Trusting Him

Published by Steeple Hill Books™

This book is dedicated to Doug for always believing I could do this, and for giving me the time and the support. Thank you for letting me dream big. To the kids, for putting up with mac and cheese, digging socks out of the basket and for reminding me (more than once) that it was time to eat.

To my family and friends, for encouraging me, reading for me, and for the critiques that made it all come together. I love you all. Ellen, Keri, Steph, Dawn, Angela, Shirlee, Cheryl, Barbara, Lori, Jill, Karla and Patsy. To the ladies at Crossroads, for love and prayers. You prayed, God heard.

To my agent, Janet Benrey. I can’t say enough about what you mean to me. Thank you for putting up with me, listening to me, and for all of the valuable advice. And did I mention…for putting up with me. Onward and Upward.

And to my editor, Melissa Endlich. You rock!! I’m so glad you were the editor who took the chance on a new author. You’ve taught me so much. You’ve encouraged me. You’ve helped me to believe in myself as a writer. This one is for you.

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the living-room windows of the trailer, dispelling the gloom but not the tight feeling of dread in Maggie Simmons’s stomach. She felt it to the very core, twisting and wrenching—a six-year-old ache that had healed but left scars. She didn’t want to be here, not alone, not when shadows drifted into the corners and every noise, even the slightest creak, sounded ominous.

Something scurried across the floor, taking cover under the couch. Maggie shrieked and jumped back, feeling silly afterward. A mouse. Good thing nobody witnessed the little dance she had done when it ran past her.

The new tenant would have to deal with the old tenant, the one who probably lived somewhere inside the used plaid sofa the church had bought for the trailer some years ago, back when the place served as a parsonage for their pastor. The way Maggie saw it, the mouse had squatter’s rights. The trailer had been empty for six months.

She walked to the back bedroom armed with a dust rag, broom and furniture polish.

Michael Carson. The new tenant. She had to stop thinking of him as a tenant renting from the church. He planned on being more than that. She bristled when she thought back on the conversation with Pastor Banks, the one where he had told her that Michael Carson would be attending their church, and that eventually he would like to help with the after-school project.

“What are you snarling about?”

Maggie jerked back from the dresser she was dusting and turned. She didn’t have to guess how her friend, Faith, had found her. Maggie’s grandmother would have told her, and probably would have even asked Faith to check on her.

“I’m not snarling. I’m cleaning. It never makes me happy. And you shouldn’t sneak in and scare a person like that.”

“You’re a clean freak. Of course cleaning makes you happy. You like to send those dust bunnies on the run. I think you’re snarling because your granny has some awesome fried chicken on the stove, and she invited me to eat with the two of you. And you know I can eat more than you.”

“Yes, that’s it. I’m snarling because my best friend is a bottomless pit with a stinkingly fast metabolism.”

“All part of my charm.” Faith grabbed the broom and started to sweep the hallway. “And you’re upset because you are going to have an uninvited guest in your life. He’s suspect, I’m telling you that much. I wouldn’t trust him at all.”

Maggie shook her head and walked away. Faith followed.

“It isn’t that I don’t trust him.” Maggie dusted the ceiling light in the living room, sending dust and cobwebs floating to the floor to be swept up later. She brushed a strand of web off her cheek and blew at the dust floating in front of her face. “I just want the best thing for the after-school program. We’ve managed to get the neighborhood kids off the street. We’re teaching them to care about others, and to have goals.”

Kids could come to the church after school, knowing that someone would be there for them. They were given snacks, homework help and roles in community projects so that they could learn to help others. In the summer she planned boating, hiking and other activities to keep them out of trouble.

Members of the church had even volunteered to mentor and teach the kids different skills that they might not learn at home. One taught sewing, another cooking, one gentleman taught the boys about cars and another taught gardening.

It was about more than going to church. It showed them the importance of fellowship and helping others. They were growing.

