“If my mother has something wrong with her heart, I need to know—whether she likes it or not,” Ian said.

“Worried?”

Sure he was worried. Worse than worried. “Mom has been my rock for a long time. Now I have to be hers.”

With the whisper-touch of her fingers, Gretchen stopped Ian’s nervous jiggling of his straw. “Would you like some company?”

Ian studied her sincere expression, a dozen conflicting emotions going off in his head. “Are you offering?”

“I am.”

He knew he should refuse, but he wanted her company. “I’d like that.”

Boy, was he in trouble. The woman had him in a tangle. He wanted to know her better.

And he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

LINDA GOODNIGHT

A romantic at heart, Linda Goodnight believes in the traditional values of family and home. Writing books enables her to share her certainty that, with faith and perseverance, love can last forever and happy endings really are possible.

A native of Oklahoma, Linda lives in the country with her husband, Gene, and Mugsy, an adorably obnoxious rat terrier. She and Gene have a blended family of six grown children. An elementary school teacher, she is also a licensed nurse. When time permits, Linda loves to read, watch football and rodeo, and indulge in chocolate. She also enjoys taking long, calorie-burning walks in the nearby woods. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

A Touch of Grace

Linda Goodnight

Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen?…Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter? When you see the naked to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?…Then you will call and the Lord will answer, you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.

—Isaiah 58:6–7, 9

This book is dedicated to adoptive parents everywhere. You are God’s word in action.

Contents

Prologue

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

Prologue

Ian couldn’t stop shaking. He’d done something bad. Real bad. And now they were all in trouble.

Collin always said you shouldn’t tell nobody nothing. But he and his brothers had been cold. That’s why Drew made the fire, but Ian’s prekindergarten teacher didn’t understand. Her eyes got all watery and she took him to the school counselor. Ian hadn’t said nothing to Mr. James. He’d been too scared. But Ms. Smith told everything. Even stuff Ian didn’t say. Stuff about hi-jean and neglect and other words he didn’t know.

Now all three brothers were in the office. Him and Drew and Collin.

He looked across the cluttered room to where Collin stood with fists tight at his side. He hoped Collin wasn’t mad at him for telling.

Collin was ten, the big brother. He took care of Ian and Drew. Collin was brave. He didn’t even get scared when it thundered and rain slithered through the cracks of the trailer like wet snakes. He didn’t get scared neither when the cops came. He told them Mama was at the store and would be right back. But that wasn’t true. Sometimes Mama didn’t come back for days and days.

Drew leaped up from the plastic chair and charged for the door. “Leave me alone!”

Ian jumped at the sudden outburst.

“I’m not going this time. You can’t make me.”

Ian’s belly started to hurt. He sneaked a glance at Collin. Collin didn’t like it when Drew freaked out. That’s what Collin called it. Freakin’ out. Drew was mad, kicking and spitting and screaming. Bad stuff happened when Drew freaked out.

Sure enough, Mr. James grabbed his brother and pushed him into a chair. Mr. James was nice, but he was strong. With big muscles. And Drew was only seven.

“Settle down. Right now,” Mr. James said. “We’re trying to help.”

Drew struggled, growling like a mean tomcat. His too-long brown hair flopped wildly. He spit at Mr. James and said a bad word. Now he’d be in worse trouble. Drew never knew when to stop.

Ian couldn’t help it then. He started to cry. He clamped his lips tight and tried to stop, but he couldn’t. The sound stuck inside him, like peanut butter swallowed too fast. His chest hurt. He didn’t want the counselor to be mad at him, too. He didn’t want anyone to be mad. But he was scared and the tears pushed hard at the backs of his eyes.

His legs shook so much his hand-me-down tennis shoes nearly fell off.

He looked at Collin, afraid to talk for fear he’d say the wrong thing again. He needed to go the bathroom but wasn’t about to ask. What if the social worker took him away this time, and he never got to see Drew and Collin again? Mama said that would happen if they went around shooting off at the mouth.

He shouldn’t have told.

The tears ran through his nose and into the corners of his lips. He swiped at his face with the buttonless sleeve of his flannel shirt. This was all his fault.

Then Collin came over and put a hand on his head. Not a mad hand. A gentle, don’t-cry, hand. A quivery sigh ran through Ian. Collin would take care of him. He always did.

The social worker lady came over, too, and squatted down in front of his chair. She had nice eyes. And her voice was soft like Ms. Smith’s. But Collin didn’t like her. Ian could tell. Collin’s face was hard and mad, kind of scary.

“Don’t cry, Ian. I know you’re upset,” the lady said. “But you’re going to a real nice place that’s warm and has plenty to eat.”

Ian sniffed and looked at the woman. She smelled so nice. Much better than Mama. But he loved Mama. He wished she’d come home.

The social worker tapped the end of his shoe. The old stringless thing slipped off his heel. “We’ll get you some new tennis shoes, too. Ones that fit.”

Ian sucked in a hiccup. Shoes that fit. He’d like that. These were cold. The bottoms had holes and the inside was torn out. Sometimes they made sore places.

He wondered if he’d get some socks, too. White ones that came high up his leg and didn’t fall down when he walked.

He hoped they went back to the same foster house again. The lady there was soft and smiley and let him eat all the food he wanted. He didn’t know why Collin and Drew didn’t like foster houses.

“Collin.” The social worker looked up at his big brother. “You’re old enough to understand that this is for the best. You boys can’t continue living alone in that old trailer. Now, why don’t you help us get the little ones into the car?”

Collin didn’t even look at her. He stared at the wall like a superhero trying to look through to the other side.

Mr. James did a funny thing then. Keeping one hand on Drew’s shoulder, he got down on his knees in front of the chair and talked about baseball and God.

He said, “Boys, sometimes life throws a curveball. But remember, no matter what happens today or forever, Jesus will always be with you, watching over you.”

Collin must be a lot like Jesus. He always watched over Drew and Ian when Mama was gone. Well, even when Mama was home.

Then Mr. James bowed his head and started whispering. A prayer, Ian thought. The room got real quiet. Even Drew quit fighting.

When the prayer ended, Mr. James handed them each a little key chain with a metal fish on it. Collin wouldn’t take his.

“This is a gift from me to you, not as your counselor, but as a friend who cares.” He stared up at the social worker as if daring her to argue. She looked at the door and didn’t say a thing. “You don’t have to take it, Collin, but I hope you will. It’s a reminder that God will always care for you no matter where you go or what you do. He’ll never leave you. Never.”

Ian liked the sound of that. Jesus must be real nice.

Even though he stood stiff as a statue, Collin let Mr. James put the key chain in his hand. He wanted it. He was just too mad to say so. Then his voice scraped the air like rusty metal. “Where we going this time?”

The social worker lady stood up and moved toward him like she might touch him. Collin backed away.

“We’ve found placements for Drew and Ian.”

Ian’s heart slammed against his rib cage. What about Collin? He didn’t go anywhere without Collin.

“Together?” Collin asked.

“Not this time. I’m sorry.”

What was she saying? That he and his brothers wouldn’t be together? That he would be all by himself with a bunch of strange people? His legs started jerking again.

“They stay with me,” Collin said, but this time he sounded uncertain, as if maybe something bad was about to happen and he couldn’t fix it. “Ian gets scared at night.”

The lady touched Collin’s arm and her voice went soft and sweet. “He’ll be fine. They both will be. And so will you. Now, come on. We need to go.”

Turning, she held out her hand to Ian and smiled. He looked at Collin, saw the truth in his big brother’s eyes. This time Mama was right. Collin and Drew would go away and leave him. He would never see his brothers again. All because of his big fat mouth.

Chapter One

Twenty-three years later, New Orleans

“Dead!”

Head still foggy from a nightmarish sleep, Ian Carpenter pushed up on one elbow. He tried to shake himself awake enough to think straight. Someone had discovered a dead girl on the grounds of Isaiah House.

Heart jump-started by the horror of such a thing, he squinted one eye at the red digital alarm clock. Six-fifteen. After combing the streets of the French Quarter most of the night, he’d been in bed less than three hours. Whatever happened had gone down in that brief time.

