out tomorrow.

“For the summer, you mean?”

He nodded. “That would be good, yes.”

“Nobody next week.” She looked out toward the big studio, her expression wistful. “We have a few reservations over the next few weeks. There’s always some kind of festival going on downtown.”

“Not quite as bad as I thought.”

“I told you, I’m trying.”

“I can see that. So let me help.”

“What’s in it for you?” she said, tossing her hair again, a spark of doubt flickering through her eyes. “You seem almost too good to be true. There’s got to be a catch.”

Adam let out a sigh. “No catch, and I’m not all that good. I told you, I just needed a place to—”

“To hide?” She gave him a green-eyed stare, her smile bittersweet. “You’re hiding out, right?”

Adam shook his head, deciding he’d better just level with her. “No, not exactly. Look, I worked for the New Orleans Police Department for a long time. I’ve seen things, you know. Bad things. Things that make a man question his sanity and his faith. I had to walk away.”

“Do you still have faith?”

Because the question seemed so important to her, Adam knew the answer would be, too. “I have faith, yeah. I come from a good, solid family. My daddy taught all of us to never give up on God, no matter what.”

“But your job made you doubt Him?”

“Him and everything else in life.”

She braced her elbows on her knees, put her head in her hands, then looked out toward the wisteria vines again, her smile disappearing as fast as a dandelion’s floating whiskers. “Well, take it from me, you can run but you can’t hide—from your doubts, I mean. I doubt myself and God on a daily basis. But seems to me, things just keep on coming. Right now, I’m not on very good speaking terms with the Big Man.”

“How do you keep going then?”

She smiled again, the lifting of her lips a sweet symbol of something Adam couldn’t understand. “Kyle keeps me going. I have to remember Kyle. And my daddy. I love them both so much. And they’ve both been hurt and abandoned. I have to keep the faith for their sakes, at least.” She shrugged. “In case you haven’t noticed, my son tries very hard to be the mature one around here. He needs to be a kid again, before it’s too late.”

Adam looked over at her then, taking in the deep shimmer of her hair, the defiant tilt of her chin. He wondered about her hurts, her scars and her own lost childhood. “And what about for your sake?”

She turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide with bewilderment. “I guess I’m hoping some of their luster will rub off on me. You know, faith by association. I don’t always practice what my daddy tries to preach, but it does sink in. And it sure couldn’t hurt Kyle, right?”

He laughed. “Right. Couldn’t hurt.” Then he turned serious. “If you feel uncomfortable about me being here—”

“It’s not that. It’s just…I’ve never known a man other than my daddy who was as good as his word. Certainly not my dearly departed husband. And certainly not any of the many men my mother knew—according to rumors I’d hear from her staff now and then, at least. I guess it’s not easy for me to take you at your word. And I can’t take God at His word, either. I have to see something to believe it.”

Adam could understand that notion. But he wanted her to understand him, to understand that he didn’t know how to operate, except by the principles and standards he’d learned as a child. “My word is all I’ve got right now. And you have to believe me when I say that being here right now is the best thing for me. It’s like therapy, only way less expensive.”

“After New Orleans?”

“Yes, after New Orleans.”

She gave him one of those long, big-eyed stares again, but didn’t press him for the details. “We do tend to take things in stride here. We’re a lot more relaxed than the big city. We’re as laid back as New Orleans, but in a different way.”

“I like that.” And he liked the way her vanilla-scented shampoo smelled, too, he reasoned even as he tried to resist it.

“So you won’t push too hard on getting things in order around here? You’ll let me settle into this arrangement?”

“Yes, ma’am. But only if you’re willing to let me help you get things up to speed—whatever that speed might be.”

She got up, brushed off the back of her skirt. “Okay then. Since I’m the boss, I say it’s lunchtime. C’mon in and let me feed you for your troubles.”

“That sounds good, except…who cooked lunch?”

She slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s just sandwiches and chips. Even I can’t mess that up.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Now about dinner—”

“Maybe we can grab a bite down at the festival.”

