“Lean your head against me and relax,” Cal whispered.

Relax? With her cheek pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear? With the faint scent of his aftershave filling her nostrils? With the angle of his jaw brushing against her forehead, the faint end-of-day stubble creating a sensuous texture against her skin? He must be kidding!

But as they swung gently back and forth and dusk slowly deepened, she did relax. Cal knew she was afraid, just as he was, and he understood her caution. But he also knew—in fact, was even beginning to hope—that perhaps their fears were groundless. And before they left the mountains, he intended to find out.

IRENE HANNON

has been a writer for as long as she can remember. This prolific author of romance novels for both the inspirational and traditional markets began her career at age ten, when she won a story contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. Today, in addition to penning her heartwarming stories of love and faith, Irene keeps quite busy with her “day job” in corporate communications. In her “spare” time, she enjoys performing in community musical theater productions.

Irene and her husband, Tom—whom she describes as “my own romantic hero”—make their home in St. Louis, Missouri.

The Way Home
Irene Hannon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Not as man sees does God see, because man sees

the appearance, but the Lord looks into the heart.

—1 Samuel 16:7

To Tom—my friend, my hero, my love…always

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

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

“There’s your man!”

Amy Winter turned in the direction her cameraman was pointing and quickly scanned the group of people milling about in front of the courthouse.

“Where?”

“Straight ahead. Tall, dark hair, gray suit, intimidating. Carrying a black briefcase.”

It took Amy only a moment to spot Cal Richards. “Intimidating” was right. As he strode purposefully through the group of people clustered on the sidewalk and headed toward the door, his bearing communicated a very clear message: “Back off.” But clear or not, it was a message Amy intended to ignore. She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the microphone.

“Okay, Steve. Let’s go.”

Without waiting for a reply, she headed toward her quarry and planted herself directly in his path.

Cal Richards didn’t notice her until he was only a couple of feet away. Even then, he simply frowned, gave her a distracted glance and, without pausing, made a move to step around her. Except that she moved, too.

This time he looked right at her, and their gazes collided for one brief, volatile moment that made Amy’s breath catch in her throat. The man had eyes that simultaneously assessed, calculated, probed—and sent an odd tingle up her spine. But before she had time to dwell on her unsettling reaction, his gaze moved on, swiftly but thoroughly sweeping over her stylish shoulder-length light brown hair, vivid green eyes and fashionably short skirt before honing in on the microphone in her hand and the cameraman behind her. His frown deepened, and the expression in his eyes went from merely annoyed to cold.

“Excuse me. I have work to do.” The words were polite. The tone was not.

Amy’s stomach clenched and she forced herself to take a deep breath. “So do I. And I was hoping you’d help me do it.” Though she struggled to maintain an even tone, she couldn’t control the slight tremor that ran through her voice. And that bothered her. She resented the fact that this stranger, with one swift look, could disrupt the cool, professional demeanor she’d worked so hard to perfect.

“I don’t give interviews.”

“I just have a couple of questions. It will only take a minute of your time.”

“I don’t have a minute. And I don’t give interviews,” he repeated curtly. “Now, if you’ll excuse—”

“Look, Mr. Richards, this trial is going to get publicity whether you cooperate or not,” she interrupted, willing her voice to remain steady. “But as the assistant prosecuting attorney, you could add a valuable perspective to the coverage.”

Cal expelled an exasperated breath. “Look, Ms….” He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“Winter. Amy Winter.” She added the call letters of her station.

“Ms. Winter. As I said before, I don’t give interviews. Period. Not before, not during, not after a trial. So you’ll save us both a lot of trouble if you just accept that right now. Trust me.”

Before she could protest, he neatly sidestepped her, covered the distance to the courthouse door in a few long strides and disappeared inside.

Amy stared after him in frustration, then turned to Steve, who gave her an I-told-you-so shrug.

“Okay, okay, you warned me,” she admitted with an irritated sigh.

“Cal Richards has a reputation for never bending the rules—his own or the law’s. Everyone in the news game knows that. Did you see anyone else even try to talk to him?”

Steve was right. The other reporters in front of the courthouse, most longtime veterans of the Atlanta news scene, hadn’t even approached the assistant prosecuting attorney. They’d obviously learned a lesson she had yet to master after only six months in town. Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted to learn that lesson. If she was ever going to win the anchor spot she’d set her sights on, and ultimately a network feature slot, she had to find a way to make her coverage stand out. This story had potential. And getting Cal Richards’s cooperation would be a coup that could boost her up at least a couple of rungs on the proverbial career ladder.

She turned once more to gaze thoughtfully at the door he had entered. Maybe Steve was right. Maybe the assistant prosecuting attorney wouldn’t bend. Then again, maybe he would. And until she tried everything she could think of to induce a change of heart, she wasn’t about to let Cal Richards off the hook.

Cal closed the door behind him, tossed his briefcase on the couch and wearily loosened his tie. The first day of jury selection had been frustrating and largely unproductive. Which was about what he’d expected, given the high-profile nature of this trial. Whenever a public figure had a run-in with the law, it was big news. Especially when that public figure was someone like Jamie Johnson, a well-liked sports hero, and the charge was so explosive—manslaughter. If any average citizen had been involved in a drunk-driving accident that left a pedestrian dead, they’d throw the book at him. But Jamie Johnson had public sentiment on his side. And since the victim was a homeless drifter, his death was being treated as no great loss.