Sometimes the futility of what he did was overwhelming.

Through a throat filled with gravel, he said, “I’ll be right down.”

In five minutes flat, he had showered and dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt. He shoved on the new pair of Nike Shox he’d purchased yesterday, finding little joy in them now, and tiptoed down the squeaky wooden stairs of the old three-story mission house. Soon enough, the ten in-house residents would begin the day and he would be expected in the chapel with a word or to play the saxophone.

Ian both loved and hated his calling. He loved the people. He loved ministering and counseling. And he especially loved when someone’s life was turned around by the power of God’s love. But he hated times like these when the dark side won.

In the predawn September morning, he opened the back door out into the courtyard, a beautiful, lush green sanctuary where he often prayed and sought answers to the myriad problems of Isaiah House, the mission he’d started three years ago on faith and a few hundred dollars.

God had called him to this place of beauty and debauchery before Hurricane Katrina. Since the disaster, his work had more than tripled. Originally a small haven for runaways, Isaiah House now did whatever it could for any and everyone. True to the scripture that served as its cornerstone, the mission was a hand extended to whoever needed it. Sometimes that hand was stretched pretty thin.

This morning his courtyard sanctuary was hushed, the willows weeping condensation onto the cobblestone walkway as if mourning what lay just outside the mission walls. Beyond the dripping-wet elephant ears and lemon-scented magnolias, yellow police tape vibrated in the twilight stillness.

The stark contrast wasn’t lost on Ian. He’d worked the streets and slums of various cities all over the country since junior high school when Mom and Dad signed him up for summer missions’ work. Now, at twenty-eight, he’d come to understand all too well that beauty and tragedy coexisted everywhere. Sometimes he felt overwhelmed by his need to make a difference and the utter numbers of despairing mankind.

Ian leaned for a second against the rough bark of a moss-draped oak and squeezed his sleep-gritty eyes shut against the covered body lying on the ground.

Somebody had lost a loved one.

He hadn’t even heard the sirens. No surprise. They went on all night in this part of New Orleans. Sirens and reveling. And the desperate meanderings of runaways and drug addicts.

“Grace for today, Father,” he said simply. “To do Your work.”

And as always peace descended. He pushed off the giant oak, opened the lacy black iron gate and walked toward the buzzing hive of police activity inside the yellow tape.

“You the reverend?” an ebony-faced policeman, dressed in city blues, asked.

“Yes, I’m Ian Carpenter.” He had never been comfortable with the formalities of his profession. He was a street missionary, plain and simple. As his mama liked to say, “There but for the grace of God go you or I.” He was no better or more holy than anyone else. Reverend might fit some, but not him.

“What happened?”

“Looks like an overdose.” Even in the early morning, with the sun only peeking above the horizon, sweat beaded the officer’s forehead. Death was hard work for anyone. “You think she was comin’ to your place?”

“Possibly.”

“You mind having a look, see if you know her?”

Ian glanced toward the plastic-draped body. Unfortunately, in his line of work, this wouldn’t be a first. If she was a local, chances were pretty good that he’d at least seen her before. The street people were his love and his life. He made it a point to know them.

“Okay.” Though he dreaded what was to come, he fell in step with the officer and walked the few yards to the body.

With a respect Ian appreciated, the cop gently pulled the plastic away from a young woman’s deathly white face. Ian’s heart fell to his knees. A weight as heavy as the humidity over Lake Pontchartrain pressed against his lungs.

Maddy. Lost forever. So close to the help here in the mission that he and God longed to offer. Yet, she hadn’t made it.

Another failure for Ian.

He rubbed the back of his neck and blew out a weary sigh. He’d had the dream again last night. The nightmare where he was trapped in a dark place, filthy and cold and scared. For once, he hadn’t minded the phone yanking him from his bed. Not until he’d discovered the reason.

“Her name is Maddy,” he said quietly. “She stayed here for a couple of weeks.”

And for a while Ian had hoped she would heal. But no matter how much he’d prayed and counseled, one day she’d walked out, back to the addiction that had finally stolen her life. She’d once been beautiful, a curse on the streets, but a way to pay for the drugs. So young. And her big green eyes were always filled with confusion.

The officer jotted the information onto a tiny spiral notebook, then squinted up at him. “You know her last name?”

“No.” Most of the time, street people didn’t share identifying information and he accepted them as they came. “But she was a sweet kid. Gentle. Kind of innocent, if that makes sense. Innocent and lost.”

“Any kin you know of? Family she might have mentioned?”

Ian shook his head, feeling worse by the minute. He’d tried to minister to Maddy’s soul, but he didn’t know much about her former life. Every time he’d asked, she’d walked away. “I’ll ask around.”

Some of Isaiah House’s other residents might have known her better than he had.

A blue Channel Eleven News van careened to a stop along the edge of the street and a petite woman jumped out.

Ian groaned inwardly.

Just what he didn’t need this morning. Gretchen Barker, the Channel Eleven barracuda. An investigative reporter with a reputation as a watchdog for the public, Gretchen’s particular interest of late was religious groups. For the last year and a half she’d had her nose and camera in every New Orleans charity, making sure they toed the line.

Ian had no problem with that. He strongly believed that churches and charitable organizations should be held accountable for every donated penny. But he did have trouble with the woman’s attitude. Though he ran a squeaky-clean organization, Isaiah House had come under her scrutiny and her criticism a couple of times lately for the most mundane things.

She seemed especially interested in Ian’s finances, which was ludicrous to say the least. Every month Ian waited, partly in fear and partly in anticipation to see how God would keep Isaiah House afloat. As for his personal accounts, he wasn’t exactly stockpiling luxury cars and vacation houses. He lived in the mission and drove an old passenger van that needed an overhaul. His only indulgence was on his feet.

“We don’t need any reporters out here yet.” The officer eyed the van with similar distaste. “This poor girl may be dead but she deserves some respect.”

Ian had to agree. “I’ll go talk to them.”

By now, Barracuda Barker was standing at the yellow tape, straining toward the body on the ground as the police officer repositioned the plastic before carefully covering the victim’s face.

Before anyone could stop her, the reporter grabbed the tape and slid beneath.

“Whoa, lady.” Ian hurried toward her. The police had yet to finish their investigation and the forensic crew had only just arrived. “You can’t come past that tape.”

Face set, Gretchen Barker pushed by him. Ian caught her arm. “Did you hear me?”

The reporter’s head swiveled toward him. Beneath hair the color of gold, her face was pale. She yanked from his grip and started to run toward the still form on the ground. Ian caught her from behind, wrapping both arms around her waist. She kicked out, caught his left shin with the sharp heel of her sandal. Ian yelped, but held on. He’d never seen a reporter act so bizarre. She couldn’t want the story that badly.

He looked toward the photojournalist on the opposite side of the tape. The cameraman stood stock-still, staring at the scene, clearly shocked at the behavior of his colleague.

In that brief instant while Ian looked at the cameraman, the barracuda slammed an elbow into his lax gut. “Let me go. I need to see.”

Air whooshed out of him. He loosened his grip, but not before she whirled around and slammed the heel of her hand beneath his chin, knocking his teeth painfully together. Ian’s head popped backward. For a little woman, she packed a wallop.

What was her problem anyway? Was she so bent on getting her story that she had no respect for the dead? The idea curled Ian’s hair.

He caught her arm before she could slam him again. This time he stared fully into her face. What he saw gave him pause. Something was seriously wrong here.

Fear, not determination, dilated her pupils.

Ian relented a little. The death of someone so young was a hard thing to deal with—even for him.

Had she never reported a death scene before?

If that was her trouble, she deserved his understanding. Even though he choked a little to think of the barracuda and compassion in the same sentence, Ian tried one more time.

“Gretchen,” he said. “You know better than to break the police barrier. What’s wrong? How can I help? Haven’t you ever reported a death scene before?”

Her chest rose and fell. Her entire body trembled. Her mouth worked but nothing came out. And then, with an anguished cry that Ian would remember as long as he lived, she looked toward the body on the ground and said, “That’s my sister!”

