A Certain Hope

“Think you’ll ever find her?” April asked.

Reed leaned close. “Oh, I found the right woman a long time ago. But I’m still waiting for her to come around to my terms.”

April’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. Her hands trembled so much, she had to hold on to one of the mugs in front of her. “What… what are your terms, Reed?”

His voice whispered with a rawhide scrape against her ear. “I only have one stipulation actually. I want that woman to love me with all her heart. I want her to love me, only me, enough to stay by my side for a lifetime and beyond.”

April looked up at him then and saw the love there in his stalking cat eyes—the love and the challenge. “You don’t ask for much, do you, cowboy?”

LENORA WORTH

grew up in a small Georgia town and decided in the fourth grade that she wanted to be a writer. But first, she married her high school sweetheart, then moved to Atlanta, Georgia. Taking care of their baby daughter at home while her husband worked at night, Lenora discovered the world of romance novels and knew that’s what she wanted to write. And so she began.

A few years later, the family settled in Shreveport, Louisiana, where Lenora continued to write while working as a marketing assistant. After the birth of her second child, a boy, she decided to pursue her dream full-time. In 1993, Lenora’s hard work and determination finally paid off with that first sale.

“I never gave up, and I believe my faith in God helped get me through the rough times when I doubted myself,” Lenora says. “Each time I start a new book, I say a prayer, asking God to give me the strength and direction to put the words to paper. That’s why I’m so thrilled to be a part of Steeple Hill’s Love Inspired line, where I can combine my faith in God with my love of romance. It’s the best combination.”

A Certain Hope

Lenora Worth

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

—Hebrews 11:1

To the Ricks family—Barbara, Bob and especially

Jordan. You all hold a special place in my heart.

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

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

You’ve got mail.

Summer Maxwell motioned to her cousin Autumn as she opened the letter in her computer. “Hey, it’s from April.”

Autumn hurried over to the teakwood desk by the window. The Manhattan skyline was etched in sun-dappled shades of steel and gray in front of them as together they read the latest e-mail from their cousin and roommate, April Maxwell.

I’m at work, but I’ll be leaving for the airport in a few minutes. I’m so nervous. I’m worried about Daddy, of course. And I’m worried about seeing Reed again. What if he hates me? Never mind, we all know he does hate me. Please say prayers for my sweet daddy, and for safe travel. And that my BMW makes it there ahead of me in one piece.

“That’s our April,” Summer said, smiling, her blue eyes flashing. “Her prayer requests are always so practical.”

“Especially when they come to that car of hers,” Autumn said through the wisp of auburn bangs hanging in her eyes. “She’s not so worried about the car, though, I think. She’s got a lot more to deal with right now, and that’s her way of dealing with it. She’s not telling us the whole story.”

Summer tapped out a reply.

We’re here, sugar. And we will say lots of prayers for Uncle Stuart. Tell him we love him so much. Keep in touch. Oh, and let us know how things go with Reed, too. He doesn’t hate you. He’s just angry with you. Maybe it’s time for him to get over it already.

Summer signed off, then spun around in her chair to send her cousin a concerned look. “Of course, he’s been angry with her for about six years now.”

Reed Garrison brought his prancing gray-and-black-spotted Appaloosa to a skidding stop as a sleek black sports car zoomed up the long drive and shifted into Park.

“Steady, Jericho,” Reed said as he patted the gelding’s long neck. He held the reins tight as he walked the horse up to the sprawling stone-and-wood ranch house. “I’m just as anxious as you, boy,” he told the fidgeting animal. “Let’s go find out who’s visiting Mr. Maxwell on this fine spring day.”

Reed watched from his vantage point at the fence as a woman stepped out of the expensive two-seater convertible. But not just any woman, oh, no. This one was very different.

And suddenly very familiar.

Reed squinted in the late-afternoon sun, then sat back to take a huff of breath as he took in the sight of her.

April Maxwell.