Cal didn’t see it that way. Manslaughter was manslaughter, as far as he was concerned. It didn’t matter who the victim was. But Johnson was going to walk unless they came up with a rock-solid witness. Though the sports hero didn’t dispute the drunk-driving charge, he claimed that the victim had stepped off the curb and into his path. And at the moment, it was his word against no one’s. With his clean-cut good looks and apparent sincerity and remorse, he had the public eating out of his hand.

But he was guilty as sin, and Cal knew it deep in his gut. Johnson had had other minor run-ins with the law, was known to be a drinker, had demonstrated his irresponsibility in any number of ways the police were well aware of. Unfortunately, none of that was admissible as evidence.

Cal jammed his hands into his pockets and walked over to the window of his apartment. There were many things he liked about his job. The harsh reality of this kind of trial, where the odds of seeing justice done were minuscule, wasn’t one of them. He would do his best, of course. He always did. But he’d been in this business long enough to learn that no matter how high your ideals were when you started, disillusion was your legacy. There were just too many instances where the “little guy,” for lack of money or power, was shortchanged by the law. Cal worked hard to keep that from happening, and sometimes he won. That was what kept him going—knowing that in at least a few instances justice had been served because of his efforts. It was a deeply satisfying experience, but it happened too rarely.

Cal looked down at the glittering lights of the city and drew a long, slow breath, willing the tension in his shoulders to ease. It was a pretty view, one that his infrequent visitors always admired. But it wasn’t home. Never would be. And, as usual, it did nothing to help him relax.

So instead he closed his eyes and pictured the evening mist on the blue-hued mountains outside his grandmother’s cabin in Tennessee. He could almost feel the fresh breeze on his face, smell the faint, woodsy aroma of smoke curling from distant chimneys, hear the whisper of the wind in the pine trees and the call of the birds. As he let the remembered beauty seep into his soul, his mind gradually grew still and he was filled with a sense of peace.

When at last Cal opened his eyes, he felt better. Calmer. He’d lived in cities for almost half of his thirty-four years, but only Gram’s cabin fit the definition of “home.” It was still his refuge, the place he went when he couldn’t handle the impersonal, fast-paced city anymore, when the frustration became too intense, when he needed to regain perspective. And he’d been going there a lot lately. Even after all these years, he felt like a stranger in the sterile environment of steel and concrete. Only in the mountains was he able to ease the growing restlessness in his soul.

But how could he ever explain that to his father? he asked himself dispiritedly for the thousandth time. Cal raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. Jack Richards would never understand. All his life, all the years he’d labored as a tenant farmer, he’d wanted a better life for his only offspring. And “better” to him meant an office job, a lucrative career, life in the big city. He’d instilled that same dream in his son, though it wasn’t a dream Cal had taken to naturally. Unlike his father, he’d always loved the land. But somewhere along the way his father had convinced him that his destiny lay elsewhere, far from the blue-hazed Smoky Mountains. And the day Cal graduated from law school with an enviable, big-city job offer in his pocket, his destiny had seemed settled, his “success” assured.

In the intervening years, however, he’d begun to realize that deep inside he had never really shared his father’s dream. The mountains called to him more and more strongly as the years passed. And it was a call he was finding harder and harder to ignore, especially on days like this. Yet how could he walk away from the life he’d built for himself, throw away all the long hours he’d invested in his career in Atlanta? Frustrating as it often was, there were also moments of deep satisfaction when he was able to help someone who really needed his help, who might be lost in the system without his intervention. That was why he had gone into law, why he still enjoyed it. And as he took on more and more responsibility, he would be in a position to do even more to further the cause of justice. It somehow seemed wrong to even consider leaving a job where he could be such an instrument for good. And further compounding the situation was his father. How could he disappoint the man who had worked so hard to give him a better life?

With an impatient shake of his head, Cal turned away from the window. He’d been wrestling with this dilemma for months, praying for guidance, but resolution was still nowhere in sight. And until his prayers were answered, he’d simply have to maintain the status quo. At least until his patience ran out. Which might not be too far down the road, he thought ruefully as he headed toward the kitchen.

The red light was blinking on his answering machine as he passed, indicating three messages, and he paused. Fortunately, his unlisted number kept crank calls and solicitations at bay. Only his close business associates, family and a few select friends were privy to his private line.

Despite the protest of his stomach, Cal deferred dinner for yet another few minutes. He straddled a stool at the counter, pulled a notepad toward him and punched Play.

The first two messages were easily dispensed with. The third was more disturbing.

“Mr. Richards, this is Amy Winter. We met this morning at the courthouse. I don’t like to bother people at home, but I’m not having much luck connecting with you at your office, and I really would like to continue our discussion. As I told you, I’m covering the Johnson trial and your input would add a valuable perspective to the coverage. I realize, of course, that you can’t discuss the trial in any detail, but perhaps you can suggest an angle I might investigate, or offer some other insights that would be helpful. Let me give you my work number and my home number…”

As she proceeded to do so, Cal’s frown deepened. He didn’t like reporters in general, and he especially didn’t like pushy reporters. Which was exactly the category Amy Winter fit into. How in the world had she managed to get his unlisted number? And did she really think he’d return this call when he’d ignored both of the messages she’d left at his office earlier in the day?

Resolutely he punched the erase button. Obviously she was new on this beat or she’d know that his “no comment” meant exactly that. But she’d learn. In the meantime, if she continued to call his home number, he could always file a harassment complaint. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he didn’t have time to play games. Sooner or later she’d get that message.