Ian looked from the huge green eyes of the reporter to the covered body of the dead girl. Huge green eyes. They had the same eyes.

He had been breathless before, but now he couldn’t breathe at all. This strong, self-confident woman was a sister to fragile, helpless Maddy?

“Maddy. Maddy.” And then the woman he’d considered tough and hardened shattered before his eyes. She went to her knees on the thick, wet grass and sobbed brokenly. Ian followed her down, guilty for the negative thoughts he’d had about her, and gathered the shaking Gretchen to his chest.

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he muttered against silky hair that smelled as fresh as the flowers in his garden.

Gretchen Barker, the barracuda whose news reports had teeth in them, felt small and soft and helpless in his arms. A protective urge, totally out of place given who she was, suffused Ian. For a man who kept women at arm’s length to protect the integrity of the mission, having a beautiful, grief-stricken woman in his embrace was not an everyday occurrence.

If he hadn’t been so saddened by the circumstances, Ian would have seen the humor in his predicament. He didn’t even like the thorn-in-the-flesh reporter and here he was thinking how pretty she was and how good her hair smelled. He was more than exhausted. He was losing his mind.

Reining in the wayward thoughts, he gently patted her back until the racking sobs subsided. Slowly, she pulled away, leaving damp spots on his green T-shirt. Her bereft expression tore at him.

“Could I call someone for you? A friend? Your family?”

“Maddy is my family.” Her face crumpled. She pressed shaking fingertips against her lips. “Oh, Maddy.”

Wanting to help, but not certain what to expect from a woman who’d kicked him, hit him and then collapsed in tears, he slipped his arm around her narrow shoulders. For a fraction of a second, she relented and leaned against his side. Then, she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed up. The knees of her dark slacks were grass-stained and soaked with dew.

Crossing her arms as if they could shield her heart from the terrible sorrow, she said, “I have to see her.”

Ian understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood.

“I’ll ask the officer.”

Since she was next of kin, they had no problem securing permission. The police appreciated a positive ID.

Slowly, they walked toward the body. Ian had never in his life wanted so badly to comfort someone. She was shattered. She needed another human being to help her through this, but now that she’d gathered her composure and made up her mind to see her sister, she had pulled away from him, both emotionally and physically. She tolerated his presence, but not his comfort.

She knelt beside her sister’s body and waited for the policeman.

The officer’s dark, rough hand rustled the plastic. “Are you ready, ma’am?”

Shoulders stiff and resolute, she gave one curt nod.

When the still face was revealed, Gretchen didn’t react. She knelt there, staring down for the longest time. At last, when Ian wondered if perhaps there had been some mistake and this wasn’t her sister after all, she nodded.

“That’s Maddy.”

The policeman slid the cover back in place and moved quietly away, leaving them alone. Gretchen still didn’t move.

Another siren wailed in the distance. Across the street teenagers bounced a basketball while staring openly at the swarming police, trying to get a peek at the tragedy. Motors roared. Doors slammed. Voices carried on the morning air. Other news crews had arrived by now and were filming from outside the barrier.

Regardless of her occupation, Ian wanted to get Gretchen away from the reporters.

“Tell me what you need, Gretchen. What can I do?” Ian asked.

“Do?” she asked. “Do?”

She shot up from her knees, and that quick the barracuda returned. She turned on him, green eyes flashing fire. “I think you’ve done enough.”

He had no idea what she meant, but the lady was distraught.

He reached for her. “Gretchen.”

She slapped his hands away, striking out like a wounded animal. “You don’t know me.”

Ignoring the rejection, he offered his hand again, palm up. He couldn’t leave her like this. “You need to get away from here. Come on, I’ll take you inside the mission.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Take me inside and feed me soup and a pack of lies. Tell me that you have all the answers to my problems like you did for my poor druggie sister.” Her face contorted in sarcasm. “You were different, Maddy said. You could help her get her life together.” She glanced from her sister’s still form to Ian, stabbing him with accusing green eyes. “Well, you really did a good job of that, didn’t you?”

While Ian grappled to understand why he was the focus of her animosity, Gretchen Barker, the Channel Eleven barracuda, stormed across the wet grass to her van and drove away.

Chapter Two

The long, slow notes of “Amazing Grace” reverberated on the air and trembled into silence. Even in the worst of times, Ian found solace in his music and in the beautiful old saxophone his father had given him. Like the Psalmist David, he felt closer to God when he played than when he prayed.

He leaned the instrument carefully against a chair and went to answer the knock on his office door.

The bushy, gray mustache of Roger Bryant twitched at him from the doorway. “You fretting about something, son?”

Roger always knew when something was eating at him. He claimed the saxophone sounded different. Ian figured it was true enough. Through his music he was able to express the emotions that otherwise stayed locked inside.

Roger, skinny and frail with scraggly strands of gray hair slicked down with some kind of shiny oil, was one of Ian’s first success stories. At fifty-nine, his ash-gray face and broken body looked seventy, a testament to years of slavery to alcohol and self-loathing. Homeless and destitute after too many stints in county lockup, he’d asked Ian to help him get his life together. Then he’d stuck around to help run Isaiah House. For Ian, who loved the hands-on part of ministry but detested the business end, Roger had literally been an answer to prayer.

“I just got off the phone with our lawyer,” he said to his friend.

Roger, hampered by a hip badly in need of replacement, limped into the office. His basset-hound face showed little reaction to Ian’s statement. He wasn’t shaken by much. “Bad news, I guess?”

Ian tilted his head in agreement. “The lawsuit will likely go to trial.” He’d thought the whole thing a joke at first.

“Foolishness. Who would expect a Christian mission to allow pornographic magazines on-site?”

“That’s my thinking. But even if a jury agrees, it will cost us a lot of money. And the mission can’t afford that right now.” Donations were down this summer for some reason while the need increased.

“Want to know what I think?” Roger propped his bad hip against the edge of a desk littered with papers, files and orange soda cans.

“You’re going to tell me anyway.”

Roger grinned. Even then, his face looked soulful. “I think that lady politician is at the bottom of this somewhere.”

“Marian Jacobs?” Ian rubbed at the knot forming along the top of his right shoulder. The mission had plenty of naysayers who would like to see it closed, or at least, moved elsewhere. Runaways and street kids were a blight on the thriving tourist industry and any number of nearby businesses wanted them gone. Marian Jacobs happened to be one of the more influential.

“Yeah. Her. She wants to shut us down real bad.”

Last winter, the city councilwoman had enforced some ridiculous zoning ordinance that kept him from setting up cots in the chapel on the coldest nights. Before that she’d complained long and hard about the negative impact Isaiah House had on the happy-go-lucky atmosphere of the tourist district. Her post-Katrina revitalization for the city did not include street people or the ministries designed to help them.

“She doesn’t like me much, that’s for sure.” Outside his office window three bright red cardinals pecked at sunflower seeds sprinkled beneath a willow. “Your birds are about out of feed.”

Roger doted on the birds, just as he did on the equally flighty runaways who landed at Isaiah House.

“You going to Maddy’s funeral?” Leave it to Roger to cut to the chase.

With all the other worries on his mind, the last thing Ian wanted to do on a hot, humid Friday afternoon was attend a funeral.

“Sometimes being a minister stinks.” Most people would be shocked to hear him say such a thing. His mother for one. But not Roger. His placid face, lined and furrowed, never seemed shaken by anything Ian blurted out. He was about the only person Ian could share his frustrations and worries with.

Ministers were always expected to do the right thing, even when it hurt. Ian wasn’t perfect but he didn’t like to disappoint anyone, either. He worked hard to avoid that feeling. Somehow he worried about alienating the people around him.

His hand snaked into his pocket, found the familiar key chain and took it out. He’d had the thing forever, though he wasn’t even certain where it had come from. Maybe his parents had given it to him the time he’d been in the hospital with meningitis. He wasn’t sure, but he was certain that he’d been terrified then of being alone. Every time Mom and Dad had left the room, he’d thought they wouldn’t come back. So, he figured that’s when they’d given him the little fish that said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

Wherever the key chain had come from, the words never failed to comfort him.

