A Lesson In Love

Tweed-clad professor Morgan Chatam has been the subject of countless student crushes at Buffalo Creek Bible College. But grad student Simone Guilland knows that a relationship with Morgan is out of the question. Even if he weren’t her advisor, the secrets from her past prevent them from having a future. In all his years at BCBC, Morgan has never once felt drawn to one of his students—until Simone. He knows he should keep his distance. Simone deserves someone younger, someone who can give her things he cannot. And yet, he can’t shake the feeling that his chance at happily-ever-after may just lie in her hands.

Chatam House: Where three matchmaking aunts bring faith and love to life

“You really are the dumbest smart man alive, aren’t you?”

Morgan glowered as the full meaning of what she’d said settled in.

“When I’m shamelessly throwing myself at you, the least you can do is make a halfhearted attempt to catch me.”

Stunned, he asked, “What?”

“You heard me,” she retorted petulantly.

He wondered how long it had been since he’d really wanted anything, anyone, and he wasn’t sure now that he ever really had before this, and that was a startling discovery at his age.

“I can’t keep doing this!” he told himself as much as her.

She huffed out a sigh of pure disgust. “I would like to know why not.”

“Simone, I am not the man for you,” he stated flatly.

“I think you are.”

“I’m too old.”

“Ha! I think not.”

Shooting up to his feet, he began to pace. “Then put it another way. You’re too young.”

She tucked her chin and rolled those big, beautiful eyes up at him. “Surely you can do better than that.”

ARLENE JAMES

says, “Camp meetings, mission work and church attendance permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time, which sustains me yet. However, only as a young widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity He has blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic it still feels like courtship!”

After thirty-three years in Texas, Arlene James now resides in Bella Vista, Arkansas, with her beloved husband. Even after seventy-five novels, her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her, as she’s been at it since the eighth grade. She loves to hear from readers, and can be reached via her website, www.arlenejames.com.

The Bachelor Meets His Match

Arlene James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.

—2 Corinthians 4:7–9

For Marge Tracy

You prayed this one through, my dear.

I thank you for that support.

Invaluable.

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

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

“Oh, Professor Chatam, I was sooo hoping to get an appointment as your teaching aide.”

Morgan smiled warily at the young woman batting her eyelashes at him and gave his pat answer. “I only hire male teaching aides. It’s school policy. Male professors hire male aides. Female professors hire female aides. It’s entirely fair because we maintain gender parity among our professors.”

The pretty, if somewhat showy, brunette folded her arms and stuck out her bottom lip. “Awww. Isn’t there something I can do for you? You wouldn’t have to pay me.”

Morgan stiffened his smile. “I can’t think of a thing. But thanks for asking.”

Gideon Modesta, the chair of the School of Theology at Buffalo Creek Bible College, came to the rescue, clapping a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “Great party, Morgan. As usual.”

Nodding to the young lady, Morgan closed the lid on the grill that he tended on the patio of Chatam House, the antebellum mansion owned by his aunties, triplets in their seventies, and turned to face his good friend.

“Thanks, Gideon. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“But of course. Your graduate student mixers always start off the new semester happily.”

The disappointed female student finally turned and melted into the throng of young people and faculty chatting beside the pool. Gideon chuckled.

“Poor child has no idea that rule about teaching aides was instituted for your benefit. Must be tiresome being the campus heartthrob year after year.”

“Oh, stop,” Morgan chided as Gideon mopped his beaded brow with the towel draped about his neck. It might be the second day of September, but the daytime temperature, true to central Texas, hovered at ninety-four degrees. “I’m forty-five years old. For most of our students, that makes me positively ancient.”

“In other words, only half of the female population at BCBC is now in love with you at any given time,” Gideon said drily. “What a terrible comedown for you. How do you bear up?”

Morgan replied in kind. “I indulge my worst habits, of course. I climb on the fastest motor with two wheels I can find and hit an oval track. You’d be amazed how speed can blow the cobwebs out of your mind and narrow your priorities.”

Gideon grimaced. “What you need is a wife. Not only would she put a stop to that reckless streak of yours, she’d lay out your priorities for you. Mercedes says it’s time to serve those burgers, by the way.”

Morgan laughed. Everyone knew that Gideon’s wife, Mercedes, gave her husband little rest and also that they adored each other. He looked to his fellow cook, Chester Worth, the majordomo at Chatam House. Chester checked his watch, nodded.

“As usual,” Morgan said, lifting the lid on his grill to poke at the beef patties with a spatula, “Mercedes is right.” Waving the spatula over his head, Morgan shouted, “Chow’s on!”

As students, department heads and spouses began lining up, he slid a thick, char-grilled patty of juicy beef onto the bun and plate that appeared in Gideon’s hands, then handed a spatula to one of his department professors so the serving could go twice as quickly. Hilda, the cook and housekeeper at Chatam House and Chester’s wife, joined her husband in dispensing burgers from his grill. When all of those in line had been served, Morgan transferred the remaining hamburger patties to a warming shelf before calling for quiet.

“Let’s give thanks.”

In moments, all had grown still and bowed their heads. Morgan spoke a short prayer, thanking God for those present, the fellowship and the food. He asked God for a special blessing for his generous aunts, then requested that God guide students and educators alike, performing His will in each of their lives, to His glory and honor, before closing in the name of Christ Jesus. After a chorus of amens, he checked the buffet table and saw that the iced tea jug was running low. Good. It would give him a moment of peace and quiet away from the bustle of the party.

Cordés Haward, the diminutive provost of BCBC, stopped him at the door, laden plate in one hand and glass of lemonade in the other. “It’s good of your aunts to open their house to us for this fete,” the small middle-aged man said, the black eyes bequeathed him by his Puerto Rican mother sparkling. He saluted the distant figure of Morgan’s aunt Hypatia, as spry as ever in her mid-seventies, with his lemonade.

Morgan chuckled. “You know how they feel about the college.”

“Indeed, I do. What blessings they have been to us.”

“I’ll be sure to tell them you said so.” With that, Morgan pushed open the multipaned glass door and passed into the cheery sunroom. A long, narrow space filled with greenery and colorful tropical-print cushions that softened the sturdy bamboo furniture, the bright area could be warmed by a large rock fireplace at one end, so it was used year-round as a breakfast room.

As Morgan moved toward the butler’s pantry that separated the sunroom from the kitchen, he saw a young woman sitting quietly at a glass-topped table, nursing a disposable cup of lemonade. Slight and pale, with short, spiky reddish-brown hair, she had the biggest, most soulful gray eyes that Morgan had ever seen. Set beneath horizontal brows in an oval face with a delicate, pointed chin, a small, plump mouth and a short, straight nose, they were the color of an overcast sky. Something more than her obvious beauty made Morgan look twice—an aloneness, a solitude set her apart from the others in a way that the walls of the sunroom could not. Arrested by the sight, he found himself at a standstill. He could not, in fact, seem to go forward again without engaging her somehow.

“Heat too much for you?” he asked conversationally.

She tilted her head in noncommittal reply, the slender column of her neck seeming too delicate to support the weight of her pretty head, and ran a fingertip around the rim of her drink. She was young, obviously a student, but she didn’t dress like the other girls in grungy, low-slung jeans and layered tanks or bathing suits and sarongs. He took in the neat white capris and simple shapeless pale green collared blouse that she wore buttoned to the throat, the long sleeves rolled to her elbows, tail untucked. Though of good quality, her clothing seemed too large for her. Even her white leather sandals swallowed her dainty feet. Mystery wrapped around her like a shroud, but it was her cool self-possession in the face of his obvious perusal that truly intrigued him. He tried another conversational gambit.

“Not swimming?”

She shook her head, keeping her glance on the table in front of her.

“If you need a suit, I’m sure we have extras. I could ask.”

Meeting his gaze calmly, she said, “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Her voice had a husky quality to it, almost a rusty sound, as if she didn’t use it very often.

He tried to place her among the underclassmen who had passed through his lecture hall and couldn’t. Stepping forward, he put out his hand, aware suddenly of its size. At an even six feet in height and a firm if lanky one hundred and eighty pounds, he wasn’t exactly a giant, but next to her he felt like one.

“I’m Professor Morgan Chatam.”

She smiled wryly, as if secretly amused. “Yes, I know.”

He dropped his hand. “How is it that I don’t know you, then?”

“I recognize you from your online lectures.”

“I see. So, you’re a remote student.”

“I was.”

He backed up to lean against the tall table behind him. “Well, are you going to tell me your name?”

That luminous gray gaze met his. “Simone Guilland.”

Simone Guilland. She gave the name a French pronunciation, Gi-yan. Of course, Simone Guilland of Baton Rouge. The name brought two facts to mind. One, she was a member of his advisory group. The second troubled him: her entrée into the graduate program was conditional upon her completion of his History of the Bible undergraduate course, a course in which Simone Guilland had enrolled remotely and then dropped after the deadline. Normally, as department head, Morgan had to approve for reenrollment any student who had dropped a class under such circumstances, but in this case, he hadn’t even been given the option.

“I have you now,” he told her lightly. “You dropped the course in the middle of a project, as I recall.”

“Yes. I was sorry about that.”

