Unlikely Hero

Brendan held out his hand for Claire to shake, his face serious but with a smile lurking in those changeable eyes. “Only if they agree. That’s the other part of our deal.”

“Fine. They’ll agree.”

“I told Stacy you’d be at the church tonight around nine.” He got off her desk. “And we’re having dinner with Nolie and Gabe at the Flanagan house at six. We can find out then what kind of wedding they really want.”

She glared at him. “For a minister you’re something of an opportunist, you know that?”

He grinned. “For a businesswoman, you’re something of a do-gooder, Ms. Delaney. Maybe we bring out the best in each other.”

“Or the worst.”

He headed for the door. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

MARTA PERRY

has written everything from Sunday school curriculum to travel articles to magazine stories in twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her home in the stories she writes for Love Inspired.

Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling, or relaxing with a good book.

Marta loves hearing from readers and she’ll write back with a signed bookplate or bookmark. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001 New York, NY 10279, e-mail her at marta@martaperry.com, or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.

Unlikely Hero

Marta Perry

MILLS & BOON

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Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend

on your own understanding. Seek His will in

all you do and He will direct your paths.

—Proverbs 3:5–6

This story is dedicated to Alice Dyne, with love

and thanks for all she does for others.

And, as always, to Brian.

Dear Reader,

I’m so glad you decided to pick up this book and I hope my story touched your heart. The faith struggle Claire and Brendan went through on their way to a happy ending meant a lot to me.

I found it fun to relive the excitement and stress of planning a wedding. I don’t think there’s anyone who doesn’t have a story to tell of all the things that went wrong!

I hope you’ll write and let me know how you liked this story. Address your letter to me at Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, and I’ll be happy to send you a signed bookplate or bookmark. You can also visit me on the Web at www.martaperry.com, or e-mail me at marta@martaperry.com.

Blessings,

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 One

“You’re wrong, that’s all.” Claire Delany had a fleeting doubt about speaking that way to a minister, but dismissed it. No clerical collar would deter her from saying what she thought.

Not that Brendan Flanagan was wearing a clerical collar. She glanced at him as he held the door and then followed her from the church gym into a hallway that had classrooms on either side. Gray sweatpants and a navy sweatshirt, battered sneakers, disheveled chestnut brown hair tumbling onto his forehead. Only a hint of gravity in his lean face and hazel eyes suggested that he had anything more serious than a game of basketball on his mind.

“Maybe I am wrong.” Brendan’s voice, a baritone rumble, was mild. “But when Gabe asked me to officiate, I understood him to say they wanted a small, quiet wedding with no fuss.”

“Gabe may have said that—” she tried the no-non-sense voice she was known for at work “—but I know what kind of wedding Nolie has dreamed of all her life. I don’t want her to give up her dream wedding just because they’re so busy right now with the new project.”

The grant her best friend had recently received would let Nolie and Gabe expand their service animal project to many more disabled people. She understood how important that was, but Nolie shouldn’t have to sacrifice having a memorable wedding because of it.

Brendan came to a halt next to a bulletin board covered with orange and yellow construction paper leaves, printed with what she supposed were children’s names. She stopped, too, swinging to face him. He was tall, like all the Flanagan men, and even the two-inch heels she wore for work didn’t give her enough height to confront him.

He was probably good at intimidating with his height, those keen eyes and that air of authority that went along with being a minister, but she wasn’t going to let him force his views onto her, no matter how self-assured he was.

“Nolie is my closest friend,” she said firmly. “If she doesn’t have the time right now to handle the wedding arrangements, then I’ll be happy to take care of them for her.”

Brendan raised an eyebrow. “Gabe is my cousin as well as my friend and parishioner. And I intend to listen to what he says they want.”

He had her on the parishioner business. Gabe was a member of Brendan’s church. Nolie probably would be soon, as well. Her friend was being absorbed into the big, noisy Flanagan clan at a rapid rate, and Brendan’s church was obviously an important part of their lives.

As for her—well, her mother had taken her to church when she was a child, but after her mother’s death, her father hadn’t set foot inside a church with her. Other than attending a wedding or two, she’d followed his pattern. Religion was a foreign country to her, one she didn’t have any interest in exploring.

She tried another tack. “Maybe Gabe just doesn’t care. A wedding is more for the bride, anyway.”

Brendan’s eyes weren’t the Irish blue of his Flanagan cousins. Instead they were a mutable hazel, and at the moment they looked as remote, green and frosty as an Alpine lake.

“A wedding is a solemn event in the spiritual lives of two people, not an excuse for a party.”

