Marta Perry - The Guardian's Honor

Adam was looking up at Jamie, laughing at something, and the expression on Jamie’s face made Cathy’s heart stop.

A fierce longing swept through her to have that for Jamie—a strong man to carry him on his shoulder, to make him laugh, to show him how to grow up into a good man.

She pushed the thought away just as fiercely. It wasn’t likely to happen. Just look at how Adam had reacted, stepping away so quickly after he’d kissed her. That should tell her all she needed to know.

But there was more to know.

has written everything from Sunday school curricula to travel articles to magazine stories in more than twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her writing home in the stories she writes for the Love Inspired lines.

Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her six beautiful grandchildren, traveling, gardening or relaxing with a good book.

Marta loves hearing from readers, and she’ll write back with a signed bookmark and/or her brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, e-mail her at marta@martaperry.com, or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Bear with one another and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.

—Colossians 3:13

This story is dedicated to Bill and Molly Perry,

my dear brother and sister-in-law. And, as always,

to Brian, with much love.

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

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

“What are you doing?” The woman’s soft Georgia drawl bore a sharp edge of hostility.

Adam Bodine took a step back on the dusty lane and turned toward the woman with what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Just admiring your garden, ma’am.”

Actually, the garden was worthy of a second glance. By early September at the tail end of a hot, dry summer, most folks would find their tomato plants shriveled to a few leafless vines, but these still sported fat red tomatoes.

The woman rose from where she’d been kneeling, setting a basket of vegetables on the ground, the movement giving him a better look at her.

She was younger than he’d thought in that first quick glance. A faded ball cap covered blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, its brim shielding her eyes so that he couldn’t see what color they were. Light, he thought. Her slim shoulders were stiff under a faded, oversized plaid shirt, giving the impression that she braced herself for something unpleasant. Was that habitual, or did his appearance account for it?

“These tomatoes are about ready to give up,” she said, still guarded. “Did you want something?”

He did, but it was far better if this woman didn’t know what had brought him to the ramshackle farm deep in the Georgia mountains. At least, not until he knew for sure he was in the right place.

“Just passing by.” He glanced back down the winding lane that had brought him to what he hoped was the last stop on a long hunt. Please, Lord. “I don’t suppose you get many strangers up here.”

“No.” The tone said she didn’t want any, either. “Look, if you’re sellin’ something…”

A chuckle escaped him. “Do I look like a salesman?” He spread his hands, inviting her to assess him.

There wasn’t much he could do to make his six-foot frame less intimidating, but he tried to ease his military bearing and relax his face into the smile that his sister always said was at its most boyish when he was up to something. At least the jeans, T-shirt, and ball cap he wore were practically a uniform these days.

“Maybe not a salesman,” she conceded. “But you haven’t explained what you’re doing on a private road.” She sent a quick, maybe worried glance toward the peeling white farmhouse that seemed to doze in the afternoon heat. “Mr. Hawkins doesn’t like visitors.”

Mr. Hawkins. The formal address might mean she wasn’t a relative. A caregiver, maybe?

“Actually, I’m looking for someone. A man named Ned Bodine. Edward Bodine, to be exact.” He studied her as he said the words, looking for any sign of recognition.

The woman took the ball cap off, frowning as she wiped her forehead with the sleeve of the plaid shirt, leaving a streak of dirt she probably hadn’t intended. Her eyes were light, as he’d supposed, neither blue nor green but hazel. That heart-shaped face might have been pretty if not for whatever it was that tightened it—worry, maybe, or just plain dislike of nosy strangers.

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the name. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She gestured toward the garden.

“You’re sure?” Of course she might not know, even if she were a relative of his great-uncle. Ned Bodine had stayed missing for sixty-some years, which meant he probably kept his secrets well.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” She snapped the words at him, picking up the basket as if it were a shield.

So much for getting anything out of her. “In that case, I’d like to speak to Mr. Theodore Hawkins.”

She gave him a wary, suspicious stare. “Why?”

“Look, I don’t blame you for being cautious, Ms….”

“Mrs.,” she corrected. “Mrs. Norwood.” She bit off the words, as if regretting giving him that much.

The name wasn’t the same, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be related. She could be…let’s see, what was it? Second or third cousin, maybe?

“I know it seems odd, having a perfect stranger coming along and asking questions, but I do need to talk with Mr. Hawkins.”

“He’s resting right now. He always takes a rest in the afternoon. He’s not to be disturbed.”

The way she phrased that made it sound as it she took orders from the man. Probably not a relative, then, so he had to be stingy with what he told her. Gossip flew fast in country places, even though there wasn’t another house in sight.

“Look, I think he’d probably be willing to talk with me.” Doubt assailed him as he said the words. What made him think Ned Bodine wanted to be found after all these years? Still, all he could do was try. “Just tell him Adam Bodine wants to see him. Please.”

He glanced toward the house, hoping to see some sign of life. Nothing, but he noticed something he hadn’t before. A child played under the shade of a tall pine near the corner of the porch, running toy cars in the dirt.

“Your little boy?” he asked. Maybe an expression of interest in her child would ease the ice between them.

His words seemed to have the opposite effect. She moved, putting herself into position to block his view of the child.

“I told you. Mr. Hawkins is resting. He wouldn’t be able to help you, anyway.”