Apparently it was going to be “later,” Cal thought resignedly when he spotted the persistent reporter on the courthouse steps the next morning. At least she’d left the cameraman back at the station this time, he noted.

“Good morning, Mr. Richards.”

She sounded a bit breathless as she fell into step beside him, and he glanced over at her. The chilly, early-spring air had brought a becoming flush to her cheeks, and her jade-colored jacket complemented the startling green of her eyes. She was a very attractive woman, he realized. Then again, that seemed to be a prerequisite for broadcast news. As far as he was concerned, TV stations would be better off if they paid more attention to solid reporting skills and real news and less to cosmetics and sensationalism. He picked up his pace.

“If this keeps up, I’ll have to wear my running shoes next time,” she complained breathlessly, trotting beside him.

He stopped so abruptly that she was a step ahead of him before she realized he’d paused. When she turned back he was scowling at her.

She ignored his intimidating look. “Could you maybe signal the next time you’re going to put on the brakes?” she suggested pleasantly.

“I’m hoping there won’t be a next time.”

“Gee, you sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.”

“I thought I made myself clear yesterday, Ms. Winter. I don’t talk to the press. And I did not appreciate the call to my home. I consider that invasion of privacy, not that you reporters know the meaning of that term. But if it happens again, I’ll file a complaint. Is that understood?”

She flushed, and something—some odd flash of emotion—darted across her eyes. It was there and gone so quickly, he wondered if he’d imagined it. But he didn’t think so. Suddenly the word cringe came to mind, and he frowned. How odd—and unlikely. Reporters were a thick-skinned lot. You couldn’t hurt their feelings if you tried. Obviously he had misread her reaction.

“Look, Mr. Richards, I’m sorry about the call to your apartment. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it won’t happen again. However, I won’t promise to stop calling your office or talking to you here at the courthouse. That’s my job.” She tilted her chin defiantly on the last words, giving him a good look at her classic oval face, clear, intelligent eyes and determined, nicely shaped lips. His gaze lingered on those lips just a moment too long before he jerked it away, disconcerted by the sudden, unaccountable acceleration of his pulse.

“And my job is to see justice done,” he countered a little too sharply as he moved forward once again.

“Why should our two jobs be incompatible? And why do you hate the press so much?” she persisted, struggling to keep pace with his long strides.

They reached the door of the courthouse and he turned to her, his jaw set, his eyes flinty. “They shouldn’t be incompatible, Ms. Winter. Justice should be a mutual goal of the press and the law. But the only things TV stations care about are ratings and advertising revenues. If that means sensationalizing a trial at the expense of justice to gain viewers, so be it.”

“That’s a pretty cynical attitude.”

His mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “Let’s just call it realistic. How long have you been in this business, Ms. Winter? Two years? Three?”

“Seven.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. She didn’t look more than a year or two out of school, but she must be close to thirty, he realized.

“Then you should know that it’s hard enough to see justice done when everything works right. It’s impossible when the press takes sides.”

“I take it you’re speaking from personal experience?”

He hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Five years ago I handled a trial very similar to this one. High-profile figure, well liked. He was charged with rape. He was also the proverbial golden-haired boy. Popular, wealthy, powerful, a churchgoing man with a list of philanthropic endeavors to rival Albert Schweitzer. He had the press eating out of his hand. In fact, the news media did everything it could to discredit and harass the victim. She finally caved in under the pressure. We didn’t stand a chance.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

“And…”

At her prompt, Cal turned to her, his rapier-sharp eyes cold as steel. “Two years ago he was charged with rape again. But this time he picked the wrong victim and the wrong place. She was a fighter, and she was determined to make him pay. Not to mention the fact that there were witnesses.”

“So in the end, justice was served.”

He shrugged. “No thanks to the press. And it depends on what you mean by ‘justice.’ Yes, he was convicted. But he’s still appealing. Worst case, he’ll serve a couple of years and be back on the streets. I hardly consider that justice, given the crime.”

Amy gave him a quizzical look. “So why did you go into law, if it’s so hopeless?”

He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Frankly I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately,” he replied soberly, surprising her—and himself—with his candor. “I guess I thought I could make a difference. And once in a great while I can. Every now and then, because of my efforts, justice is served and the little guy wins. That’s what keeps me going. That’s what makes it worthwhile.”

His tone once more grew brusque. “Look, Ms. Winter, I can’t stop you from covering this trial. But I can—and do—decline to participate. I’ll give you one piece of advice, though. Don’t fall into the trap those reporters did in the case I just told you about. Don’t be taken in by appearances. Do your homework. Dig. Don’t assume that the image Jamie Johnson projects publicly is the real man. You’ll do everyone a great service if you treat him as you would any other defendant. And while you’re at it, take a look at the issue itself. Too many times people blame liquor for drunk driving instead of focusing on the real problem—irresponsibility. That’s a harder issue to tackle. But some thoughtful coverage might go a long way toward placing the blame where it belongs—on the person, not the object. Think about that, Ms. Winter. Try to go for substance over sensationalism.”

She looked at him silently for a moment. “No matter what I do, I have a feeling nothing will change your mind about the news game,” she said at last.

Cal’s mouth settled into a grim line. “When somebody dies, it’s not a game.”

Amy met his intense gaze steadily. “I agree. And I appreciate your candor and suggestions. They were very helpful. In fact, I’d welcome any other input or ideas you might have as the trial progresses.”

“Don’t hold your breath. As I said, I try to stay as far away from the press as possible.”