Funny that he would think of that now.

“God called me to heal the brokenhearted, to set the captive free,” he said, paraphrasing his favorite verses from Isaiah. “Maddy was both. I didn’t do enough.”

Roger clamped a bony hand on his shoulder. “How many times have you talked about free will, Ian? Maddy made her own decisions.”

“Yeah. Bad ones.” He felt so inadequate at times like this. Wounded souls were his responsibility. That’s why he drove the streets for hours each night ministering to runaways and street kids. But nothing he did was ever enough.

“You can’t help Maddy, but she’s got a sister.”

Ian drew in a deep breath then let it go in one gust.

“I was thinking the same thing.” Barracuda or not, Gretchen Barker was hurting.

He only hoped seeing her didn’t stir up trouble. He had enough of that already.

Gretchen gazed through dark glasses at the small group assembled amidst the sun-bleached tombs and scalding heat of Carter Cemetery. Not many had gathered to pay their last respects to Madeline Michelle Barker. As hard as that was for Gretchen to handle, she understood. Maddy’s brief life hadn’t made much of a mark.

As the hired minister said the final “amen,” Gretchen swallowed back the sobs that seemed to be constantly stuck below her breastbone straining for release.

The small gathering began to scurry away, eager to escape the energy-zapping heat and humidity. Who could blame them?

Gretchen shoved her slippery sunglasses higher, saw that her fingers trembled. Sometimes she got tired of being the strong one.

The moment the thought came, she nearly buckled. Who would she be strong for now?

Less than twenty people, most of them Gretchen’s friends and coworkers, had attended the simple graveside services. Even Mom and Dad hadn’t come, citing the distance between California and Louisiana. But Gretchen knew the truth. They had long ago washed their hands of the daughter who couldn’t get her life together. And so had everyone else. Everyone but Gretchen.

Tears pushed at the back of her eyes, hot and painful. She’d cried so much these past few days, she should be dehydrated. Digging yet another clean tissue from her handbag, she dabbed at her wet cheeks.

Carlotta, her best friend and roommate, rubbed the center of her back. “You okay?”

“No,” she said honestly. Carlotta would understand. She knew the number of times Gretchen had taken Maddy into their apartment, given her money, tried to get her clean. Enabler, some people called her. And now she was terrified that they may have been right. Had her desire to protect her sister ultimately caused her death?

Her friend’s gorgeous Latina eyes darkened with compassion. “Ready to go home?”

She shook her head, felt her hair stick to the side of her neck. “I want to stay here awhile.”

When Carlotta started to argue, Gretchen said, “Go. I’m fine. I just need a little more time.”

“The service was nice, Gretchen. Maddy would have liked it.”

“Yeah.” Regardless of her ambivalence toward religion, she couldn’t let Maddy leave this life without some hope that things would be better somewhere else. Life here hadn’t been all that good for her sister.

Carlotta hovered for another minute, her concern touching. Finally, she said, “I’ll see you later, then? Maybe an hour or so?”

“Sure. Go on. I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine. She was splintered in half. Maddy had been the other part of her, and now she was gone.

Carlotta gave her one last hug and turned to leave. After two steps, she stopped, turning back. Voice lowered, she tilted her head toward the rear of the funeral tent.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a man still back there that I don’t recognize. The nice-looking guy in the blue shirt. Do we know him?”

Carlotta wouldn’t leave her alone here in the cemetery with a stranger even if the guy was movie star gorgeous.

Gretchen followed her gaze to the well-built figure, recognizing him immediately.

Ian Carpenter. The mission preacher. She should have known he’d show up.

She sucked in the scent of decaying funeral wreaths.

“I don’t want him here.”

He’d phoned her twice, though she had no idea where he’d gotten her number. Once to offer his services and the chapel for the funeral. Another time to ask if he could do anything to help her. Right. As if she would allow that.

She knew his kind. Smile kindly, talk softly, and lure the lonely and needy into a web of deceit under the guise of religion.

The sad, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was replaced by a slow-burning anger. He had no right. And anger was easier to bear than raw, scalding grief.

Carlotta gave her a funny look. “Who is he?”

“Ian Carpenter. He runs the mission where Maddy was—” The horrible image of her sister lying lifeless on the dew-drenched grass returned with a vengeance. She, who could report the most heinous crime or natural disaster with aplomb, couldn’t seem to keep her emotions in check this time. She supposed that was normal, though she hated the weakness.

Carlotta gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.

“He must feel awful that she was so close to his mission and he wasn’t able to save her.”

“I think he feels guilty.”

From behind the cover of her shades, Gretchen glared at the preacher. He stood alone beneath the green funeral home canopy, quiet and unobtrusive, one hand in the pocket of his black slacks.

If she’d been in any condition to notice such things, the preacher was easy on the eyes. She’d bet a special report scoop that he put those looks to good use for the cause of his mission.

Medium height. Medium build. Medium brown hair. Everything about him was medium, except for the eyes. They were startling, a brilliant aquamarine made even more dramatic by his blue dress shirt.

Was it those hypnotic eyes that had attracted Maddy?

“Gretchen. Come on,” Carlotta chided, her words tinged with both sympathy and exasperation. “Guilty for what? For not knowing Maddy was out there in the middle of the night?”

But Gretchen wasn’t ready for simple answers. She wanted to probe deeper.

“Why was she on the mission grounds? Why not inside? She was supposed to be a resident there, getting help, getting clean. But she wasn’t. Did someone at Isaiah House hurt her? Scare her? Cause her to run away again?”

She’d been mulling over the idea for the past two days. Maddy was vulnerable, easily wounded. Someone who liked to play mind games could do a lot of damage. And weren’t mind games what religion was about?

“Not every ministry is dirty, Gretchen.”

“His is.” Gretchen shot Ian one more glare and turned away. “I just know it.”

Carlotta sighed and shoved her glossy, black hair over one shoulder. She had an amazing capacity to look cool and fresh in the worst of New Orleans’s heat.

“All right, honey. Whatever you think. I’m not going to argue with you today. Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”

“No. You go on.” Gretchen wasn’t quite ready to leave Maddy here alone.

“All right. Call if you need me.”

Carlotta left, her long legs moving with grace and speed across the narrow patches of grass to her sporty car. Gretchen refused to think another thought about Ian Carpenter. For all she cared he could roast.

Taking yet another tissue, she approached the mausoleum that held her sister’s body. She hadn’t wanted to bury Maddy here in a place where tourists prowled the tombs in search of macabre thrills. But she hadn’t much choice. California was too far away. And Mom and Dad didn’t want her there anyway.

“Oh, Maddy. Why couldn’t I help you get over the hurts? Why couldn’t you ever heal?” Fragile Maddy had been broken by the same evil that had made Gretchen strong. No one would ever fool her again. She would spend her career ferreting out the wolves in sheep’s clothing like Brother Gordon and the Family of Love.

She reached out to touch the white stone. Suddenly, the childhood Maddy was alive and well inside her head. The blond princess in pink ballet slippers. At six, Mama had auditioned her for commercials because she was so pretty. That was when they’d met Brother Gordon. He’d invited them to what he called the common man’s Bible study. And none of them was ever the same after that.

She stood there in front of the tomb for a long time, remembering, regretting, wishing for another chance. At one point she glanced back and noticed with relief that Ian Carpenter had disappeared. Good.

She didn’t know what to make of him. He’d been kind the day of Maddy’s death and she’d been too distraught to see that. She didn’t want to be unfair, but she feared men like Ian. Preachers, as she well knew, wielded power over their followers, whether for good or for bad.

Which was Ian Carpenter?

She remembered one of her last conversations with Maddy, two weeks before her death. She’d seemed so full of hope, excited to be attending classes at the mission. Thrilled to see her sister happy, Gretchen hadn’t asked what kind of classes, though a cold fear had snaked down her spine that day. She’d warned Maddy to be careful. Had even begged her sister to let her find a more conventional rehab. But Maddy had assured her that Ian Carpenter was the real deal. He could help her get her life together. She would make it this time.