It had been six long years since he’d seen her. Six years of torment and determination. Torment because he couldn’t forget her, determination because he had tried to do that very thing.

But April was, as ever, unforgettable.

And now she looked every bit the city girl she had become since she’d bolted and moved from the small town of Paris, Texas, to the big city of New York, New York, to take up residence with her two cousins, Summer and Autumn. Those three Maxwell cousins had a tight bond, each having been named for the seasons they were born in, each having been raised by close-knit relatives scattered all over east Texas, and each having enough ambition to want to get out of Texas right after finishing college to head east and seek their fortunes. Not that they needed any fortunes. They were all three blue-blooded Texas heiresses, born in the land of oil and cattle with silver spoons in their pretty little mouths. But that hadn’t been enough for those three belles, no sir. They’d wanted to take on the Big Apple. And they had, each finding satisfying work in their respective career choices. They now roomed together in Manhattan, or so he’d been told.

He hadn’t asked about April much, and Stuart Maxwell wasn’t the type of man to offer up much information. Stuart was a private man, and Reed was a silent man. It worked great for both of them while they each pined away for April.

Reed walked his horse closer, his nostrils flaring right along with Jericho’s, as he tested the wind for her perfume. He smelled it right away, and the memories assaulted him like soft magnolia petals on a warm summer night. April always smelled like a lily garden, all floral and sweet.

Only Reed knew she was anything but sweet.

Help me, Lord, he thought now as he watched her raise her head and glance around. She spotted him—he saw it in the way she held herself slightly at a distance—but she just stood there in her black short-sleeved dress and matching tall-heeled black sandals, as if she were posing for a magazine spread. She wore black sunglasses and a black-and-white floral scarf that wrapped like a slinky collar around her neck and head. It gave her the mysterious look of a foreign film star.

But then, she’d always been a bit foreign and mysterious to Reed. Even when they’d been so close, so in love, April had somehow managed to hold part of herself aloof. Away from him.

With one elegant tug, she removed the scarf and tossed it onto the red leather seat of the convertible, then ran a hand through her short, dark, tousled curls. With slow, deliberate steps he was sure she’d learned during her debutante years, she did a long-legged walk across the driveway, toward the horse and man.

“Hello, Reed.”

“April.” He tipped his hat, then set it back on his head, ignoring the way her silky, cultured voice moved like rich honey down his nerve endings. “I heard you might be coming home.”

Heard, and lost more sleep than he wanted to think about right now.

“Yes,” she said, her hand reaching out to pat Jericho’s muzzle. “I drove from the Dallas airport.”

“Nice rental car.”

“It’s not a rental. It’s mine. I had it shipped ahead so I’d have a way to get around while I’m here.”

Reed didn’t bother to remind her that they had several available modes of transportation on the Big M Ranch, from horses to trucks and four-wheelers to Stuart Maxwell’s well-tuned Cadillac. “Of course. You always did demand the best.” And I wasn’t good enough, he reminded himself.

“I like driving my own car,” she said, unapologetic and unrepentant as she flipped a wrist full of black-and-white shiny bangle bracelets. They matched to perfection the looped black-and-white earrings she wore. “I hope that won’t be a problem for you.”

“Not my problem at all,” Reed retorted, his gaze moving over her, a longing gnawing his heart in spite of the tight set of his jaw. “Looks like city life agrees with you.”

“I love New York and I enjoy my work at Satire,” she said with a wide smile that only illuminated her big, pouty red lips. Then she glanced around. “But I have to admit I’ve missed this ranch.”

“Your daddy’s missed you,” Reed said, his tone going low, all hostility leaving his mind now. “He’s real sick, April.”

She lifted her sunglasses. “I know. I’ve talked to the doctors on a daily basis for the last two weeks.”

In spite of her defensive tone, he saw the worry coloring her chocolate-brown eyes and instantly regretted the reason she’d had to come home. But then, he had a lot of regrets. “Seeing you will perk him up, I’m sure.”