Years ago Maggie had been one of these kids, she knew what they needed. She wanted to be the person who was there for them.

Faith walked up behind her, resting her chin on Maggie’s shoulder. “It’ll work out, Mags. I know this is hard for you, letting this guy in—not just into your ministry, but into your life. But even you’ve said that you needed help. Maybe this is God’s—”

“Plan? Yeah, maybe so. Don’t worry, I’m not going to run him off. I’ll give him the chance he deserves.”

“You’re a strong woman, Maggie. You’ll get through this.”

Maggie nodded and walked to the door. She expected to see them driving up at any moment. Pastor Banks had driven the few hours to the state prison in central Missouri to pick up Michael because he had asked his family for one day to get settled before seeing them. It was nearly five o’clock. It wouldn’t be much longer.

“I’ll be back in a sec. I have a cooler of bottled water in my car. I thought maybe you’d need something to drink, and I figured you forgot to bring something.” Faith slid past her and out the front door.

Maggie watched Faith leave. Faith had asked her the same question as Pastor Banks. What bothered her about this? Michael Carson’s past didn’t upset her. Most people had a past. Not everyone had made mistakes as big as his, but hadn’t they all made mistakes?

It wasn’t his past. It was hers that made this so difficult. Her memories of a mother who could never seem to quit using drugs, followed by Maggie’s own years of rebellion, were the real problem. Choices she had made, wrong decisions—those things haunted her. A night that she couldn’t reclaim added to the heap. A dark road, a guy she had trusted, pushing her to go where she hadn’t wanted to go.

She walked away from the door, her heart racing as the memory continued to flash through her mind, an instant replay that had dulled with time but hadn’t faded.

Greg had taken what she hadn’t wanted to give. She had trusted him, even considered that they might have a future together. Their future ended that night, sending her life on a completely different path.

The door to the trailer rattled as it opened. Maggie jumped and turned, Faith’s red head peeked in. She smiled and held up the cooler.

“Relax, it’s just me.”

“I knew that.”

Faith carried the cooler into the kitchen. “Nice place.”

“He doesn’t have to live here.” Maggie took the bottle of water that her friend held out to her. “His parents have a home in River Oaks Estates. On the ninth hole of the golf course, I think.”

“Claws, my friend? That isn’t like you.” Faith opened her bottle of water. “Sit down with me.”

“I need to finish sweeping.”

Faith backed up to the counter and with a hop she was sitting, the bottle of water next to her. “Why clean it for him if you dislike him so much?”

Maggie shrugged. “Because I’m a nice person. And because I don’t dislike him. I don’t know him.”

“You’re too sweet, Mags. And you gotta admire that he would want to live here, and not with his parents.”

“Yes, that’s something to admire.”

“So—” Faith looked down at the bottle of water she had picked up “—so maybe he isn’t another rich guy who takes what he wants without thinking of the consequences. Isn’t that what you’re thinking? You think he’s using his money to get what he wants. He’s out of prison, has a second chance, and now he’s going to walk in here and make it all better by doing a good deed.”

Maggie looked out the window, concentrating on a sparrow that had landed on the railing of the deck. Was Faith right? Maggie sipped from her bottle of water, shrugging as she turned to face her friend.

“Thanks for that, now I really feel like a heel. Yes, maybe that is what I’ve been thinking. I haven’t even met the guy but already I’ve put him in the box with other people who have let me down. I’ll work through it.”

“Money or not, his life isn’t going to be a walk in the park.”

“Life rarely is a walk in the park.” Maggie smiled at her friend. “But I guess we both know that, right?”

Faith was a cancer survivor. Maggie had survived her father’s abandonment before her birth, her mother’s death and Greg. They had made a pact a long time ago to not dwell on darker days, but to move forward. But sometimes that was easier said than done. Sometimes life tossed in a few obstacles, just to keep them on their toes.

Maggie wanted to think that Michael Carson was a temporary obstacle. He would get settled, get back on his feet and move on.