“You left your teammates in a bad spot,” he pointed out.

“It couldn’t be helped,” she told him, her flat inflection implying that he shouldn’t expect any explanation, but then he hadn’t gotten an explanation from the provost, just the last-minute instruction that she had been provisionally admitted to the graduate program and enrolled in his History of the Bible section for this fall semester. Whatever had happened, her admission had been approved by the highest echelon at the university. He couldn’t help being curious, however, and as her adviser, he was entitled to some answers.

“I believe you’re from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Is that correct?”

“I moved here from Baton Rouge.”

“Funny, you don’t sound much like Baton Rouge.”

“And have you spent a lot of time in Baton Rouge, Professor Chatam?” she challenged.

She had him there. “One visit only.”

Her small smile of victory proclaimed that Simone Guilland was not as fragile as she appeared.

“You must go again sometime. The Guilland family is old and storied in the area. I’m sure you would find your visit interesting.”

“Perhaps I will.” Why the next words fell out of his mouth, he would never know, but he heard himself say, quite suggestively, “Perhaps you would induce your family to give me a personal tour?”

She froze, simply stopped, as if everything about her—her heart, her pulse, her breath, her thoughts—simply switched off. Then, abruptly, she switched on again. She turned her head and stared through the glass wall at the busy patio and pool beyond, saying calmly, “I haven’t spoken to any member of my family in years. We...fell apart. Our connections just disappeared.”

“I am sorry,” Morgan murmured, assuming that she was one of the foster children he’d seen come through BCBC over his lengthy tenure there. Removed from their families for any number of reasons, they were often among the hardest working and the most motivated and successful students. They frequently required counseling and extra help, however.

“Tell me, Ms. Guilland, what are your goals, your plans?”

She lifted her chin. “I’m not entirely sure. I’d like to work with the homeless in some capacity, so I’m taking an advanced degree in social services.”

She slid from her chair and went to lean against the cold rock fireplace. He was surprised to find her taller than he’d expected, maybe five and a half feet. She made a pretty picture standing there against the rustic backdrop of pale, rough stone.

“You have a lovely home,” she said, smiling slightly as if to disguise the fact that she’d changed the subject.

Morgan chuckled, letting her get away with it. “I don’t live here. My aunts own the house, which was built in 1860. They’re triplets, by the way. My aunts, that is.”

“Triplets.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I knew that.”

She wouldn’t, of course, not being a local. Nodding, he smiled. “Hypatia, Magnolia and Odelia. They’ve lived here their whole lives and are universally adored, especially by the family.”

For the first time, Simone Guilland truly smiled, showing him a set of white, even teeth and pert apple cheeks. For just an instant, those cheeks struck a chord in him, a memory of a memory, something he couldn’t place. Then she whispered, “That’s lovely,” and he felt a flush of...something.

“They’re lovely,” he told her, feeling as thrilled as he did at the end of a race. “Kind, dear Christian ladies. They’ve made Chatam House a haven. I can’t tell you how many they’ve taken in.” He cleared his throat and rushed on. “Just recently they gave a home to the family of some longtime friends and household staff.”

“Oh?”

Naturally that would interest her, given her concern for the homeless. He mentally congratulated himself. He pointed through the glass to Hilda and Chester.

“The Worths have been with my aunts for, oh, twenty years or more. Hilda is the most amazing cook. Anyway, when Chester’s brother died recently, my aunts moved his widowed daughter and her children into the house. She married my cousin Phillip.” He chuckled again, thinking how often that sort of thing seemed to happen at Chatam House. “They started a business together, and—” He broke off, realizing that Simone had straightened away from the fireplace, a pained look on her face. “Is something wrong?”

“Died?” She put a hand to her temple. “Y-you’re saying that, um...Chester’s brother...”

“Are you all right?” Morgan asked, edging forward.

She shook her head as if to clear it. “Sorry. I—I seem to have bees in my head. Guess I should’ve eaten. Um, did...did I hear that correctly? He died?”

“Yes. Chester’s brother, Marshall, died,” Morgan muttered, moving closer.

She swallowed audibly. “And, ah, you said something about his daughter being a widow?”

“With three kids,” Morgan confirmed offhandedly, watching Simone as she swayed. “But not anymore. She married my cousin Phillip last month.”

Simone smiled slightly and nodded. “I see. Sorry. It’s...confusing.” Then her eyes simply rolled back in her head, and she melted like hot wax left too near a flame.

Morgan leaped forward, catching her in his arms before the back of her head could connect with the edge of the stone hearth. It was like catching smoke. She felt weightless, boneless.

Scooping her up, he rushed outside with her, shouting, “Need help here!”

People swarmed them. Going down on one knee, he dropped her on a quickly vacated chaise lounge. His aunts appeared at his elbows, and Chester handed him a towel that had been dipped in the pool.

“What happened?” Uncle Kent, his aunt Odelia’s rotund husband, asked as Morgan wiped Simone’s face with the wet towel.

“We were just talking and she fainted.”

A retired pharmacist, Kent knew a bit about medical matters, so when he told someone to get her a soft drink, something with sugar in it, Morgan simply added, “And put some food on a plate. She said she hadn’t eaten.”

Already rousing, she moaned. Morgan wiped the wet towel over her face again, taking away the makeup that had concealed the freckles across the bridge of her nose and the dark circles beneath those gorgeous eyes. Suddenly, Morgan wanted to shove away everyone else and hold her close. He told himself that she was just a kid, no more than twenty-one, probably, and a student, strictly off-limits for a professor. That was a line he had never crossed, one he had never even been tempted to cross, despite ample opportunity over the years. Until now. But why?

She had already proved herself untrustworthy, having dropped a class after the deadline and leaving her project teammates in the lurch. She had likely been a foster child and could well be anorexic, given her frailty and lack of eating. Moreover, she seemed to be a loner and something of a mystery, probably one of those kids with a tough past that she hadn’t quite left behind. He should have wanted to wash his hands of her, right then and there, but as her adviser and host he was responsible for her to a point, and until he was satisfied that she was well, he couldn’t relinquish supervision of her. More to the point, he didn’t want to.

It was that simple and, alas, that complicated.

* * *

Died. The word seemed to reverberate inside Simone’s skull, echoing so loudly that her eyeballs bounced. She blinked, realized immediately what had happened and opened her eyes to find herself face-to-face with the much too handsome Professor Chatam. He ran a hand through his damp, nut-brown hair, his cinnamon eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“Welcome back,” he said, sounding relieved. The smile cut grooves in his lean cheeks and flattened the fascinating cleft in his chin. Add a high, smooth forehead, the long, straight blade of his nose and a square jawline, and she could simply find nothing to dislike in that face.

Gulping, Simone sat up a little straighter and glanced around.

The kindly faces of three older women smiled down at her. All three had gently cleft chins. The one they called Hypatia wore a silk pantsuit, a string of pearls and pumps. To a pool party. Her silver hair had been swept into a sleek, sophisticated roll on the back of her head. Her sister Magnolia, on the other hand, wore trousers and rubber boots with a gardening smock, her steel-gray hair twisted into a grizzled braid. The third one—Odelia, Simone thought her name was—could have worked as a sideshow in a circus. The plumpest of the sisters, she wore her short, white hair in a froth of curls tied with a multicolored scarf that matched the rainbow print of the ruffled caftan. She accented this with stacks of bangles at her wrists and beads at her throat, as well as clusters of tiny rainbows that dangled from her earlobes.

“How are you?” asked the rainbow-festooned Odelia.

Simone managed to croak, “Fine.”

“Look at me,” Morgan Chatam commanded. Simone automatically bristled, but she fought back the impulse to snap and complied. “Have you fainted like this before?”

She considered lying but decided against it. She’d put such things behind her, so instead she nodded and cleared her throat. “I’m all right now.”

When she started to swing her legs to the side, however, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pinned her back against the chaise.

“Not until you answer a couple of questions.”

Her heart thunked with uncertainty. She hadn’t had a moment to think since she’d learned that her father had died, and this handsome man was making it difficult to order her thoughts. A plate of food hovered beside his head, and she glanced up at the familiar woman who held it. Had she been recognized, then? Now that it was too late? Simone had expected it upon her arrival, but when it hadn’t happened, she’d started to plan how to make herself known, then to realize that her father was dead...dead. She shivered uncontrollably.

“Is this the result of an eating disorder?” Morgan demanded. “Anorexia? Bulimia?”

Her brows jumped up, a short, almost silent laugh escaping her. “No.”

He considered, relaxed, dropped his hands and finally reached up for the plate of food. “You won’t mind eating this, then.”

She was hungry, so she didn’t argue. Taking the plate warily, she relaxed somewhat when Hilda, who happened to be her aunt by marriage, turned away without so much as a second glance. Not recognized, then. She supposed she had changed a good deal in the past nine, almost ten, years, and given the ravages of cancer... Simone sometimes wondered which was worse, the disease or the cure. She turned off the thought and smiled her thanks at those around her.

“This is exactly what I need.” She picked up the burger and bit into it. “Mmm.” After chewing and swallowing, she touched her fingertips to the corners of her mouth and said, “I prefer my cheeseburgers with mayonnaise.”