“Good idea, since I don’t have to provide dinner for our guests.” She turned at the door, smiling down at him. “Hurry up. Your sandwich might get stale.”

Adam started gathering his tools. “I reckon I am hungry, at that.” Putting everything in a neat pile by the back door, he said, “Hey, tomorrow I thought I could cook a roast for Sunday dinner. You know, after church.”

Stella whirled just inside the open kitchen door. “Who said anything about church?”

Holding a hammer in his hand, Adam replied, “Well, I just thought…I mean…I plan on finding a church nearby.”

“Good for you.”

“You won’t come with me, and bring the boy?”

She looked down at her turquoise sandals. “I told you, I only get sprinklings of faith from my daddy, and right now that has to be enough. I don’t have time for church.”

“Oh, I see. Then can Kyle come with me?”

She shook her head. “You’re rushing things again, Adam. I don’t want him expecting too much, too soon, from someone who’s just here for a little while.”

With that, she was gone, leaving the scent of something sultry and sweet in her wake. And leaving very little doubt in Adam’s mind that he didn’t want to get on Stella’s bad side. But he sure wouldn’t mind getting on her good side. And soon. And it might help both of them if they learned to lean on their own faith, instead of grasping at grains of it from other people.

“I wish Papa had come with us,” Kyle said later that afternoon as they strolled down the hill toward the festival on Central Avenue. The Hill Wheatley Park and Plaza was filled with people enjoying the nice spring weather and the rows and rows of all types of arts and crafts. From somewhere inside the park, a jazz ensemble’s lively music wafted out over the trees.

Stella glanced down at her son. “Papa’s knees are bad, honey. It’s hard for him to walk very far.”

“He needs new knees,” Kyle said, looking up at Adam.

“Yes, he sure does,” Stella agreed. “But Papa is fine back at the house. He’s taking a nice long nap, and later he’s going to set out the cookies and muffins Adam baked yesterday for our guests to snack on when they get ready for bed. So we’ll bring him back a grilled chicken sandwich for dinner.”

“Okay.” Kyle skipped ahead. “Can I have some cotton candy?”

“Maybe after dinner, if you’re not too full. And don’t run too far ahead. It’s crowded.”

Stella watched her son, then stole a look over at Adam. He had showered and now wore a fresh black T-shirt and faded jeans, his dark hair spiky and crisp against his olive skin. Stella could smell the clean evergreen from the soap he’d used. Adam cut a striking figure and turned a few female heads, Stella noticed. He turned her head just a tad, too. After all, she was only human. And female. Not dead.

At least, she felt little sparks of life shooting through her with tiny jolts each time she glanced at him. Or each time he looked at her. Telling herself to just ignore all that, Stella tried to focus on some of the paintings displayed along the busy sidewalks.

“Thanks for coming,” she told him. “It’s hard enough to keep up with Kyle when it’s not wall-to-wall people. I appreciate the extra set of eyes.”

Adam scanned the crowd, his gaze set and determined, and reminding Stella that he had been a big-city cop. She could almost see that in the way he went on full alert now, scoping the plaza and streets with a keen, but subtle appraisal.

“You don’t have to worry much about crime here,” she said, hoping he would relax. The man was as intense as a drill sergeant.

“Old habits die hard,” he said, shrugging. “A lot can happen in the blink of an eye.”

Stella kept her eyes on Kyle, then called to him. “Honey, stay close, okay?”

Kyle came running back. “I’m hungry.”

“We’ll eat soon enough,” Stella replied as they strolled by the Buckstaff Bathhouse. Pointing toward Bathhouse Row, she told Adam, “I could sure use a good hot mineral bath and a massage. One day.”

“That sounds nice,” Adam said, agreeing. “I’ve never been one for that kind of luxury, though.”

“Oh, me, either. But a lot of people come here to be pampered. And they say the natural hot springwater is good for the soul.”

“All the more reason to give them a good place to stay.”

“You don’t let up, do you?”

“Not much.”

