The Last Honest Man

Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut, wishing, hoping, praying to disappear. Somebody was going to look very foolish in the next minute or two. Most likely, that somebody would be her.

“Phoebe,” Tommy said, “why don’t you come on up and let us introduce you to the good people of New Skye?”

She opened her eyes and looked for Adam, who had left the speaker’s stand and moved nearer to where she stood. Holding out his hand, he waited for her to join him. He had decided to go along with Tommy’s lie.

If she protested, denied the engagement, Adam’s campaign would end today, this minute, his credibility with the voters destroyed.

“Phoebe?” Adam’s voice came to her…a question, a plea.

She couldn’t resist.

Turning to the crowd, he held her close to him with one arm and waved with the other, grinning wildly.

Tommy announced, “The future Mrs. Adam DeVries.”

To Phoebe, the words sounded like the clang of a heavy iron door…the door to her new prison cell.

Dear Reader,

Often, writers will say that their characters “talk” to them. I’ve been known to sit my characters in a comfortable (if imaginary) chair and treat them as a psychotherapist might, asking leading questions and saying, over and over again, “How did you feel about that?”

With this particular book, I had more trouble than usual interviewing the hero. Adam DeVries doesn’t talk much. When he does, he says as little as possible…because Adam stutters. No amount of coaxing can get him to ramble on about his childhood, his background, his family. He doesn’t want to discuss his failures or his successes—he simply wants to get things done. Adam is a decent, honorable man who puts himself on the line for his beliefs. Though he’s the last person you would expect to enter politics, with its endless campaigning and public speaking, that’s what his ideals lead him to do. Sometimes the only way to conquer your weakness is to face it head-on.

And sometimes you need a little help with that task. Phoebe Moss loves to help, which is why she became a speech therapist in the first place. Adam’s goal, and his gallantry, involve her deeply in his campaign, in his life. These two ride into battle very much like knights-errant in the old, old days, only to discover that the fight ahead may require more sacrifice than either of them can bear.

The Last Honest Man is the third book in my AT THE CAROLINA DINER series for Harlequin Superromance. I hope you enjoy Adam and Phoebe’s story, and that you’ll let me know what you think.

Happy reading!

Lynnette Kent

PMB 304

Westwood Shopping Center

Fayetteville, NC 28314

or lynnettekent.com

The Last Honest Man

Lynnette Kent

To Laura,

with admiration

and gratitude

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Adam DeVries: Mayoral candidate and owner of DeVries Construction

Phoebe Moss: A speech therapist

Cynthia DeVries: Adam’s mother

Preston DeVries: Adam’s father

L. T. LaRue: A corrupt businessman

Curtis Tate: The mayor of New Skye

Kellie Tate: The mayor’s wife

Tommy Crawford: Adam’s campaign manager

Samantha Pettit: Reporter for the New Skye News

Dixon Bell: A songwriter and friend of Adam’s

Kate Bowdrey: Dixon’s fiancée

Charlie Brannon: Owner of Charlie’s Carolina Diner

Abby Brannon: Charlie’s daughter, who keeps the diner running

Jacquie Archer: A farrier, Phoebe’s neighbor

Erin Archer: Jacquie’s daughter

Teresa DeVries: Adam’s sister

Tim DeVries: Adam’s brother

Jenna Franklin: Phoebe’s business partner

Pete Mitchell: A state trooper and Adam’s friend

Mary Rose Mitchell: Pete Mitchell’s wife

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PROLOGUE

HEADED DOWNTOWN ON A SWEET May morning, Adam DeVries whistled as he waited through the stoplight at the top of the hill, enjoying the warm breeze that reached inside the open window to ruffle his hair.

One second—one classic double take—later, his world started spinning in the opposite direction.

He let his jaw drop as he stared at the ravaged parcel of land to his left across the street. All the newly leafed trees he expected to see there had vanished, not to mention every last blade of spring-green grass. And the old stone chimney, a landmark of sorts, was gone.