Chuckling, Morgan Chatam pushed up to his full height. “Mayo coming up.”

“And a napkin, please.”

“And a napkin.”

While he went off to fetch those things for her, she turned to sit sideways on the chaise. Her uncle Chester handed her a soft drink, nodding and moving off without so much as a glimmer of identification. Simone felt a pang of disappointment, but perhaps it was for the best. She couldn’t think of that now. The Chatam ladies stayed with her until Morgan returned with his own meal in hand. As they moved off, he sat down beside her, placed his drink on the ground and handed her a plastic knife, indicating the glob of white on his plate.

“Mayonnaise.” While she slathered the condiment onto her hamburger bun, he plucked paper napkins from a pocket and dropped several into her lap. “And napkins.”

“I thank you.” She bowed her head at him, adding, “And I apologize. I forget to eat, and I don’t always get as much sleep as I should.”

“And that’s all it is?”

“It’s certainly not an eating disorder,” she said with a wry chuckle, adding, “It probably didn’t help that I walked over here in the heat.”

“In that case,” he said, “I’ll be driving you home.”

“Oh, that’s not nece—”

“I’ll be driving you home,” he repeated, making it clear that the matter was not open for discussion.

She subsided at once, but it rankled. At twenty-six, Simone had been on her own for almost a decade. If anyone could claim the title of “adult,” then she could. She certainly wasn’t proud of being the black sheep of the family. She had run away from home at the tender—and stupid—age of sixteen, but she had survived. It had been a near thing at times, and she wasn’t always proud of how she had managed, but no one at the college needed to know that. Her family was another matter.

She’d intended to confess all to her dad and hope, trust, that he could forgive her. He’d been good like that, always willing to extend another chance. Her mother had seen that as weakness, and to her shame, Simone had, too, but she’d learned otherwise over the years. Now that it didn’t matter.

Grief loomed. She shoved it away. She had no right to it. Later, she would decide what to do.

After eating most of the food she’d been given, she shook her head and handed over the plate. “That’s all I can manage.”

Morgan Chatam stacked the plate atop his empty one and set both on the end of the chaise. “Good enough. Perhaps you’d like to go inside where it’s cool now and rest for a bit.”

“That sounds great.”

She got to her feet, as steady as could be. He lifted a hand and she preceded him back to the house, saying, “About that cousin of yours, the one who married the widow...”

“Phillip? What about him?”

“You said something about a business.”

“That’s right. Smartphone apps.”

Simone couldn’t help smiling. Yes, that sounded like her sister, Carissa. Tom, Carissa’s husband—first husband—had studied computer science, and Carissa had always been fascinated by the subject. Poor Tom. It was hard to believe that he, too, had died.

“And do they live around here? Phillip and...his wife?”

“They do. They bought a house and set up an office less than a mile away.”

“That’s nice.”

She and Carissa had never been the closest of sisters, but Simone was glad to know that Carissa was doing well. Now that their dad was gone and Carissa had married into the Chatam family, however, she wasn’t likely to want her black sheep little sister around, especially if her full history should be uncovered. And it surely would be. The Guillands, her in-laws, had uncovered it quite easily.

After that, nothing could convince them that she was good enough for their precious son. “A diseased street kid” who could not even give them the grandchild they so desperately wanted was not a fit wife for the Guilland family heir. Simone didn’t really blame them for having her marriage to their son annulled, any more than she would blame her sister for turning away from her in shame. So why even give Carissa the chance? Why put Carissa through that?

It seemed to Simone that even her dreams of home and reconciliation had died.

Chapter Two

Morgan reached around Simone to open the sunroom door. “Let me show you someplace comfortable to wait out of the heat.”

“All right.”

He led her through the sunroom and down a darkened back hallway to a large room filled with comfy overstuffed furniture and a large flat-screen TV.

“The family parlor,” he said. “There are video games, if you’re interested.”

She cut a glance at him, quipping, “That’s not what I expected to hear. Then again, you’re not exactly the typical college professor.”

He laughed. “You just haven’t seen me in my tweed jacket with the suede patches on the elbows.”

She smiled at that. “Sounds rather old school. Seems to me that college professors these days are either eccentric or ultraprofessional types.”

“Well, history professors are a different breed.”

“Yes, but you don’t fit that mold, either.”

He grinned and for some reason that he couldn’t explain even to himself, he prodded her for a personal opinion. “No?” He spread his arms then folded them. “How would you label me, then? Be kind, now.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, obviously trying to size him up, and he was aware of his heartbeat beginning to accelerate. “If I didn’t know and had to guess, I’d say...race car driver.”

His jaw dropped, but he quickly snapped it shut again. She had to be putting him on, of course. His predilections were well-known around campus.

“That’s funny.” He laughed, but it sounded forced even to his own ears. “But it’s motorcycles. Not race cars.”

“You’re kidding.”

He didn’t appreciate her attempt to play stupid. Oddly disappointed, he turned and walked out. Everyone knew that speed was his greatest weakness, his great indulgence. Sports cars, motorcycles, fast boats, even roller coasters were his idea of FUN, writ large and in capital letters. Some of his family gave him a hard time about it, but he was skillful, careful and respectful of the laws, saving his true exploits for the racetrack. Next to moving fast, he liked tinkering and kept a fleet of vehicles, one for every purpose. More than one young miss had tried to use his fascination with horsepower to spark a more personal fascination. That this one appeared to take the opposite approach somehow unnerved him.

Then again, everything about her unnerved him, and he couldn’t quite figure out why. He’d been struck by the sight of her sitting alone at that table in the sunroom. Then, when she’d passed out, dropping right into his arms...he’d never quite experienced anything like that. It hadn’t been panic, really, or even shock; it was more...a heightened awareness, a deep physical connection overlaid by concern for her well-being and something else he could only describe as possessiveness. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all, but something about Simone Guilland drew him. Hopefully, she hadn’t noticed.

He kept an eye on her, wandering in and out of the house regularly. She didn’t move from the couch. A few others went inside and joined her, making use of the video games he’d spoken of earlier. She chatted with them and cheered them on as they played, her husky voice seeming to deepen with use until the sound of it flayed his skin like velvet lashings and set his nerves on edge.

The party began to break up about dusk, as it was meant to. As usual, many hands made short work of the cleanup. Morgan could always count on his faculty in the History Department to pitch in and help. With Hilda and Chester overseeing everything, they were finished in no time at all. Still, dark had descended by the time he escorted Simone out to the two-seater parked beneath the porte cochere on the west end of the house. He’d treated himself to the Valencia-orange convertible when he’d made department chair last year. The BMW Z4 was a sharp, fast, classy bit of self-indulgence for which he refused to feel guilty. He worked hard, after all, tithed religiously, gave generously and spent what was left as he pleased. Simone dropped down into the passenger seat, her eyebrows rising, and fastened her safety belt as he strode around the front end to take his place behind the steering wheel.

“Am I going to regret this?” she asked cheekily.

He couldn’t help grinning as he put the transmission in gear. “Nope. I am, if I do say so myself, an excellent driver.”

“Modest, too,” she quipped, then she laughed outright at his look of dismay. He found himself laughing with her. He was rather proud of his driving skills.

After backing out, he drove the sports car sedately down the looping drive and south through town the dozen or so blocks to the university district. She directed him to a three-story boardinghouse on the north edge of the university campus. It was a ramshackle place, some forty or fifty years old. Once a dignified family home, it had long ago devolved to seedy, its large, airy rooms broken into small cells with common bathrooms on each story and a central living space and utilitarian kitchen on the ground floor. The yard had been paved over to provide parking, and bicycles and skateboards crowded the warped porch.

Morgan had been inside many times. While single men and women were never allowed to share living space in buildings on campus, the school had no control over off-campus housing. Typically, these three-story boardinghouses hosted men on the top story and women on the middle one, with the bottom floor reserved for common rooms. These places tended to be loud and run-down and catered to the poorest students living on the smallest of stipends. Just now, loud music poured from the building.

“We have a resident praise band,” she said wryly, explaining the music.

“No wonder you haven’t been getting much sleep.”

She shrugged. “They’re good people, and this is all I can afford on my wages.”

Morgan hated to think of quiet, physically fragile Simone here. However spunky she might be, he sensed shadows and sadness in her, trouble and need. It was his job to help her, if he could. That’s what faculty advisers at Buffalo Creek Bible College did. He’d had his share of troubled students. Christian colleges were not immune from the ills of society; perhaps the effects were mitigated somewhat, but the world was still the world, and Christians still had to cope with it. If she had been raised through the foster care system, as he suspected, he might be able to find resources for her of which she was unaware.

“Where do you work?”

“At the Campus Gate Coffee House.”

He knew it well. The proprietors were friends, and he ate breakfast there at least once a week. Located just across the street from the west gate to the campus, it was a very popular place.

She reached for the door handle, saying, “It doesn’t pay much, but when I’ve finished school, I won’t owe a dime to anyone.”

“Well, that’s a definite plus,” he told her, “but perhaps you should think about applying for a grant or a small loan.”

She shook her head. “That’s not for me.” With that she let herself out of the car, saying, “Thank you for the ride, Professor Chatam.”