“I’ll keep trying, you know.”

He shrugged and turned away. “Suit yourself.”

Amy watched as he disappeared inside, a thoughtful expression on her face. For somebody who didn’t talk to the press, he’d certainly given her an earful just now. Which meant he might do so again. And maybe next time he would offer a piece of information that would give her just the edge she was looking for in her coverage.

In the meantime, she intended to take to heart what he had said. While she didn’t agree completely with his assessment of the press, he had made some valid points. And he’d given her a couple of ideas for related stories that could round out her coverage when there wasn’t much to report on in the trial itself. All in all, it had been a productive morning, she decided. She had some good ideas, and she had a ray of hope—which was probably the last thing Cal Richards had intended to give her, she thought, a wry smile quirking the corners of her mouth.

As she turned to go, she glanced back at the door through which the reticent assistant prosecuting attorney had disappeared. He was an interesting man, she mused. Not to mention good-looking. Too bad they were on opposite sides—in his opinion, at least. Not that it mattered, of course. He wasn’t her type anyway. Not even close.

Besides, even if he was, she didn’t have time for romance. She had a career to build.

“If looks could kill…”

Cal stopped abruptly outside the jury selection room, the scowl on his face softening as he glanced at his colleague.

“It’s not that bad, you know. We’ll get this jury. If not in this century, then surely in the next.”

This time Cal smiled. Bill Jackson, who could go for the jugular in the courtroom better than anyone Cal had ever encountered, also had an amazing ability to ease the tension in any situation. It was a pretty unbeatable combination in an attorney, and Cal was glad he was assisting on this trial.

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t even thinking about the jury.”

“No? Then what put that look on your face?”

“A run-in with the press.”

“No kidding! I thought you had them all trained to keep their distance.”

“So did I. I think this one’s new.”

“What’s his name?”

“It’s a her. Amy Winter.”

Bill gave a low whistle, and Cal raised his eyebrows. “You know her?”

“Unfortunately, no. But I’ve seen her on TV. Man, she’s a looker! And you’re right. She’s only been around a few months. Must be good, though, to get an assignment like this so quickly.”

“She’s pushy, anyway.”

Bill shrugged. “Same thing in the news game.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate being called at home.”

Bill looked at him in surprise. “How’d she get your unlisted number?”

“Beats me. I didn’t ask. I just told her to back off.”

“And how did the lady respond to that?”

Cal’s scowled returned. “Let’s just say I don’t think I’ve seen the last of Amy Winter.”

Bill chuckled as he reached over to open the door.

“This could be interesting. Two people equally unwilling to bend. You’ll have to keep me informed. In the meantime, we’d better get on with the jury selection or there won’t even be a trial to write about.”

As Cal followed Bill into the room, he gave one last fleeting thought to Amy Winter. Bill had called her a “looker,” and his colleague was right. But that wasn’t why she lingered in his memory. He’d met plenty of attractive women, and he’d rarely given them a thought once out of their presence. No, it wasn’t her looks that intrigued him. It was the look that had appeared in her eyes, then quickly vanished, when he’d spoken harshly to her. For the briefest of moments she had seemed somehow…vulnerable was the word that came to mind. Yet that seemed so out of character for someone in her profession. Reporters got the cold shoulder all the time. Surely they built up an immunity to it. Why would she be any different?

And she probably wasn’t, he told himself brusquely. Most likely he’d imagined the whole thing. Besides, why should he care? Amy Winter was a stranger to him. And a reporter to boot. She was aggressive, ambitious, competitive, single-minded, brash—qualities he didn’t particularly admire in either gender. He ought to just forget her and hope she honored his request to back off.

Except he didn’t think she would.

And for some strange reason, he didn’t think she was going to be so easy to forget.

Chapter Two

Amy took a sip of her drink and glanced around glumly. A charity bachelor auction was the last place she wanted to be on a Saturday night. If her TV station hadn’t bought a table and their lead anchorwoman wasn’t the MC—making this a politically expedient event to attend—the proverbial wild horses couldn’t have dragged her here. Spending an entire evening watching women bid on dates was not exactly her idea of a compelling way to use her precious—and rare—free time.

“Why the long face?”

Amy turned to find one of the younger copywriters from her station at her elbow. She shrugged, groping for the woman’s name. Darlene, that was it. “I can think of other places I’d rather be.”

“Yeah? Spending an evening mingling with a bunch of hot-looking guys doesn’t seem so bad to me. Have you checked out the program?” She waved it in front of Amy’s face. “It’s got all their pictures and bios.”

“No. I’m not planning to bid.”

“I wasn’t, either, until I got here. But I met several of the auctionees during the cocktail hour and now I’ve got my eye on Bachelor #12—over there, by the bar.” She gazed at him longingly. “Man, a date with that dude would be worth a couple hundred bucks! Did you meet anyone interesting?”

Amy shook her head. Actually, she’d only just arrived, putting off her appearance as long as possible. It had been a grueling and frustrating couple of weeks and she was exhausted. Though she’d tried repeatedly to contact Cal Richards—even waylaid him a couple of times enroute to the courthouse—and spent hours in the courtroom after the trial began, he’d hardly spoken to her. Apparently he’d said everything he intended to say at the one encounter when he’d made it clear what he thought of the news media.