Now he really was putting on his minister hat. She was tempted to point out that the wedding decisions weren’t really up to him, but he’d simply turn that argument back on her. They weren’t up to her, either, until Gabe and Nolie agreed with her suggestions.

She’d already seen how close all the Flanagans were. The only way to win this was to have Pastor Brendan on her side. Then she could present Nolie with a fait accompli instead of a what-if.

“I’m not talking about turning the wedding into a riot, Pastor. Just making it beautiful and memorable. Surely you don’t have any theological objections to that.”

The sudden flash of humor in his eyes startled her. “Not theological, no. But we might not agree on what beautiful and memorable is.”

“We won’t know unless we try, will we?”

He studied her face for a long moment, as if wondering what lay beneath the surface. His steady gaze began to make her uneasy. She didn’t have a smudge of mascara on her nose, did she?

“Fair enough,” he said finally. “Let’s take a look at the sanctuary and talk about what you have in mind.”

His tone made it clear he was reserving judgment on her view of the wedding. That didn’t matter. She’d swing him around to her way of thinking.

Brendan led the way back up the flight of stairs she’d come down. When she hadn’t found him waiting in his office for their appointment, she’d followed the sound of thuds, bumps, and jeers to the gym, where he’d been playing basketball with a scruffy-looking bunch of teenagers.

Strange as it seemed, she’d apparently have to negotiate with the minister to get what she wanted. No, what Nolie would want. Failure wasn’t part of her vocabulary. She and Nolie had a kinship that went deeper than friendship or sisterhood, and she’d give Nolie the wedding of her dreams even if she had to go through Brendan Flanagan to do it.

But she’d try a milder tactic first. She’d always found it useful in business to establish some sort of mutual ground. She glanced at him as they walked through another long hallway, this one lined with stained-glass windows. The brighter light picked out the fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, suggesting that he took his responsibilities seriously.

“Was that some kind of a youth group you were working out with in the gym?”

He looked startled, as if he’d forgotten about those kids. “No, not exactly.” He hesitated before going on. “This neighborhood has changed since Grace Church was built a hundred years ago. A lot of kids in the area don’t have a church to call their own, or any place to hang out except the street corners.”

“I’ve seen them.” She frowned. “Frankly, most of the kids I’ve noticed hanging around the street corners aren’t ones I’d care to invite into my church, if I had one.”

“Reaching out to people who need help is the church’s business.” His look was faintly disapproving.

Claire stiffened. Whether he was a minister or not, he didn’t have the right to disapprove just because she’d voiced her opinion.

Be agreeable, a little voice cautioned in her mind. You want to gain his cooperation, not put his back up.

“I guess Suffolk isn’t just an old-fashioned market town anymore,” she said.

He nodded, as if Claire were a pupil who’d gotten an answer right. “That’s the problem exactly. People still think this is the kind of place where everyone has the same values, but it’s not. Suffolk has become a mid-size city with a few city problems no one has figured out how to deal with yet.”

“And you’re the man to deal with them.” She tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

“I’m trying. With God’s help.”

That was the sort of thing a politician might say, except that in Brendan’s deep voice, it sounded genuine. If he insisted on bringing God into the discussion, she was definitely out of her depth. A Sunday school class when she was seven or eight hadn’t prepared her for a debate on religious issues with a minister.

Well, that wasn’t why she’d come here, in any event. She wanted his cooperation with the wedding. Aside from that, she didn’t care how many juvenile delinquents Brendan let take advantage of him.

He opened a paneled oak door at the end of the hallway. They stepped into a vast, echoing space, dimly lit by a bank of recessed lights at the front.

“This is the sanctuary. By the way, I draw the line at live doves let loose in here.”

The glimmer of humor he showed again reassured her. Maybe he wouldn’t be too difficult to deal with. “Not even one or two?”

“Not even.” He fumbled along the wall for a light switch, and the overhead chandeliers came on with a blaze of light, making the sanctuary spring to life. “As you can see, there’s a center aisle. I’m told wedding planners like that.”

Claire looked the length of the sanctuary. The cream walls were accentuated with walnut arches and wainscoting, and a burgundy carpet crossed the front and swept up the aisles.

“It’s perfect.” She could visualize Nolie coming down that center aisle, past pews decorated with flowers and ribbons. She could almost hear the murmurs of appreciation.

No, that wasn’t a murmur. It was a stifled sob.

Brendan seemed to hear the sound at the same time she did. He spun toward a pew half-hidden by one of the columns. What she’d taken for a coat thrown over it was actually a woman, huddled into herself on the cushioned seat.

No, not a woman. This was barely more than a girl, wearing threadbare jeans and a tattered T-shirt. Her long dark hair hung down to screen her face.