But she hadn’t.

Now Gretchen needed to know. What exactly went on inside Isaiah Mission?

The afternoon sun angled from the west casting shadows over the rows and rows of pale tombs. As much as she hated leaving her sister behind, Gretchen was too tired to stay any longer. Carlotta would be calling soon, wondering where she was, if she was all right. And she’d promised to be back at the news station tomorrow morning, bright and early. She desperately needed some sleep.

She leaned her cheek briefly against the vault and whispered, “I love you,” and turned to go.

A long human shadow touched her toes.

She jerked her head up.

Ian Carpenter came toward her, a tall soft drink cup in hand. “You look like you could use this.”

As parched as she was, Gretchen balked at the idea of taking anything from him. Brother Gordon had been nice at first, too.

A near smile softened the edges of a very nice mouth. “Go ahead. I promise it’s only lemonade, not cyanide.”

Did he have any idea how not funny that was?

She took the cup and drank deeply, the tart citrus cutting the terrible dryness in her throat.

All the while, she watched him over the rim of the cup. His electric eyes held hers, steady and quiet, studying her.

He had a serenity about him that was almost eerie.

“Thank you,” she said, after gulping half the super-sized drink. “I didn’t realize I’d stayed so long.”

“It’s been a hard day for you.”

Gretchen was too uncertain about his motives to answer.

“Maddy was a sweet girl,” he went on. “A gentle and kind person.”

“And weak.” She took another sip of lemonade. The sides of the cup dripped condensation onto her black crepe dress.

“We all have weaknesses.”

“Even you, Reverend?”

“Me most of all. And one of my weaknesses is being called Reverend. I prefer Ian.” Lightly, he slid a hand under her elbow. “Your nose is getting pink. You need to get out of the sun.”

Normally opposed to anyone telling her what to do, Gretchen was too numb and exhausted to resist. She walked with him to an iron bench in a small, shady spot. Her insides trembled with fatigue and emotion. She really should go home.

“My roommate will be worried.”

“The woman with you? Tall. Black hair.”

She expected him to expound on her roommate’s beauty as most men did, but he didn’t. He settled onto the bench, keeping a polite distance between them. Gretchen couldn’t help but appreciate that.

“Carlotta Moreno. She’s a good friend.” She shook her head and studied the real slice of lemon floating in her cup. If Maddy had more friends like Carlotta, maybe someone would have been with her that night. “I wish…”

As if he understood the direction of her thoughts, Ian said, “Maddy had friends, too. People who cared about her.”

Unable to stop a bitter laugh, she swept her arm around the cemetery. “Oh, yes, the place is brimming with them.”

“They were here.”

She looked at him, trying to comprehend why he would tell an obvious lie. His startling eyes gazed back at her, steady and quiet.

“Are they invisible?” she asked sarcastically.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Metaphysically speaking, you mean? As in astral projection or some spiritual out-of-body experience?”

He laughed. She was dead serious and he laughed.

“I meant that some of Maddy’s friends were here, paying their respects out of sight of the other mourners. They were worried that you’d be upset if they showed themselves.”

“Are you telling me that there were people behind the tombs listening to the funeral service?”

“The residents of the mission who knew her and a few street people.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged. “Come to Isaiah House and ask them yourself.”

Gretchen smiled grimly. She should have seen that one coming.

“Maybe I will.” But not for the reasons he had in mind.

“We have chapel mornings and evenings at seven. Bible studies are pretty much ongoing, some formal, some informal.”

“Or I could come for the soup.” The silliness slipped out and she laughed. Then guilt rushed in. How could she laugh on the day of her sister’s funeral?

“Laughter is the best medicine, and it’s a lot less expensive.”

The preacher was uncannily intuitive. She’d better be more careful. “But my sister was buried today.”

He grew quiet for a minute, as if he drew inside. Gretchen wondered if he was praying. Elbows to knees, hands clasped together in front of his face, he bounced thumb knuckles against his chin.

“I won’t pretend to understand Maddy’s death, because I don’t. If I was God, she’d still be alive today.”

His intense honesty surprised her. He didn’t sound like any preacher she’d ever heard before. She had expected platitudes.

“Aren’t you going to tell me that Maddy’s suffering is over now? Or that she’s in a far better place?” Trite little sayings that infuriated her.

He shook his head. A small scar gleamed white through the brown hair above his ear.

“All I know for sure is this, Gretchen. God cared about Maddy. He loved her. And Maddy wanted to love Him in return.”

Yes, Maddy had always longed for God, tormented that she’d left the faith but too wise and too scared to go back. She could almost hear her sister’s frequent worry. “What if Brother Gordon was right? What if we’ve lost our only chance at Heaven?”

Gretchen jabbed the straw up and down in her lemonade cup, rattling ice. The noise seemed out of place here among the quiet tombs. “Do you think my sister went to Heaven?”

“I don’t know.” Again he answered honestly and she was grateful. “No one but Maddy and the Lord knows what transpired between them in those last hours of her life. But she was on her way back to the mission. Don’t you think that means something?”

Sincerity oozed from the man like whipped cream between the layers of a sweet cake. She wanted to believe he was the “real deal” as Maddy had claimed. But she always came back to the same thing. Maddy was dead. Where was Ian Carpenter and Isaiah House when her sister needed them most?

“Why did she leave there in the first place?”

He drew in a deep breath and leaned forward, shoulders hunched. His gaze grew distant. “At some point in her counseling Maddy hit a wall. She was afraid to face something from her past.”

Gretchen knew Maddy held secrets. She also suspected what some of them were. “Did she give you any indication?”

Ian shook his head. “More than once she talked about needing to find her higher purpose. And then she’d clam up.”

Gretchen froze. Higher purpose? A vision of Brother Gordon’s gentle face reared up before her, urging her and Maddy to do things in order to attain their higher purpose. In the end, the higher purpose had been Brother Gordon’s bank account and his desire to control others.

The memory had no place at her sister’s funeral. She stood. The movement, coupled with the heat and fatigue, made her wobble. Ian reached out to steady her, his strong hand oddly comforting. She slid away from his touch, not wanting her reporter’s objectivity to be hindered by the fact that the preacher was an attractive man and outwardly kind. The inner Ian was the one she needed to know about.

What was his part in Maddy’s death? Was he as innocent and kind as he seemed? Or did he make false promises and give false hope to the vulnerable? She’d once reported on a ministry that had tragically convinced a suicidal teen to stop taking his antidepressants and spend more time in prayer. The boy had shot himself.

Did Isaiah House also indulge in unethical and dangerous practices?

A headache pushed at the inside of her temples.

It wasn’t that Gretchen disliked preachers or religious groups. Not at all. Some were excellent, but the public had a right to know. Her job was to find out what the general public couldn’t, to force charities, especially religious groups, out into the open. To make them stop hiding behind the cross.

An idea for a new investigative series popped into her head. After the hurricane, she’d worked day and night for weeks investigating distributions to the relief effort, uncovering any number of discrepancies, misappropriations and downright theft of public monies. She wasn’t too popular with the local authorities but a couple of her stories had been picked up by the networks, and since then the station allowed her free rein.

She was a watchdog, a guardian for the people. Her viewers depended on her to shoot square. To help them choose the best groups to support and those to avoid. Gretchen took this responsibility very seriously. She and her family had once been duped. She didn’t want such a thing to happen to anyone else.

The hair rose on the back of her neck. Had it already happened to Maddy?

“Would you mind if I visited Isaiah House?”

Blue eyes blinked at her. “Everyone is welcome at Isaiah House.”

“I meant in an official capacity.” She watched him closely, eager to see if the suggestion rattled him. It didn’t.

Serene as a blue sky, he said, “We’re an open book.”

Satisfaction curled through Gretchen’s mind. If Ian Carpenter and his mission had anything to hide, she and everyone else in Louisiana would soon know.

Chapter Three

“Ian, I think you’d better come outside.”

Ian looked up from his desk at the heavyset young woman standing in the door of his ground-floor office. Tabitha was one of the day counselors who worked with the female residents. He thought her name was appropriate since the Biblical Tabitha had also been a servant to those in need.