The traffic signal above his truck turned green, red again, then green, and a honk from behind prompted him to get out of the way. Adam swung left at the next corner, wheeled into the first driveway he came to and backed out just as fast. He paid lip service to a stop sign, pulled out onto Main Street and headed up the hill. Approaching the traffic light from the other direction, he turned right on red and screeched to a stop beside the razed lot. Once out of his truck, he strode around the front end but then pulled up short, his stomach constricting and his knees suddenly weak. The sight before him was even worse than he’d imagined.

One of the most beautiful pieces of land in all of New Skye, North Carolina, had been reduced to an ugly square of brown dirt, pitted and peaked by truck tires and bull-dozer treads. A two-legged wooden sign lay flat on the ground, informing those who stood over it that this site had been rezoned for commercial use. Coming soon was a Speedy Spot convenience store and gas station, built by LaRue Construction.

Adam swore loud and long. Then he mourned.

Mourned for the childhood hours he’d spent here under the magnolias and poplars and oaks, some of them more than a hundred years old. When the 1880s house on the site burned down in the 1950s, the Brewer family had moved to a newer, safer home, but they’d cleaned up the lot, leaving the sturdy chimney standing among the trees. All the years since, they’d kept the weeds and grass mown for kids—like Adam and his brother and sister and his best friend Tommy—who’d brought balls and bats, books and games of make-believe to play in their special place. Teenagers sometimes hid under the trees in the dark to make out, though the police tended to keep a close eye on this unofficial “park” at night. Sunday afternoons, a family might wander down with their dog and their baby in a stroller, just to take in the fine weather and the view of downtown New Skye.

Adam could enjoy that view from where he stood now—not at the edge of the slope on the back of the lot, but on the street side—because the trees were gone. To his right, Main Street descended the Hill, as they called it, to the green circle of lawn that separated the grand old Victorian courthouse from traffic. Beyond the courthouse, the street with its new brick pavers stretched between tall crepe myrtle trees and giant planters filled with colorful flowers, which stood in front of renovated shops and offices. Anchoring downtown at the far end of Main were the new town hall and police department buildings.

There the trouble lay. Being in the construction business himself, Adam closely followed the rezoning notices for New Skye and the county. This case, though, had flown in under his radar. He’d missed the motion, the discussion and the vote that changed the use of the Brewer land from residential to commercial, forcing the owners to sell. Had he been sloppy? Or had the whole transaction been camouflaged to avoid public notice? A number of powerful people in town would have protested the conversion of this property…if they’d been informed.

“I s-spent an hour in the r-records office yesterday afternoon,” Adam told his best friends during breakfast the next morning. After a couple of hard and fast hours of basketball, they were settling in for a decent meal at Charlie’s Carolina Diner, where they’d been coming for more Saturdays than they wanted to remember. “M-Mayor T-Tate slipped the m-motion into a city c-c-council m-meeting with no prior notification to the p-public.”

“The council went along without a whimper, no doubt, ’cause they’re his buddies.” Tommy Crawford shook his head. “I bet L. T. LaRue sat there the whole time, just grinning. He got what he wanted out of the deal—another building site.”

“Kachink, kachink,” Dixon Bell added. “All that scumbag ever thinks about is money.”

They all stared glumly at their plates. “It’d be nice if they mayor and the city council gave some thought to the ordinary people in this town,” Pete Mitchell said after a minute, “especially when there are real problems to be addressed.” As a highway patrolman, Pete ran an after school program for juvenile offenders; he knew the hardships imposed by funding cuts. “I suppose that gas station will increase the tax base, but if it makes the town a less desirable place to live, then people won’t move here and the tax base’ll go down…” He shook his head. “I’m not sure there’s a solution.”

“We could murder the incumbents,” Dixon suggested, with a wicked lift of his eyebrow.

Pete shook his head. “I don’t want to go to prison on account of Curtis Tate and L. T. LaRue.”

“The solution,” Tommy said, pointing with his knife, “is to get some honorable people in the government, men and women who’ll care about what’s right, not what’ll make them rich.”

This was the very conclusion Adam had drawn late last night, when he made his big decision.

Tommy glanced around the table. “This is an election year, gentlemen. We’ve got the chance to make a change. So which of us is gonna run for mayor?”

