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Dear Reader,
I’ve wanted to write Haley’s story for quite some time, from the moment she was introduced in Bride Wanted and again in Yuletide Twins. She was the classic “always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” I hope you enjoyed seeing her dream finally come true.
My goal for this story was to portray how much we need God in all of life’s circumstances, not only when people exceed our expectations, but also when they let us down. Haley had been hurt in the past. Gavin, too, losing everything he cared about in the span of a few hours. But life often disappoints. God never does.
As always, I welcome prayer requests from my readers. Write to me at Renee Andrews, P.O. Box 8, Gadsden, AL, 35902 or through my email at [email protected] and I will gladly lift your requests to our Heavenly Father in prayer.
If you would like to keep up with me, my family, my books and my devotions online, please sign up for my newsletter and join my Facebook page: www.Facebook.com/AuthorReneeAndrews.
Blessings in Christ,
Renee
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Their Secret Baby Bond
by Stephanie Dees
Chapter One
Wynn Sheehan unlocked the back door and stepped inside the dark storage room. In less than an hour, the quiet would be overwhelmed by clanging pots, sizzling bacon, coffeepots hissing and the murmur of simultaneous conversation. For now, though, she had the Hilltop Café all to herself.
She tucked her long blond hair into a knot and started the morning checklist. Open the blinds, turn on the lights, start the first pot of coffee and the first batch of cinnamon rolls, scramble the eggs, make the batter. She’d watched her mother go through these same motions, and there was something comforting about it. No matter where she had gone, or what she had done, things here, at least, stayed the same.
Measuring flour, shortening and buttermilk, she made the biscuits from a recipe she would’ve sworn she’d long ago banished from her memory. She’d had plans, a sackful of dreams to leave this little town and make her mark on history. She was going to change the world. She’d been passionate and driven.
And naive. So unbelievably naive.
Never would she have thought she would be back at the Hilltop, or back in Red Hill Springs, for that matter, but the Wynn who left for college with stars in her eyes, never planning to come back, was gone.
She’d found herself with no choices and worse, no friends. She didn’t even know when it had happened, how she’d gotten so isolated. Well, looking back, she did know how. She’d been so focused on her job and her boss, the charismatic congressman from Virginia, that she hadn’t had time for anyone else.
She hadn’t even seen anyone else.
The timer dinged and she pulled the cinnamon rolls out of the oven, then slid the first pan of biscuits into place. Next up, the frosting for the cinnamon rolls.
By the time she got to the task of unlocking the doors, it had been an hour and a half. Six a.m. straight on the dot. And Mr. Haney and Mr. Donovan were waiting outside the door, just like they always were.
Mickey, the cook, let himself in the back door and made his way into the kitchen, lifting his apron off the hook and dropping it around his neck.
“Cutting it close, aren’t you, Uncle Mickey?”
His bushy gray eyebrows lowered even farther over his eyes. “Where’s your mother?”
“She’s out at the farm helping Claire get the kids ready for school. Joe had an emergency callout in the middle of the night. Don’t worry, I didn’t mess anything up.”
He slid his hand into a pot holder and pulled out the biscuits before sending her a sideways glance. “Never said you did, girlie. Now get out there and see what the customers want. Lanna doesn’t come in until seven today.”
Armed with a pot of coffee, Wynn rounded the counter with a smile for Mr. Haney and Mr. Donovan. “Hello there, gentlemen.”
Mr. Haney looked up from squinting at the menu, his reading glasses tucked into the front pocket of his overalls, as usual. “Well, hello, darlin’. I’m going to be back here tomorrow if I get to look at that pretty face.”
“You’re here every day, Mr. Haney.” Wynn sent him a wink, filled his mug and dropped a handful of creamers onto the table for her favorite farmer.
Mr. Donovan nodded to her as she poured his coffee. “I’ll have the blueberry pancakes.”
“Cinnamon roll and bacon on the side for me, Wynn.” Mr. Haney slid his menu back into the holder. “I don’t know why I look at the menu. I get the same thing every day.”
“I’ll keep the coffee coming.” She turned back toward the counter and discovered that when she’d been in the kitchen with Mickey a couple more men had settled in a booth toward the front.
The practiced smile firmly in place, she started toward them, her feet stumbling to a stop as she realized one of them was her brother’s friend Latham Grant. He’d practically grown up in the room next door to hers, and when they were teenagers she’d had the most miserable crush on him, one which left her stuttering over her words and tripping over nonexistent things.
They’d been friends, too, until they weren’t. She closed her eyes for a brief second. There were so many things she needed to do here, so many relationships to repair. Nothing like returning home to give you some clarity about all the people you’d hurt along the way.