“What’s up?”

“The newswoman’s here again. Channel Eleven.”

“Already?”

When Barracuda Barker said she was coming to the mission, Ian hadn’t expected her quite so soon. The funeral was only yesterday.

He pushed up from the cluttered desk where he’d been praying about the runaway he’d taken in last night. After two hours of negotiation and countless calls to other agencies for social services Isaiah House couldn’t provide, he’d gotten the girl and her parents to agree to one more try. He only hoped things worked out this time.

As he came around the desk, Tabitha glanced down at his feet. “Another new pair of shoes?”

Ian held out the pristine white runners for inspection. “Like ’em?”

“Cool. How many pairs does this make?”

That was a question Ian would rather not answer. He gave away his shoes to the needy on a regular basis, but every time he passed a shoe store he came home with a new pair. All his friends teased him about his one vice, but try as he would, he couldn’t seem to stop buying shoes.

“Don’t start about the shoes.”

Tabitha laughed. As a licensed Christian counselor, she teased him more than anyone, claiming his shoe buying indicated some kind of psychological disorder. He laughed, too, but sometimes he wondered about the compulsion.

They crossed the dayroom together and headed for the door of the converted home. The room was quiet by Isaiah House standards. This time of day, some people were in Bible study groups. Others were in classes or at jobs secured with the help of Ian and his small staff. Nobody sat idle around here for long.

Ian stepped out on the Southern-style porch. Sure enough, the Channel Eleven News van was parked at the curb and the blond reporter hopped out, photographer in tow. As he walked toward the mission the photographer aimed his camera at Ian and started shooting.

Ian stifled a groan. He really didn’t need this today with all he had to do. Hopefully, after a few questions, she’d be on her way. After all, yesterday after the funeral when they’d parted ways, he felt they’d made progress, at least to the point of mutual respect.

“Gretchen,” he said cordially when she approached the porch.

Her loose-fitting white jacket swung open as she extended her hand. Beneath she wore a tank top the color of his mother’s daffodils.

“Reverend.”

Ian let the emphasis pass, studying her with an intensity she couldn’t miss. Though carefully applied makeup covered the dark circles, nothing could erase the hollow expression in her eyes. She had no business working today.

“How are you?” And he meant it. How was she after yesterday?

Her face closed up. “I’m here on business, not to be counseled.”

Ouch. Apparently, his thought that they’d come to some sort of mutual understanding yesterday had been way off base.

Gretchen not only didn’t want to discuss the loss of her sister, she wanted to forget that she and Ian had ever talked. Even if he couldn’t understand her reasoning, he could deal with her rejection. Preachers felt the cold shoulder all the time. The woman had been through a nightmare this week, and she needed time to grieve. For her own sake, he hoped she would give herself a break. Grief was a powerful emotion that took a toll sooner or later.

He held open the door and stood aside to let her enter the cool interior of the mission. As she passed, a gentle waft of lemon, like the magnolia in the courtyard, tickled his senses.

When the occupants of the dayroom saw the camera, most of them scattered like startled mice. The one or two who remained stared in open curiosity.

“I take it you’re here on that official business you mentioned yesterday,” he said.

Her pixie face turned upward. Yesterday’s predicted sunburn tinged her tilted nose and the crest of her cheekbones. As he’d noticed the morning Maddy died, Gretchen was a small woman with fragile looks. But those looks were deceiving. Unlike her sister, Ian suspected the reporter’s backbone was solid steel.

“Channel Eleven is running a new series on compassion ministries. We’d like to include a piece on Isaiah House.”

“Hatchet job or fair story?” He didn’t know why he’d asked that. He wasn’t usually defensive about the mission, but something in her attitude today made him uneasy.

“Everything depends on your cooperation. The more open you are with us, the better we can represent you to the public.” As she spoke, Gretchen’s gaze raced around the room, missing nothing. Not that there was all that much to see. Couches and a table, a tiny reception area with a pay phone, a TV and a few plants potted and tended by Roger. “The one thing I can promise you is to be fair. My stories are honest portrayals from the inside of ministries. The public has a right to know what they’re supporting.”

“I can’t argue that, but I’m not really prepared for anything extensive today. I’m pretty busy.” He glanced at his watch. “Could we schedule another time?”

Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “Have something to hide, Reverend?”

He was gonna let that pass. For now.

“Nope.” He slouched against the reception desk, sliding one hand in his pocket. Feeling the little fish key chain calmed the jitters that had invaded his stomach. “But I don’t allow anything to jeopardize the recovery of my people, either. I’m sure you understand.”

“Your people?” She emphasized the word as though it was loaded with insidious intent.

Ian liked to be cooperative, usually enjoyed sharing his vision for the mission with others, but he wasn’t interested in playing word games with a reporter looking to catch him in a slip of the tongue to boost her TV ratings.

“Look, Miss Barker, I’m a straightforward kind of guy. If you have questions to ask, ask them.” He smiled, hoping to soften her bulldog attitude with a little friendliness. “Why don’t we have this conversation in my office? I could offer you an ice-cold orange soda.”

He would have had better luck selling sand in Saudi Arabia. Gretchen didn’t ease off.

“Here is better.” She flipped open a small spiral notebook. “Let’s get started. Tell me about the mission. What exactly do you do?”

“Easy question.” He smiled again. Might as well be nice about it. As his mother often said, he’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And Gretchen Barker definitely needed some sweetening.

He pointed to the large framed poster on one wall and moved in that direction. Gretchen followed. “Isaiah 58 is our mission statement. The scripture tells it all.”

The same words were engraved on a plaque outside each entrance.

The photojournalist focused in on the Bible verses and then turned the camera back to Ian. In T-shirt and baseball cap, Ian figured he didn’t look much like a preacher. And that was okay by him, considering the people he ministered to. Teenagers were far more likely to talk to jeans and T-shirt than a suit and tie.

“Jesus commanded that we serve others. Isaiah House tries to do that. Mostly, our outreach is to runaways and street kids, but anyone who comes through that door gets all the help we can give them.”

“Very commendable,” she murmured in a voice that was less than impressed. Her sharp, intelligent eyes studied his face, and Ian got the sense that she wanted to find fault. What had he done to earn her animosity? Was it because of Maddy? Or did she dislike ministries in general?

He gave it another shot. “Kids on the street need a place to go, a safe haven where they can get help. That’s what matters to us. Isaiah House is not three hots and a cot, as the street people call a regular shelter. We help lost people, particularly teens, find their way again.”

“Interesting,” she said, as she furiously scribbled notes. “Would you mind telling our viewers about your program? What do you do that makes you different from any other shelter?”

“Lots of things.”

Eyes narrowed, she shot him that sharp look again. “Care to articulate?”

Ian wished he’d had time to prepare. Isaiah House wasn’t a shelter, per se. It was so much more. But every time he tried to express his vision, he came off like a fanatic. And the last thing he needed was to sound like a nut on television.

The photographer had moved away to point the camera down a side hall. Roger limped in their direction, carrying a stack of towels. When he spotted the camera, he did an about-face, disappearing as fast as his hip could take him back toward the dining room. Ian couldn’t hide the smile.

“I suppose our most important difference is this—we minister to the whole person, not only the physical. Humans are three parts—mind, spirit and body. If one is out of order, the rest suffer.”

“Is there more emphasis on the spiritual aspect than the others?”

He paused to consider the motive behind the odd question, choosing his words carefully. “We use a balanced approach.”

“Do you consider it balanced to require chapel twice a day, along with a Bible study and a prayer group?”

Okay. Now he saw where she was headed. Here was his opportunity to share his rationale, not only with her, but with a wide TV audience. “Yes. I do.”

But before he could explain further, she interrupted him with another question.

“Can you discuss where the mission gets its operational funds?”

Money. Dismay filtered over him like a fog. To the press, ministries were about money, not helping people. The whole idea tore him up. No man in pursuit of wealth would choose to deal with the troubled castoffs of society. Why couldn’t the public and the press understand that?

“We depend entirely upon donations.”

