Jesse's Girl
Page 19
Mary Clare dipped her head and Jesse hooked his finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“But I realized how much I’ve been missing out on. I love you, Mary Clare.”
She swallowed around the emotion clogging her throat.
“I hope that you and Henry will come live with me.” The earnest look in his eyes made her love him even more.
Tears filled her eyes and Jesse’s smile faltered—he was misreading her. “No hurry. Whenever you’re ready. I’ll never try to control you. I think it’d be a great house for a family. Not too big. A nice cozy farmhouse with a big front porch.” She could tell he had given it a lot of thought. “Henry and I can ride dirt bikes in the trails. We can go fishing.”
Mary Clare started laughing, thrilled that this man would welcome her son. “It is a great piece of land.” Butterflies flitted in her belly. Did this mean what she thought it did?
“It would be a shame not to share it with someone,” he said, his voice husky.
Mary Clare held her breath. Her entire body grew hot despite the snowflakes swirling around them. Jesse turned to her and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box. A wave of excitement washed over her.
“I’ll never rush you, but when you’re ready, will you marry me, Mary Clare?”
She clamped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, Jesse.”
He dipped his head to study her face. Concern flickered in his eyes. “I hope that means yes.”
“Yes! I’ll marry you.” She drew in a shuddering breath. She didn’t want to wait. She had waited long enough to find a man like him. “I love you.”
A bright smile split his handsome face. He slipped the ring on her finger, then leaned down and kissed her, making her toes curl in her cozy warm boots.
Living in the moment was a good thing—a very good thing—but making plans for the future with the right man was even better.
I hope you enjoyed Jesse’s Girl. I also write clean and wholesome romantic suspense. Keep reading for a sneak peek of Plain Obsession:
CHAPTER ONE
Violet flicked off the cap of the medicine bottle and shook out one tiny pill. She studied it in the palm of her hand and popped it into her mouth.
It seemed like such a Jacque thing to do.
People had always told her that she had reminded them of her mother and this was the first time in her twenty-seven years that she suspected they might be right.
Violet Jackson had resisted the siren call of the small bottle for the entire drive over here, but now she feared she'd pass out or her heart was going to beat out of her chest. Someone would find her unconscious in her little red sports car parked alongside the country road and the rumors would start anew.
You can do this.
Deep breath. In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
Violet stared up at the neat farmhouse where her dear friend Abby had once lived. The young Amish girl had come a long way from this farm in Hunters Ridge to becoming an assistant in Jacque Caldwell's business empire.
All because of her friendship with Violet.
All because of her…
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back the wave of grief that had swelled and was ready to swamp her at a moment's notice. Drowning her.
Deep breath. In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
The calming effects of the medication began to take the edge off. She had white-knuckled it all the way here, even though she hated driving, and yet she couldn't continue to push through her rioting emotions to face what came next.
Rolling her shoulders, she knew she couldn't sit here forever. Her red sports car wasn't exactly incognito among the Amish farms and buggies that made up most of the population of Hunters Ridge, New York, a sleepy town in Western New York.
Touching the bottle through the fabric of her coat pocket like a talisman, she reached for the car door handle with the other.
"Okay…" she breathed out loud to herself. "You can do this." You have to do this.
By the time Violet reached the hard earth of the farm's driveway, she was amazed that all her panic symptoms had broken up and drifted away like the white floaties in the air after a wish on a dandelion.
The cornfields had been harvested for feed by equipment and horses from a long-ago era. She had watched the process from a distance when she'd lived in Hunters Ridge as a teenager. Only a small section of the field remained. They'd have to hurry. Silver clouds hunkered down on the horizon threatening snow. The beginning of November was a bit early for the white stuff, even for this part of the country. That's why she had to reach out to Abby's family today. Because once it snowed, she'd never find the nerve to drive.
By the time she reached the front porch, her sweaty hands and heart palpations were gone. It was a strange feeling, like she had kicked back a glass or two of wine. Courage without having to work for it.
Violet didn't know if Mrs. Graber was home, but she suspected she'd be in the kitchen preparing a meal for her husband and three children.
She used to have four.
Violet's shoes clacked on the bare wood of the porch, echoing in the stillness of the afternoon. The farmhouse looked neat and simple. Abby, two years younger than Violet, had marveled at all the fancy things found at the big house on the hill, as all the locals called Jacque Caldwell's country estate. Violet wondered not for the first time how differently things would have been if Abby hadn't come to work for her mother when she had finished up her eighth grade education, all that was allowed.
