More Than Words: Stories of Strength: Close Call / Built to Last / Find the Way

Dear Reader,

Within these pages you will find three uplifting stories of courage. The stories, written by some of Harlequin’s most beloved authors, are fiction, but the women who inspired them are real. They are women who have dedicated their lives to helping others, and all are recipients of a Harlequin More Than Words award.

The Harlequin More Than Words program was established in 2004. Through the program Harlequin recognizes ordinary women for their extraordinary commitment to community and makes a $10,000 donation to the woman’s chosen charity. In addition, some of Harlequin’s most acclaimed authors donate their time and energy to writing fictional novellas inspired by the lives and work of our award recipients. The collected stories are published, with proceeds returning to the Harlequin More Than Words program.

Together with Carla Neggers, Susan Mallery and Karen Harper, I invite you to meet the Harlequin More Than Words award recipients highlighted in these pages. We hope their stories will inspire you to get involved in charitable activities in your community, or perhaps even with the charities you read about here. Together we can make a difference.

To learn more about the Harlequin More Than Words program or to nominate a woman you know for the Harlequin More Than Words award, please visit www.HarlequinMoreThanWords.com.

Sincerely,

Donna Hayes

Publisher and CEO

Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.

CONTENTS

STORIES INSPIRED BY REAL-LIFE HEROINES

CLOSE CALL

by Carla Neggers

Inspired by Jan Richardson and Kathryn Babcock

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

BUILT TO LAST

by Susan Mallery

Inspired by Dena Wortzel

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

FIND THE WAY

by Karen Harper

Inspired by Gloria Gilbert Stoga

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

EPILOGUE

JAN RICHARDSON & KATHRYN BABCOCK

SHELTERNET

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world: Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.

—Margaret Mead

Jan Richardson and Kathryn Babcock took Margaret Mead’s inspiring words to heart when they first set out to create a safe Internet site to link abused women with local shelters. From the very beginning, Jan and Kathryn envisioned a site that would help women across Canada—truly working locally and thinking globally. That vision led to the founding of Shelternet. Today, women and children, no matter where they live in Canada, can connect with the shelter closest to them through Shelternet.

Kathryn and Jan first met by chance when a group of women gathered to discuss philanthropic strategies. At the time, Jan was a director of a London, Ontario, women’s shelter, and Kathryn was a Toronto-based corporate fund-raiser for charitable organizations. They were next to each other, and the outgoing Kathryn began to chat to Jan. The conversation turned to discussing the Internet and the glaring absence of resources out there for women in crisis. In a desperate need to find help, abused women were trying to find information in unregulated chat rooms, and shelters were receiving crisis e-mails from women without knowing how to safely respond. Shelters needed to increase their online presence in a way that would offer information and anonymity. Jan and Kathryn agreed something needed to be done. This casual meeting led to the dream of connecting all shelters for all women across Canada, and after three years of hard work and perseverance, the dream came true.

Jan has always believed a lot of important work comes into being through women’s vision and passion—women dreaming the impossible and making it into a reality. “That’s how women do business,” Jan says. “Women network through their relationships with other women, and women show great strength in making things happen. They’re undaunted—they’ll champion monumental goals, and have a way of overcoming any obstacles in their paths.”

With Shelternet, Jan and Kathryn had that kind of vision—to do something that had not been done before—and they had the courage and determination to realize that vision. Neither Kathryn nor Jan had a background in Web site design or technology—and they had no financial backing. But from her front-line experience, Jan knew what the site should look like and feel like to make it work for the women who needed it. The creation of the site became a collaborative effort as individuals, organizations and corporations came on board with technical and financial support.

Shelternet was successfully launched in August 2002 as the first site of its kind in the world, receiving international and national acclaim. It is available in ten languages, and Shelternet’s interactive map connects women with the shelter closest to them. The site provides links to local help lines, information on developing a safety plan and stories of inspiration from other women who have left abusive relationships. Shelternet also reaches out to children and teens who have witnessed the abuse of their mothers, with special resources for them about where they can get help. So often it is children who find the information for their mothers.