“We’re both survivors, Maggie. Which is why, even though it hurts, you’re going to give Michael Carson a chance.”

“Yes, I’m going to give him a chance. Mercy, isn’t that a key ingredient to living our faith?”

“You got it, sweetie. We all need mercy, a little forgiveness and a second, sometimes a third, chance.”

Maggie smiled, the appropriate response. She had received enough mercy, and more than one second chance of her own. But Michael Carson, this faceless entity, in her life and in her ministry?

“Faith, I’m fine. You don’t have to babysit me. It’s been six years. I’m nearly twenty-seven, which makes me a grown-up. I’m not afraid to be here alone.”

“I know, but I want to be here for you.” Faith smiled, her eyes sparkling with humor.

Maggie got it then, and she felt like an idiot for not getting it sooner. “You’re not here for me. You’re here because your curiosity got the best of you. You just want to see him.”

Faith put a hand on her chest, her eyes widening in an overly sincere fashion. “Mags, I can’t believe you think that of me. Honey, I’m hurt.”

“And I’m right.”

“Okay, I admit that idle curiosity might have something to do with my being here. I’m a writer, you know, I do like to study people. And I do care about you.”

“The world is your…” For the life of her, she couldn’t think of the word. “Whatever.”

“Stage?” Faith supplied. “No, not really. I think that would make me an actress.” She hopped down from the counter. “Let’s get some fresh air. This place smells like pine cleaner and bug spray. And I think I just saw a mouse.”

“Yeah, I think he lives under the couch. Let me grab my purse and we can go.”

Faith’s hand on her arm stopped her. Maggie turned, catching the compassionate look in Faith’s green eyes.

“Maggie, remember, he’s not Greg, and he isn’t your dad.”

“Yes, I know. I’m not judging him, Faith. I know all about making mistakes.”

A car engine rumbled to a stop in the driveway. Maggie looked out the window, Faith nudging in right behind her. Pastor Banks got out of the car first. Michael Carson followed, exiting from the passenger side.

Maggie pushed aside the lecturing voice inside her mind, the one that told her she was behaving like a teenager. Faith whistled softly, obviously not getting the same mental lecture.

“You are in big, big trouble, Maggie Simmons.”

Maggie shrugged off the warning as Michael Carson reached into the back of the car and pulled out a battered duffel bag. He turned to stare at the trailer, his stance casual, but his shoulders looking tense beneath a snug, dusky-blue sweater, a white T-shirt showing at the neck. He didn’t pose a threat to her. He looked like other men she knew. His jeans were faded, his brown hair a little too long; he didn’t bother her at all.

He didn’t bother her until he walked through the door, taking up too much space in the narrow room, and slamming headlong into her resolve with hazel eyes that connected directly with hers.

She saw then that Michael Carson wasn’t at all what she had expected, or told herself he would be. He wasn’t a hardened criminal. He didn’t have cold eyes. He had eyes that challenged her to doubt him.

The two women standing in front of him didn’t move. Michael Carson suspected that if he jumped or yelled “boo,” they would probably scream and run. Were they expecting him to do something suspicious, criminal or thuglike? He hoped not.

He had been afraid of this reaction, and thought it would be more the norm than the exception. Being prepared didn’t make it easier to accept.

The smaller of the two women, a blonde with twilight-blue eyes and a complexion that reminded him of summer sunshine, wore a wary look. The redhead, she was more curious than wary. She smiled, managing to look a lot like someone who was up to something. His attention turned back to the blonde.

“Michael Carson, let me introduce you to Maggie Simmons, our youth worker.” Pastor Banks smiled and nodded toward the blonde. “And her incorrigible friend, Faith Lane.” The redhead.

Michael thought the introduction he had learned in his support group might be in order: My name is Michael Carson and I’m a recovering drug addict. Maggie Simmons looked as though she expected that from him. Or less. Definitely not more.