She nodded, looked around at the house. “Nothing has changed, and yet, everything is changing.”

“You’ve been gone a long time.”

“I’ve been back for holidays and vacations. Never saw you around much.” The questioning look in her eyes was full of dare and accusation.

But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing he’d deliberately made himself scarce whenever he’d heard she was coming home to visit. Until now. Now he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t run. Her daddy needed him here.

He shrugged, looking out over the roping arena across the pasture. “I like to go skiing for the winter holidays, fishing and camping during the spring and summer.”

“Still the outdoorsman.” She shot him a long, cool look. “That explains your constant absences.”

“That and the fact that I bought up some of the land around here and I stay pretty busy with my own farming and ranching.”

“You bought up Maxwell land,” she said, her chin lifting in that stubborn way he remembered so well.

“Your daddy was selling, and I was in the market to buy.”

She looked down at the ground, her fancy sandal toeing a clog of dirt just off the driveway. “He wouldn’t want anybody else on this land. I’m glad you bought it.”

For a minute, she looked like the young girl Reed had fallen in love with. From kindergarten on, he’d loved her—at first from a distance, and then, up close. For a minute, she looked as vulnerable and lonely as he felt right now.

But that passed. Like a light cloud full of hope and sunlight, the look was gone as fast as it had come. When she looked up at him, the coolness was back in her dark eyes. “I expect you to take care of this land, Reed. I know I can count on you to do that, at least.”

“Thanks,” he said, and meant it, in spite of the accusing tone in her last words. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt your daddy. He taught me a lot and he’s given me a lot—me and my entire family, for that matter.”

“Y’all have been a part of this land for as long as I can remember,” she responded, her eyes wide and dark as she stared up at him.

Reed wondered if she was remembering their times together. He wondered if she remembered the way he remembered, with regret and longing and a bitterness that never went away, no matter how sweet the memories.

“I’ll be right here, as long as Stu needs me,” he told her. He would honor that promise, in spite of having to be near her again. He owed her father that much.

“I guess I’d better go on inside then,” she said, her tone husky and quiet. “I dread this.”

“Want me to go in with you?” Reed asked, then silently reprimanded himself for offering. He wouldn’t fall back into his old ways. Not this time.

“No. I have to do this. I mean, he called me home for a reason, and I have to accept that reason.”

Reed heard the crush of emotion in her voice and, whether out of habit or sympathy, his heart lurched forward, toward her. “It’s tough, seeing him so frail. Just brace yourself.”

“Okay.” She nodded, turned and walked back by the stone steps to the long wraparound porch, headed for her car. Then she turned back, her shiny gamine curls lifting in the soft breeze. “Will we see you at supper?”

“Probably not.” He couldn’t find the strength to share a meal with her, not tonight.

“Guess I’ll see you later then.”

“Yeah, later.”

Reed watched from across the fence as she lifted a black leather tote from the car, her every step as elegant and dainty as any fashion plate he’d seen on the evening news. But then, April Maxwell herself was often seen on the evening news. She worked at one of the major design houses in the country—in the world, probably. Reed didn’t know much about haute couture, but he did know a lot of things about April Maxwell.

His mother and sisters went on and on about how Satire was all the rage both on the runways and on the designer ready-to-wear racks, whatever that meant. April was largely responsible for that, they had explained. Apparently, she’d made a good career out of combining public relations and fashion.

She was just a bit shallow and misguided in the love and family department. She’d given up both to seek fame and fortune in the big city.

And he’d stayed here, broke and heartbroken, to mend the fences she’d left behind. Well, he wasn’t broke anymore. And he wasn’t so very heartbroken, either.

Why, then, did his heart hurt so much at the very sight of her?

She hurt all over.