Amy sighed. She hadn’t given up on finding an angle on this story. But the assistant prosecuting attorney wasn’t making it easy, that was for sure. Still, she was due for a break. In fact, she deserved one. After all, she’d paid her dues. She’d put in the long hours, sacrificed her personal life, worked the midnight shift in the newsroom, all in the name of career advancement. And she’d accomplished a lot. But not enough. She had her sights set on an anchor slot. And she’d get there, just like Candace Bryce, she vowed, as the celebrity MC stepped to the microphone.

“Ladies, please take your seats so the wait staff can serve dinner—and we can get to the real purpose of this evening. You’ll have about an hour to enjoy your food and plan your strategy. Bon appétit!”

“Our table’s over there,” Darlene indicated with a nod, leaving Amy to follow.

Amy knew most of the women from the station either by name or face, although she didn’t consider any of them “friends.” The broadcast news business was too competitive to foster real friendships. She smiled pleasantly and sat down in the one empty chair, her back to the stage. Obviously her table mates had vied for the seats with the best view, she thought wryly. As far as she was concerned, they could have them. She’d much rather focus on the chocolate mousse promised for dessert than the dessert the other women had in mind.

By the time the mousse was served, Amy was beginning to plan her escape strategy. She’d put in her appearance, been noticed by Candace and stopped on the way to the ladies’ room to chat with the station manager. Her duty was done. In another few minutes she could sneak out, head back to her apartment, take her shoes off, put on some mellow jazz, dim the lights and do absolutely nothing for what little remained of the evening. It sounded like heaven!

As Candace stepped once more to the microphone, a buzz of excitement swept over the room and there was a rustling of paper as the women reached for their programs. While the ladies focused on the stage, Amy focused on her dessert.

The first auctionee was introduced to cheers and whistles, and Amy rolled her eyes. How could grown women behave in such a sophomoric way? she wondered in disgust. And they complained that men acted juvenile! She eyed the exit longingly, but it was too soon to leave. The bidding had barely begun. Resignedly she reached for one of the programs and fished a pen out of her purse. She might as well put the time to good use. In the car this evening, on the way to the dinner, she’d had some ideas about the trial coverage and she wanted to jot them down before they slipped her mind.

As Amy made her notes, she tuned down the surrounding cacophony of sound until it was no more than a background buzz. She’d learned that technique early in her career, when she realized she would often have to compose broadcast copy in the midst of chaos for live feeds. It was a skill that had served her well in the years that followed.

In the one real conversation they’d had, Cal Richards had suggested some angles for her coverage that she hadn’t yet explored. She’d also picked up a few ideas since sitting in on the first couple of sessions of the trial. They had all been filed away in her mind for emergency use, just in case she wasn’t able to break through his wall of reserve. Up until now, she’d been confident she’d find a way to do that. But her confidence was beginning to slip, she admitted. She’d tried everything she could think of, and the man simply refused to budge. It was time to put some of her emergency plans into action.

Amy ran out of room and turned the page to continue her scribbling. Her name fell on Bachelor #5 just as Candace introduced him.

“Now, ladies, here we have a real coup. One of Atlanta’s most eligible and elusive bachelors, who only agreed to participate because of his interest in Saint Vincent’s Boy’s Club, which will benefit from this event. He’s gorgeous, articulate, charming and very available. If I wasn’t already married, I’d bid on this one myself. Ladies, please welcome one of Atlanta’s finest assistant prosecuting attorneys, Cal Richards.”

Amy practically choked on the sip of coffee she’d just taken as the room erupted into wild applause and more catcalls. She stared at his name and photo in the program, then jerked around to confirm that her nemesis was, indeed, present. Sure enough, there he was, looking incredibly handsome in his tux—and extremely uncomfortable in the glare of the spotlight, judging by the flush on his face and his strained smile. Cal Richards, who shied away from publicity, was allowing himself to be ogled by a roomful of raucous women and auctioned off for charity! It was incredible! It was unbelievable! It was…the chance she’d been waiting for, she realized with a jolt! If she bought a date with him, he’d have to talk to her, she reasoned, her mind clicking into high gear. Sure, there was a chance he wouldn’t tell her anything of value. But she was pretty good at ferreting out information. It couldn’t hurt to try, considering she’d run out of other options.

Amy turned to Darlene. “How much are these guys going for?”

Darlene gave her a distracted glance. “What?”

“How much are these guys going for?” Amy repeated impatiently.

“So…someone caught your eye.” Darlene glanced back at the stage and gave Amy a sly smile. “I can’t say I blame you. He’s a hunk. Even if he wasn’t a prosecuting attorney, my defenses would crumble with him in five seconds flat.”

The bidding had already started, and Amy needed information—fast. In the interest of time she restrained the impulse to throttle Darlene. “It’s for a good cause,” she replied with a noncommittal shrug.

Darlene wasn’t buying. “Yeah, right.”

Amy gave up the pretense of disinterest. “So how much?” she repeated urgently.

“The last guy went for three-fifty.”

Amy cringed and glanced back toward the stage. Was it worth the gamble? Cal Richards didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would bend. But even if she got one lead, one piece of information that gave her an edge, it would be worth the money. It was almost like an investment in her career, she rationalized.

Amy glanced around. Women were holding up numbers and calling out their bids. She turned back to her table, spotted the large number in the center and reached for it as the bid rose to three hundred.

She waited until the bidding slowed at four-twenty-five.

“Okay, ladies, is that it? Any more bidders? No? All right, then…” Candace raised her gavel. “Going…going…”

Amy took a deep breath, turned her head slightly away just in case Cal Richards could see past the glare of the spotlight, and held up her number. “Four-fifty.”

