Catherine Lanigan - Fear Of Falling

Her best bet is to stay away

Was Olivia hearing this right? The one man in Indian Lake she’d found truly intriguing since, well, forever—the hopelessly handsome heir to the region’s most successful farming operation, Rafe Barzonni—was involved in horse racing? That made him, and her sudden attraction, downright dangerous. He wasn’t just out of her league. He was a gambler. Like her father. With the shame of her father’s racetrack betting addiction still haunting her, Olivia can’t be part of that world. Rafe’s world. She can’t trust him, or his magnetism. But there’s something deep in his incredible blue eyes that keeps drawing her closer...

“I meant it when I said we should move on,” Rafe said.

Olivia’s stomach knotted with anxiety, but Rafe’s hand on her shoulder felt warm and protective. He searched her face for her reaction. Apparently, she had struck some chord in him. He didn’t want to stay mad at her and he needed her to acknowledge that they were adult enough to forgive and forget. Was he asking her to be friends?

His eyes were the color of the bluest spring sky, filled with unspoken promises. At that moment, Olivia realized she was lost in him. Did he know she would give anything to feel his lips against hers? Could he sense her heart thrumming in her chest? Why wasn’t he saying anything? And why was his hand moving so achingly slowly from her shoulder to the nape of her neck?

His mouth was so close to hers, his breath warmed her nose. “Wish me luck,” he said as he closed his eyes and leaned in.

Dear Reader,

Fear of Falling is one of those novels that comes to an author from their own life experiences and memories.

Back in the sixties and early seventies, our town was in great need of a new hospital. My mother and the other ladies in her group initiated the Hospital Horse Show to raise money for the construction, and for years the show was a huge draw.

My mother grew up going to harness racing in Florida and accompanied her father to Hot Springs, Arkansas, in the 1930s to watch horse racing. She adored Thoroughbreds, and as I grew up, she hosted a Kentucky Derby party at our house every year. I carry on that tradition with joy and a lot of mint juleps with the mint my mother planted in our garden. My mother could pick winning horses nearly every year. It was uncanny.

When the time came for my story about Rafe Barzonni, the brooding, handsome farmer who worshipped his father and adored horses as my mother did, I knew he was the perfect match for Olivia Melton, the caterer and amateur photographer whose father gambled away the family savings at the racetrack.

Fear of Falling was a joy for me to write. I hope you enjoy it, as well. Please write to me at cathlanigan1@gmail.com, or you can find me on Twitter, @cathlanigan, Facebook, Pinterest, Goodreads, Amazon, LinkedIn, at catherinelanigan.comand heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com.

All my very best and God bless,

Catherine Lanigan

Fear of Falling

Catherine Lanigan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHERINE LANIGAN knew she was born to storytelling at a very young age when she told stories to her younger brothers and sister. After years of encouragement from family and teachers, Catherine was brokenhearted when her freshman college professor told her she had “no writing talent whatsoever” and she would never earn a dime as a writer. He promised he would get her through with a B grade if Catherine would promise never to write again.

For fourteen years she didn’t write until she was encouraged by a television journalist and wrote a 600-page historical romantic spy-thriller set against World War I. The journalist sent the manuscript to his agent, who got bids from two publishers. That was nearly forty published books ago.

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This book is dedicated to my beloved husband, Jed Nolan, who fought a valiant battle against leukemia. It was a torturous journey, but you were gallant and brave. Sail away to that land of peace and joy.

Acknowledgments

Cutting and polishing diamonds to brilliance is the work of skilled geniuses. That is what Claire Caldwell, my valued and cherished editor, does for me. Our work together to bring The Shores of Indian Lake into existence has been a construction of monumental proportions because our little town now lives like Glocca Morra, that mythical, magical realm in the ethers. To me, it’s very real. Thank you, Claire, for helping me bring all these people to life.

And to Victoria Curran, for raising the bar each time I send in a proposal, making me think and push harder and explore the best part of myself.

And as always to Dianne Moggy, who has believed in me and my God-given talent for over twenty years. You never gave up on me.

And I want to thank my parents, Dorothy Lanigan and Frank J. Lanigan, who left a massive imprint on our community and who taught me that legacy is important.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE EARLY-SPRING DEW glistened as dawn struck the lush grass of the Barzonni training paddock. The only disturbance in the chilly air was the heavy snort, rhythmic breathing and thundering hooves of Rowan as Rafe urged his father’s prize Thoroughbred around the second quarter mile of track.

Rafe was far from a professional jockey, and at six foot one, he’d never aspired to the career, but no one knew Rowan’s talent, spirit and desire to run like Rafe did. Every beat of Rowan’s heart matched his own. Blood pulsed through his veins, suffusing his body and mind with oxygen, and Rafe’s lungs filled and exhaled the crisp, clean morning air like an elixir. His exhilaration grew as the horse sped up, and Rafe leaned his head closer to Rowan’s neck, shouting encouragement. He knew Rowan sensed his pride, his own need to push them both to their physical limits. No run was a test or trial. Each one was the end game. It was for the win.

At moments like this, Rafe and the horse were one, moving fluidly through space and time, gobbling up track as if they weren’t part of the real world. Together they were magic.

They were coming up to the third turn, so Rafe pressed his thighs into Rowan’s sides and dug in his heels just enough to communicate it was time for Rowan to unleash all his power.

Rafe and his father had built their home track together, board by board, truckload after truckload of precisely mixed sandy loam, clay and base soil when Rafe was only fourteen. Angelo had always dreamed of owning a Kentucky Derby winner, so they’d fine-tuned their track to the exact specifications of Churchill Downs in Louisville. And no ordinary racehorse would do. Angelo wanted fame, but not necessarily fortune—though his farm had yielded a fairly large one over the years. His four sons were his legacy, but a moment in the winner’s circle would erase all his beleaguered childhood experiences, or so he’d told Rafe. Rafe never once forgot what he was racing for.