Morgan frowned at the way she dismissed his suggestion so casually, but she was already moving away from the car. “Take care of yourself,” he called. “See you in class on Wednesday.”

“I’ll be there,” she promised, waving as she hurried up the walk to the house.

As he drove away, Morgan made a mental vow to keep track of her. He wasn’t yet convinced that she didn’t have an eating disorder. He’d seen bulimia more than once, not usually in young women from foster homes, though. He’d hate to see something like that derail Simone’s education—and it wouldn’t do to let an inappropriate attraction distract him from his duty. That wouldn’t do at all.

* * *

Simone closed the flimsy door of her shabby room and sagged against it. The beat of the bass guitar echoed up the stairwell from the floor below and throbbed inside her aching skull. The narrow bed against the far wall called to her, but she went to the laptop computer atop the rickety desk in the corner and turned it on. That, a pair of low, sparsely filled bookcases, a small lamp, a trash can, an oval rug, a pair of curtains and a desk chair comprised the furnishings of the room. It was little to show for nearly a decade, but such things had ceased to matter to her in a hospital bed in a cancer ward in Baton Rouge.

Without Morgan Chatam to distract her, she could no longer contain her need to know what had happened to her family. A simple internet search brought up her father’s obituary on the computer screen.

Marshall Doyal Worth, fifty-seven, had died on June 20 after a long illness. An old photo of him as a young man, one of her favorites, accompanied the text. Survivors included his mother, listed as Eileen L. Davenport Worth; his older brother, Chester; sister-in-law, Hilda; two daughters, Carissa, of the home, and Lyla—no residence mentioned—grandsons Nathan and Tucker; granddaughter Grace; a niece and a nephew; and several great-nieces and nephews. Marshall had died, it would seem, from cancer, as it was requested that memorials be made in the form of donations to fund research.

Obviously, cancer ran in the family.

At least Carissa and her children had been living with Marshall at the end, so he hadn’t been alone. Tears flowed from her eyes as Simone folded her arms across the edge of the desk and lowered her aching head to pray.

“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry. Please tell my daddy that I’m sorry. It’s too late. I left it too late. I thought I was doing the right thing by coming here now, but maybe I shouldn’t have done it. Show me what to do now, and forgive me. Please forgive me.”

She had more than nine years of “forgive me” stacked up, nearly a decade of penance to pay and mistakes to undo. And now it was too late. With her father gone, what was the point in coming here? Carissa wasn’t likely to want anything to do with her now.

Poor Carissa, to have lost Tom and then to have nursed their dad through cancer all on her own.... No, Carissa wasn’t likely to want anything to do with her wayward little sister now. And who could blame her? Tom had been Carissa’s high school sweetheart. She’d never showed any interest in any other guy. How tough it must have been for her to lose him!

Simone lifted her head and looked up Tom’s obituary. Four years. He had died in an accident of some sort more than four years ago.

Her tears became sobs of grief and shame and regret. Once started, she couldn’t seem to stop them, not even when she impulsively looked up the wedding announcements in the local newspaper and saw a photo of Carissa and her beautiful children posed with a tall, ruggedly handsome, dark-haired man with the Chatam cleft chin. Carissa looked a little older, more capable, healthy and quite stunning.

“Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Chatam,” the caption read, “and family.”

The article beneath detailed that the couple had been “united in holy wedlock” on Friday, August 8, at Chatam House, the home of the groom’s aunts, by the groom’s uncle, Hubner Chatam Jr. Maid of honor was Dallas Chatam, sister of the groom.

Simone felt a pang at that. She had been the maid of honor at Carissa’s marriage to Tom, but she hadn’t been here when Carissa had buried Tom or their father or when she’d married Phillip Chatam. Simone hadn’t even known that she had a niece and nephews. Carissa had been pregnant when Simone had left, but she hadn’t given that much thought at the time. All things considered, that was probably best. Simone tore her gaze away from the photo of the children and continued reading.

Asher Chatam, brother of the groom, had served as best man. The bride was given in marriage by her uncle, Chester Worth. The happy couple’s parents were listed as the late Marshall Worth and Alexandra Hedgespeth and the doctors Murdock Chatam and Maryanne Burdett Chatam.

“Hedgespeth,” Simone murmured, swiping ineffectually at her tears. That was a new one. She couldn’t help wondering how many other last names and husbands her mother had claimed in the past nine years.

Simone hadn’t expected life to stand still in Buffalo Creek while she was gone. It certainly hadn’t stood still for her. But she hadn’t expected this.

Her dad had been only fifty-seven, and Tom had been in his thirties. So young.

Fresh tears gushed from her eyes. She cried for her father, for her late brother-in-law, for Carissa and her children, but she refused to cry for herself. She knew only too well what her dad must have suffered and could only hope that Tom had not suffered anything similar. What Carissa had endured Simone could only imagine. At the same time, Simone prayed, hoped, that Alexandra had not spent the intervening years flitting from man to man, demanding that everyone stop and think of her, put her needs and desires first. Yet that new last name, Hedgespeth, suggested that her mother had not mended her self-indulgent ways. That meant that Carissa had, indeed, dealt with it all alone.

Could Carissa ever forgive her only sister for abandoning her to deal with such tragedies and their demanding mother alone? The very question so smacked of their self-absorbed mother that Simone vowed never to ask it. She had no right to ask it, no right to dump her problems and failures on the sister who had stayed to do what a good daughter should.

Carissa had happily remarried. She didn’t need a prodigal sister turning up to complicate her life just when things were going well for a change. No, it was too late for that.

It would have been better if she hadn’t come to BCBC and Buffalo Creek, but what was done was done. Aaron, her former husband—if he could be called that—had paid her tuition in full, just as she’d requested. It was all Simone had asked for in the settlement, a college education, and his cagey parents had seen to it that the funds they’d dispensed to be rid of her could not be used for any other reason. She had specified Buffalo Creek Bible College, and that’s where they had sent the money, so this was where she would have to attend school. That meant she would just have to keep to herself.

If her own aunt and uncle hadn’t recognized her, then it wasn’t likely that anyone except those closest to her would, at least not in her present condition. She saw no reason, then, for anyone to equate Simone Guilland with Lyla Worth—no one, that was, except her sister and mother. Those two alone might recognize her, so she would just have to keep her distance from everyone connected to either of them. That included the kind, charming and debonair Professor Morgan Chatam, even if he was her faculty adviser and she had to take his class.

It was a pity that she couldn’t take Professor Chatam’s course online again, but school policy made that difficult because she’d dropped it before without explanation. That hadn’t seemed important at the time, given the severity of the circumstances. Once she’d understood that she was moving to Buffalo Creek and would have access to the BCBC campus, she’d simply accepted that she would take the course in person. She hadn’t known then, of course, what she knew now. Still, all she could do was keep her distance and let Carissa live her life without worrying about her foolish baby sister.

Her decision to remain incognito made, Simone sat in the back of the class on Wednesday and tried to blend in with the eager young students around her.

She needn’t have bothered. Professor Chatam’s warm, cinnamon-brown gaze nailed her the moment he strode into the room. He wore that tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches about which he’d teased her, but he immediately shrugged out of it and slung it over the back of his desk chair, rolling up the sleeves of the tan pinpoint shirt that he wore with a brown tie and brown slacks. His hair seemed lighter than she’d remembered, a medium golden-brown with glints of silver, brushed straight back from the slight widow’s peak in the center of his high forehead. He took a pair of gold, half-frame reading glasses from a pocket and slid them onto his nose. Suddenly, the cleft in his chin seemed more pronounced, more compelling.

Before, at the party, he’d appeared engaging, urbane, a tad dangerous and undeniably attractive. Now he had a commanding air about him. At once authoritative and yet affable, he looked devastatingly handsome. Every girl on campus probably had a crush on him. Simone ducked her head.

Thankfully, he wasted no time in getting down to business. She’d admired his easy, informative style on his recorded lectures, but that paled in comparison to his classroom persona. Morgan Chatam, professor, held a class of seventy students rapt, imparting knowledge with such facility and precision that it became obvious he had been born for this. He didn’t just lecture, he engaged, using banter as well as media to get his points, facts and ideas across. At times, everyone seemed to be talking at once, yet he never lost control of the lecture hall, not for an instant, and he seemed aware of what everyone was doing all the time.

His memory proved phenomenal—that or he’d done some research on her since he’d seen her last. It would be flattering to think that it was the latter, so she didn’t dare, not that he gave her time.

“Ms. Guilland had an interesting observation on that point,” he said when the subject turned to a particular discussion item. Then he accurately quoted what she had written in an online chat. At the same time, he invited her to elucidate with a gesture of his hand. She cleared her throat and voiced her thoughts. Nodding, he moved on. She tried not to feel pleased when the students around her glanced her way with something akin to admiration, scribbling furiously as if her thoughts were important.

He hailed her as she followed the throng to the door at the end of class. Unlike other professors, he’d arranged his lecture hall so that the students filed past his lectern. “Simone, how are you feeling?”

“Great. Just great.”

“No more fainting?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Stay that way.”

“I plan to.”

