Fay Robinson - Coming Home To You

“What gives you the right to mess with my life, Morgan?

“You know what you remind me of?” he went on. “That character in the cartoon that whirls around like a tornado and chews up everything in its path.”

“That’s not fair! I’m not like that.”

“Yeah, you are. Ever since you whirled into town, you’ve done everything in your power to make me miserable. Do you think I don’t know you’ve been running around all day, asking questions about me and my brother, bothering my friends—”

“Your friends? I’ve got news for you, Hayes. You’re grossly lacking in the friends department. I couldn’t find ten people in this town who could even recall talking to you, much less counting you as a friend.” Kate poked him in the chest. “And it’s pretty obvious why. You’ve got a personality problem only electric shock could fix.”

Bret gave her an incredulous look. “You think I’ve got a personality problem? Well, lady, let me tell you something. You’re the most irritating person I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. You’re annoying. You’re devious. Your mouth stays open so much I’m surprised something hasn’t nested in it by now. You’ve trespassed on my property, ruined my breakfast, followed me around with no purpose but to harass me. And I’ve had enough!”

Dear Reader,

In Coming Home to You, the worst nightmare of horsebreeder Bret Hayes has rolled into Lochefuscha, Alabama. She is Kate Morgan: beautiful, intelligent but also very dangerous. Her unauthorized biography of his late brother, James, will cause more pain for his family. And she could uncover their complicity in the death of the once-famous musician.

Bret is determined to do whatever it takes to get rid of the “ratchet-jawed” Kate. If he can guide her away from the truth—and tape her mouth shut—everything could work out. Or maybe not. He’s fallen in love, and she’s the one woman in the world with the power to destroy him.

I thought it would be interesting to pair a journalist with a man who has dark secrets and to explore the issue of personal rights versus the public’s right to know the truth. But the heart of this story is a wonderful romance between two people who are perfect for each other. It simply takes them a bit of time to figure that out.

I loved writing this story. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Sincerely,

Fay Robinson

Coming Home to You

Fay Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Fay Robinson believes in love at first sight and happily ever after—beliefs based on experience. Some years ago, she wrote a story on a firefighter for her local newspaper and that night she told her best friend, “Today I met the man I’m going to marry.” She and her firefighter recently celebrated their twenty-fifth anniversary.

Fay lives in Alabama within one mile of the place where her paternal ancestors settled in the early 1800s. She spends her spare time canning vegetables from her husband’s garden and researching her family history. You can write Fay at P.O. Box 240, Waverly, AL 36879-0240. And she invites you to visit her Web site at http://www.fayrobinson.com. You can also check out the Friends and Links section at http://www.eHarlequin.com.

“Fay Robinson is a writer with a great feel for human emotion. Coming Home to You is a wonderfully moving story of a family’s loss and a man’s guilt over his brother’s death. It’s a lesson in learning to trust and love, and I absolutely couldn’t put it down.”

—Sharon Sala, author of Butterfly, MIRA BOOKS

“Coming Home to You is top-notch. A compelling, delightful blend of the tense and tender. Ms. Robinson has outdone herself.”

—Vicki Hinze, author of All Due Respect

“Coming Home to You is unforgettable. Fay Robinson made me laugh and made me cry. A wonderful love story of great breadth and depth. I wish it hadn’t ended.”

—Lindsay McKenna, author of Morgan’s Mercenaries: Heart of Stone

For my mother, who was fearless.

And for Jan Nowasky, the sister of my heart, for cutting the path and leaving the light on for me to follow.

My deepest appreciation to Mayo Lancaster for his help with the research on horsebreeding. And to Auburn, Alabama, Police Chief Ed Downing for answering my questions and letting me cool my heels temporarily in a jail cell. You’re right, Ed. It sucks. Any errors in this material are mine and not theirs. Thanks also to my husband, Jackie, whose gentleness and love of horses inspired the hero of this book.

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

EPILOGUE

THE GROWL STARTED low, deep in the dog’s throat, then exploded into an earsplitting yodel. Kate froze with her hand outstretched toward its misshapen head and her body bent at an uncomfortable angle. The ugly mutt couldn’t weigh more than twenty pounds, but most of that was teeth. Long sharp-looking teeth. And they were inches from her fingertips.

“Sweet little dog,” she cooed, trying to calm it.

Her words had the opposite effect. A ridge of fur shot up on the dog’s neck. Another yodel burst from its throat, then settled into a long menacing growl. Its one erect ear flattened against its skull.

Oh, great. Now what?

She considered jumping up on one of the porch chairs, but discarded the idea. None were tall enough. The pickup truck she’d noticed parked at the side of the farmhouse wasn’t an option, either. Too far away. Getting inside the house seemed her best chance for escape.

Two feet to her left, the front door stood open behind a rusting screen. Moments ago she had knocked, then cupped her hands and peeked in, admiring the hardwood floor and the old washstand covered with family photographs.

Something else had caught her attention as she snooped, something that only now penetrated the conscious part of her brain. The hook on the screen door was in the eyebolt. The door was locked.

Wonderful.

The dog inched closer.

She remained rigid, poised for flight. Sweat poured from her hairline down her face, but she dared not wipe it away. The dog returned her stare. Sporadic fits of a loud throaty bark punctuated its growl.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty seconds.

Her arm quivered from the strain of holding it out.

Forty seconds.

Her watch unexpectedly chimed the hour—six o’clock—with a soft beep beep that seemed ten times louder than normal. She jerked. The dog lunged. Moving faster than she ever had in her life, Kate cleared the porch and ran, the angry mass of fur nipping at her heels.

At the edge of the yard, shrubs of some kind formed a low hedge. Beyond it she’d parked the white Ford she’d rented at the airport in Birmingham. Her vivid imagination created a picture of what would happen if the dog overtook her before she made it to the car. Blood. Gallons of blood. Great chunks of flesh ripped from her legs. She’d die in a tiny redneck town in Alabama and never see her father or brothers again.

The thought made her move faster. She plowed through the hedge rather than trying to jump over it, remembering the name of the plant when the prickly leaves hit her skin. Holly.