April opened the massive wooden double doors to her childhood home, her heart beating with a fast rhythm from seeing Reed again. He looked better than ever, tall and muscular, his honey-brown hair long on his neck, his hazel-colored cat eyes still un-readable. Reed was a cowboy, born and bred. He was like this land, solid and wise, unyielding and rooted. After all this time, he still had the power to get to her. And she still had regrets she couldn’t even face.

Before she could delve into those regrets, she heard footsteps coming across the cool brick-tiled entryway, then a peal of laughter.

“Ah, niña, you are home, sí?”

April turned to find one of her favorite people in the world standing there with a grin splitting his aged face.

“Sí, Horaz, I’m home. ¿Como está?”

“I’m good, very good,” Horaz said, bobbing his head, his thick salt-and-pepper hair not moving an inch.

“And Flora? How is she?”

“Flora is fine, just fine. She is cooking up all of your favorites.”

“That sounds great,” April said, hugging the old man in a warm embrace, the scent of spicy food wafting around them. She wasn’t hungry, but she’d have to hide that from Horaz and Flora Costello. They had been with her family since her father and mother had been married more than thirty years ago. And after her mother’s death when April was in high school, they’d stayed on to take care of her and her father. She loved them both like family and often visited with their three grown children and their families whenever she came home, which was rare these days. The entire Costello clan lived on Maxwell land, in homes they’d built themselves, with help from her father.

“You look tired, niña,” Horaz said. “Do you want to rest before supper? Your room is ready.”

April thought of the light, airy room on the second floor, the room with the frilly curtains and wide, paned windows that allowed a dramatic view of the surrounding pasture land and the river beyond. “No, I don’t want to rest right now. I want…I want to see my father.”

Horaz looked down at the floor. “I will take you to him. Then I will instruct Tomás to bring in the rest of your bags.”

“Yes, I left them in the trunk of the car.” She handed him the keys. “And how is Tomás? Does he like high school?”

“He’s on the football team,” Horaz said, grinning again. “My grandson scored two touchdowns in the final big game last fall. We won the championship.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” April said, remembering her own days of cheerleading and watching Reed play. He’d been a star quarterback in high school and had gone on to play college ball. Then he’d gotten injured in his senior year at Southern Methodist University. After graduating, he had come home to Paris to make a living as a rancher. She had gone on to better things.

Not so much better, she reminded herself. You gave up Reed for your life in New York. Why now, of all times, did she have to feel such regrets for making that decision?

“Come,” Horaz said, taking her by the arm to guide her toward the back of the rambling, high-ceilinged house.

As they passed the stairs, April took in the vast paneled-and-stucco walls of the massive den to the right. The stone fireplace covered most of the far wall, a row of woven baskets adorning the ledge high over it. On the back wall, over a long brown leather couch grouped with two matching comfortable chairs and ottomans, hung a portrait of the Big M’s sweeping pastures with the glistening Red River beyond. Her mother had painted it. The paned doors on either side of the fireplace were thrown open to the porch, a cool afternoon breeze moving through them to bring in the scent of the just-blooming potted geraniums and the centuries-old climbing roses.

As they neared the rear of the house, April felt the cool breeze turn into a chill and the scent of spring flowers change to the scent of antiseptics and medicine. It was dark down this hall, dark and full of shadows. She shuddered as Horaz guided her to the big master bedroom where the wraparound porch continued on each side, where another huge fireplace dominated one wall, where her mother’s Southwestern-motif paintings hung on either side of the room, and where, in a big bed handmade of heart-of-pine posts and an intricate, lacy wrought-iron headboard that reached to the ceiling, her father lay dying.

Chapter Two

The big room was dark, the ceiling-to-floor windows shuttered and covered with the sheer golden drapery April remembered so well. When her mother was alive, those windows had always been open to the sun and the wind. But her mother was gone, as was the warmth of this room.

It was cold and dark now, a sickroom. The wheelchair in the corner spoke of that sickness, as did the many bottles of pills sitting on the cluttered bedside table. The bed had been rigged with a contraption that helped her weak, frail father get up and down.