Parked on the corner of his desk, he flashed that suave smile at her and nodded. She turned away, wishing that her heart wasn’t beating just a little faster than it ought to and that so many others weren’t following the brief conversation with such avid curiosity. The last thing she needed was speculation about her and a man, any man, but especially a Chatam. She’d had enough trouble with men in her lifetime. What she needed now was to forget that the male of the species existed. Moreover, she had to keep her distance from the Chatams and anyone else with a connection to her sister and family. All she wanted, all that was left to her, was to finish her education and make a difference in this world.

The chaplain at the hospital in Baton Rouge had told her that she had a destiny to fulfill in Christ, and she believed it with all her heart. Why else would He spare her life when all hope had seemed lost? Perhaps when He was done punishing her for past mistakes, He would make His purpose known to her. Until then, she would just have to bear up under the pain of her father’s death and the losses she had dealt herself with her own foolish, selfish behavior.

* * *

Anyone who knew Morgan Chatam well would list observation and a keen intelligence among his key virtues, so when Friday showed the opposite of marked improvement in Simone Guilland’s condition, he noticed. Her carefully applied cosmetics no longer fooled him in the least, and the neat tailoring of her cotton slacks and matching print blouse failed to disguise the fragility of the slight form that he had so effortlessly carried in his arms only days earlier. As before, she chose a seat in the rear of the room, and as before, he let her know that she was on his radar. This obviously irritated her, and that wore his much-vaunted patience surprisingly thin, so he decided to take a direct approach, asking her to stay after class.

She didn’t like it one bit. Those gray eyes stormed as she stood quietly before his desk. He let her stew a moment before dropping his glasses onto the desk blotter and leaning back in his chair to peg her with a level gaze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t ask me. You’re the one who seems to have a problem.”

She was a cheeky miss, not at all impressed by his consequence. He heaved a silent sigh, toying idly with the glasses.

“Are we going to play games, or are we going to be adults about this?”

That pointed little chin ratcheted up a notch. He might have smiled if the impulse to do so hadn’t alarmed him so. As it was, the beauty of those plump lips and that stubby little nose and those enormous gray eyes troubled him at the strangest times. He couldn’t afford to be enamored of her chin as well, not to mention her streak of stubborn independence.

“Adults mind their own business, Professor Chatam.”

“Which, as your adviser, is exactly what I’m doing, Ms. Guilland. There is something wrong with you, and I mean to find out what it is.”

He wanted Simone Guilland’s problems, whatever they were, solved; otherwise, he feared she would give him no peace.

She stared him straight in the eye, as immutable as the Sphinx, neither confirming nor denying, simply giving away nothing. He tried a different tack.

“Simone, I’m not your enemy. You have no reason to fear me.”

Yes, I do.

Though unspoken, he saw it clearly in her eyes and on her face just before she turned and headed swiftly to the door.

There she paused and glanced back, softly saying, “Thank you, but I’m as fine as I can be.”

As fine as I can be.

Morgan gnashed his teeth. Well, that was just not good enough.

Chapter Three

Rising, Morgan gathered his things and walked through the building to his department suite. His administrative assistant, Vicki Marble, sat at her desk downloading online syllabi to see who had completed the week’s reading and first assignment, due by midnight. They did everything electronically these days, which cut paperwork in half and quadrupled computer time.

“Hey, Morg.”

“Vic. What are the girls doing this weekend?”

“Shopping for prom dresses.”

“All three of them?”

“All three of them.”

“Give my condolences to Dwight. He’s a better man than me. Three teenaged daughters.” He gave a shudder just to see Vicki laugh. Redheaded, freckle-faced and as plain as a mud fence, she seemed to have been born good-natured and laughing, as well as efficient and organized. Her husband and astonishingly beautiful daughters adored her. “Speaking of Dwight,” he said, “I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

Dwight Marble worked in the provost’s office, handling admissions. Morgan explained what he needed then went into his office, closed the door and sat down at his desktop computer. Quickly, he brought up Simone’s complete file.

She was older than he’d assumed—twenty-six as of the twentieth of this past August. She had completed her undergraduate work—all but his class—in Colorado and via remote study in Baton Rouge. Her next of kin was listed as Laverne Davenport Worth, whose address was in Fort Worth. The name Worth struck a chord with him, given that Hilda and Chester Worth comprised two-thirds of the staff at Chatam House. The name was fairly common in the area, however, and he’d never heard any mention of a Laverne, so he discounted any connection, especially when he read that the Guilland family, of Baton Rouge, had paid Simone’s tuition in full, for the entire course of her graduate degree, via an unusual trust account.

Morgan sat back in his chair with a thump. He had seen scholarships and endowments of every variety, but he’d never seen anything like this. What on earth was going on here? He decided that he’d be eating breakfast at the Campus Gate Coffee House, where Simone worked, bright and early the next morning, and at some point he was going to have a frank discussion with Simone Guilland.

How much he looked forward to that breakfast at the Campus Gate Coffee House troubled Morgan all that evening. He told himself that he was just doing his duty by pigeonholing Simone Guilland, but he couldn’t quite convince himself. He’d gone to greater lengths for other students. Why, he’d driven one young man all the way to California and enjoyed a delightful summer respite with his aunt Dorinda Latimer and her family while he was at it. Still, he’d never lain awake in the night picturing another student’s face or remembering how his heart had quivered with the flutter of her eyelashes as she’d regained consciousness after he’d carried her limp body in his arms.

He was quite put out with himself by the time he tucked his newspaper under his arm and slid into the Beemer around nine the next morning. He’d meant to be up and about earlier, but his restlessness had made for a late night. Besides, by his estimation, the coffee shop shouldn’t be too busy on a Saturday morning.

Wrong. The place was popping when he arrived, so much so that he had to park around the corner and walk nearly a block. All of the al fresco tables were taken, he noted as he pushed his way inside and caught the eye of the owner and manager, Frank Upton. He’d hoped to have a quiet word with the fellow. Instead, he got a nod and a point in the direction of a tiny table at the end of the bakery counter where Frank usually did his paperwork.

“Be glad to visit if you have a minute.”

“Sure. If I have a minute.”

Shaking his head, Morgan walked over to the table. A cup of steaming-hot black coffee and a small cruet of cold cream laced with cinnamon appeared almost as soon as he sat down. He smiled at the waitress, Frank’s wife, Loretta.

“Simone will be over to take your order in a moment.”

“She’s here, then?”

“Simone? Yes. You know her?”

“She’s one of my students. Tell me, is she all right?”

Loretta shrugged her ample shoulders. “I assume so. She’s a quiet one, never complains. Gets right to work. Stays busy. She’s awfully tired at the end of her shift, but that’s not surprising, a little thing like her.”

“I hope that’s all it is,” Morgan muttered, opening his newspaper.

Loretta went off to manage the coffee counter, and presently Simone showed up, clad in blue jeans, a bright orange T-shirt and a yellow apron.

“Professor Chatam.” She produced an order pad from an apron pocket. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have one of those crusty cinnamon muffins and a couple hard-boiled eggs.”

“Coming right up.”

She swept off, returning moments later with a gargantuan muffin and two peeled eggs in a bowl.

“Loretta says the coffee is on the house,” she said, slapping down the ticket.

“It always is,” he told her with a smile, hoping to engage her in a moment’s conversation, but she was off again before he could explain that he and Frank had been friends since high school.

He drank his cup down and signaled for a refill, which she promptly delivered, then she was off again, her slender arms laden with trays bearing plates filled with food. Morgan tried to read his newspaper, but he couldn’t help being aware of her as she zipped around the room, which became even more crowded as the hour wore on. Morgan ate his eggs and his muffin and read his newspaper, but Frank didn’t find a moment to leave the till or Simone a minute to chat.

Just at the point of giving up, Morgan folded his paper and drained his cup for the final time when he heard a crash and an exclamation. His heart leaping, he somehow knew what had happened. He didn’t remember getting to his feet or crossing the room; he would never understand how he knew where to look for her among all the tables and people, but suddenly he knelt beside Simone’s crumpled form. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, she lay sprawled and bent, her joints at odd angles. Her dark, chestnut-brown eyelashes curled thick and long against the pale orbs of her cheeks. She had a delicate, wounded look, her short hair wisping about her face.

“Simone,” Morgan whispered, his heart in his throat, but she didn’t so much as flutter an eyelid. “Call an ambulance,” he instructed in a loud voice. Then he pulled out his own phone and dialed Brooks Leland, his best friend and the finest physician he knew.

As the phone rang, he prayed. Let her be okay. Please, Lord, let her be okay.

After insisting that the good doctor leave a patient to speak to him, Morgan filled Brooks in on what he knew of Simone’s physical situation, which wasn’t much. Then he badgered Brooks into meeting him at the emergency room. By the time he’d convinced the doctor to abandon the patients waiting to keep their appointments and walk across the street to the hospital, the ambulance had arrived and Simone was rousing. Morgan forbade her from so much as sitting up then waved over the emergency medical personnel.

It seemed to him that they took their precious time getting the story, checking her vitals and loading her into the ambulance, but eventually Morgan found himself following the ambulance to the hospital in his car. No sooner did they arrive, however, than Brooks Leland threw Morgan out of the examining room. Not only that, he refused to discuss the first thing about the case with Morgan, citing HIPAA laws. Morgan couldn’t believe it.