There was a momentary hush, and her heart thumped painfully against her rib cage.

“Four-seventy-five,” someone countered.

Amy gulped. “Five hundred.”

A murmur swept the room.

“Now, ladies, that’s what I call a bid!” Candace said approvingly. “Do I hear five and a quarter?”

Amy stopped breathing. Five hundred was about her limit, especially when the odds of hitting the jackpot were about on a par with winning the lottery.

“No? All right, Bachelor #5 is going, going, gone, to table thirty-two and one very lucky lady.”

As enthusiastic applause swept the room and her table mates congratulated her, Amy hoped Candace was right. Because she could use a little luck about now.

“Cal, there’s a woman on the phone who says she won you in an auction. Is she a nut, or is there something you haven’t told me?”

Cal closed his eyes and felt the beginning of a headache prick at his temples. He hadn’t mentioned the auction to anyone in his office, especially not Cynthia. She was a great friend and legal assistant, but ever since she’d walked down the aisle a year ago, she’d made it her personal goal in life to watch him do the same. And she was nothing if not tenacious. “She’s not a nut, Cynthia, and yes, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

As the silence lengthened, he could feel her growing impatience over the line.

“So are you going to come clean of your own free will or do I have to drag it out of you?” she finally demanded.

A bemused smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. “Have you ever thought about going into police work, Cyn? You’d be great at the third degree.”

“Hah-hah. Spill it, Richards.”

He sighed. There was no way around it. He and Cynthia had been co-workers and friends a long time, and she wouldn’t rest until she had the whole story. “I agreed to be one of the bachelors auctioned off at a charity dinner last Friday. A good chunk of the money goes to Saint Vincent’s, so I couldn’t say no.”

“No kidding! Mr. Particular, who finds fault with everyone I suggest as a potential date, is actually going to go out with some strange woman?”

“I certainly hope she’s not strange.”

“Very funny. So do you want to talk to her or not?”

Cal sighed again. No, he didn’t. But he’d have to face this sooner or later, and he might as well get it over with. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Do try to restrain your eagerness,” Cynthia said dryly. “Remember, this woman paid good money for you. You could at least show a little enthusiasm. How much, by the way?”

“Five hundred.”

She gave a low whistle. “All I can say is, you better make this date something to remember. I’ll put her through.”

“Wait! Did she give you her name?”

“No. Don’t you have it?” Cynthia asked in surprise.

“I cut out early that night. She hadn’t gone back to pay yet. They said she’d be in touch with me.”

“Well, it’s payoff time now. Have fun, lover boy.”

Cal grimaced and took a deep breath. This was the most awkward thing he’d ever done, even if it was for a good cause. He just hoped the woman could at least carry on a decent conversation, or it would be one very long evening.

He heard the call go through and, remembering Cynthia’s comment about how much money the bidder had paid, forced a pleasant note into his voice. “Cal Richards speaking.”

“Mr. Richards, I believe we have a date.”

He frowned. The voice was oddly—and unsettlingly—familiar, and a wave of uneasiness swept over him.

“Yes, I think we do,” he replied warily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name the night of the dinner, although I have a feeling we’ve met.”

“Yes, we have. This is Amy Winter.”

Amy Winter? The reporter? Impossible! Fate wouldn’t be that unkind, not after he’d endured being auctioned off in front of hundreds of women, let himself be humiliated for charity. It couldn’t be her!

“Mr. Richards, are you still there?”

It was her, all right, he realized with a sinking feeling. Now that she’d identified herself, he recognized that distinctive, slightly husky voice. His headache suddenly took a turn for the worst, and he closed his eyes. “Yes, I’m here. Look, Ms. Winter, is this a joke?”

“Hardly. I paid good money for this date. And I have the receipt to prove it.”

“But why in the world…?” His voice trailed off as her strategy suddenly became clear. He wouldn’t talk to her in a business setting, so she figured he’d have to in a social situation. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and his headache ratcheted up another notch. “It won’t work, you know,” he said coldly.

“What?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Ms. Winter. You’re still trying to get me to talk about the trial. Well, forget it. You wasted five hundred dollars.”

“It went to a good cause. Besides, how do you know I didn’t bid on you because I really wanted a date?”

“Ms. Winter, anyone who looks like you doesn’t need to buy dates at an auction. Let’s stop playing games. You bought a date, I’ll give you a date. And that’s all I’ll give you. How about dinner Friday night?”

“How about sooner?”

“Sorry, that’s the best I can do.”

“Okay. Just name the time and place.”

“I’ll pick you up. That was part of the deal.”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

Cal frowned. She sounded miffed. And she had a right to, he conceded guiltily. As Cynthia had said, she’d paid good money for their date, whatever her motivation. He took a deep breath and forced a more pleasant tone into his voice. “I’ll be happy to pick you up. Just give me your address.”

She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse. But in the end she relented and they settled on a time.

“I’ll see you Friday, Mr. Richards. It should be interesting.”

That wasn’t exactly the word he would have chosen, he thought grimly as he hung up the phone, reached for his coffee and shook out two aspirin from the bottle he kept in his desk drawer. On second thought, he made it three. Amy Winter was definitely a three-aspirin headache.

As Amy replaced the receiver, she realized her hand was shaking. The strain of keeping up a breezy front with the recalcitrant assistant prosecuting attorney had clearly taken a toll. She’d always been out-spoken and assertive, but “pushy” wasn’t her style. Which was unfortunate, given the career she’d chosen. Though she’d learned to be brash, she hadn’t yet learned to like it. The in-your-face approach just wasn’t her. But it was part of the job, and she figured in time it would get easier. The only problem was, she’d been telling herself that for years now.