April walked toward the bed, willing herself to be cheerful and upbeat, even though her heart was stabbing with clawlike tenacity against her chest. I won’t cry, she told herself, lifting her chin in stubborn defiance, her breeding and decorum that of generations of strong Maxwell women.

“Daddy?” she called as she neared the big bed in the corner. “It’s me, Daddy. April.”

A thin, withered hand reached out into the muted light. “Is that my girl?”

April felt the hot tears at the back of her eyes. Pushing and fighting at them, she took a deep breath and stepped to the bedside, Horaz hovering near in case she needed him. “Yes, I’m here. I made it home.”

“Celia.” The whispered name brought a smile to his face. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

April gasped and brought a hand to her mouth. He thought she was her mother! Swallowing the lump in her throat, she said, “No, Daddy. It’s April. April…”

Horaz touched her arm. “He doesn’t always recognize people these days. He has grown worse over the last week.”

April couldn’t stop the tears then. “I…I’m here now, Daddy. It’s April. I’m April.”

Her thin father, once a big, strapping man, lifted his drooping eyes and looked straight into her face. For a minute, recognition seemed to clarify things for him. “April, sweetheart. When’d you get home?”

“I just now arrived,” she said, sniffing back tears as she briskly wiped her face. “I should have been here sooner, Daddy.”

He waved his hand in the air, then let it fall down on the blue blanket. “No matter. You’re here now. Got to make things right. You and Reed. Don’t leave too soon.”

“What?” April leaned forward, touching his warm brow. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’m going to stay right here until you’re well again.”

He smiled, then closed his eyes. “I won’t be well again, honey.”

“Yes, you will,” she said, but in her heart she knew he was right. Her father was dying. She knew it now, even though she’d tried to deny it since the day the family doctor had called and told her Stuart Maxwell had taken a turn for the worse. The years of drinking and smoking had finally taken their toll on her tough-skinned father. His lungs and liver were completely destroyed by disease and abuse. And it was too late to fix them now.

Too late to fix so many things.

April sat with her father until the sun slipped behind the treeline to the west. She sat and held his hand, speaking to him softly at times about her life in New York, about how she enjoyed living with Summer and Autumn in their loft apartment in Tribeca. About how much she appreciated his allowing her to have wings, his understanding that she needed to be out on her own in order to see how precious it was to have a place to call home.

Stuart slept through most of her confessions and revelations. But every now and then, he would smile or frown; every now and then he would squeeze her fingers in his, some of the old strength seeming to pour through his tired old veins.

April sat and cried silently as she remembered how beautiful her mother had been. Her parents had been so in love, so perfectly matched. The rancher oilman and the beautiful, dark-haired free-spirited artist. Her father had come from generations of tough Texas oilmen, larger-than-life men who ruled their empires with steely determination and macho power. Her mother had come from a long line of Hispanic nobility, a line that traced its roots from Texas all the way back to Mexico City. They’d met when Stuart had gone to Santa Fe to buy horses. He’d come home with several beautiful Criollo working horses, and one very fiery beauty who was also a temperamental artist.

In spite of her mother’s temper and artistic eccentricities, it had been a match made in heaven—until the day her mother had boarded their private jet for a gallery opening in Santa Fe. The jet had crashed just after takeoff from the small regional airport a few miles up the road. There were no survivors.

No survivors. Her father had died that day, too, April decided. His vibrant, hard-living spirit had died. He’d always been a rounder, but her devout mother had kept his wild streak at bay for many years. That ended the day they buried Celia Maxwell.

And now, as April looked at the skeletal man lying in this bed, she knew her father had drunk himself to an early grave so he could be with her mother.

“Don’t leave me, Daddy,” April whispered, tears again brimming in her eyes.

Then she remembered the day six years ago that Stuart had told his daughter the same thing. “Don’t leave me, sugar. Stay here with your tired old daddy. I won’t have anyone left if you go.”