“I called the ambulance! Well, I had it called. I’ve been with her twice when this happened.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not family. You’re out.”

Horrified and angry, Morgan called Simone’s next of kin after getting the number from the college. The number turned out to be a place called Pleasant Acres, a retirement home or perhaps even a nursing home, from the sound of it. But they weren’t giving out any information, either. All they would tell him was that Laverne Worth couldn’t come to the telephone. Morgan decided against leaving a message at that time, hung up and paced the waiting area until Brooks deigned to summon him.

A few years younger and a couple inches taller than Morgan, Brooks wore lab coat and stethoscope, white tie and tails or blue jeans and boots with the same easy aplomb. Shocking silver temples and eyes the color of Spanish gold set off his dark, wavy hair. Fit, unfailingly pleasant and hardworking, Brooks was a hard man to hate, as Morgan well knew.

“What is going on?” Morgan demanded, relieved to see Simone sitting up on the gurney, color once more returned to her cheeks.

She looked away, leaving explanations to Brooks. Morgan parked his hands at his waist, waiting. The doctor leaned against the tiny counter behind him, crossed his legs at the ankle and folded his arms.

“We’ve reached an agreement, Ms. Guilland and I. She needs rest, good nutrition and time.”

“She’ll get it,” Morgan promised, just as if he had a right to do so.

Brooks smiled and looked down at his toes. “She needs to take a minimum of two weeks off work.”

“I did not agree to that,” Simone stated calmly, shaking her head. “I have rent to pay.”

Morgan ignored her, saying, “She’ll move in with my aunties.”

“No!” Simone erupted. Both men ignored her, for she couldn’t possibly understand how often the Chatam sisters took in needy guests.

Brooks nodded, saying, “That did occur to me. And when I say a minimum of two weeks, I do mean that as a bare minimum. Four or six weeks would be better.”

Simone shifted on the gurney. “I cannot possibly—”

“She’s been working at the Campus Gate,” Morgan told Brooks. “I’ll speak to Frank and Loretta as soon as I get her settled at Chatam House.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Simone insisted. “I can’t possibly quit my job and move in with your aunts.”

“You can,” Morgan told her firmly, “and you will if you want to stay in school.”

Those storm-gray eyes blazed fire at him, but Morgan just turned his attention back to Brooks. “Her condition won’t prevent her from attending classes and mastering her studies, will it?”

Brooks shook his head. “No. She can manage school, if she takes care of herself.”

Morgan felt a rush of relief, but it was short-lived as he realized that something was, indeed, wrong with her. He moved to the side of her bed and took her hand in his. “Can’t you trust me now with whatever is ailing you?”

She tilted her lovely head, but then her gaze fell away and she reclaimed her hand. “I keep telling you, I’m fine. I just need time.”

Morgan folded his arms. “All right, have it your way, but you’re coming with me to Chatam House, and that’s final.”

“It really is the best solution,” Brooks put in.

“Not for me,” she argued hotly.

“Yes, for you,” Morgan assured her. “My aunties have taken in many strangers in far more troubling circumstances, believe me.”

“You don’t understand,” Simone told them. “I cannot go to Chatam House.”

“It’s Chatam House or the hospital,” Brooks said bluntly. “Look, you’ll have plenty of privacy, excellent food and all the time you need to regain your strength. What more could you ask for?” He pulled a prescription pad from the pocket of his lab coat and went on briskly. “Now then, I’m going to write you a couple scrips. One, the blue pills, I’ve already given you, and you’ll start to feel the effects soon. You’ll only need those for a few days. They’ll help you rest. The other we’ve already discussed.” He began scribbling away on the pad.

Simone groaned as if she bore the weight of the world on her slender shoulders. It was all Morgan could do not to gather her into his arms and croon words of reassurance, but BCBC had strict policies about the conduct of professors and students, particularly when it came to professors with their students. If she moved into Chatam House, though, the aunties could take care of her, and he could relax.

Maybe then he could get her off his mind once and for all.

* * *

The waiflike creature her nephew Morgan ushered into the front parlor had intrigued Hypatia Chatam from the first moment she’d seen him cradling the young woman in his arms nearly a week earlier. She appeared exhausted if not actually ill and quite achingly beautiful.

“Take this chair,” Morgan said to her, all but bullying the child onto the gold-on-gold-striped seat of the occasional chair before the fireplace. Except, of course, she was no child, this Simone Guilland, but a woman, however slight and fragile, and Morgan, unless Hypatia missed her guess, was quite struck by her. Interesting. And worrisome.

Morgan was a confirmed bachelor and had been since his former fiancée had broken their engagement and married his best friend. Hypatia mentally cataloged all the ways that Simone Guilland differed from Brigitte Squires Leland. Brigitte had appeared fit and wholesome, a tall, lithe, shapely woman with long blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes. A nurse, Brigitte had laughed readily, bantering with Morgan and Brooks like one of the boys but remaining very much a lady. She’d been a woman who seemed to know her own mind and heart. What a pity she’d broken off her engagement to Morgan and married Brooks.

Hypatia had thought for sure that would be the end of a lifelong friendship, but Brigitte’s death just over two years later had brought Morgan and Brooks together again. To Hypatia’s knowledge, neither of them had been seriously involved with another woman since. Now here stood Morgan, hovering over delicate, dainty, big-eyed Simone as if he’d protect her from the whole wide world.

“Magnolia, dear, would you ask for the tea tray?” Hypatia said, deciding that a bit of sustenance would do them all good with lunch still some time away. Despite giving her a sour look, Magnolia went off as asked. Their sister Odelia had accompanied her husband, Kent, on a visit to his great-grandbaby and their great-niece, Marie Ella, the daughter of Kent’s granddaughter Ellie and her husband, Asher Chatam, their nephew. They weren’t expected until after the normal luncheon hour, so the sisters had agreed to hold back the midday meal. Hypatia made small talk with Morgan until Magnolia returned to take a seat on the settee across the piecrust table from her.

“Now, then, Morgan, Miss Guilland, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“We’ve just come from the hospital, Aunt Hypatia,” Morgan informed her, “and Brooks says that Simone must have rest, good nutrition and peace and quiet for at least two weeks, and preferably six.”

“Oh, dear!” Magnolia exclaimed.

“It’s a great deal of bother about nothing, I assure you,” Simone said quickly, sitting forward on her chair.

Morgan sent the girl a quelling glance. “She fainted again.”

“It was a busy morning. I’ve had a stressful week. Things will settle down.”

“Her rooming house is one of those noisy, crowded conversions just off campus. One of those praise bands that plays at the campus chapel lives there. You know the sort.”

Hypatia couldn’t help smiling, as God must smile whenever those young people lifted their raucous music in praise of Him. “I do indeed.” She looked to her sister then, understanding what was needed now. “I imagine they practice all hours of the day and night.” She looked to Simone, smiling. “It must be great fun, but you can’t be getting much sleep.”

Simone opened her mouth as if to protest, but she obviously couldn’t deny the truth of the matter. Finally, she said, “I don’t want to impose on anyone.”

Magnolia snorted. “Don’t be silly. We have ten bedrooms here, and that doesn’t include the carriage house, where the staff live. A quiet little thing like you will hardly be noticed. Our last guests were a lovely lady and her three children. Now, they made themselves known.”

“And we grew so fond of them that we decided to keep them,” Hypatia added. “Our nephew Phillip married the lady, you see.”

Simone ducked her head. “I heard that, yes.”

Hypatia sent a twinkling glance at Magnolia. “I think the east suite is the most private, don’t you?”

“A suite?” Simone yelped.

Magnolia pursed her lips, obviously onto Hypatia’s little ploy. “I don’t suppose she has any use for two bedrooms, though,” Magnolia mused. “The bed-sit combo beneath the attic stairs ought to work just fine.”

“Oh, yes,” Simone chimed in eagerly. “That sounds fine.”

Hilda came in with the tea tray just then, allowing Hypatia to hide her smile of satisfaction. Simone seemed to shrink in on herself, but she perked up again after the tea was poured and Magnolia passed her a plate filled with finger sandwiches, cookies and Hilda’s famous ginger muffins. Simone nibbled at first, but once Morgan sat down next to Magnolia, filled a plate for himself and got to talking, Simone quickly ate everything on her plate and drained her cup without even realizing what she was doing. It was obvious to Hypatia that Simone hung on Morgan’s every word, as so many of his students did. Was a crush developing? When she sat back and swiped a hand across her brow, however, Hypatia felt a curl of a different kind of concern.

“I think it’s time our new houseguest took a nice, long nap.”

Morgan set aside his plate and rose at once. “Let us take you upstairs.”

Simone nodded, a sign, to Hypatia’s mind, of just how weary and weak she was. The girl rose and walked toward the door, thanking Hypatia and Magnolia.

“You’re very kind.”

“It’s our pleasure to be kind,” Hypatia told her. Both she and Magnolia rose to follow along. “It’s just across the foyer and up the stairs.”

“I—I don’t have anything with me,” Simone said as she crossed the parlor and then the foyer.