Claire took a step forward, and then stopped. This wasn’t any of her business.

“Stacy?” Brendan knelt next to the kid, his hand gripping the pew’s carved arm. His voice was soft with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Obviously he knew the girl, and he’d shifted into minister mode. All his attention was concentrated on her, as if he’d forgotten Claire was there.

That was undoubtedly her cue to back away. Even though she didn’t want to put it off, their wedding consultation would have to wait until another time.

“I should leave,” she said.

The girl looked up at the sound of her voice, her hair falling back from a too-thin face. Claire’s heart seemed to stop and then resume beating in slow, threatening thuds. The kid’s cheek was puffed out, and one eye had been blackened.

It wasn’t just the obvious signs of abuse that turned her stomach and made her want to flee. It was the look in the girl’s eyes—frightened and accepting all at once, like a dumb animal that couldn’t escape.

She knew the look. It was the one she used to see in her mirror.

Brendan put his hand gently on Stacy’s and fought down the tidal wave of black anger that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn’t give in to the anger. That would make him no better than the person who’d done this. He had to concentrate on her.

“What happened, Stacy? Did Ted do this to you?”

Stacy’s boyfriend was the likely culprit. The girl’s mother seemed to play little role in Stacy’s life, as far as he’d been able to find out the few times Stacy had stopped by the church with some of the neighborhood teens.

“No!” Her response was emphatic, and her hand flew up to shield her eye. “Ted wouldn’t hurt me. He loves me.” She jerked away from him, as if ready to flee.

“Right. I’ll bet you walked into a door.”

Claire’s voice startled him. In his concern for Stacy, he’d forgotten she was there.

He frowned at her. Sarcasm wasn’t what Stacy needed at a time like this.

Claire was looking at the girl, and something in her gaze gave him pause. She looked—he couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was almost as if she saw something familiar in Stacy.

He gave himself a mental shake. Claire was all chilly edges and expensive sophistication, from the top of her shining mahogany hair to the tips of the shoes that had probably cost more than he’d made last month. She couldn’t have anything in common with one of his lost street kids.

“Yeah, that’s right. A door.” Stacy snapped the words at Claire, but she leaned back against the pew, her impulse to run apparently vanishing. “I was clumsy.”

Something unspoken seemed to pass between her and Claire.

“Easy to do in the dark,” Claire agreed. She leaned over, touching Stacy’s chin to tilt her head back for a better look. “You ought to get some ice on that shiner.”

Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost cool, but Stacy appeared to respond to it. She nodded. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Brendan sat back on his heels. Nothing in his brief acquaintance with Claire Delany had led him to believe she could relate to anyone outside her yuppie world, but he couldn’t deny the evidence of his own eyes.

“We can get some ice in the kitchen,” he said. “But it seems to me you need a place to stay tonight. Someplace where you won’t be walking into any more doors.”

Stacy shrugged. “I’ll be okay. I could just sleep here.” She patted the cushioned pew.

He could imagine the reaction of some of his parishioners if they learned he’d let a kid spend the night in the sanctuary. He’d already heard some sharp comments about letting neighborhood teens use the gym.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said gently. “There’s a shelter—”

“No!” Stacy shot upright, clutching her jacket with both hands. “I’m not going to any shelter. I can take care of myself.”

That was just what she couldn’t do, but she’d never admit it.

“Look, Stacy, you need a safe place.”

“No shelter.” Her mouth set in a stubborn line, and she grabbed the back of the pew. “I better get going.”

“Wait.” He put his hand on his arm. He couldn’t let her walk away. “Just give me a minute, okay? I need to talk to Claire about something.”

She gave him a wary look, but something in his expression must have allayed her suspicion. She nodded, subsiding back onto the seat.

He straightened, taking Claire’s arm to draw her back to the doorway. “I’m sorry about this.” He lowered his voice. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our conversation.”

That determined jaw of Claire’s seemed to get a little firmer. “I suppose so. What are you going to do with the girl?”

He kept his voice soft. No need for Stacy to hear. “Find a safe place for her to stay tonight. One of my parishioners will take her in, I’m sure.”

“And what about after that? A bed for the night doesn’t solve the problem.” Something he couldn’t interpret shadowed the deep brown of Claire’s eyes.

“It gives us time. By tomorrow she’ll be ready to talk with me.” He hoped.

Claire’s face tightened. “By tomorrow she’ll run right back to the person who gave her that shiner.”

“That’s a pretty cynical assessment.”

“It’s a practical one.”

There was some undercurrent in her words that he didn’t quite get. “Anyway, I’m sorry about this.” He touched her hand lightly in mute apology.

