Ruth Herne - Winter's End

He needed someone who could handle the rigors of the North Country, who put common sense before fashion. When Marc got serious, he wanted someone at peace with the land, at home in his house.

A vision of Kayla’s coat hanging next to his zipped flannel had him squaring his shoulders.

He couldn’t deny the attraction. She invaded his thoughts despite his best efforts. With his father’s impending death, Kayla Doherty, R.N., was a wonderful asset. But that was it, he told himself firmly.

Thoughts of Kayla’s face came to mind. She was spunk and spice, tucked into one great package.

It was no good. They had nothing in common. She was free flight. He was tied to the land. She looked at the bright side of things, while he took careful measure.

There wasn’t much to keep a pretty thing like Kayla happy in the North Country. No cool designer shops, no trendy malls.

His heart hitched. Would she need all that if she had the right man? A husband to love and cherish her all the rest of her days?

Born into poverty, Ruth puts great stock in one of her favorite Ben Franklinisms: “Having been poor is no shame. Being ashamed of it is.” With God-given appreciation for the amazing opportunities abounding in our land, Ruth finds simple gifts in the everyday blessings of smudge-faced small children, bright flowers, fresh baked goods, good friends, family, puppies and higher education. She believes a good woman should never fear dirt, snakes or spiders, all of which like to infest her aged farmhouse, necessitating a good pair of tongs for extracting the snakes, a flat-bottomed shoe for the spiders and the dirt….

Simply put, she’s learned that some things aren’t worth fretting about! If you laugh in the face of dust and love to talk about God, men, romance, great shoes and wonderful food, feel free to contact Ruth through her Web site at www.ruthloganherne.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

—Ecclesiastes 3:1

This book is dedicated to the Visiting Nurse Service of Rochester, New York, for their loving hospice care of my mother, Mary Logan Herne.

And to M. E. Logan Herne, from whence my talent came.

This one’s for you, Mom.

Thank you to the Canton-Potsdam communities for sharing with a stranger, and a special nod to Canton-Potsdam Hospital for their care of my son, Seth. Their professionalism helped during a difficult time.

Sincere gratitude to Kathy Kennel for her guidance and equal thanks to Mary Connealy, dear friend and beef farmer, who advised proper terminology for Marc’s endeavors. All mistakes are mine.

I’m also grateful to the Seekers, our amazing writing group that does whatever proves necessary to help ensure the writing success of each member. You gals rock.

Special thanks to Sandra, Tina, Glynna and Janet and to Alice Clary and OKRWA, whose “Finally a Bride” contest put this manuscript on Melissa Endlich’s desk at Steeple Hill Books. Their contest got the ball rolling and I’m forever in their debt.

Thanks and love to my family for their never-ending support, belief and sacrifices. They’ve overlooked crowded shelves, messy bathrooms, refrigerator science projects and thick dust. Their joy when “The Call” came was heartfelt. I couldn’t ask for a better gift from God.

And warm thanks to my beloved pastor,

Father Frank Falletta. His counsel, advice and humor are a blessing.

And of course my heartfelt thanks to Melissa Endlich, my editor, who paid me the ultimate compliment when she said I made her cry. Her enthusiasm is positively contagious, and I am ever grateful for her strong vote of confidence.

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

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

He stood hard and unyielding, one arm stretched across the entry as if to block Kayla’s approach. Light spilled from the angled door of the old farmhouse, warming the mold-hashed porch with a splash of gold, backlighting his rugged frame.

Disadvantaged, Kayla stopped, wind-driven snow chilling her legs despite her well-fitted Ann Taylor pants. Note to self: If clients leave you in the snow, spend the bucks and buy some of those cute, girly, long underwear. Soon.

The broad-shouldered man remained shadowed, while lamplight bathed her approach. Well. She’d seen this often enough. The word hospice scared people, especially at first. With a small nod, she extended her hand. “Kayla Doherty, Visiting Nurse Service.”

Eyes tipped down, he didn’t give way, just stood for long seconds, contemplating her hand. Then he moved back, allowing her to enter while ignoring her gesture.

Kayla stepped into coffee-scented air. She breathed deep, wishing she’d had time for a caffeine fix, but weather reports had spurred her to this farm before conditions worsened. Sniffing the air with appreciation, she stood in a sparse but clean entry. The kitchen lay ahead, while a stairway hugged the wall to her left. A throw rug took up one corner of the polished hardwood floor.

Various footwear stood along the colorful weave. Reading the silent message, she placed her bargain-basement-priced short-boot Sudinis next to taller, hardier boots. Setting down her tote, she slipped into jeweled, open-toed clogs. She’d tricked-out the shoes herself, using a flashy array of sequins and beads. Her older female patients loved the effect. Fun shoes became an easy conversation starter, and often jogged memories of easier times. She hoped so.

“In January?”

The deep, masculine voice showed disbelief and…scorn? Sure sounded like it.

Kayla didn’t try to examine the vibes as she eyed rugged work boots and their tall, rubber companions. Proper barn wear for a man of the fields, a person who faced the prolonged winters of St. Lawrence County, New York, on a personal level. She assumed a look of patience and straightened, facing a good-looking man about her age, his features dimmed by shadows of anger and death, a formidable combination. “They’re comfortable for working with patients, Mr….DeHollander?” She ended on an up-note, making the statement a question, hoping he’d introduce himself.

Um…no.

She’d heard of Marc DeHollander. Women loved to talk about men, and the gals comprising the medical community of greater Potsdam were no exception. The rumor mill labeled Marc total eye candy, with a great personality.

Well. One out of two ain’t bad.

She’d dated one of Marc’s friends several years back, but Marc had never crossed her path. This man was the right age, but the taciturn expression didn’t fit the image. Imminent death had a way of changing a person. Kayla understood that. He’d probably lighten up as time went on.

He glared at the outside thermometer through semi-frosted glass. “Six degrees. Wind chill’s at least twenty below. Who wears foolish shoes like that in the dead of winter?”

Kayla scratched her whole “lighten up” theory. Some clients were just downright ornery, regardless. Marc DeHollander’s name just got tucked under the heading “resident jerk.” She ignored his negativity and swept the small room a glance. “Warm enough in here.”