Amidst the muttering of the other guys, Adam took his stand. “I w-w-will. I’ll r-run f-for m-mayor.”

Tommy looked at him with raised eyebrows. “DeVries?”

In the silence, Adam looked at each man in turn—the boys he’d gone to school with, the friends he counted on when he needed help. “Wh-what d-do you th-think?”

Their hesitation lasted for a blink of an eye. Then they were all over the plan, giving advice, predicting success. Mounting a campaign would require money—they’d be sure he had enough—and time, which they offered freely. To hear them talk, the votes had already been tallied, the outcome secured.

Only when the others had left the diner and Adam sat alone with Tommy did the real impediment to their plan come up.

“So…” Tommy rolled his iced tea glass between his palms. “You’re gonna run for mayor. You don’t have a wife or kids to worry about. That’s convenient. And you’re the perfect candidate—good looks, good reputation, good family, everything we could want.”

“B-but…” Adam didn’t have to ask what Tommy was thinking. He had no problem putting every aspect of his life on the line in order to be the mayor of New Skye.

Every aspect but one.

Before he could eject Tate from the mayor’s chair, Adam would have to abandon his closest companion of more than two decades.

He would have to learn to speak without the stutter.

CHAPTER ONE

“MR. DEVRIES?”

At the sound of his name, Adam looked up from the news magazine he’d been pretending to read.

Across the waiting room, a woman whose long hair was the color of natural ash wood smiled at him. “Good morning. I’m Phoebe Moss.”

His heart began to pound against his ribs. He put the journal aside and got to his feet, pretending his palms weren’t sweaty, his throat hadn’t closed down completely. The receptionist, a grandmotherly woman with unlikely red hair, smiled at him as he passed by. Though he tried to return the favor, he doubted he’d been successful.

Phoebe Moss looked up at him when he got close—she was almost a foot shorter than he—and tilted her head toward the hallway behind her. “This way, please.”

With every step, Adam’s resistance mounted. He didn’t want to be here, would rather have been just about anywhere else on the planet besides this place, this morning. Walking down the hall felt like pushing against an incoming tide. In the middle of a hurricane.

“Come in and have a seat.” She ushered him into a north-facing office with a couch and an armchair, a desk positioned in the corner between two windows, and an assortment of assessment machines with which Adam was all too familiar, thanks to past experience. His strongest impulse was to run…as far and as fast as he possibly could.

But when Phoebe Moss sat in the chair in front of her desk and turned to face him with a clipboard in her lap, Adam lowered himself into the armchair.

She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up on her nose and settled down to business. “What can I do for you, Mr. DeVries?”

“Y-you’re a s-s-speech th-therapist.” He clenched his fist, hitting it against his leg. Bad enough to be here, without having to explain why.

“Yes.” The word definitely held a question. Waiting for his answer, she wrote briefly on the paper held by the clipboard.

“A-as y-you c-c-can hear, I s-s-stutter.”

Nodding, Phoebe Moss scribbled something else. “Fairly badly.”

“I w-w-want to s-stop.”

Her gaze lifted to his face. “Why?”

This was even worse than he’d expected. “W-why do you think? Talking this w-w-w-way s-s-sucks.”

Another notation. “I understand. Have you tried therapy before?”

He nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Did it work?”

“Obv-v-viously n-n-not.”

“Not even for a brief time?”

Adam shrugged. “If I c-concentrate,” he said, very slowly, “I can g-get th-through short s-sentences. But that’s n-not e-enough.”

“Has something changed in your life to prompt this new attempt?”

He gripped his hands together, studying his thumbs. The answer to her question was straightforward enough. Yet he dreaded her reaction.

When he didn’t answer, she cleared her throat. “What’s changed?”

After staring a little longer at his linked fingers, Adam lifted his gaze to her face again. Her eyes, he saw in that instant, were the dark gray of a stormy ocean.

“I’m going into politics,” he said, using the exaggerated drawl he’d been taught. “I have to be able to talk without stuttering.” He finished the sentence and winced. God, he hated the sound of his voice.