Claire looked up at his touch, something startled and wary in her gaze, and then she took a step back. She glanced past him to where Stacy slumped in the pew.

“Take care of yourself, Stacy.”

She smiled at the girl. His breath caught. That smile transformed Claire’s sharp face for a moment, turning her into someone lively and caring.

“Thanks for understanding,” he said, shaking himself out of it.

She nodded and pushed open the door behind her. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow morning. I have to get going on the wedding. We only have a month.”

Caution stirred. “We’d better talk with Gabe and Nolie before making any decisions.” We? How had he gotten into this, anyway?

“Of course.” Her smile suggested that she was taking his cooperation for granted. “We’ll do that.”

The door swung shut behind her, and he tried to dismiss an uneasy feeling. He’d managed nervous grooms, tearful brides and overbearing mothers in his time. He could surely handle one determined best friend.

In the meantime, he had Stacy to take care of. He’d better find a parishioner to take her for the night. Then he could—

Well, then he could try to find Ted. The black anger roiled again, under control but always there, always warning him of what he could become if he weren’t careful.

Please, Lord. He didn’t need to form the rest of the prayer. God had heard it often enough from him.

Stacy wasn’t the only one who should probably wait until tomorrow to discuss this.

“Come on, Stacy. Let’s get that ice for your face while I make a few calls.”

He had to focus on Stacy’s needs right now. Even as he told himself that, Claire’s unexpected smile blossomed again in his memory, softening the jagged edges of her personality and turning her into someone he wanted to know better.

Maybe, if it meant seeing that smile more often, working with Claire on the wedding wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

Claire swatted at the insistent alarm clock with a groan. She hadn’t gotten her usual eight hours, thanks to Pastor Brendan and that girl. Stacy’s battered face had refused to be dismissed from her mind. Even after she’d fallen asleep, the image had intruded on her dreams.

She pushed herself out of bed, toes curling into the plush carpet, and padded across to the bathroom. Those bad dreams hadn’t haunted her in a number of years, until last night. Her reaction to the girl had proved they weren’t banished entirely.

Fortunately, she didn’t have to be involved in the situation any further. Helping people like Stacy was Brendan’s business, not hers.

The only problem was that she could understand something Brendan never would about how that girl was feeling right now. He thought a safe place for the night and a good talk would change Stacy’s life.

He was wrong. She could tell Brendan that, but she didn’t intend to. No one in Suffolk knew about her past except Nolie, and that was the way she wanted it.

She showered and dressed for the day with quick efficiency, her morning routine down to an exact science. She’d never been late in all the years she’d been Harvey Gray’s assistant. She wouldn’t give her boss a chance to think he could get along without her.

She went down the steps, running her hand along the smoothly polished railing. The extra little touches of finely turned woodwork and custom fittings had sold her on the town house, and she hadn’t regretted that decision for a moment. A rising young executive needed a proper setting, and each time she made a mortgage payment, she reflected on the value accruing.

She glanced at her watch. She was early, and Brendan’s church was on her way. She may as well stop and see when they could meet again about the wedding. She could make a fresh start at persuading him she knew what she was doing.

The ten minutes it took to drive to the church was just long enough to make her wonder if that was really why she was going in person instead of calling. It wasn’t because she wanted to know what had happened to Stacy. And it certainly wasn’t because she wanted to see Brendan Flanagan again.

She parked at the curb and walked briskly to the office wing. She’d be quick and businesslike. That was the way to deal with him.

No one was in the outer office. Apparently Brendan’s secretary didn’t come in this early. She knocked on the door to his study and it swung open. Brendan sat tipped back in his chair as if he’d been there all night. He righted the chair at the sight of her, running one hand through disheveled hair that was the same glossy brown as the horse chestnuts children collected from beneath the tree in the town square in the fall.

“Claire. What brings you here so early?”

“Did you spend the night here?” She probably shouldn’t ask such a personal question. They weren’t friends. It wasn’t her business where he spent his nights.

He got up, stretching, the movement making her aware of the long, lean strength of him. “Only part of it.”

No, Brendan Flanagan was definitely not her image of a minister. His worn jeans and navy sweater, combined with that certain tough something about his jaw, made him look more like a firefighter, like the rest of his family.

“Ministers keep odd hours, then. Maybe you should have gone into the family business instead.”

“Firefighting? Some days I think it might be easier.” He shrugged. “That’s in my blood, anyway. I’m the fire department chaplain.”

“I didn’t realize.” Although she wasn’t surprised, now that she thought about it. All the Flanagans were involved in firefighting, and it seemed to be a source of family pride.