PRAISE FOR THIS WANDERING HEART
“Janine Rosche is a fresh new voice in the world of contemporary romance, and her debut is full of heart and soul! With an intriguing premise and relatable characters, This Wandering Heart is a delightful story of secrets and second chances.”
—Melissa Tagg, Carol Award–winning author of the Walker Family series and Now and Then and Always
“This Wandering Heart is a heartwarming novel that embraces all the wondrous elements of romance: love to last a lifetime, family values, loyalty, forgiveness, and second chances. Janine Rosche has crafted an amazing book that will remain in your memory long after you turn the last page.”
—Catherine Anderson, New York Times bestselling
author of Huckleberry Lake
“As the story unfolds across the pages of This Wandering Heart, the characters pulled me deeply into a romance I wanted to happen even as the obstacles seemed insurmountable. This book is perfect for readers who love romances filled with heart and characters you can’t quit rooting for. And traveling vicariously through the heroine? An added bonus in an already heartwarming book.”
—Cara Putman, award-winning, bestselling author of
Delayed Justice and Shadowed by Grace
“In this debut novel, high school sweethearts are reunited in a tender second-chance story that takes the reader on a journey of self-discovery. Up-and-coming author Janine Rosche deftly uses a dash of humor to balance out weightier issues in This Wandering Heart. Romance readers are sure to fall in love with this adventurous heroine and swoonworthy hero!”
—Denise Hunter, bestselling author of
the Bluebell Inn series
“Warm and charming, with a uniquely vulnerable and affecting hero, This Wandering Heart moves with insight and grace. Janine Rosche’s writing hits all the right notes about family, fidelity, and faith.”
—Jo Goodman, USA Today bestselling
author of A Touch of Forever
“Janine Rosche’s debut novel sparkles with romance, reconciliation, and deep emotions. I thoroughly enjoyed traveling to beautiful settings, exploring the ties that bind us to our family, and experiencing the hero and heroine’s second chance at love. . . . A delightful beginning for a talented author!”
—Becky Wade, Christy Award–winning
author of Sweet on You
“A tender look at how the wounds of the past impact the present. It delves into spiritual aspects of forgiveness, second chances, and refocusing our priorities on a God-centered view instead of a fear-centered view. The dialogue is fun, the growth is sweet, and the hero . . . well, he’s just absolutely wonderful. This story is reminiscent of Becky Wade’s My Stubborn Heart, with a heroine who needs a lot of help, hope, and love to get her sights turned in the right direction. What a fun story.”
—Pepper Basham, author of the Mitchell’s Crossroads
series and My Heart Belongs in the Blue Ridge
“With her emotionally rewarding debut, Janine Rosche sets herself apart as one to watch. Lush imagery, relatable characters, and a spot-on balance of humor and heartache come together to create a romance that speaks to the wanderer in us all—and the part of us that wants nothing more than a place to call home. This Wandering Heart is a must-read for anyone who believes love is the greatest adventure of all. Highly recommended!”
—Bethany Turner, award-winning author of Wooing Cadie McCaffrey and Hadley Beckett’s Next Dish
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2020 by Janine Rosche
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593100516
First Edition: May 2020
Cover art by Chris Cocozza
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Praise for This Wandering Heart
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Epilogue
About the Author
To every person whose eyes instinctively seek the horizon, whose fingers automatically trace lines on a map, and whose heart forever longs to go and to know more: may your wanderings be weird, wild, and wonderful.
To my children: wherever your road leads, I pray you always recognize home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Four years ago, I determined to pen a story that had lived in my head for far too long. In a move I do not recommend to anyone, I sent that rough first draft to a group of amazingly supportive friends and family. Despite the fact that I didn’t know how to string words together or where to place commas, they read that story. Their nudging and kind words paved the way to this novel, so thank you.
From there, Christina Tarabochia took the time to teach me that while conjunctions are not the enemy, steamy kisses that take place in libraries are suspect. Without your magic, I’d still be gerunding, and my career would have stalled at daydreaming in libraries.
Carol Moncado, thank yo
u for your plotting help and constant encouragement. You’re truly a gem. Lindsey Brackett, your advice to this new writer has saved me time and again. Deborah Raney, your ACFW critique gave me the courage to tame Robbie and Keira’s story into what it is today. Tina Radcliffe, your sweet, uplifting spirit is an example of everything right in this industry. Pepper Basham, a timely coffee with you in Asheville meant the world to me. And your books gave me an education on how to write good-and-not-so-proper kiss scenes (see above: library kisses).