Amy took a sip of her herbal tea and gave herself a few minutes to calm down. Cal Richards didn’t like her, and though she knew she shouldn’t let that bother her, it did. She liked to be liked. But she’d chosen the wrong business for that, she reminded herself wryly. Investigative reporters didn’t usually win popularity contests. Acrimony went with the territory.

For a fleeting moment Amy wondered if she might have been happier using her reporting skills in some other way. But she ruthlessly stifled that unsettling thought almost as quickly as it arose. It was way too late for second-guessing. She’d invested too much of her life and energy building this particular future to question it now. She’d very deliberately set her sights on a career as an anchorwoman, and she knew exactly why.

First, she liked the glamour. She enjoyed being in the spotlight, relished her pseudocelebrity status.

Second, she liked the big-city lifestyle. Unlike her sister, Kate, who had actually enjoyed small-town farm life, Amy had always dreamed of the bright lights and the excitement of the city. If the lights were more garish than dazzling up close, well, that was more a reflection of the nature of her work—which often took her to seedy areas—than of the actual city, she assured herself.

Third, she liked the money. Or at least the freedom it gave her. The freedom to travel to the Caribbean on exotic vacations, the freedom to live in an upscale town house, the freedom to walk into any store in Atlanta and buy whatever designer outfit she chose without having to give up something else to do so. Money had always been tight on the farm. Her parents had done their best, but she had vowed to put the days of homemade prom dresses and hand-me-downs far behind her.

Fourth, she liked feature reporting, especially human-interest stories that uplifted and inspired and made people feel optimistic about the goodness of the human race. True, those rarely came her way. Someday, though, when she made her mark, she would be able to pick and choose her assignments, decide when and if she wanted to come out from behind the anchor desk. But that was still a long way down the road. In the meantime, she did what she was told and worked hard to get the best possible story. Including bidding on a date with a man who clearly disliked her.

Amy sighed and took another sip of tea, trying to find something positive in the situation. She thought back over their conversation and suddenly recalled Cal’s comment about her not needing to buy a date. So he thought she was attractive, she mused. It wasn’t much, she acknowledged, but it was a start.

“Hi, Gram. How’s everything at home?”

“Cal? My, it’s good to hear your voice! We’re both fine. Jack, it’s Cal,” she called, her voice muffled as she apparently turned her head.

Cal smiled and leaned back, resting his head against the cushion of the overstuffed chair as he crossed an ankle over his knee. Just hearing the voices from home made him feel better.

“Your dad’ll be right here, son. How’s life in Atlanta?”

“Okay.”

“Hmph. I’ve heard more enthusiasm from old Sam Pritchard.”

Cal smiled again. Sam Pritchard was legendary in the mountains for his blasé reaction to life. As usual, his grandmother had tuned right in to Cal’s mood. Probably because she was one of the few people who knew of his growing dissatisfaction with city life.

“Sorry, Gram.” He modified his tone. “I can’t complain. The job is demanding and stressful, but it’s worthwhile work, and I’ve been blessed in a lot of ways.”

“Are you taking any time for fun?”

Cal pondered that question. Fun? The only time he really had any fun was when he went home, and that wasn’t often enough. When he was in the city, he was too busy for much socializing. His job ate up an inordinate amount of his time, and most of the little that remained he spent at Saint Vincent’s.

“I get out once in a while,” he hedged.

“You need to take some time for yourself, son,” the older woman persisted, the worry evident in her voice. “A body needs more in life than work and responsibilities. You meet any nice women lately?”

For some reason, his social life—or lack thereof—had become a hot topic over the past year. His grandmother seemed to think that if he got married and had a family, many of his doubts and issues would be resolved. Frankly, he thought a romantic entanglement would just complicate matters. He needed to get his life in order, make some decisions about his future, before he got involved in a relationship. That was only fair to the woman. And it was that sense of fairness, not lack of interest, that kept him from serious dating. In fact, in the past couple of years he’d begun to long for the very things his grandmother was suggesting, had become increasingly aware of an emotional vacuum in his life. He’d lain awake more nights than he cared to admit yearning for warmth, for a caring touch, for someone who would listen to the secrets of his heart and share hers with him. He wanted to fall in love. It was just that now was not the time.

“Cal?” his grandmother prompted. “It wasn’t a hard question. ’Course, if it’s none of my business, that’s okay.”

“Actually, I have a date Friday night,” he offered, to appease her.

“Well! Now that’s fine.”

He could hear the surprise in her voice, could tell she was pleased, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He should explain the situation. After all, it wasn’t a real date.

“It’s no big deal, Gram. Just dinner.”

“Everything has to start somewhere. Where did you meet her?” she asked eagerly.

He felt himself getting in deeper. “At the courthouse. But Gram, she…”

“Is she a lawyer, too?”

“No. She works in TV. Actually, that’s how…”

“My! That sounds interesting. What’s her—oh, your dad’s ready to talk to you. We’ll catch up some more later. You call us again over the weekend, okay?”

Cal sighed as the phone was passed on. He’d certainly handled that well, he berated himself. Now his grandmother would get her hopes up, jump to all sorts of wrong conclusions. But he’d be better prepared when he called the next time. He’d use the old “we just didn’t click” routine, and that would be the end of that.

“Cal? How are you, son?”