She hadn’t seen him around in the month or so she’d been back. Maybe it was wishful thinking to have hoped it would stay that way. He was just as ruggedly good-looking as he always had been, with muscles from actual work and not the gym, and that lock of dark hair that curled onto his forehead as he studied the menu.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward with a brisk smile. “Hey, Latham. Good to see you again.”
He looked up, an easy grin on his face. “Wynn Sheehan. I heard you were back in town. Never thought I’d see the day.”
When he stood to hug her, tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back with a pathetic attempt at a laugh. “Yeah, neither did I.”
Those dark chocolate eyes, which had always been just a little too perceptive, narrowed in on hers.
She stepped away from him, away from the temptation to linger and rest her head on his broad shoulders, and turned to his grandfather. “Hey there, Mr. Grant. Coffee?”
“You know me too well.” The twinkle in his gray eyes matched his grandson’s. “Bertie, how is it that you never get a day older?”
She glanced at Latham, the smile on her face wavering a little bit. He shook his head just slightly.
“Good genes, I guess, Mr. Grant. You ready to order?”
He stuc
k the menu back in the top of the napkin holder. “I’ll have my regular. You know just how I like it.”
Latham cleared his throat. “We’ll both have grits and biscuits with two eggs, over easy.”
His grandpa scowled at him. “You don’t like your eggs over easy.”
“You’re right, Pop. My mistake. I definitely want mine scrambled instead.”
Wynn made a little note on the order sheet and shot them a smile. “Got it. I’ll be back around with more coffee in a few minutes.”
Wynn stuck the Grants’ order into the wheel and spun it around for Uncle Mickey before grabbing the plates for Mr. Haney and Mr. Donovan. The bell on the door jingled, the first wave of the before-school crowd coming in.
The woman in the door, Wynn’s friend Molly, had a baby drooling on one shoulder and her preschool daughter with a death grip on her hand.
“Oh, Wynn. Thank God. Here.” She shoved the baby at Wynn and ran for the bathroom with the little girl.
“Molly, wai—” Wynn stared wide-eyed at the infant in her arms. The baby stared back, big blue eyes slowly filling with tears. Wynn started swaying. “Oh, no. No, you don’t.”
A loud wail followed the tears. She gave the infant, who was rapidly turning red, an awkward pat on the back. “Come on, baby, please don’t cry. Your mama will be right back, I promise.”
Latham appeared at her side, digging in the diaper bag and coming up with a pacifier. He popped it in the baby’s mouth and she stopped crying, although she continued to stare accusingly at Wynn.
Latham laughed, a deep warm chuckle. “There you go.”
Molly returned from the bathroom, blowing her bangs off her forehead. “Whew. Never let a potty-training three-year-old wear tights. Never.”
Wynn’s pulse raced, her breath catching in her throat. She pushed the baby back into Molly’s arms and tore through the kitchen, pulling off her apron as she went. Lanna was in the office hanging up her purse. She looked up at Wynn, and the welcome on her face changed to concern. “You okay?”
“No. I’ve got to get out of here. You’ll be okay?”
“Yes, go.”
Wynn grabbed her keys off the hook and slammed out the back door, falling back against it after it closed. She dragged air into her lungs, willing herself not to pass out.
Unwanted tears, nausea, panic attack. Lost career, lost love, lost nerve. She closed her eyes, her hands settling over her belly.
The person in high school voted “most likely to change the world” had come home in shame, and now? The only thing she’d be changing was diapers.
* * *
Latham unlocked the door of the sunroom from the outside, his two German shorthair pointers bumping up against his legs. “Okay, fellas, calm down. You got a lot of work to do today, Pop?”
“It’s been kind of slow lately, but there’s always some dusting to be done.” His grandpa patted the newspaper under his arm. “I’ve always got the crossword if I get bored.”
“Okay, then. Some boxes came for you and I stacked them by the door. I’m going to work, but I’ll see you later.”
His grandfather was already pulling open the boxes to unload the same cans he’d unloaded the day before. Every night after Pop was tucked into bed, Latham took a few cans off the shelves he’d made for the sunroom, and every day Pop restocked them. The small thing made Pop feel like he was doing something useful and made Latham feel like he was doing something—anything—to make Pop’s quality of life just a little bit better.
Latham unlocked the door to the main house. The dogs tried to nose their way past him, and he nudged them back with his knee, an unnecessary act as a car in the driveway caught their full attention.
Pop’s caregiver, Fran, slammed the car door shut and shooed the dogs back toward him. “Hooligans, the lot of you. Latham, you need to teach these boys some manners.”
“Agreed,” Latham said mildly. Fran was a whole lot of bluster. “If you’d quit feeding them treats all the time, they might leave you alone. Pop’s in the sunroom, and I’ve just put a pot of coffee on for you. I’ll be in the barn for a little while, and I’ve got a couple of small jobs today. Nothing else until I teach my class at the college at five. I’ll have my cell phone on me if things change.”
