Cynthia Thomason - Return of the Wild Son

He stared at her with those blue eyes that used to make her adolescent knees weak. “I heard about the old lighthouse being for sale. I’m thinking about making an offer.”

Jenna’s heart tripped. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at his handsome face, so like his father’s.

The son of the man who had killed her father was planning to buy the lighthouse.

Dear Reader,

This book is about a special place that reconnects two people with their past. In life, a location can evoke powerful emotions, both good and bad. For Nate Shelton, coming home to Finnegan Cove after twenty years, the lighthouse on the shore of Lake Michigan brings back memories of peace in his troubled youth and a hope for his family’s future. But to Jenna Malloy, who never left the small town, the station has been a constant haunting memory of a tragedy from years ago that changed both characters’ lives forever. Now the decaying building houses secrets as dark as its abandoned beacon—secrets that could keep Jenna and Nate from forgiving past mistakes.

I hope you enjoy this story. And I hope you can tell that I love lighthouses. Proud structures with dozens of winding steps or small tokens that sit on a shelf, all kinds and sizes of lighthouses never fail to weave a spell of romance and mystery over me. And if, in your busy travels, you are lucky enough to pass a lighthouse, pull over, put on your comfortable shoes and circle your way to the top. The view is always worth the trip, just like the happy ending in a romance.

I love to hear from readers. You can visit my Web site at www.cynthiathomason.com, e-mail me at cynthoma@aol.com or write to me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355.

Happy reading,

Cynthia Thomason

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

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Cynthia Thomason writes contemporary and historical romances and dabbles in mysteries. When she’s not writing, she works as a licensed auctioneer in the auction business she and her husband own. In this capacity, she has come across scores of unusual items, many of which have found their way into her books. She loves traveling the U.S. and exploring out-of-the-way places. She has one son, an entertainment reporter, and an aging but still lovable Jack Russell terrier. Cynthia dreams of perching on a mountaintop in North Carolina every autumn to watch the leaves turn. You can learn more about her at www.cynthiathomason.com.

This book is dedicated to

my dearest climbing “Buddy,” who has held my

hand on all the journeys we’ve taken together.

We haven’t reached the top yet, and I believe

the last steps are the best.

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

Los Angeles, California

April

N ATE WALKED OUT OF Vincennti’s and slipped the claim check for his BMW through the window of the valet hut. Carlo, who’d been parking cars here for as long as Nate had been coming to the renowned bistro, grabbed his keys from among dozens hanging on the board behind him and joined Nate in the sunshine.

“How was your lunch, Mr. Shelton?” he asked.

Seeing no point in answering truthfully, Nate swallowed the first symptom of indigestion and said, “Just fine, Carlo.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder to the restaurant entrance. “I am kind of in a hurry, though.”

“Sure, I understand. Isn’t everybody in this town?” Carlo jogged across the circular drive, the keys jangling in his hand, and zigzagged through a maze of vehicles.

Nate needed Carlo to return with his car before Brendan Willis and his associate finished the last of their pricey merlot and came outside. It was bad enough that Nate had paid the hundred-and-fifty-dollar lunch tab. He didn’t need another helping of condescension.

And he’d been so confident this time. He’d chosen Willis’s Boneyard Films as the perfect production company for his latest screenplay after the big studios had turned him down. Boneyard’s innovative producer was getting his name in print in Variety and Entertainment Weekly .

Still, Boneyard was a small independent, which meant Willis should have jumped at the chance to sign a Nathaniel Shelton script.

Now, an hour-and-a-half lunch later, Nate was fairly certain that even though the producer had agreed to read the script, their collaboration was going nowhere.

“I’ll call you in a week or so,” Brendan had said.

A week or so? Nate was used to getting offers an hour after dropping off his work. Of course, that was before he’d produced three flops in a row. But he was an award-winning writer, for Pete’s sake, though most of the power brokers in this town seemed to have forgotten that accomplishment.

His steel-gray BMW pulled up to the curb and Carlo jumped out. “You have a good day, Mr. Shelton,” he said. Nate pressed a modest tip in the guy’s hand and drove off.

He headed toward his Beverly Hills condo. With the weekend ahead of him, he had to regroup, study the latest industry news journals and come up with another production company to pitch his latest project to. This was a big town, with countless possibilities, and Nate was a hell of a writer. No need to panic—yet.

The ringing of his cell phone jerked him back in his seat. He hit the speaker button and snapped, “Shelton.”

“Nathaniel?”

At the sound of the gravelly voice, his heart constricted. “Dad? Is everything okay?”

“It’s better than okay.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“I didn’t tell you before, son, because I didn’t know what the parole board would decide.”

“What are you talking about?” Nate’s father had been incarcerated twenty years of a twenty-four-year sentence. Was parole possible this soon for a second-degree murder conviction? Nate knew his father had only been before the board one other time.

“I didn’t get my hopes up,” Harley said. “Guys are almost always flopped the first few times around.”

Flopped. Prison talk for turned down. Nate had learned a lot of new meanings for old words since his father had been taken away. “Dad, what are you saying?”

“I’m going to be approved, Nate. Dr. Evanston told me a few minutes ago that I’m getting out May 23.”

Nate’s jaw dropped. He did a quick calculation. “For real, Dad? That’s only five weeks off.”

“It’s real enough. Assuming I don’t make anybody mad or break any rules in the meantime. There’s still some paperwork…” He paused. “Notification of victims, housing plans, probation details, that sort of thing. There’s also one more review before the parole board processes my release. But the doctor wouldn’t have told me if he wasn’t sure of the outcome. We’ve been through too much together.”