Cal settled deeper into the chair. “Hi, Dad. Fine. How’s everything there?”

“Same as always. Quiet. Things don’t change much in the mountains, you know. But tell me about you. I know there’s a lot more going on in Atlanta than there is here.”

Cal relayed some recent events that he knew his father would enjoy hearing about—the black-tie dinner, though he made no mention of the auction part of the evening, a meeting he’d had with the mayor earlier in the week, the publicity the Jamie Johnson trial was receiving. As usual, his father ate it up.

“My, son! You sure do lead an exciting life. But you deserve all your success. You worked hard for it. And I’m proud of you. I was just telling Mike Thomas about the governor’s commission you were appointed to. He was real impressed.”

Cal felt the old familiar knot begin to form in his gut. His father was a kind, gentle, decent man who’d never had a break in his entire life. He’d spent his youth and middle age barely scraping by, handicapped by limited education and limited opportunity as he struggled to support a son and an ailing wife. He’d worked with his hands all his life, accepting that as his lot but dreaming of better things for Cal. Now he was living Cal’s success vicariously. If his son returned to the mountains, in whatever capacity, the older man would be sorely disappointed, Cal knew. But there had to be a line somewhere between responsibility to his father and to himself. He just wasn’t sure where it was.

Up until now he’d done everything that was expected of him—by others and by himself. He gave his job one hundred percent, and did his best to make a contribution to society. He’d provided well for Gram and his dad. They’d refused his offer to move to Atlanta, both reluctant to leave the only home they’d ever known, but he made sure they lived comfortably, that neither had to work anymore. By choice, Gram still put in a great deal of time at the craft coop she’d founded. His father, however, who had always disliked working the land, had walked away from his job without a second look, content to spend his time helping out at the church or reading, a pastime he’d had little opportunity to indulge in most of his life. They were both happy. Unfortunately, the vague discontent that had been nagging him for years had intensified dramatically in the last few months, leaving him restless and searching.

“You coming home to visit soon, son?” His father interrupted his thoughts.

“I hope so, Dad.” The sudden weariness in his voice reflected the burden of decision he was struggling with, and he tried for a more upbeat tone. “It’s hard to get away, though. Things are pretty busy.”

“I understand. You have an important job. I’m sure they need you there. But your room is always waiting, anytime you can get away. You’ll come up sometime later in the spring, won’t you?”

“Of course. Have I ever missed spring in the mountains?”

The older man chuckled. “Can’t say you have. One thing about you, son. You’re reliable. We can always count on you.”

The knot in Cal’s gut tightened. “I’m not perfect, Dad.”

“Maybe not. But I sure wouldn’t trade you in. You take care, now.”

“All right, Dad. Tell Gram I said goodbye.”

Cal replaced the receiver and wearily let his head drop back against the chair. He needed to make some decisions, and he needed to make them soon. There were rumors that he was being considered for a promotion to the coveted position of prosecuting attorney. He should be happy. It was what he was supposed to have been working toward all these years. Instead, it just made him feel more pressured, more trapped. If he was going to make a change, this was the time, before he got so deeply entrenched in his urban career and lifestyle that he couldn’t get out.

Cal closed his eyes. He wanted to go back to the mountains, back to the place where he felt more in touch with nature, with himself and with his God. Cal hadn’t let his spiritual life slip since coming to the city. It was too important to him to neglect. But it was harder here to retain a sense of balance, to stay focused on the really important things in life. There were too many distractions, too many demands, too much emphasis on materialism, power, prestige and “getting ahead.”

Cal’s priorities had always been different. Position and money meant nothing to him personally. Their only value, as far as he could see, was that they gave him the means to help others who were less fortunate. In his job, he did his best to see justice served, which helped humanity in general. That, in turn, provided a good income, which allowed him to make life better for Gram and his father. And he was able to contribute both time and dollars to the causes he believed in, such as Saint Vincent’s. So plenty of good had come from his career choice. Was he being selfish to consider changing the status quo?

Cal rose, walked restlessly over to the window and stared pensively out at the city lights. In his heart, he wanted to go home, back to the mountains where he could spend his days free of the confines of concrete and steel and glass. There was a part of him deep inside that had always yearned to share the beauty of nature with others hungry for nourishment for their souls. Though he had no specific plans for it, he’d completed a degree in forestry last year by going tonight school. It was just something he’d wanted to do, and he’d shared the accomplishment with very few. Even Gram didn’t know.

Cal sighed. He knew that few people would understand his feelings about the mountains. Certainly no one in the city, and very few at home. Gram did. But not his father. And the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint the man who had sacrificed so much for him. As his father saw it, Cal was his one success in life. If Cal scaled down his lifestyle, gave up his high-profile job and moved back home, his father would feel that all his efforts had been for nothing, that he was a failure after all. And Cal didn’t know if he could do that to the man who had given him life and love so abundantly. Nor was he sure he should walk away from his present job, knowing he was good at it and that he did, sometimes, make a difference.

Cal jammed his fists into his pockets and looked up at the sky, trying to discern the stars that shone so brightly in the mountains but here were dimmed by the glare of city lights.

Lord, I need Your guidance, he prayed. I want to do the right thing, but I need direction. I need to know Your will. You know I want to go home, that my heart is most at peace in the mountains. But maybe my dad’s needs and my work here are more important. Please help me make the decision that best serves You. And, Lord—please do it soon. Because I feel like a man in limbo. I’m torn between two worlds, and I don’t think I can give my best to either until this issue is resolved.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.