“I know the drill. I’ll take him a cup of coffee and visit for a while.”
As Fran entered the kitchen door, Latham headed in the opposite direction for the barn, the dogs at his heels. He’d tucked his work space into a grassy clearing at the back of the property, surrounded by pine trees. It wasn’t unusual to come upon deer nibbling grass around the double-wide doors.
When both doors were wide open and the ceiling fans were on, he ran his hand down the reclaimed wood he was working.
The familiar earthy, pungent smell of the wood soothed his raw edges, the repetitive motions that created something out of nothing giving him a measure of peace for the things he couldn’t control. He couldn’t control Pop’s illness, but he could control this.
He could shape and mold this wood into anything he wanted. This particular piece was turning into a beautiful farm table for some folks in the next county. In the barn, things happened at his whim and will.
He’d gotten Pop appointments with the best specialists in the Southeast, and there was no medical explanation for the elderly man’s confusion, which started when Gran died unexpectedly. Nothing showed up on MRIs or CT scans.
It was as if Pop simply didn’t want to live in a world without Gran. They’d been childhood sweethearts, married at sixteen, and had never been separated. They’d owned the local grocery store and gas station that anchored the town in a gentler, slower time.
Pop and Gran had been the only constant in Latham’s life when he was a kid. His parents weren’t bad people, they just weren’t settlers. They’d moved from place to place in search of, well, Latham wasn’t sure exactly what they were in search of, but whatever it was, they hadn’t found it yet. When he got old enough to understand the gift of a place to call home, he was grateful to them for leaving him in Red Hill Springs with his grandparents.
Because he was a settler. He liked his roots deep.
He leaned in, focusing on the task at hand, not looking up until he heard a car in the drive. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t unheard of for people to drop by out here, especially since Pop had come to live with him, but it was unusual.
Latham set aside his block of sandpaper and walked to the door of the barn. Wynn Sheehan got out of her car and slammed the door, looking around. For him, he guessed.
He grabbed a rag from the wood worktable beside the door, wiping the dust from his hands as he walked to the center of the clearing. This morning she’d had her hair tied back, but now, the whole long, blond length of it lifted in the wind.
He’d known she was home, of course—the NSA had nothing on the gossip chain in Red Hill Springs, Alabama. He hadn’t seen her, though, until this morning. She was as beautiful as she had been in high school when he’d been so awed by her, he couldn’t put two words together in her presence.
She was opinionated and passionate and had a crazy understanding of the world and where she saw her place in it. He didn’t know anyone else like her, and he’d wanted to be close to her, but she was his best friend’s little sister and, as such, off-limits to the likes of him. They’d come close, once, to being more than friends, but even then he’d quickly come to understand that being rooted in this small town wouldn’t be enough for her.
One hesitant step brought her closer to him, and her eyes locked with his.
Wynn broke the contact first, looking away as a mockingbird shot toward the sky, scolding them for being in the same space.
Latham met her at the edge of her car. “It really is good to see you, Wynn.”
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s good to see you, too
. It’s been too long. I won’t stay away that long again.”
He wanted to ask her what kept her away, but they weren’t really friends anymore. “What can I do for you?”
“My mom asked me to come and give you some pictures of what she’s thinking about for the table she wants you to build for her. She could’ve texted them, but she insisted. You know Bertie.”
“I do. There’s no getting around her when she has her mind set on something. Come in. I was about to take a break. Want a Coke?”
“Water?”
He grinned. “I have that, too.”
“I didn’t even know that you were handy with a saw in high school.”
“I could’ve probably made a birdhouse in high school, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.” He looked up from the small fridge in his office—a stall with a desk made from two sawhorses and some old boards. It suited him, though.
He handed her a small bottle of water. “I didn’t start seriously working with wood until about six years ago. I moved back here to be with Pop after Gran died. I do some carpentry work and odd jobs, but there’s just not that much to do in Red Hill Springs. I needed a hobby, desperately.”
“So you just decided to build something?” She was wandering from photo to photo, which he had meticulously hung on the wall. Every item he ever built, starting with the first wooden box, was represented there.
“Yeah, I found some plans for a porch swing online and decided to make it. Back then, I had to get the lumber store to do all my cuts for me.” He waved a hand at the huge saw in the back of his shop. “Now I use mostly reclaimed wood and I do everything here.”
She ran a finger down the table he’d been working on this morning. “Beautiful. You’re really talented. It’s a kind of art.”
Surprised, he searched out her face. “It is, in a way. I remember you being the artist, though.” He glanced at his watch. He needed to leave soon so he could get his jobs done and be at the college before five. “So Bertie sent you out here with some photos?”
She handed them to him and smiled, the first real smile he’d seen from her all day. “I think it was a ploy to get me out from under her feet. I’m not used to being at home, but Bertie isn’t used to me being home either.”
Finally a Bride Page 19