Sadness, Violet's constant companion, struggled to get its vicious claws into her. Thanks to the meds pumping through her veins, it was loosening its hold even as she wondered what she was doing here. What did she truly expect?
Clearing her throat, she lifted her hand to knock and the door flew open as if someone had been standing inside waiting for her. That, however, was doubtful. If they had, they probably would have stopped her at the end of the driveway. Chased her back to her car. Tried to keep the outsider out.
Staring back at her was Elmer Graber, Abby's brother. He had been only fifteen when he hitched up the horse and buggy and met his sister at the fast-food restaurant in town. He had brought along his younger twin sisters to say goodbye to their big sister Abby who was leaving Hunters Ridge and the Amish way for good.
Gone was the chubby-faced teen. The sadness in his eyes had been replaced by a steely gaze.
A half smile flickered across her lips at the sight of him, but if he recognized her, he didn't show it.
"Elmer, it's Violet."
"I know who you are." His harsh response might have had a more chilling effect on her thirty minutes ago.
"Is your mother home?"
"Yah, but that's no business of yours." He blocked the doorway, as if she might force her way inside.
"Please, I'd like to speak to her." She tapped her thumb from one finger to the next, a habit a long-ago therapist had taught her to distract herself.
"Who's there, Elmer?" A woman Violet had only seen at a distance approached, drying her hands on a dishtowel.
"Hello, Mrs. Graber, I'm Violet Jackson. Abby's friend." The words felt like a lie on her lips. Some friend.
"Abigail," Mrs. Graber said. "Her name was Abigail."
"Yes, of course."
All the color seemed to drain from the Amish woman's face. Elmer took his mother's arm and directed her to a wooden bench flanked by two rocking chairs in a sitting room off the entryway.
Violet stepped inside and paused, struggling to remember why she had come here in the first place. Was she being selfish? Looking to make herself feel better at the expense of the Graber family?
"I don't mean to upset you. I wanted to stop by and tell you how sorry I am about Abigail." Her dear friend had preferred her nickname.
Mrs. Graber sat silently, wringing the dishtowel, her bonneted head tipped forward.
"Is this why you have come? To upset my mother?" Elmer ask
ed.
"No, absolutely not." Violet fingered the cuffs of her coat and wondered why she had thought this was a good idea. "Abby—Abigail—was my best friend and I feel awful about what happened."
Mrs. Graber lifted her head and stared at Violet with watery eyes. "My biggest regret in life is that I allowed my daughter to take that job working for your family. She was too young. Impressionable. It was the devil's work, making her want what she couldn't have."
The venom in her tone chipped away at the fuzziness dulling Violet’s panic.
"Abigail enjoyed her life. She was happy." Violet wasn't sure this was what mattered to Mrs. Graber. Actually, she knew it wasn't. Abby had told Violet a lot about the Amish way of thinking during their long talks at the mansion. Two teenagers from very different worlds had bridged the gap. Violet had needed a friend. And Abby was looking for a way out.
Shoes sounded on the stairs. One of Abigail's twin sisters stood on the bottom step. The resemblance to her deceased sister was striking.
"Hi, Violet," she said shyly. She must have been listening from the top of the stairs.
"Stay in your room," Elmer yelled.
The teenager, Violet guessed seventeen or eighteen now, turned and bolted up the stairs without a complaint.
Elmer strode past Violet and opened the door wide. "You need to go."
Violet blinked slowly and nodded. "I'm sorry. I truly am." She turned to leave, realizing all the stories she had heard about the Amish and forgiveness didn't apply in this situation. Why should they? The Amish were human. The Graber family wasn't ready to forgive her.
Maybe with time.
But even time wouldn't bring Abigail back.
And no one could blame Violet more than she blamed herself.
A brisk wind whipping in from the west smacked her in the face as she jogged toward her car. She didn't dare turn around, but she could feel the eyes of hatred boring into the back of her head from somewhere on what once was a peaceful Amish farm.
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Also by Alison Stone
Treehaven Press
Plain Obsession
Too Close to Home
Random Acts
Waterfall Press
Pointe and Shoot
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About the Author
Alison Stone discovered her love of writing romantic suspense after leaving her corporate engineering job to raise her four children.
Constantly battling the siren call of social media, Alison blocks the Internet and hides her smartphone in order to write fast-paced books filled with suspense and romance
Married for almost twenty-five years, Alison lives in Western New York, where the summers are gorgeous and the winters are perfect for curling up with a book—or writing one.
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