“What about government funding?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then we’d have to follow their rules, and we can’t do that.”

“Isaiah House has no rules?” She scribbled something else on her notepad.

“We have plenty. Biblical rules, not rules of the government.”

“So let me make sure I have this right. Anyone who comes to Isaiah House for help is required to attend all the religious elements of the program. The Bible study, prayer groups and chapel. Is that correct?”

Ian had enough experience with opposition to know she was fishing for a negative angle, but all he could do was answer honestly and let God take care of the results.

“The only way to get people to change their lives is to change their hearts.”

A smile, the first one he’d seen, softened the line of her mouth.

“Wasn’t there a recent lawsuit filed against Isaiah House for expecting a man to attend a Bible study in exchange for a meal at the soup kitchen?”

No big news there. “Yes, but the courts refused to hear it.”

“Were you guilty?”

“If you’re asking if we require chapel or Bible classes to utilize our services, the answer is yes.” His easy admission seemed to catch her off guard. Good. She’d been trying to catch him off guard from the get-go. “People can’t change their hearts unless their minds are changed.”

“You change their minds through Bible study? Isn’t that brainwashing?”

Ian fought against rolling his eyes. Brainwashing. Please.

“The Bible teaches that we are transformed by a renewing of our minds. As a person replaces his old destructive thoughts with God’s word, he’s reprogrammed to think in productive, healthy ways.”

Did that sound as stiff and religious as he feared?

“Reprogrammed. I see.” She started to wander about the small room, gnawing on the end of her pen.

The chapel door swooshed open and a teenage girl stepped out, head down, a Kleenex clutched in one hand. Ian groaned inwardly. Chrissy. The one person in the mission who did not need to be confronted by a news camera.

Before he had a chance to stop her, Gretchen walked up to the girl and said, “I’m Gretchen Barker with Channel Eleven News. Could I have a word with you?”

Chrissy’s eyes widened. She started trembling, her gaze darting desperately around the room in search of escape. They landed on Ian.

“Ian?” she croaked out.

Ian sprang into action, stepping between Chrissy and the camera. Jaw hard enough to snap, he bit out one word. “No.”

Gretchen stared up at him, clearly startled by the sudden change in his mild demeanor. “Why not?”

“Our residents have a right to privacy.”

“Can’t she speak for herself?”

“No.”

For a matter of seconds, Ian and Gretchen stared, locked in a battle of wills. There were some things in this mission that no one, certainly not a news reporter, needed to know.

Behind him, the chapel door opened and closed. Ian relaxed a little. Chrissy had escaped back to the safety of the chapel out of range of the prying camera.

Gretchen was none too pleased at his interference. Eyes arcing green fire, she continued to stare at him for several long challenging seconds. Let her think what she would. Ian refused to budge.

Finally, she snapped her notebook shut. “All right then.” She turned to her videographer and hitched her head toward the door. “I think we have plenty for this first time.”

The shock of her words rattled Ian’s brain.

First time? Did that mean she’d be back for more?

At seven o’clock Ian readied his notes for the evening chapel service. Tonight he’d speak on spiritual freedom, one of his favorite topics. Maybe the reminder would lift this heaviness from his spirit. He couldn’t seem to shake the sense of failure over Maddy and the worry about her sister’s sudden interest in Isaiah House. He’d done nothing illegal, but the news media could make or break a ministry. From Gretchen’s attitude, he feared she wanted to do the latter.

He left his office and started through the dayroom to the chapel.

“Hey, Ian,” one of the residents called. “You’re on TV.”

The Barracuda’s report. The woman didn’t let any grass grow under her feet. Though he’d thought of little else all afternoon, he hadn’t expected the story to be aired this soon.

“You’re famous, man,” another called. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Do I look good?” he joked in return, coming to stand behind a long couch which faced the only television in the building. He leaned his legs against the slick vinyl fabric.

“That lady reporter must have thought so. She stuck around here long enough.”

Accustomed to their good-natured teasing, Ian chuckled. “I don’t think she was here because of my pretty face.”

“Must have been the shoes.”

Henry, whose shaved head was furrowed like a cornfield, said, “Yeah, that’s it, man. The shoes.”

“I think she was looking for me.” Raoul was a street-savvy seventeen-year-old with a missing front tooth and a wicked sense of humor. “I sure do like blondes.”

Ian thumped the teen on the shoulder. “She’s too old for you.”

“But not for you.”

Henry’s comment made him uncomfortable, though he didn’t know why. They were always ribbing him over his single status. Some day he hoped to find the right woman, but Gretchen Barker? Come on. Definitely not his type.

He frowned the teen into silence. “Be quiet so we can hear the story.”

The knot in his shoulder started acting up again. Though he was praying against a hatchet job, he didn’t have much hope.

The segment opened with the words of Isaiah 58 superimposed over a nice shot of the property. Gretchen’s warm, modulated voice-over introduced the mission and Ian. As the story proceeded, the tension in Ian’s shoulders slowly relaxed. Gretchen was doing a pretty decent job. The piece unfolded, straightforward, objective, clear, even if he did look more like a mission resident than the director.

Maybe some positive publicity would increase the lagging donations, and he could replace the ancient heating unit before next winter.

He came around the couch and sat down just as Gretchen said, “This reporter, in keeping with our commitment to truth, believes our viewers have a right to know that here in this lovely old house surrounded by the lush beauty of magnolias and wisteria, something sinister may be occurring.”

A clip of yellow police tape from the scene of Maddy’s death flashed across the screen.

Ian’s heart thumped once, hard. He sat up straight and leaned forward. What was she doing?

The camera panned to Ian’s face as Gretchen continued. “The boyishly handsome street preacher freely admits to using unorthodox methods and refusing government funds so that he can make his own rules. Rules that unfortunately include, by the reverend’s own admission, mind control and brainwashing.”

“I admitted no such thing,” Ian sputtered, and then watched in horror as the camera showed him stepping, fierce-faced, in front of Chrissy. Thank goodness, the runaway’s identity was blocked from view by his shoulders.

“Whoa, Ian,” someone said, “you looked mad.”

He hadn’t been mad. He’d been concerned for Chrissy’s safety, but Barracuda Barker hadn’t recognized that reaction any more than Raoul had.

“As you can see from this video, we attempted to speak with one of the residents of Isaiah House, but Reverend Carpenter would not allow this. We plan to find out exactly why, so join us for our next segment of ‘Behind the Cross’ when we will delve more deeply into the secrets of Isaiah House Mission.”

Ian sank slowly back against the cushions in stunned silence and put his face in his hands. He had a feeling his troubles with Gretchen Barker had only just begun.

Chapter Four

The familiar hustle and bustle of a busy newsroom flowed around Gretchen’s cubicle. Phones rang, people talked in soft tones, a fax machine whirred. The mug of coffee on her desk grew cold. Head bent in total focus, Gretchen pounded the keys of her laptop, writing up the notes from her phone call to Marian Jacobs. Suspecting that some of the councilwoman’s statements about Isaiah House were politically motivated, she would be very careful to research every complaint before taking them to the air. Keeping her integrity as an objective reporter was paramount, regardless of her personal concerns about Ian Carpenter and the rescue mission.

A creepy feeling, as if she was being watched, came over her. She glanced up.

The Isaiah House minister stood in the open space, one wide shoulder against the doorway, his hands steepled in front of him. Above gleaming new black-and-turquoise tennis shoes, faded old jeans and a turquoise T-shirt, he was rumpled and unshaven. A weathered LSU ball cap was pulled low over his face. The unexpected scruffy look gave Gretchen a sudden attack of butterflies. She had never met a preacher who looked so little like a minister and so much like a man.

Goodness. His eyes were blue.

“Got a minute?” he asked in that quietly compelling voice.

She took a second to casually toss an empty yogurt container into the trash can before pushing back from her desk. “Is this about last night’s story?”

Even though she’d aired nothing but facts, Gretchen fully expected him to be unhappy with the report.

He sidestepped the question with one of his own. “Do you blame me and the mission for what happened to Maddy?”