The children are Kathryn’s motivation for her involvement in Shelternet—and in all her work to end violence against women. It’s unimaginable to Kathryn the level of fear a child would feel seeing their mother being abused. Yet in Canada alone, more than 300,000 children witness the abuse of their mothers every year. More than half the women come into shelters with children—many under five years of age. The feisty part of Kathryn can’t stand women being abused and children being scared. “I wish I could be twenty-five feet tall and get the women and children out of there,” she says. “I look at my relationship with my husband, how gentle and loving it is, and I want that for every woman—to never be afraid in an intimate relationship. True partnership is worth fighting for. Children raised in a loving home is the greatest gift we can give.”

Jan was another motivator and inspiration for Kathryn as they worked together on Shelternet. As Kathryn describes Jan, “She had a huge history and significant experience in the shelters. She’s incredibly well versed in the issues. She’s extraordinary.”

Jan is motivated by the possibility that a woman can be anything she wants to be, and she’s dedicated her entire adult life to the experience women have in the world. But as Jan says, “That means violence. Men violate women because they can—they’re allowed to.” Besides having been the director of a women’s shelter for more than fifteen years, Jan has served as an advocate, teacher, writer and community builder—all as part of her ongoing commitment to one day eradicating violence against women and children. Jan’s work with Shelternet has been an inspiration to continue her commitment. “I’ve been humbled by the incredible efforts of others,” she says, “particularly the rural women and shelters that have so few resources and real hardships. Yet these communities have real heart.”

Jan and Kathryn believe that the spirit of collaboration can make anything possible. But as Kathryn emphasizes, “There are so many issues that need help. Don’t be afraid if you’re just one person. Two is better—” she laughs “—but even one is okay. Any passion can be an issue you can volunteer for—and every skill is needed. You just have to reach out.”

Reaching out is the first connection to making a real difference in a community. And in the words of Margaret Mead, it’s the only thing that can change the world.

For more information visit www.shelternet.ca.

CARLA NEGGERS

CLOSE CALL

CARLA NEGGERS

Carla Neggers is the New York Times bestselling author of The Angel, The Widow, Cold Pursuit, Abandon, Breakwater, Dark Sky, The Rapids, Night's Landing and Cold Ridge. She lives with her family in New England.

Visit the author's Web site at: www.carlaneggers.com.

CHAPTER ONE

A dirt-encrusted mountain bike. A battered kayak. Free weights loose on the floor. Gym clothes and squash rackets hanging from a pegboard. Street and ice hockey sticks leaned up against the wall.

Brendan O’Malley’s idea of how to welcome guests to his place.

As she stepped into the foyer, Jessica Stewart told herself there were no surprises. It wasn’t as if she’d expected feng shui or something out of a decorating magazine. She loved the guy. She really did. She didn’t know if she was in love with him, but that was a problem for later—right now, she had to fight her way into his apartment and find out what he was up to.

Jess stuffed the key that O’Malley’s brother Mike—the firefighter brother—had loaned her. Brendan was one of the cop brothers, a Boston homicide detective. The other cop brother, the youngest, was just starting out. There was also a carpenter brother and a marine brother. Five O’Malley brothers in all. At thirty-four, Brendan was smack in the middle. A guy’s guy.

There was, in other words, no logical reason Jess should have expected anything but hockey sticks in the foyer.

Brendan and Mike owned the triple-decker and were renovating it as an investment property. Brendan had the first-floor apartment to himself.

Jess had rung the doorbell. She’d pounded on the door.

Taking Detective O’Malley by surprise wasn’t a good idea under any circumstances, but today it was really a bad one.

He’d almost been killed yesterday.

She hoped the kayak and mountain bike were a sign that he was still in town. Even his brothers didn’t want him going off on his own so soon after a trauma.

