Ruth Herne - Waiting Out the Storm

Craig extended his hand. She placed hers in it. He invaded her space, inhaled and smiled. “Your perfume. Meadow Romance.”

“You remembered.”

“Couldn’t possibly forget.”

Sarah stepped ahead of him, then turned and caught him appreciating the view. Her heart stuttered and his grin made her feel young. Pretty. She had no clue what to say or how to react.

Then she noticed the amazing smells wafting from the kitchen. “You’re cooking? Really?”

“I said I would.”

Despite her internal admonition, her heart leaped at his promise to spend time with her. She slanted him a quiet look. “If you cook, I’ll clean.”

“Promise?”

Craig’s expression said he was two steps ahead of her in a game she’d never played. But she was beginning to like being on the board. “Promise.”

Born into poverty, Ruth puts great stock in one of her favorite Ben Franklinisms: “Having been poor is no shame. Being ashamed of it is.” With God-given appreciation for the amazing opportunities abounding in our land, Ruth finds simple gifts in the everyday blessings of smudge-faced small children, bright flowers, fresh baked goods, good friends, family, puppies and higher education. She believes a good woman should never fear dirt, snakes or spiders, all of which like to infest her aged farmhouse, necessitating a good pair of tongs for extracting the snakes, a flat-bottomed shoe for the spiders and the dirt….

Simply put, she’s learned that some things aren’t worth fretting about! If you laugh in the face of dust and love to talk about God, men, romance, great shoes and wonderful food, feel free to contact Ruth through her Web site at www.ruthloganherne.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, “Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,” but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.

—James 2:15–17

To my earthly favorite fisherman, my husband, Dave, who glimpsed the woman within the girl….

And married her anyway.

And to Helen Dunn and her family, whose lives were touched by sadness at a young age. If only there’d been an Aunt Sarah around back then.

God bless you and keep you, Helen.

Huge thanks to my children, whose help knows no bounds. Special thanks to Beth and Mandy for road-tripping the North Country with me, and huge thanks to Seth and Lacey for stepping into whatever job proved necessary. Matt, Karen, Zach and Luke…thanks for believing in me like you do, and special thanks to Sandra, Andrea, Tina, Audra, Glynna and Mary.

To Nancy A. Wood, of Wild Irish Rose Farms, a specialty farm producing goat milk soaps, and to Al and Rita Ostrander, proprietors of Ostrander’s Bed and Breakfast. Thanks also to Mary Jarvis of Groveland Farm in Superior, Wisconsin for her love of Maremmas, to Kay Mott for her counsel on Native Americans and Nancy Vandivert, who offered advice on hand spinning.

Delighted thanks to Melissa Endlich of Steeple Hill Books for extracting the romance from the original manuscript, helping bring this story to fruition.

And always to the Seekers, women banded by love of God and romance, who put up with me every single day. You ladies rock!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

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Questions for Discussion

Dr. Craig Macklin saw nothing but the massive creature before him, a huge, white and hairy Maremma guard dog beleaguered by a face full of porcupine quills. The obvious suffering in the dog’s dark eyes implored Craig to help.

Craig squatted to examine the embedded bristles. The animal’s curiosity had pushed him beyond caution. The face full of quills—a nasty lesson learned. Porcupines were best left alone.

Murmuring to the shaggy white canine, Craig positioned the adjustable light and peered into the Maremma’s face. The dog’s whimper made Craig’s decision easy. “I’ll have to put him under for a few minutes. The depth and quantity make it tough to handle without a tranquilizer. I’d be causing him a lot of pain otherwise. What’s his name?” Turning, Craig looked at the owner for the first time. Sarah Slocum.

Well. That explained Julie’s initial hesitance, the concern he’d heard when his assistant summoned him. But his veterinary partner had left for the day and Craig was here. That left no choice but to treat Sarah’s dog.

Her face washed pale under rich tones. Eyes as dark and deep as the dog’s stayed trained on the beast’s muzzle. She didn’t make eye contact with Craig. “Gino. From Sofia’s last litter.” She emitted a half sigh, half shudder as the dog whined. She stepped forward, crooning, her melodic tone soothing the animal much as a mother would a small child.

Julie watched as if expecting him to do—what? Scream? Shout? Berate the woman before him for her genealogy and refuse to treat her dog?

He wouldn’t do that. But his medical duties didn’t mean he had to go out of his way to be nice, either.

There was a reason he avoided Slocums. A real good one. The thought of the criminal history between their families tightened Craig’s jaw. Sarah’s older brother had pioneered a Ponzi scheme, bilking a fair share of locals out of their hard-earned money, including his grandparents. Grams and Gramps Macklin had invested everything in Tom Slocum’s guaranteed-returns package, and lost it all when Tom’s misappropriation was discovered. Gramps had passed on over a year ago, but Grams was living out her later years dependent on others’ kindness, with nothing but small Social Security checks to call her own. A tough old bird, Gramps used to call her, and he was right, but strong people have a hard time accepting handouts. Charity. Grams was no exception.

A true craven, Tom spared New York State the cost of a trial by taking his own life, leaving a wife and three young kids to sweep up the remnants of his actions.

Sarah had established a farm nearby. Goats? Sheep? Something wool-bearing, cleft-footed and ridiculously stupid. In Craig’s estimation, the description applied unilaterally. Al though he treated a wide range in a country animal practice, he’d developed favorites. Cattle. Horses. Dogs. Cats. Even pigs were a step up from sheep. At least pigs were intelligent. Sheep? Other end of the spectrum, entirely. No one in their right mind ate mutton, did they?