“That’s quite all right,” Hypatia said. “I’ll be glad to loan you some things until you can pack your bags.”

“I’m really not planning to stay for long,” she murmured at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the ceiling.

“We’ll leave that to God, shall we?” Hypatia suggested gently, smiling at the blue sky, wafting clouds, fluttering white feathers and the suggestion of sunshine that the unknown artist had created on the vestibule ceiling overhead. She looked down in time to see Morgan nudge the girl, a hand under her elbow.

Simone sucked in a deep breath and started to climb. After only four or five steps, she faltered, bowing and gulping for breath.

“I’m sorry. I seem to be light-headed all the time lately.”

She took another step and another, sinking lower with each one. Magnolia placed a hand on Hypatia’s arm, and the sisters traded glances.

With the next step, Morgan swept Simone up into his arms.

“I can walk,” she protested feebly. “Just give me a few minutes.”

“Hush,” he told her, climbing the stairs steadily.

Again, the sisters traded looks. Morgan was a scholar, a mature, disciplined, moral man with a strong calling, but a man, nonetheless, and very much a man, obviously.

Simone looped an arm loosely about his neck as they made the turn in the staircase, but she didn’t seem to have the strength even to hold on. Her head lolled against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” she said in a husky voice. “I thought I could manage. I really did.”

“Hush,” Morgan told her again. “Just relax.”

“Pills,” she mumbled. “Must be the pills.”

“Take her to her room,” Hypatia instructed as soon as they reached the landing. “I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

Rushing to her own room in the suite that she shared with Magnolia at the front of the house, Hypatia grabbed a pair of her own pajamas and hurried across the upstairs to the combination sitting room and bedroom tucked beneath the attic stairs, overlooking the patio and pool. Morgan had set down Simone on the royal-blue velveteen sofa, his back to the curtained alcove where the four-poster bed stood. Magnolia sat beside her, patting her hand.

“Let’s get you changed and into the bed,” Hypatia said, offering the tailored navy silk pajamas that she favored. “Morgan, will you stay in case we need you?” If Simone should faint again, Hypatia wasn’t sure that she and Magnolia together could get her into bed.

“I’ll be just outside,” Morgan said.

Hypatia and Magnolia helped Simone change from her jeans and T-shirt into the silk pajamas. The child was skin and bones. And scars. Magnolia clucked her tongue, but neither she nor Hypatia said a word. Hypatia’s heart bled for what she saw, however, for what she knew the child had been through. She had to button the top for Simone, and it hung on her, much too large. Nevertheless, it would have to do. After gently herding their new houseguest to the bed, Hypatia folded back the covers, and she and Magnolia aided as best they could while Simone laboriously climbed beneath the bedspread and top sheet.

“Thank you,” she whispered, tears of sheer exhaustion standing in her eyes.

Impulsively, Hypatia bent and kissed Simone’s ivory brow. She would spend much time in prayer for this one and, unless she missed her guess, for her nephew, too. Suddenly, she feared for Morgan. He’d lost one woman to another man and disease; Hypatia didn’t want to see any part of that scenario played out in his life again. Straightening, she called out to him.

The door opened at once, and he came striding into the room. He bent over the bed, smoothing Simone’s short hair. It struck Hypatia that she’d seen that unusual reddish-brown color before, but she couldn’t think where or on whom.

“I can trust you to rest now, can’t I?”

Simone sighed. “Yes.”

“All right. Comfortable?”

“Very,” Simone replied, stifling a yawn.

“Good. Now, stay there and sleep.”

“Yes, sir, Professor Chatam, sir.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Nodding, Simone closed her eyes and was asleep before they had tiptoed all the way across the sitting room to the door, but Hypatia waited until they were a good way along the landing before she asked, “Did you see it?”

“If you mean the scar just below her collarbone,” Morgan replied grimly, “yes. She had a chemotherapy port.”

“That would be my guess.”

“And extensive abdominal surgery,” Magnolia added softly.

Morgan sighed. “I knew something was wrong. From the way Brooks behaved, I’m guessing the cancer is behind her but that she hasn’t fully recovered her strength yet.”

“We’ll see to it that she has the peace and quiet that she needs to recover,” Hypatia promised.

They walked to the head of the stairs before he slipped his arms about each of their shoulders and said, “Have I mentioned lately that I thank God for my special aunties?”

Hypatia smiled fondly up at him. “Not lately.”

“Well, I do,” he told her with a squeeze. “Routinely. This world would be a much more difficult place without you. I’m especially thankful for you today. Simone needs a safe, quiet, comfortable haven right now.”

“She has it,” Magnolia told him.

“She has more than that,” Hypatia added. “God is going to be hearing from us routinely about Miss Simone Guilland.”

“I was counting on that,” he told her with a smile.

“As you should. Now, will you stay to lunch?”

“I think I just might,” he agreed, winking. “After all, you’ve got the best cook in town.”

Hypatia smiled. Morgan was in and out of Chatam House all the time, and he often stayed for meals. Hypatia wondered if they’d be seeing him even more often now that Simone Guilland was in residence, however. She only hoped that it wouldn’t lead to heartbreak. He’d already lost two women he’d loved to cancer—his stepmother and the woman he’d intended to marry. Surely God wouldn’t raise that number.

Would He?

Chapter Four

An itch pulled her out of a dense fog and into a feeling of light. Only as she stirred in an effort to reach that place between her shoulder blades where the skin begged to be scratched did she come to realize that she was awakening from sleep. Rolling onto her back with a little noise of exasperation, she wiggled her shoulders to alleviate that bothersome niggle once and for all, only to find herself assailed with a fearful disorientation.

This was not her bed, not the too-hard mattress in the boardinghouse, not the thin, lumpy pad in the hospital, not even the cool, impersonal guest bed at the Guilland house in Baton Rouge. This was the warmest, softest, most comfortable bed she’d ever known. Simone sat up and opened her eyes in the same swift movement, and found the creams and gold and royal-blues of Chatam House all around her.

Memory came rushing back, how she had fainted at the coffeehouse, been rushed to the emergency room in an ambulance, drugged by that nice Dr. Leland and then bullied into coming here by Morgan Chatam. She vaguely recalled her aunt bringing in a tea tray at some point and gobbling down those delicious ginger muffins that had been such a highlight of her childhood, and she vividly remembered being carried up the stairs by Morgan Chatam. College professors weren’t supposed to be that strong and fit, that masculine. They were supposed to be bookish and stuffy and...not wildly attractive.

She flopped down onto the pillows with a huff. Her life wasn’t going at all according to plan. When had it ever?

No matter. She felt fully recovered now. In fact, she felt wonderful. And ravenous. It was time to go home and back to work. Or possibly to class.

She looked around for a clock and found the backpack that she carried in lieu of a handbag on the nightstand next to the four-poster bed. Evidently, someone had fetched it from the coffeehouse. Reaching inside the partially unzipped front pocket, she pulled out her seldom-used cell phone and flicked the screen with her thumb. Six a.m. Oh, my. Apparently she had slept nearly around the clock. No wonder she was so hungry. A casual glance at the calendar icon brought her bolt upright in bed again.

Monday! Monday? How could it be Monday? That would mean that she’d slept completely through Saturday and Sunday.

“You were more tired than you thought,” said an amused voice.

Simone jerked to her right. At the same time, she grabbed for the covers, yanking them up around her throat. Hypatia Chatam smiled at her from the wing chair at her bedside. Garbed in a white silk dressing gown piped in navy and matching pajamas, she had caught her long, silver hair at the nape of her neck with a narrow white ribbon.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you. We were concerned because you slept so long and thought someone should sit with you.”

Clapping a hand over her galloping heart, Simone huffed out a relieved breath. “I’m so sorry to have worried you.”

“It’s of no matter. You look much refreshed. I’ll have your breakfast sent up. You can shower and dress whenever you like, and Chester will drive you over to the rooming house to pack your belongings.”

“No!” Simone insisted automatically. The last thing she wanted was for her uncle to drive her around town. “That is, I—I should be going to class. Dr. Leland said particularly that I am able to attend school a-and master my studies.”

Hypatia inclined her head. “In that case, I’ll call Morgan.”

Simone opened her mouth to protest but could think of no better option, so she closed it again.

“Your clothing has been laundered and put away,” Hypatia informed her, rising from the chair. “You’ll find toiletries in the bathroom. Is there anything else you need at the moment?”

Escape, Simone thought. She said, “No, thank you.”

Nodding, Hypatia moved toward the foot of the bed. “As you’ve been working in a coffeehouse, I take it you drink the stuff.”

“Yes, of course, but if you don’t mind, I prefer tea this morning. My stomach’s been empty too long, I think, for coffee.”

Hypatia beamed at her. “I prefer tea every morning. It is more soothing, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” Simone said.

“I’m sure you would know,” Hypatia told her kindly before turning away.

That comment seemed a little odd, but Simone put the thought aside for the moment. Slipping from the high bed, she padded on bare feet to the antique dresser, surprised to find her legs a little shaky. A few moments later, as she undressed to shower in the small but richly appointed bath, she glanced up into the mirror and saw the many scars that she bore on her too-thin body. She hazily recalled undressing in front of the Chatam sisters, and a little shiver of foreboding went through her. Her secrets, she feared, were no longer entirely her own.