The memory of her sister’s untimely death, never far away, rushed in like a cruel wave of fresh pain. She closed her eyes, quickly collecting the loose ends of her composure before looking back at him. “Leave Maddy out of this.”

Ian pushed off the flimsy partition and moved closer. Gretchen’s pulse gave a funny jump of fear, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason. Was she afraid of him? Or of the odd reaction she was having to him this morning? Whichever, she refused to cower.

Her story had been fair. She’d reported what she’d witnessed, and from the way her e-mail inbox had overflowed, the people of New Orleans wanted to know more. Even if Ian was angry, what could he do in a crowded TV station? Laser her to death with his startling eyes?

He startled her even further by going to his haunches next to her chair so that they were eye level. The action stirred a vague scent of laundry soap and new shoes. For a second, she thought he was going to touch her, but when she stiffened, he placed his hand on the edge of her desk instead.

“It’s okay to talk about Maddy,” he said gently. “It’s even okay to be angry about what happened. Shoot, I’m angry about it; you have to be.”

His kindness was so unexpected that the horrible grief threatened once more to well up and flow out like a geyser. She needed to talk. She needed to make sense of her sister’s life and death. And she needed someone or something to blame for the unspeakable waste.

With sheer force of will, she staunched the threatening tears. “Don’t give me your counseling mumbo jumbo. I’m not one of your runaways.”

He pinned her with a long, quiet look, holding her gaze until she fidgeted and glanced away.

“No harm or insult meant, Gretchen. Everybody hurts.”

When she remained there, staring inanely at the slide show of monster trucks on her screen saver, the preacher pushed to his feet and stepped away. Gretchen breathed a sigh of relief. He was too close, both physically and emotionally, and she didn’t want to lose control in front of a man she was investigating. What kind of objectivity would that be?

“So, exactly why did you come here this morning, Reverend? To complain about the report? Or what?”

He answered with a smile that probably melted everyone else. “I have a complaint and a suggestion. Your report wasn’t fair.”

“Viewers have a right to know the truth.”

“That’s all I’m asking. Report the whole truth, all of it. Show what we really do at Isaiah House.”

“Meaning?”

“Come to the mission. Spend more time with us.”

That was already in her plans. She propped an elbow on her desk and pointed at him. “On your terms? Or mine?”

“I was hoping we could make a deal.”

“Why, Reverend, you shock me. Making deals. Isn’t that rather unreligious?”

“I shock my mother sometimes, too, but she still loves me.”

There he went again, trying to use that sweet, Southern boy charm.

“You actually have a mother?” She bit the inside of her lip, wishing she hadn’t said that. The flippant remark sounded too conversational, too friendly.

“I have a great mother up in Baton Rouge. She makes the best gumbo north of New Orleans. When Dad was alive—” He stopped as if remembering this was not a normal chat between friends. Funny that both of them kept venturing into side conversations that had nothing to do with the topic at hand.

Gretchen tapped a fingernail on her desktop. Time to get down to business. Just because they’d talked at Maddy’s funeral didn’t mean she wanted to be buddies. “Okay, then. What’s your deal?”

“You come back to the mission. Not a one-shot deal like last time, but over a period of days whenever you have a free hour or two. No photographer. Volunteer, take part, follow me around. See what I do.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. A chance on the inside to see if his religion bordered on mind control? This was too good to be true.

“I’ve heard some negative rumors about the mission,” she admitted. “I plan to check them out.”

“I’ve heard them, too. That’s why I want you to come see for yourself. All I’m asking is that you report the truth. I’ll give you access. You give an unbiased report to the citizens of New Orleans about the work at Isaiah House.”

This was too easy. What was he up to? She decided to test the waters and find out how much access he planned to give her. “What about your followers? Can I talk to them?”

Something flickered across his face that she couldn’t interpret. Her antenna elevated to alert. Now she was getting somewhere. What was he hiding? Why was he so hesitant to let her talk to the people inside the mission?

“They are not my followers. As I told you before, they’re vulnerable, and I won’t allow anything to impede their healing. You can only talk to them on one condition.”

“Being?” He’d gone ballistic when she’d confronted the trembling girl at the mission. She didn’t want a repeat performance of that, but she was going to talk to that girl and find out why she was so afraid.

“You ask their permission and mine, in advance.”

Interesting. Did he want to prep them first? Warn them of what not to say?

The demand sounded suspiciously like something Brother Gordon often did. She and Maddy had been taught all the correct answers to give about the commune. And all the specifics to avoid discussing with “outsiders.”

Energy bubbled up inside. She was on to something here. If she played her cards right, she could have the investigative news series of the year and find out if anything had happened to her sister inside that mission.

Before she could voice her agreement a male head sporting a tiny gold earring poked inside her cubicle. “Hey, Gretchen.”

The preppy speaker waved a pair of tickets in his hands. “Got ’em.”

For a second she forgot all about her visitor. In excitement, she leaped from her chair and squealed, “I can’t believe it. Let me see.”

She ripped the tickets from his hand. David Metzler was not only a great coworker and friend, he was an absolute genius when it came to finding tickets to sold-out events. A computer engineer with enough brains to fill the Superdome, David was as passionate about Monster Trucks as she was.

She quickly perused the tickets, then threw her arms around his lanky form. “You are awesome! This is going to be so much fun. I’ve wanted to see Bigfoot and Grave Digger go head-to-head for two years!”

David’s dimples flashed. “All righty then. See you tomorrow night. Six-thirtyish?”

“I’m there, buddy.” They slapped a high five and David disappeared down the corridor toward the engineering room.

“Bigfoot?” Ian spoke from behind her. “As in monster trucks?”

In her excitement, she’d practically forgotten he was there. She turned toward him, unable to wipe the silly grin from her face. A night out, watching her favorite drivers and yelling with the crowd would work wonders for her right now. She couldn’t wait to tell Carlotta that they finally had tickets.

She hitched a shoulder. “Everybody needs a hobby.”

A half smile lifted the edge of Ian’s mouth. “And yours is monster truck races?”

She slapped a hand on one hip.

“Got a problem with that, preacher man?” Goodness, that sounded flirty. She let her hand drop.

Ian laughed. The simple action did amazing things to his face. “You don’t seem the type.”

“Neither do you.”

“All men like big, noisy trucks. Even preachers.”

“I meant you don’t seem the preacher type.”

“Ah. Well. Thanks.” He looked as if the statement pleased him. “I guess we’re even then.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning stereotypes. Sometimes people judge you for not fitting the mold.”

“I guess I did that to you, didn’t I?”

“So, do we have a deal? You spend some time at the mission. Give us a chance to prove ourselves?” He flashed another of those killer grins. “Except for Friday night, of course. Can’t let you miss Bigfoot.”

Okay, so he was charming. And good-looking. Big deal. She was not about to get distracted by a gentle voice and a pair of gorgeous blue eyes. Not when they might hide a wicked heart.

As he motored down St. Charles Avenue, Ian dialed the Baton Rouge number on his cell phone and waited for the snick of connection. He’d been so busy he hadn’t called Mom, something he tried to do every day. Since his father’s death two years ago, he worried about her. At seventy-one, she was older than most of his friends’ parents but refused to admit that age was in any way affecting her. She still gardened and ran the women’s auxiliary at church, collected donations for the mission and swam daily at the health club.

A breathless voice answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Hi, baby. How’s my boy?”

Ian slowed to a stop, grinning at the traffic light above him. Even if he was approaching six feet tall and pushing thirty, he would always be Mom’s “baby.” An only child, she’d told him over and over how special he was because he’d come along after she and Dad had given up on ever having kids. His buddies had forever teased him about being a mama’s boy. But he didn’t care. He knew there was a difference between being a wimpy mama’s boy and a man who respected and loved the woman who’d not only given him life, but a wonderful upbringing, as well.

Besides, the guys had all been crazy about her, too, and called her “Mama Margot.”

“You sound out of breath. Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course I am.” He could practically see her hand flapping away the suggestion of illness. “I was in the garage and I like to broke my neck getting to the phone. That silly dog is always underfoot.”

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