I’d like to thank my writing group, my Quotidians, for your support and friendship. Rejection and success both taste better with you all near. They both also taste like nachos, but I’m not complaining.
To my dear friends, who took the time to read this book on a short deadline to help me bring these characters to life, I appreciate you: Tracey, Shana, and BJ. Thanks to my critique partner, Stephanie, for your time and ideas.
Thank you to my lovely agent, Tamela Hancock Murray, whose friendship and wisdom made this book possible. My team at Berkley and Penguin Random House is a dream, and I appreciate your partnership and expertise. Oh, and I’d like to thank the door to the NYC office that I couldn’t figure out how to open; you keep me humble. To my editor, Grace House: thank you for believing in me!
So many people lent their expertise on different subject matters for this book: Cara Putman, Alexa Hirschfeld, Kelsey Anderson, Janette Foreman, Angela Ruth Strong, Megan Logue, and Karen Barnett. Any mistakes that were made were my own!
Thank you to the Toledo Books and Queso Club. Your enthusiasm for my books, romance, and queso dip keeps me going on this journey!
To Riley Callahan, Michael Hosea, Charlie Lionheart, James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, and yes, even you Ty Porter: your fictional heroism is the stuff of legend. You and the authors who created you inspire me. Denise Hunter, Becky Wade, Bethany Turner, Melissa Tagg, Joanne Bischof, Cara Putman, Courtney Walsh, and Susan May Warren, you are all beautiful, kind, and gracious women whom I admire greatly. And to Francine Rivers and Diana Gabaldon: I can never hope to meet you, but you are the reason I write!
Lindsey Allen, thanks for encouraging me to keep speaking and writing when all the rest of the world would love for me to pipe down. I’ve cherished your friendship, laughter, and fellowship over the years. P.S. Can I have your mom’s brownie recipe?
Thank you to my brothers (Bob, Dave, James, Michael, and Daryl) and sisters (Leanne, Raelyn, Kim, Cathy, and Dani) who gave me a love for creating stories in front of the Barbie house, in cardboard box forts, inside homemade haunted houses, and on road trips. Okay, some of those were lies that you told, and I believed because I was the youngest and really gullible. But it still made for fun times. Piranhas in Grandma’s lake? That was a good one.
I’d like to thank my kids, William, Braden, Jonathan, and Corynn for putting up with a lost-in-thought mom for years, then cheering loudest when I got my contract. I love you all! To my Jonathan, who is the hardest working kid I’ve ever known despite the added challenge dyslexia brings to every written word. You are a brilliant builder and a master storyteller. And your honest and kind heart is admirable.
My husband, George, has been the picture of patience, faithfulness, and grace through the years. He has put up with skipped dinners, unfolded laundry, conference bills, research trips, and so much huckleberry—all without complaints. I love you.
To my father, who shared with me his love of traveling, writing, and Montana: I wish you were here to see this. And to my mother, who has carried on for nearly five years without the love of her life, I’m so proud of you for all you’ve accomplished, and Dad would be proud of you, too. I love you.
Finally, to the God of runaways, wanderers, and the banished: you see me no matter how far away from home I find myself. Thank you for your ever-present love, your all-sufficient grace, and the gift of story. I pray I have been, and continue to be, a good steward of it.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
West Yellowstone, Montana, has kept a piece of my heart since I first visited decades ago. If you live there, I hope you can see my desire to honor your home through my words. While some details have been changed for the purpose of the story line, my prayer is that this series accurately represents the strength, kindness, and beauty that exists down Canyon Street, up Hwy 191, and along the banks of the Madison River. To the people who reside in Jackson Hole, Rapid City, Twin Falls, Lake Tahoe, and Southern California: I’m sure I messed up details of your lovely cities, towns, and landmarks. If I made any mistakes, let me know, and I will gladly come visit to do more research!
CHAPTER ONE
Ever since she was seventeen, Keira Knudsen’s internal compass needle had failed to point north. For a high school geography teacher and avid traveler, this little fact was inconvenient at best and infuriating at worst. Today, it was the latter.
“Keira, will you marry me?”
The collective gasp from the crowd whooshed like a breeze rushing up from a canyon floor. One girl let out an “aww.” Another squealed. Then it was quiet, save the classical melody wafting from the stringed quartet she’d seen near the pines moments ago.