He didn’t want to let her down.

Pushing past sarcasm, he realized that he honestly didn’t want to let her down. But not just her—he didn’t want to let anyone down. Not even himself. And since he’d walked out of prison—his home for the last four years—one thought had been taunting him. He could slip so easily.

Concentrate on something else. Don’t get sucked into doubt. He glanced around the sparsely furnished trailer. It smelled of cleaners and bug spray. The broom leaning against the counter was further proof that someone had been cleaning.

Maggie Simmons had done the cleaning. She wore the evidence on her white T-shirt, smudged with dust. Eyes full of doubt, she watched him as though she didn’t know what he was doing in her life, and yet she’d done this.

“Thank you for cleaning the place up.” He shot her a smile, hoping for something similar from her. “I hadn’t expected that.”

“It always helps to come home to something clean,” Maggie returned, and she even smiled. Her smile was definitely sunshine and hope. Or maybe four years of prison, four years with few feminine contacts, had left him a little fanciful.

He didn’t know what to say. He dropped his duffel bag on the floor and stepped farther into the living room.

“It isn’t much, but it’s a start.” She continued to talk, her tone apologetic.

A start. Exactly what he’d thought when Pastor Banks offered to rent him this place. He needed somewhere to get his life in order. This would be easier than in his parents’ home in Springfield, and in their world of constant social activity and polite gossip that would keep him in the gutter.

His mom and dad believed in him. But they were two people, three including his brother, and he needed more than that. He knew he would need the support of the church in Galloway, and the pastor who had been visiting him for almost three years.

Pastor Banks, tall and burly, with a tender heart and a smile that exploded across his face. He believed in everyone, and in the ability of God to redeem and give second chances. He preached mercy, and he meant it.

His ministry had changed Michael’s life.

It had truly changed him. Maggie Simmons looked like she might doubt that. She moved away from him, to a brown bag of groceries on the counter. He watched, wondering what her story was, and knowing instinctively that she had one.

“I bought a few things to get you started.” She flashed a look over her shoulder that didn’t quite become a smile as she took canned items from the bag. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” He started to move toward her but stopped. She wasn’t wearing a sign that said, Let’s Be Friends. More like a sign that said, Keep Out. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She opened the refrigerator door and stuck something on the shelf.

Pastor Banks jumped back a step, drawing Michael’s attention from the nervous youth worker. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I think I just saw a mouse.”

Maggie Simmons actually laughed.

Chapter Two

A sliver of light broke through the curtains of the bedroom, waking Michael from what had only recently become a sound sleep. The night had been long and too quiet. No fights had broken out, not one door had slammed and nobody had snored. It had been only him, the occasional bark of a dog and something scurrying inside the wall.

He glanced across the room, squinting to read the clock on the dresser. Barely six. His normal waking time. Disappointed by that, he considered rolling over, covering his head with the pillow and going back to sleep. He had really planned to sleep in, at least until eight. His internal alarm clock hadn’t gotten that memo.

Instead of giving in and going back to sleep, he laid there, relishing freedom. No prison guard would show up and tell him to get busy. He could stay in bed as long as he wanted, in a room with no lock on the door and no bars on the windows.

His own bed. His own home. Nobody here would tell him to get to work. Nobody would tell him to head for chow. And nobody would keep him from messing up.

What if he couldn’t handle freedom?

Get out of bed, do something. He pushed himself to leave the comfort of the mattress that had swallowed him in its softness the night before. Down the narrow paneled hall, to the sunlit kitchen. He paused at the window over the sink and looked out at hay fields across the road.

This place was perfect. He was glad he’d taken Pastor Banks up on the offer to rent from the church. Here he could get his bearings. He wouldn’t have to worry about his parents and how to protect them. He needed this time alone.

For four years he’d had very little time on his own, without someone watching, listening. He had once heard that the Chinese people didn’t have a word for “alone.” There was no concept of the word in their overcrowded country.

