Grace Green - A Husband Worth Waiting For

Jed continued. “How about a ‘Welcome home’ kiss for the injured warrior?”

Sarah’s lips parted in a gasp.

Her eyes sparked with indignation.

Jed did a mental double-take. Had they quarreled, before his accident? He leaned forward and claimed her parted pink lips with his own.

From a foggy distance, he heard a child’s giggle. “Daddy’s kissing Mommy,” his daughter whispered.

But Mommy, Jed realized with an uneasy jolt, wasn’t kissing Daddy back….

Grace Green grew up in Scotland but later immigrated to Canada with her husband and children. They settled in “Beautiful Super Natural B.C.” and Grace now lives in a house just minutes from ocean, beaches, mountains and rain forest. She makes no secret of her favorite occupation—her bumper sticker reads I’d Rather Be Writing Romance! Grace also enjoys walking the seawall, gardening, getting together with other authors…and watching her characters come to life, because she knows that once they do, they will take over and write her stories for her.

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3526—THE WEDDING PROMISE

3542—BRANNIGAN’S BABY

3586—NEW YEAR…NEW FAMILY

A Husband Worth Waiting For

Grace Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

For John

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHERE on earth was Jedidiah Morgan?

Sarah shivered in the bone-chilling rain as she banged the wolf-head door knocker for the umpteenth time. She’d come all this way to throw herself on the man’s mercy—he just had to be at home!

“Mom—” Emma’s voice was plaintive “—I’m hungry.”

Sarah glanced wearily at the six-year-old sagging against her on the lamp-lit stoop. Rain streamed down Emma’s yellow slicker; ran down her wistful, upturned face.

“Honey, I’m sure your uncle will have a big fridge packed with food, if this fine house is anything to go by.” She’d carried three-year-old Jamie from the car and now, as her left shoulder cramped, she shifted his weight.

Stirring, he murmured, “Mommie, I wanna go bed.”

Sarah cuddled him closer. “Soon, sweetie. Soon.”

She wanted to go to bed, too. She’d driven over three hundred miles since leaving Quesnel and for the last seventy the foul weather had reduced visibility to almost nil. The drive up Whispering Mountain to Morgan’s Hope had been a nightmare; the stress of it had left her totally drained.

She squeezed back a welling of tears. What a mess she’d made of things. And what a fool she’d been to make this trip, using up precious dollars for gas on what was turning out to be nothing more than a wild-goose chase.

Turning, she looked despairingly into the pitch-black night.

The storm wasn’t letting up—if anything, it was becoming even more savage. She flinched as lightning flashed across the sky. For a fleeting moment, the zigzagging strobe lit up the wide graveled sweep, her rusted blue Cutlass, the surrounding forest of evergreens—

“Mom!” Emma’s eager voice reached her over the rising gale. “The door’s not locked!”

Sarah swiveled around.

Emma had opened the door a crack.

“Honey!” Sarah shot an arm out to stop her. “Don’t—”

Too late. Emma had swung the door inward and had already moved forward into the shadowy entranceway.

Sarah hesitated. Then with a grimace, she stepped nervously after her daughter, jumping as a draft caught the door and slammed it shut behind them.

In the glow through the fanlight from the lamp outside, she saw a switch on the wall. Heart thudding, she flicked it on.

Emma was already walking ahead into a large foyer decorated with sleek, pale oak furniture and graced by an elegant curving staircase. Rain dripped from her daughter’s slicker, leaving a trail of dime-size stains on the taupe Berber carpet.

“Wait!” Sarah called softly.

“Let’s find the kitchen, Mom.”

Sarah glanced at Jamie and saw he’d fallen asleep. She bit her lip undecidedly. She knew she ought to go over to the staircase and shout, ‘Helloooo?’ But if she did, she’d waken Jamie. Besides, it was obvious nobody was at home; she’d hammered the door loudly enough to waken the dead.

And the house had that unmistakably ‘empty’ feel to it.

Emma sat down and tugged off her pink rubber boots. Scrambling to her feet, she tossed her wet slicker on top of the boots and padded determinedly along a corridor to the left that led to the back of the house.

Sarah expelled a wry sigh. From the moment Emma Jane Morgan had drawn her first breath, she’d gone doggedly after what she wanted and tonight was apparently to be no exception!

Following in her wake, Sarah flicked on another light, revealing an open doorway at the far end of the corridor.

“It’s down here, Mom!” Entering the room, Emma rose on her tiptoes and had just hit the light switch when her mother caught up with her.

If Sarah hadn’t been so tired, she knew she’d have drooled over this kitchen. It could have been lifted straight off the glossy cover of Fabulous Homes.

Black. White. And chrome. Everything sparkling, spotless and dazzling. From the white-tiled floor, to the granite countertops, to the state-of-the-art appliances.

The recessed dining area was furnished with black leather–cushioned banquettes and a granite-topped table, while sleek white miniblinds on windows and patio door closed out all sight of the storm raging outside.

The shiny black fridge was zero clearance.

And Emma had already opened the door.

The child’s gaze widened as she stared inside. “Mom!” Her voice cracked. “You were right. It’s loaded!”

Sarah unwrapped Jamie from his slicker and settled him on one of the banquettes before moving to join Emma.

The fridge was, indeed, ‘loaded.’

Sarah’s stomach felt hollow with hunger and the knowledge that Emma’s probably felt the same squashed her qualms as she rummaged among cheeses and packaged meats, cartons of milk and bottles of orange juice.

She found a bowl of homemade soup, rich with carrots and tomatoes and rice. In a chrome bread bin, she found a whole-wheat loaf.

Minutes later, she and Emma were seated at the table, the homey smell of toast and savory soup filling the kitchen as they tucked in voraciously.

“What time is it, Mom?” Emma talked in a whisper to avoid waking Jamie.

“Almost midnight!”

“Holy moly!” Gray eyes round as saucers, Emma asked, “Have I ever been up this late before?”

“Not that I recall.” Sarah’s gaze flitted to a calendar on the wall just above Emma’s head. It was bare of notations except for one on the last square of the month, where someone had hand-printed: MINERVA LEAVING.

“Mom, what are we going to do after we’ve eaten?”