Using the toe of her taupe pumps, Jess rolled the dumbbells aside and entered the living room. It was her first time inside his apartment. Their on-again, off-again relationship over the past two months had been at theaters, restaurants and her condo on the waterfront. They hadn’t had so much as a candlelight dinner at his place.

No wonder.

It wasn’t that it was a pigsty in the sense of trash and garbage all over the floors and furniture. He didn’t live like a rat—or with rats. His apartment simply reflected his priorities. He had a flat-screen television, stacks of DVDs, an impressive stereo system, a computer, shelves of books on the Civil War and more sports equipment. In the living room.

He wasn’t much on hanging up his clothes, either.

Mike had warned Jess when she talked him into giving her the keys to his younger brother’s apartment. Brendan had lived on his own for a long time. His apartment was his sanctuary, his world away from his work as a detective.

Inviolable, and yet here she was.

She walked into the adjoining dining room. The table was stacked with car, sports and electronic gaming magazines and a bunch of flyers and guidebooks on Nova Scotia—another sign, she hoped, that he hadn’t already left.

He needed to be with his family and friends right now. Not off on his own in Nova Scotia. Everyone agreed.

Jess continued down the length of the apartment to the kitchen. A short hall led to the bathroom and bedroom. The bedroom door was shut, but she knew she’d never have gotten this far if he were on the premises. It was only five o’clock—she’d come straight from the courthouse—but he’d taken the day off.

No dirty dishes in the sink or on the counter, none in the dishwasher.

Not a good sign.

The house was solid, built about a hundred years ago in a neighborhood that wasn’t one of Boston’s finest, and had a lot of character. Brendan and Mike were doing most of the work themselves, but they were obviously taking their time—both had demanding jobs. They’d pulled up the old linoleum in the kitchen, revealing narrow hardwood flooring, and scraped off layers of wallpaper. Joe, the carpenter brother, had washed his hands of the place.

Jess peeked out onto the enclosed back porch, stacked with tools and building materials, all, presumably, locked up tight.

Brendan had mentioned, over a candlelight dinner at her place, that a couple of jazz musicians lived in the top floor apartment, a single-mother secretary with one teenage daughter in the middle floor apartment. He and Mike had fixed up the upper-floor apartments first because they provided income and allowed them to afford the taxes and mortgage.

Taking a breath, Jess made herself crack open the door to his bedroom.

It smelled faintly of his tangy aftershave. The shades were pulled.

The telephone rang, almost giving her a heart attack.

So much for having a prosecutor’s nerves of steel.

She waited for the message machine.

“Stewart?” It was O’Malley. “I know you’re there. I got it out of Mike. Pick up.”

No way was she picking up.

“All right. Suit yourself. I’m on my way to Nova Scotia. I’m fine.”

She grabbed the phone off his nightstand. “You left your bike and kayak.”

“Don’t need them.” She could hear the note of victory in his tone now that he’d succeeded in getting her on the line. “Place I’m going has its own bikes and kayaks.”

She noticed his bed was made, not that neatly, but he’d put in the effort. “Why sneak off?”

“I didn’t want a lot of grief from everyone.”

“Brendan—come on. You had a bullet whiz past your head yesterday. You need to be with family and friends.”

“The bullet didn’t whiz through my head. Big difference. It just grazed my forehead. A little blood, that’s it. I get banged up worse than that playing street hockey. A couple days’ kayaking and walking on the rocks in Nova Scotia, and I’ll be in good shape.”

“Did you bring your passport? You know, they don’t just let you wave on your way across the border these days—”

“Quit worrying. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” Jess said. “You sound like you’re trying to sound fine.”

“What are you now, Stewart? Ex-cop, hard-ass prosecutor, or would-be girlfriend?”

She stood up straight, catching her reflection in the dresser mirror. Chestnut hair, a little frizzed up given the heat and humidity. Pale blue suit in an industrial-strength fabric that didn’t wrinkle, repelled moisture, held its shape through the long hours she put in.

