Inglath Cooper - The Lost Daughter Of Pigeon Hollow

“Can you believe that?” Judy asked, pointing to the TV hanging from the ceiling. “I mean, she just buys a ticket in the Mini-Mart, and presto, her life is changed overnight.”

Willa began filling a row of glasses with iced tea. “Only happens in fairy tales.”

Judy reached for a towel and began wiping down the counter. “Does that mean something good can’t happen to a person once in a while?”

“No. But I’m not going to stand around waiting for it.”

The door opened and Judy’s eyes widened. “Don’t look now, but the winning lottery ticket just walked in.”

Dear Reader,

One of the things that draws me to books is the notion that within the covers of each one exists a group of characters who, like real-life people, have made mistakes, chosen unwisely and maybe found themselves headed in a direction they hadn’t anticipated.

In our own lives, mistakes are easy enough, but second chances are sometimes elusive. We don’t always get another opportunity to make a better choice. But as readers, we can step into someone else’s world, see what happens when they get another shot.

In The Lost Daughter of Pigeon Hollow, each of my characters has a problem that needs fixing, a turning point where they must choose to stay as they are or let go of the rope and take a chance. Easier said than done! I hope you’ll enjoy watching Owen and Willa give it their best.

I love to hear from readers. Please write to me at P.O. Box 973, Rocky Mount, VA 24151. You can e-mail me at inglathc@aol.com. Or visit my Websiteinglathcooper.com.

All best,

Inglath Cooper

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my grandmothers, Vickie Perdue Holland and Mary Mullins Johnson, ladies of character and integrity.

I love you more than you can know.

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

EPILOGUE

PIGEON HOLLOW, KENTUCKY, was the kind of place that could never quite get past its name. No one knew exactly where the name originated. Folks said it had been somebody’s idea of a joke. Others said the original settlers in the valley had discovered a flock of albino pigeons that came to symbolize the peace the settlers had hoped to find in their new home.

Nonetheless, the current-day residents of Pigeon Hollow were aware of the initial impression the name conjured. A town full of hicks whose definition of higher education did not broaden past Sugar McWray’s Beauty School or the local community college’s night course for mechanics.

The town council had proposed changing it a number of times. But the council had never gotten past the talking stage, the consensus being that a town ought to be able to transcend its name.

Mostly, it did.

They had an unemployment factor of less than three percent; a fair number of their high-school graduates went on to college. In addition, the town boasted impressively high rates of volunteerism and a food bank that stored frozen and canned goods for families in need.

To outsiders, the town was one of those places that existed simply because it was on the road to somewhere else. For Pigeon Hollow, somewhere else was Lexington, and the international horse industry that had become as rooted there as the blue-grass pastures on which equine royalty grazed.

There were those in town who complained about that. Willa Addison wasn’t one of them. Except for a few years away at college, she had lived in Pigeon Hollow all her life, and taken over her mama’s business when she was twenty-one. A good number of those people driving through to Lexington stopped for a meal at the Top Shelf Diner.

And each of those customers increased the probability that she would be able to pay the monthly stack of bills now looming at one corner of her kitchen counter.

Willa turned her back to the bills, put her hand on the wall-mounted telephone, debating. Should she call or not? Wait a little longer?

Surely, Katie would be home soon.

She’d waited two hours. Long enough that her stomach had begun to feel as if it had a hole in it.

She glanced up at the clock above the sink. Ten minutes past twelve.

And it was a school night.

She dropped her head back, closing her eyes.

She picked up the receiver and punched in Shelby Franklin’s number. “Shelby?”

“Yeah?” The response was groggy enough that Willa knew she’d woken her.

“It’s Willa. I’m sorry to be calling this late, but Katie isn’t home yet. Is Eddie in?”

Shelby let out a sigh, then said, “He don’t have to report in to me, Willa.”

Exactly. Willa pressed her lips together and counted to three. “Katie was supposed to be home two hours ago. I’m getting a little concerned.”

“He ain’t living here now, anyway.”

Great.

There was the sound of a match striking, a quick puff of a cigarette. “You see, Willa,” Shelby said, “that’s where you need to open your eyes to reality. If you had any hope of keepin’ that child on the straight and narrow, you shoulda’ locked her up a couple years back.” A crackle of laughter followed the short sermon.

Willa straightened, heat suffusing her face. “You being an expert on successful parenting?”

Shelby chuckled again, as if she enjoyed ruffling Willa’s feathers. “I know wild as hell when I see it.”

“She’s not wild, she’s just—”

“Sixteen. Don’t be too hard on yourself, sugar,” she said, placating now. “You’re not her mama. A sister shouldn’t have to be walkin’ into that role when you did, anyway.”

“If you see her, call me back, please.” Willa hung up, anchoring the phone to the wall with enough force to rattle her elbow.

The front door opened just then and shut with a bang.

Thank God.

On the heels of Willa’s gratitude was an already brewing lecture.

Katie appeared in the kitchen doorway, as casual about her entrance as if it were the middle of the day instead of the middle of the night. A study in rebellion, her hair was cropped short, peroxide blond. A swirl of silver studs covered one ear. She wore a white T-shirt whose bottom just covered her breasts and a pair of boot-cut blue jeans the top of which rode a good two inches below her navel.

She met Willa’s stern expression head on. “What?” With extra attitude.

“Where have you been?”

Katie slouched to the refrigerator, opened the door and ducked her head inside. “There’s nothing to eat in here.”

“You were supposed to be home by ten, Katie.”

“So I’m late.”

“What were you doing?”

“Studying.” The insolence in her voice instantly negated the truth of the answer.

Willa opened the dishwasher, pulled out a clean cup and carefully placed it in the cabinet above. “That’s the second night this week, Katie. You’re grounded.”

Katie dropped a container of yogurt on the kitchen counter and slammed the refrigerator door, rounding on one heel. “God, Willa, will you get over yourself? You’re not my mother!”

Hearing that from Shelby Franklin was one thing. Hearing it from Katie was another. Willa suppressed a quick flare of hurt and held out her hand. “Keys to the car.”