Kim Watters - Home Sweet Home

Her question troubled him. It was almost as if she expected him to abandon the project. Why?

“The name’s Cole. What’s your first name?” Something about the woman intrigued him, and despite his reservations about the house, she made him want to linger long after he reached the bottom of his cup.

Hope and another emotion he couldn’t identify descended over the woman’s features. “You really intend to do the work? Even though the people who signed the contract are dead?”

He set the cup on the table, his grip tightening around the yellow ceramic. He needed to do the remodel so he could start over again somewhere else. “I won’t leave until I’m finished.”

“But you’ll leave. They always do.” The plea in her eyes and the softness of her voice chiseled away another piece of the wall surrounding his heart. In that short span of time, he realized that for the time being, they needed each other.

At twelve years old, Kim fell in love with romance after she borrowed a Harlequin Romance book from her older sister’s bookshelf. An avid reader, she was soon hooked on the happily-ever-after endings. For years she dreamed of writing her own romance novel, but never had the time until she moved from the hustle and bustle of Chicago to a small town north of Phoenix, Arizona.

Kim still lives in that same small town with her two wonderful children, one crazy dog and two high-strung hamsters.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Do not judge, and you will not be judged.

Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.

Forgive, and you will be forgiven.

—Luke 6:38

For Shane and Emily, the loves of my life

who don’t quite grasp the concept yet

that these books don’t write themselves,

and my sister, Karin Roepel,

and my mom, Sharon Galitz,

who made sure it all made sense.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions For Discussion

“Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.”

—Luke 6:37

“This is it?” Wide-eyed and a little confused, Abby Bancroft stared out the passenger side window of the Ford Escort parked in front of the large Victorian house. Her stomach churned as her gaze flipped between the obviously outdated brochure in her cold hand and the three-story wooden structure to her right in need of a new paint job and some other cosmetic work. If the outside reflected the inside, her vision of reopening the Bancroft Bed-and-Breakfast by the Founder’s Day Festival the first weekend in May died a quick and painful death.

Disappointment pooled around her shoulders and matched the dismal early March skies. Puffy gray clouds threatened more snow in the sleepy town of Dynamite Creek in northern Arizona. The bare limbs of the tree standing guard by the long porch running along the front of the house looked more inviting than the empty windows that stared back at her. She should have guessed the house would be as welcoming as the people who once lived inside.

“Yep. This is it. We’re here.” Delia Wentworth, the receptionist from her late grandmother’s attorney’s office unbuckled her seat belt and opened the driver’s side door. Frigid air blew through the interior, making Abby shiver inside her inadequate jacket and miss the warm Southern California weather. Here wasn’t exactly the picture perfect place she’d expected to find as she sat frozen inside the car.

“It’s really a great house. It just needs a little TLC,” Delia responded enthusiastically before leaving the car.

“A little?” Abby’s skepticism showed in her voice. She knew nothing about general construction, but she had eyes, unless something in her brain had gone haywire in the long drive between Los Angeles and Dynamite Creek. Maybe she needed a pair of rose-colored glasses like Delia wore because Abby didn’t quite see the old Victorian in the same way.

Pulling her collar around her neck, Abby grabbed her purse, exited the car and walked to where the young woman stood. Abby held up the brochure and compared it with the house. Then she flipped the piece of paper over. The photo credit was from 1987. Figures. Over the years, beautiful and welcoming had morphed into dismal and uninviting. The yellow paint had faded over time and had begun to peel in several places and some of the porch railing sagged. And that was just what she could see.

A gust of wind frosted her legs and whipped a loose strand of hair into her eyes. Abby should have waited until May to collect her inheritance, but the letter from the attorney’s office hadn’t really given her much choice and she wasn’t fool enough to walk away from a place she could finally call home. If she found a way to fit into Dynamite Creek.

The cold, hard reality in front of her caused doubt to creep in. She didn’t have a lot money or time for a place that wasn’t turnkey, but she’d never be able to reopen the B and B until it resembled the picture in her hand. Her gaze skimmed the dull, faded exterior again. No one in his or her right mind would even consider staying in the house in its present condition. How the Bancrofts managed to attract customers the past few years amazed her. Even though the home had only been shut down six months ago with their deaths, neglect clung to every nook and cranny.

“Okay, the place needs more than just a little bit of care. Your grandparents—”

“Charles and Sally Bancroft?” Bitterness and disappointment pulsed in her heart. “Hardly. Grandparents only by name.” Crossing her arms in front of her, she stared at the numbers screwed to the fence post also in need of a fresh coat of paint.

The Bancrofts hadn’t cared that her mother, Sharon, had spent years working two jobs and struggling to make ends meet while raising their granddaughter. Nor had they bothered to visit while her mother was ill. They hadn’t even gone to her funeral when her mother finally succumbed to cancer ten years earlier. How apropos they’d saddle Abby with a falling down pile of wood that was probably as cold on the inside as it looked on the outside.

“Well, the Bancrofts had hired a contracting firm out of Phoenix with roots from Dynamite Creek to remodel the place about a year ago, but one of the partners took off with the hefty deposit money and never started the job.” Delia opened the gate and ushered Abby through. “That pretty much destroyed them physically and emotionally. Your grandfather died shortly afterward from a heart attack. Your grandmother didn’t last too much longer. Such a shame. Anyway, as my boss told you, aside from the house, there wasn’t much left once their medical bills were satisfied. Come on, let me show you the interior.”

Not much left was right. Abby guessed she had two months of inheritance money to survive plus what she’d stocked away in savings and her retirement fund. She had to open the B and B or be forced to accept another failure. Maybe she should sell the property? But who would buy the run-down place in this economy? And did she really want to walk away from where her mother grew up? Houses like this didn’t fall from the sky every day. Not for her anyway.

Following the younger blonde up the walkway, Abby’s gaze skimmed the brown patches of grass peeking through the thin layer of old snow. Dead garden beds lined the sidewalk and the base of the house. Only the partially visible green shrubbery showed any signs of life.