What was meant to be a simple—and private—dinner had turned into a surprise gathering in the park, where she’d been paraded past half the West Yellowstone, Montana, townsfolk and beneath the picnic shelter. Now this.
Keira glanced down into the deep-brown eyes of the man kneeling before her.
John. Kind, responsible, and loving John. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to cry. That’s what the girls in movies do. Clap a hand over their mouths, while their eyes fill with tears. But Keira hadn’t cried since she was seven years old. Smiles were only slightly less rare.
John. Everything you need in a husband.
Rather than freeing her voice to exclaim yes, her father’s words seemed to wrap around her throat, strangling every sound.
A murmuring cut through Canon in D. Her lungs captured the breath that had eluded her for at least thirty seconds. A bead of sweat dripped down her chest, darkening her dress. If only John had asked her in private.
The glow from the Edison lights strung overhead nearly blinded her. Only by squinting could she see the crowd around them, frozen. Her parents were closest. Her father met her eyes and nodded once, hard and stern. As always, her mother stood by his side, the light long since faded from her eyes.
Then she saw him. Smack-dab in the front row. Robbie Matthews wore blue jeans and a plaid shirt. His head bowed low, so only the top of his backward baseball cap showed. But it was him all right.
Keira’s knees threatened to buckle. She placed one hand on John’s shoulder to steady herself and wrapped her other arm around her stomach.
Against his chest, Robbie held his sleeping daughter. What was he doing here? He’d never have come if he’d known this would be a proposal. Probably wouldn’t have come if he knew this had anything to do with her at all. Sharing a small town wasn’t easy, but they’d mostly managed to avoid each other, thanks to Keira’s reclusive life. Only three run-ins in five years. Three painful run-ins that had stirred up memories she’d gone to great lengths to smother.
Slowly, he lifted his face. From this distance, she couldn’t read those sea-greens of his. Last summer at the Madison River Trout Festival, they’d brimmed with hurt and glinted with anger, as if he had any right to play the victim. Robbie shifted his weight forward, and the butterflies in Keira’s stomach may as well have burst through her skin. But then he turned his back on her and parted the crowd, the red curls of his daughter’s hair bouncing with each step. Soon, the darkness swallowed him. The only evidence of his presence was the scrape of that old, rusted compass needle across Keira’s scarred heart as it followed him into the night.
* * *
* * *
Robbie Matthews leaned into the fridge, but the cold air couldn’t touch the heat he felt in his face and neck. E
ven undoing another two buttons of his shirt wasn’t enough. It’s your fault, bud. You had your chance, and you blew it.
He perused the shelves for the strongest drink he had. After all, what’s a pity party without something hard and cold to pour down a throat? Hmm. Milk, apple juice, or soda? He grabbed the neck of the green two-liter, then spun the top until it clattered onto the wood floor. He sucked down a gulp like a real man. After the 7UP slid past the walnut-sized lump in his throat, he poured the rest down the drain. It was cold but flat as stagnant water. He’d gotten it for Anabelle’s upset tummy. When was that? Two weeks ago?
He grabbed a glass and poured himself some milk, then heaped a spoonful of Anabelle’s chocolate powder in. Oh, why not? It’d been a long day. He added another and stirred it until it was the color of Keira’s hair. Not all of her hair. Just the locks hidden from the sun that spilled from the nape of her neck, down over her shoulders. Unlike the dyed-blond waves on top, the darker, natural ones beneath had always felt like silk. Not that he’d been anywhere near those locks for years. And he’d certainly not had permission to run his fingers through them.
He yanked off his baseball cap and pitched it across the room, knocking Anabelle’s pink hair ribbon organizer onto the floor.
“Great.” He set the glass on the coffee table and bent down to pick up the twelve dozen or so rainbow hair ties, sparkly pink nail polish, and Princess Patty Cake eye shadow. Flipping open the lid of the organizer, he caught his reflection in the mirror. When had he gotten so old and weathered?
You are every bit Young Redford. She’d said it a lot in their five years together. And she always kissed him afterward. He looked like Old Redford now, though. Way older than his twenty-seven years. Who did she tell John he looked like? One of those Ken dolls of his sister’s that he used to torture? And not the cool Ken dolls, but the ones that looked like they would hang a new-car-scented air freshener in their minivan, all while wearing a pastel tie and Dockers that were two inches too short.
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