His worry over her response had been justified. Phoebe Moss stared at him, her mouth open in astonishment. “Politics? You’re going to run for office?”

He nodded. “M-m-mayor of N-New Sk-Skye.”

“That’s an ambitious goal for anyone.” Looking down at the paper in her lap, she tapped her pen on the edge of the clipboard for a moment. “When were you thinking about running for office?”

“Th-this y-y-year. I-I’ve al-already f-filed.”

Her startled eyes met his. “Aren’t elections in November?”

“Y-yes. B-but the c-campaign w-w-will s-s-start by L-Labor D-Day.”

“You expect to stop stuttering in less than three months?”

“Y-yes.”

“Mr. DeVries—”

“C-call me Adam.”

“Adam, do you realize how much you’re asking of yourself? Curing a stutter can take many months—years—of practice.”

He shrugged. “I’ll j-just h-have to work hard.”

She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands together, maintaining eye contact. “I can’t make any kind of guarantee on your progress. Not in three months, or six or twelve.”

“I c-can d-do it.”

“Why are you so sure, when the past hasn’t shown success?”

“Th-that w-w-was for…for o-other p-p-people.” Adam took a deep breath. “This time is for m-me.”

“I…SEE.” STUNNED, impressed—and, to be honest, a little scared—by Adam DeVries’s resolve, Phoebe sat back in her desk chair. A glance out the window to her right showed a white pickup truck, with the red-and-blue DeVries Construction logo on the door, parked next to her lime-green Beetle. Now that she thought about it, his company’s signs were posted on building projects all over town.

“You’re obviously a successful businessman.” She gestured toward the truck. “Why worry about the stutter? Let the voters accept you as you are.”

“G-good p-p-point,” he said, without the rancor she’d expected. “B-but I have to be able to make my ideas plain.” For the first time, he smiled. “At a speed g-greater than the average snail’s p-p-pace.” His words were clear—though very, very slow—and his tone was distorted, due to his prolonged speech pattern.

But that smile… Seeing it, Phoebe couldn’t get her breath. The aristocratic planes of his cheeks softened, and his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners as his firm lips stretched wide—Adam DeVries’s smile was like the return of the sun after an eclipse, all the more valuable for being rare.

After a shocked moment, she gathered her wits to speak. “As I said, I can’t make any guarantees.”

“I-I und-derstand.”

“We’ll need several sessions every week.”

“N-no p-problem. C-c-can w-we sc-schedule at n-n-night? I-I can’t s-s-spend so m-many m-mornings away f-from w-w-work.”

Phoebe frowned, not so much at him as at the frantic beating of her heart. What was she thinking? “I-I have responsibilities after work. And I live thirty minutes out of town.”

“Oh.” His dark brows lowered as he considered.

That was when she gave in to a truly crazy impulse. “I could see you at my home in the evening—if you wanted to drive that far.”

Adam thought for another moment, then nodded. “Th-that w-w-would w-work for m-me. Wh-wh-when?” As he had during the whole interview, he clenched his right fist and pounded it on his thigh, as if the motion helped him get the words out.

That gesture would be one of their first points of change, when they began their sessions at her house. Phoebe got to her feet, not really believing she’d agreed to this situation, let alone that she’d suggested it to begin with. “Thursday night? Seven-thirty?”

“S-s-sounds g-good.” He came to her at the desk with his arm extended. “Th-thanks, M-Miss M-M-Moss. I-I’ll see you th-then.”

“C-call me Phoebe,” she said faintly as they shook hands.

For that, Adam gave her another one of those heart-stealing smiles. “O-okay.”

She managed to remain standing as Adam DeVries left her office and headed down the hall toward the reception area. As soon as he was out of sight, she let her shaking knees give way and dropped back into her chair.

What was she thinking, inviting a man she didn’t know to her home? No smart woman acted so carelessly these days.

The DeVries family itself was well-known in New Skye, of course, with a history dating back to before the Civil War. Preston DeVries, Adam’s father, was a respected surgeon at the local hospital, while Cynthia, his mother, worked with the most prominent charity and volunteer groups. Phoebe had moved to North Carolina only a year ago, but she’d seen the DeVries name in the newspaper often enough to be curious. Her friends who’d grown up in town had filled her in on the details, which made Adam less of a stranger, surely. Less of a risk.