Definitely a former police officer, and now a dedicated prosecutor.

How on earth had she become Brendan O’Malley’s would-be girlfriend?

“Don’t flatter yourself, Detective. Just because we’ve seen each other a few times doesn’t mean I’m mooning over you—”

He laughed. “Sure you are.”

“I’ve known you forever.”

“You haven’t been sleeping with me forever.”

True. She’d slept with him that one time, two weeks ago. Since then, he’d been acting as if it had been a fast way to ruin a perfectly good friendship. Maybe she had, too. They’d known each other since her days at the police academy, when O’Malley had assisted with firearms training. He was only two years out of the academy himself, but even then everyone knew he was born to be a detective. She’d been attracted to him. What woman wasn’t? They’d become friends, stayed friends when she went to law school nights and then took her job as a prosecutor. She’d never even considered dating him—never mind sleeping with him—until two months ago.

She could feel the first twinges of a headache. “Some crazy fairy with a sick sense of humor must have whacked me with her magic fairy wand to make me want to date you.”

“Honey, we haven’t just dated—”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Best night of your life.”

He was kidding, but she knew what had happened that night. Brendan O’Malley, stud of studs, had gone too far. He’d been tender and sexy and intimate in a way that had scared the hell out of him. Now he was backpedaling. Pretending it was her chasing him and it was all a game.

“O’Malley—Brendan—”

“I’m losing the connection. I’m up here somewhere in moose country. Quit worrying, okay? I’ll call you when I get back.”

“I might never make it out of this damn apartment of yours. I’ll need a compass to navigate through all your stuff.”

But he wasn’t making up the bad connection, and his cell phone suddenly blanked out altogether, leaving Jess standing there in his bedroom, his phone dead in her hand.

She cradled it with more force than was necessary.

Bravado. That was all this was about.

O’Malley was shaken by yesterday’s close call. He and his partner had entered a seedy hotel to question a possible witness in a murder, only to have the guy throw down his backpack, turn and run. An ancient .38 fell out of the backpack, hit the floor and went off.

The bullet just barely grazed O’Malley’s forehead.

It could have killed him. It could have killed anyone in the vicinity.

O’Malley was treated on the scene. He wasn’t admitted or even transported to the hospital. As he’d said, he was fine.

Physically.

It was his third close call that year. The sheer randomness of this latest one had gotten to him. He wasn’t a target. The witness wasn’t a suspect in the murder, wasn’t trying to kill him or anyone else, said he had the .38 for his own protection—never mind that he was now charged with carrying a concealed weapon, possession of a weapon in violation of his probation, and assault with a deadly weapon.

Over dinner with Jess last night, after he’d been debriefed, Brendan had admitted he didn’t think he’d get this one out of his mind that easily. He kept seeing the gun fall out of the backpack. He kept feeling himself yell, “Gun!” and jump back, an act that had saved his life. The heat of the bullet, the reaction of his partner, the paramedics—he remembered everything, and it played like a movie in his head, over and over.

“In the blink of an eye,” he said, “that would have been all she wrote on the life of Brendan O’Malley.”

He’d wanted to be alone that night.

When Jess called to check on him in the morning, he blamed his moroseness the evening before on the shrinks and too much wine and said he was heading off on his own for the weekend.

She’d talked to a few people, who all agreed it might not be a good idea for him to be alone right now. He needed his support network. Family and friends. Time to process what was, after all, a scary incident, no matter that it had a happy ending.

Not that Detective O’Malley would listen to her or anyone else.

Jess wandered back out to the dining room and flipped through the brochures and guidebooks on Nova Scotia. She’d never been to the Canadian Maritime Provinces—she’d only been to Canada a few times, including the usual high-school French-class trip to Montreal in Quebec.