His look told her he wasn’t just talking about remodeling her house. Telling herself to keep her eyes in her head, Stella went over the list of reasons she shouldn’t be attracted to this man. He was a stranger; a wanderer fresh off some sort of meltdown, she imagined. He might be in crisis mode. And she’d had enough of crisis mode with her mother and her husband. Now she only wanted a nice quiet life, full of steady, solid work and raising her son. She wanted to take care of her daddy and Kyle. That’s all she asked.

And that meant she didn’t need to fill her head with images of a dark-haired, hardworking man whose gray eyes spoke of misery and torment. But you can at least be nice to him. The man is trying to help you. And he can cook, remember? Even if you’re not sure you can trust his motives.

Stella shifted her gaze back toward Adam. He kept glancing around, taking it all in. The art was colorful, the crafts interesting and eclectic, the music going from jazz to gospel to high-school bands doing their routines. But Adam seemed as tense as ever, almost as if being in this crowd was making him more uptight than relaxed.

“You okay?” she asked, worrying when she had no business worrying.

Adam nodded, kept looking around.

“Nice,” he finally said as they came upon some still-life pictures depicting Hot Springs Mountain, while the real thing stood sentinel just behind the park. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any hills.”

The park was part of the Ouachita Mountain range on the eastern side of the state. Stella looked up at the trees and rocks. “I guess I just take it for granted. But you’re right. It is nice, especially with spring bursting out everywhere.”

“We can climb to the top if you wanna,” Kyle suggested, eager to take off.

“Hold on,” Stella said, grabbing her son by the arm. “It’ll be dusk soon. No mountain climbing tonight.”

“Oh, all right.” Kyle twisted. “Then what can we do?”

Adam leaned down. “How ’bout we go in that shop over there and look at the toys. Maybe we can find you a coloring book or a miniature race car for your collection.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Why, sure.” Then Adam looked at Stella. “I mean, if it’s okay by your mom.”

Stella bristled at Adam’s ready generosity, but told herself to cut the man some slack. He seemed to need to be generous. He actually seemed to care. Which was refreshing if not disturbing. “I guess one racer wouldn’t hurt. Just one more for me to step on, but who’s counting?”

“I only need three more,” Kyle said, holding up three fingers. “Then I’ll have the whole co-wet-sion.”

“It’s collection,” Stella corrected, grinning.

“Well, then, we’d better get started,” Adam said, his stern expression breaking into a smile.

Stella had no choice but to hurry and follow her son and the new man in her life across the street.

The new handyman, she revised. He’s not in my life, he’s just here. He just appeared here. Out of the blue, she reminded herself. Like a gift from heaven. Either a gift or a very big mistake. Stella wasn’t sure which just yet. But she was sure of one thing. Adam Callahan looked dangerous, and not just because he carried the baggage of a burned-out cop. More like, because he was so good-looking and so intense. Just like her dead husband had once been. Good-looking and intense made for a whole slew of heartaches. And Stella would not make that mistake again, no matter how impressed she was with Adam Callahan’s muffins.

Chapter Four

Adam couldn’t believe how much fun he was having. He actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed and smiled so many times in one day. Stella’s smile could do that to a man. She wasn’t pretty in the cover-girl kind of way. She was exotic and whimsical in her long flowing skirt and pretty lace blouse, with her red-blond hair cascading around her shoulders and down her back like a golden waterfall. That made her much more interesting than any cover model. And she was sure different from all the brash, fast-paced women he’d tried to date back in New Orleans. But this woman’s attitude was as fickle as a prevailing wind. Stella fit the stereotype of a provincial country woman, but at times she broke the mold and shattered all his preconceived notions. Which made her so interesting, Adam couldn’t resist just being around her.

They’d walked along the streets of the historic district located on Central Avenue. Adam appreciated the towering live oaks and the turn-of-the-century homes and buildings. “This place is pretty,” he said as they strolled on past Bathhouse Row. “Even though it’s old and historic, there seems to be a good energy going on.”

“Hot Springs is a very eclectic place, that’s for sure. A mixture of laid-back artists and hardworking everyday people.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Kyle held his mother’s hand and pointed to things that interested him. Finally, they went into a popular diner to order burgers and fries. Adam had a piece of pie, too.

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