In prison there was no concept of the word, either. A person didn’t have use of a word that they couldn’t put into practice. Alone.

But then sometimes, even with hundreds of people around, he had felt alone.

He rummaged through the cabinet, smiling when he pulled out the bag of Starbucks coffee. Miss Maggie Simmons had thought of everything. Bless her sweet soul. He filled the coffeepot with water, added a few scoops of coffee to the filter basket and set the power button.

While he waited for the coffee to brew he walked out the back door to the small deck that faced the woods. Springtime in the Ozarks. The air was cool, but hinted at a warm day, and the emerald-green grass was drenched with dew. Something moved. He watched, holding his breath to see what had darted through the trees. It appeared again, a small doe, ears twitching when she sensed his presence. A few minutes later she darted back into the woods.

The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee greeted him when he walked into the trailer. Real coffee, the kind a person wanted to enjoy, not gulp down with a few spoons of sugar added to kill the flavor. He poured a cup and walked back outside. An old lawn chair had been left behind. He sat and propped his feet up on the wood railing of the deck.

Now what? Think of the future, of life working for his dad as a paralegal? Or the past, and how it had changed everything, including where he should be now?

One stupid mistake, trying meth, had led to another mistake—dealing methamphetamines when his dad had cut off his money. He leaned back, closing his eyes when he remembered back to those days. He’d been angry then, mad at his dad for taking away his money, and mad at his brother Noah for telling his parents why he had lost weight and why his grades were failing.

Now he needed to thank them. His dad for taking away his money. His brother for noticing the signs of addiction. He also needed to make amends with the people he had hurt.

Michael’s addiction had changed the course of his brother’s life, as well. Noah had been set to take the bar and would have been a lawyer for their father’s firm. Now he was an agent for the DEA.

Everything had changed.

A car rumbled down the road, coming closer. Michael walked back into the house. He reached the front door as his parents pulled up the drive. They had given him the night he needed to be on his own. He smiled as he glanced down at his watch. His mom was out of the car, carefully walking toward the trailer in high heels that weren’t suited for the rutted, overgrown lawn.

He stepped onto the porch to wait.

“Michael, oh, honey, your hair is too long.” She hurried up the stairs of the porch, her heels beating a rhythm on the wooden steps. She hugged him to her, holding him close. He held her tight.

“I love you, Mom.”

She held him back, gave him a long look and then hugged him again. “Look at him, George. He doesn’t look any worse for wear, does he?”

Michael made eye contact with his dad. Neither of them disagreed with Shelly Carson. They rarely did. And if she felt better thinking that he looked good, therefore he must be good, Michael was happy letting her believe it.

“He looks great, Shel. And it smells like coffee brewing. I could sure use a cup, since you dragged me out of bed before the sun came up.”

“We have a lot to do today. Michael needs to get his driver’s license. He’ll need his car, clothes and a checking account.”

Michael motioned his parents inside, as his mother continued to let them know what she had on her agenda for him. It would have been easy to tell her that he had other plans, things that he needed to do, but not today. He would give her this day.

He could handle it today, having his schedule planned for him. He had handled it for four years, but this time it felt different. This time it was being done by a person who loved him.

“I’d like for you to start work on Monday,” his dad said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Why in the world do you want to live in this place?”

The conversation had been overdue. Michael knew his parents would want answers. Being a lawyer was out of the question. As a felon he could work as a paralegal for his dad’s law office, but he would never be a lawyer. His job and his trust fund would pay the bills. Working at the church filled another need, one his parents wouldn’t understand.

“This place sort of suits me. It’s quiet out here, and this is a good starting place. I can be alone, spend time thinking about the future.” Michael glanced around the sunny yellow kitchen with the avocado-green appliances.

“You could do all of that in town, in a nice apartment,” his mother offered. He loved her optimism, her willingness to just sweep his past under a big rug.