Then her first glimpse of him across the waiting room this morning had set her pulse skittering. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with a workingman’s hands and a poet’s sad, farsighted gaze, Adam DeVries embodied the sum of all her romantic fantasies. His thick, neatly cut brown hair, his smooth, tanned face and strong chin, belonged on a movie poster…or a campaign flyer. How could she say no to a dream come true?

And there was that smile…

Still, had she allowed her physical and emotional reaction to a client to overwhelm her professional good sense?

No, she concluded, I didn’t. The smile hadn’t caused her to bend the rules. Her decision resulted from the moment before the smile. The moment when he’d said, “This time is for me.”

Phoebe knew exactly what he meant. She’d spent years trying to meet the expectations of other people, only to fail time and time again. Not until she’d begun to live for herself had she succeeded in dealing with her own stutter.

She wouldn’t deny Adam DeVries his chance to accomplish the same miracle.

And she wouldn’t consider the notion that he…and she…could possibly fail.

TUESDAY NIGHT, ADAM MET Tommy Crawford in the parking lot outside the Carolina Diner. “Th-thought you w-were g-gonna be l-l-late.”

Tommy shook his hand. “Me, too. My last client decided not to come out in the rainstorm to discuss insurance. These elderly Southern ladies do have certain…peculiarities.”

“D-don’t I kn-know it. T-try b-building a h-house f-f-for one of th-them.” Adam held the door and let Tommy go in ahead of him. “The rain s-slowed us d-down, too. I s-sent most of the c-crews h-home early.” Combined with his late start, that meant not much work got done today.

Tommy turned a hard right and slid into Adam’s usual booth. Just as Adam settled in, Abby Brannon appeared with two glasses of iced tea.

“Hi, guys. Isn’t the rain great?” Abby’s dad, Charlie, owned the Carolina Diner, but everybody in town knew that Abby was the real engine running the place. She flipped to a new page in her order book. “Tonight’s special is porcupine meatballs, and I baked a red velvet cake yesterday. You want to think, or you want to order?”

Since they’d been eating here since they were teenagers, along with most of the other kids who attended nearby New Skye High, neither Adam nor Tommy needed a menu. They both ordered the special. “With green beans,” Tommy said, “and macaroni and cheese.”

“I’ll h-have o-okra and ap-p-ples. L-looks like you’re g-gonna b-be b-busy t-tonight.”

Abby glanced around at the rapidly filling tables and brushed her brown bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Rainy nights tend to bring folks out to eat. Unlike some people,” she said to Adam as she grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Some people eat out every night.”

“S-some p-people don’t c-cook.”

She winked. “You oughta find a nice woman who’ll solve that problem for you.”

He winked back. “I d-d-did.”

Abby rolled her eyes and walked away. Tommy laughed. “So why don’t you marry her and then you wouldn’t have to drive out for breakfast?”

Adam looked at his best friend. “M-me? M-marry Abby?”

“Why not?”

“B-because…” He narrowed his eyes and thought. “There’s always s-something Abby h-holds b-back. You kn-know? Y-you c-can’t qu-quite r-r-reach her.”

“She’s a busy lady.” They watched her bustle from table to table, serving drinks, clearing plates, taking orders. “But she’d be a sweet armful.”

“S-so y-you m-marry her.”

“Yeah, right.” Tommy shook his head. “I’m too much of a wiseass for Abby. Give me a woman with a good suit of armor. That way we won’t kill each other.”

“Campaign meeting, gentlemen?”

Adam looked up to find one of his worst nightmares standing beside the table—Samantha Pettit, reporter for the New Skye News. Surprise made words impossible. He glanced at Tommy.

His friend took over smoothly. “Hey, Sam. How’s it going? Sit down and have a drink.”

“No, thanks. I’m meeting an interview in a few minutes. But I saw you two sitting here and figured you must be planning election strategy.”

Adam had pulled himself together. “Election?”