Returning to the outer chamber minutes later, dressed and clean, she felt strong but starved. The sight of Hypatia fussing over a heavily laden round tray was welcome indeed. Simone gave her short hair a final rub before draping the towel over the back of the nearest chair. She plopped herself onto the seat and surveyed the contents of the tray in wonder. Fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, toast, fruit salad, apple juice, a pot of tea and two cups, butter, jelly and—unless her nose and memory deceived her—Aunt Hilda’s famous ginger muffins, warm from the oven.

“I hope you didn’t carry this upstairs yourself,” she declared, quickly filling one of a pair of delicate china plates.

“No, no. We are blessed with a dumbwaiter just along the landing,” Hypatia told her. “When you are done here, we’ll send everything back downstairs, and anytime you want anything from the kitchen, all you have to do is call down.” She pointed to the bedside table, where she had laid a paper with telephone numbers written on it. A sharp rap on the door had her bustling in that direction. “That will be Morgan,” she said over her shoulder. “He was already on his way when I phoned.”

As Simone realized for whom that second plate was intended, her stomach fluttered. She told herself that it was hunger, but she was not as good at lying to herself as she had used to be. Morgan came through the door wearing khakis and a collared knit shirt about the same color of rusty brown as his eyes. He carried a disposable cup of coffee in one hand and seemed as cheery and robust as it was possible to be before seven in the morning.

“Good morning, all.” He bent to give his aunt a kiss on the cheek before nodding to Simone. “You look well rested.”

She touched her damp hair self-consciously, murmuring, “I should.”

He chuckled as his aunt reached for the extra teacup. “Since you brought coffee,” she said, “I’ll just help myself to some tea, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do,” Simone replied.

At the same time, Morgan pulled out the other chair, saying, “Allow me.”

Hypatia waved away the chair, chose a muffin and wandered toward the sofa, teacup and saucer in hand. “No, no, don’t mind me. I’ll just relax over here while the two of you enjoy your breakfast.”

Morgan waited until she had lowered herself onto the couch, then he parked himself on the chair, rubbed his hands together enthusiastically and dove in. “Good thing I brought an appetite.”

Simone gave him a noncommittal “um” and began to eat. The eggs were delicious.

“Sour cream,” he said.

“What?”

“Hilda whips them with a dollop of sour cream,” he explained, as if reading Simone’s mind, “and parsley. I stole the recipe ages ago. At home, I add a touch of paprika and garlic powder.” He winked, deepening his voice to add, “More manly that way.”

Simone laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Don’t let Hilda hear you say that. She can’t abide garlic powder.” He straightened at that. Realizing what she’d let slip, she hastily added, “I imagine. Most real cooks can’t.”

He looked down at his plate. “Your family has cooks, do they?”

A heartbeat too late she said, “The Guillands keep three cooks, one for weekdays, which is four days a week, another for weekends, which is three days a week, and the third for special occasions.” It wasn’t a lie. The Guillands did have three cooks, and she hadn’t said that they were her family. Not anymore, anyway.

“They sound prosperous.”

She nodded, smiling slightly. He put down his fork, staring at her openly until she reached up a hand to smooth her hair again.

“You look fine,” he told her, trying to read her mind again. “The short hair becomes you.”

“Thank you. I—I sometimes think it makes me look too much like a child.” She shook her head, wondering why she’d told him that. “I, ah, used to wear it long.”

He looked down, picked up his fork again and said very casually, “Lost it to the chemotherapy, I suppose.”

And there it was. Big secret number one exposed.

She gulped, made herself stay calm and waited until he looked at her. “Yes.”

He sat back, touched a napkin to the corners of his mouth and asked, “Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

“I was afraid the college would deny my admission application if it became known that I was recovering from cancer.”

“But you’re cancer free at this time, or so I assume.”

“Yes, and I have been for nearly six months.”

“But you’re still weak and vulnerable.”

She quietly said, “I’ve had a lot of upheaval in my life.” Clamping her lips together, she looked him squarely in the eye. If he wanted anything else out of her, he’d have to pry it out with a crowbar and a scalpel. She’d said—and been through—enough. His cinnamon eyes plumbed hers for several seconds until finally he chuckled and shook his head.

“All right. Keep your own counsel. After breakfast, I’ll drive you to class, and after class, I’ll take you to the boardinghouse to pack your belongings.”

“That isn’t necessary,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m fine now. You said yourself how well rested I look.”

“And I intend for you to stay that way until you’re fully recovered.”

“But—”

“No buts, Simone,” he told her firmly. “That’s my price for keeping your health issues between us. You move in here until you are fully recovered, according to Dr. Leland and myself, or I go to the BCBC administration with a recommendation that your studies be delayed for at least a semester.”

She gasped. “That’s blackmail!”

“That’s my considered judgment as your faculty adviser.”

Curling her fists against the urge to throw something at his handsome head, she huffed out a calming breath, saying bitterly, “You leave me no choice.”

“None at all,” he admitted shamelessly. Sitting forward, he covered her hands with his much larger ones, saying, “Simone, I’m trying to help you.”

Heat rolled up her arms, melting her fists into compliant little curls and filling her with an urgent need for...comfort, protection...something. That something felt alarmingly dangerous, like every mistake she’d ever made. She pulled her hands free, sitting back and folding her arms. Frowning, he blinked at her as if trying to decide what had just happened.

Picking up his fork again, he all but growled at her, “Eat your breakfast.”

Her appetite had gone, but she cleaned her plate anyway. The sooner she regained her strength and put on some weight, the sooner she could get out of here. Hopefully that would happen before she stumbled across her sister. Perhaps, if she kept to her room here, she could avoid everyone who had any reason to know her.

Oh, Lord, let that be enough, she prayed desperately. I just can’t face Carissa now, not after everything that’s happened. Please, just give me some time to get my strength back, at least. Then...then if she hates me, maybe I can bear it.

Tears filled her eyes at the thought, but she willed them away, dug down deep for the strength that the hospital chaplain had told her was now hers and repeated silently one of the verses he had taught her from John 16.

“I have told you these things so that in Me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

Those words of Christ calmed her. She recalled how far she had come, off the streets and out of bad relationships, through life-threatening disease to earn a degree and press on for another. One day in the not-too-distant future, she would do something real and significant with her life to make up for all the pain, sorrow and foolishness of her past. Then maybe she could approach what was left of her family, confess all and show them that she could be trusted to take part in their lives once again. Then, maybe, Carissa could forgive her and they could be the kind of sisters they always should have been. But if not, Simone would have something to return to, something to give her life to, something worth laying at the feet of Christ when she joined her father in Heaven one day.

That was all she wanted now, and no handsome, overbearing, if well-meaning, college professor was going to get in her way.

* * *

Clearly, Morgan had misread Simone at their first meeting. She wasn’t interested in him. Far from it. With every door that he opened for her, every hand of assistance that he offered, she gave a twitch of her chin that practically shouted, “Stay clear! Back away!”

He’d have happily obliged her if he could have, but for some reason he felt literally compelled to watch over her. Much thanks he received for his trouble. She grumbled and groused like the petulant child he was increasingly aware she was not.

“I don’t see why I should take ski clothes to Chatam House.”

“Why leave them here when you’re not going to be staying here?”

The boardinghouse was even more shabby than Morgan recalled, but Simone’s room was as neat as a pin, perhaps because most of her clothes were of the winter variety and remained packed away in boxes.

“Why do you have so many ski clothes anyway?” he asked. “I can’t imagine that snow skiing is a big pastime around Baton Rouge.” But then, she had done most of her undergraduate work in Colorado. He wondered if she would own up to it. She did and more.

“It is possible to travel outside of Louisiana, you know,” she told him haughtily, “but as a matter of fact, I used to work on the ski slopes in Colorado. That’s where I met my husband.”

“Your husband!” Morgan yelped the words, feeling pricked and, oddly enough, betrayed.

She went pale as a sheet. “My ex-husband,” she hurriedly amended, “or whatever you call him when the marriage is annulled.”

Annulled! Morgan didn’t think he’d ever heard of an annulled marriage in this day and age. The woman was a puzzle wrapped in a mystery inside of an enigma. She put trembling hands to her head and sighed.

“Oh, now look what you’ve gone and done.” Dropping her hands, she stared at him accusingly. “There was no reason anyone had to know about that.”

“There’s nothing saying anyone does,” he told her. Anyone else, that was. Folding his arms, he prepared to wait the rest of the day for the story, if necessary.

Recognizing his resolve, Simone stamped a foot. He thought for a moment that she would explode, but she glanced at the open door—a house policy, and a wise one—and instead sighed, throwing herself down to sit on the edge of the narrow bed. Morgan pulled out the desk chair and straddled it, folding his arms across the top edge of the back.

She made a face and said, “He’s an only child from a wealthy family, used to getting his way, frankly, and...well, we had fun, so when he asked me to elope with him, I agreed. He told me up front that his parents, who were older, wouldn’t approve but that they’d change their minds when we presented them with their first grandchild.” She looked away, adding, “I actually thought I might be pregnant right away, but a routine physical exam turned up something else altogether.”

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