The brochures were inviting. The pictures of the rocky coastline, the ocean, cliffs, beaches, kayakers, fishing boats, harbors, quaint inns and restaurants. The Lighthouse Route. Cape Breton Island. The Evangeline Trail.

So many possibilities.

How would she ever find him?

No one had shot at her lately, but Jess could feel the effects of her months of nonstop work. She’d just finished a major trial and could afford to take a few days off. She knew better than to get in too deep with O’Malley, but she had to admit she’d fantasized about going somewhere with him. She kept telling herself that she was well aware he wasn’t the type for long-term commitments—she had her eyes wide-open. She didn’t mind if they just had some fun together.

He’d mentioned getting out of town together for a few days. Casually, not with anything specific in mind, but it at least suggested that the only reason he hadn’t invited her to go with him to Nova Scotia was the shooting. It had only been a day. He wouldn’t want to inflict himself on her.

She noticed that he’d circled a bed-and-breakfast listed on a Web site printout.

The Wild Raspberry B and B.

Cute. Cheeky, even. Jess smiled to herself and, before she could talk herself out of it, dialed the Wild Raspberry’s number.

A woman answered.

Jess reminded herself she was a prosecutor accustomed to delicate situations. For the most part, it was best to come to the point. “Hello—a friend of mine has a reservation with you this weekend. Brendan O’Malley.”

“Right. He’s not due to arrive until tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Jess said, hanging up.

Of course.

He was in moose country. That meant he’d gone farther north than Portland, Maine, and wasn’t taking the ferry to Nova Scotia from there. He must have decided to drive up to Mount Desert Island and catch the ferry out of Bar Harbor. He had to be booked on one of the ferries, since it would take forever for him to drive all the way up through Maine and New Brunswick.

Jess dug some more on the dining-room table and found a printout of the ferry schedule from Bar Harbor to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.

Bingo.

If she hurried, she could make the overnight ferry from Portland, about two hours north of Boston, and maybe even beat O’Malley to the Wild Raspberry.

After he checked into a small, tidy motel in Bar Harbor on Maine’s Mount Desert Island, Brendan O’Malley walked over to the cheapest-looking restaurant he could find and ordered fried shrimp and beer. There was fresh raspberry pie on the dessert menu, but he passed. Once he got to Nova Scotia, he’d be staying at a place with a name like Wild Raspberry, so he figured he’d have another chance.

He touched the bandage on the left side of his forehead, just above his eyebrow.

Man. Talk about luck.

The graze didn’t hurt at all. He could take the bandage off anytime. He figured he’d let it fall off in the shower.

His brother Mike had arrived at the scene. “Brendan—damn. You are one lucky cop. How many of your nine lives have you used up now?”

“Eleven.”

Gallows humor, but Mike understood. He’d had his share of brushes with death in his work. They both counted on their training, their experience, the people who backed them up—they didn’t want to count on luck.

Luck was unpredictable. Fickle.

And it could run out.

Brendan shook off any hint of encroaching self-pity and paid for his dinner. He’d have to walk all the way to Nova Scotia to burn off the fried shrimp, but he settled for an evening stroll along Bar Harbor’s pretty streets, not overly crowded with summer tourists. He had a reservation on the morning Cat ferry, which shortened the normal six-hour trip from Bar Harbor across the Gulf of Maine to less than three hours.

Marianne Wells, the owner of the Wild Raspberry, had assured him he’d have peace and quiet at her B and B. She only had three guest rooms. One was free, one was occupied by a hiker, and then there was the room she’d reserved for him.

O’Malley had debated pitching a tent somewhere on the coast for a few days, but Jess would have regarded that as total nut behavior under the circumstances and hunted him down for sure—or, more likely, sent someone after him. There wasn’t much that could pry her away from her job as a county prosecutor. She was a worse workaholic than he was.

A disaster in the making. That was what their relationship was.

Except he couldn’t imagine not having Jess Stewart in his life. She’d been there so long—forever, it seemed.