Irene Brand - Listen to Your Heart

Laurel forced a laugh. “Of course not. We’re perfectly safe.”

But considering the telephone call and the letter in her purse, Laurel hoped her optimistic words had disguised her inner turmoil from her daughter Debbie and from Michah.

“Cousin Kevin is a worrywart,” Debbie said. “We have nothing to fear from our neighbors, and travelers wouldn’t know there’s a house out here.”

“But you are isolated,” Michah insisted, “so please contact me if you need anything. I’ll be here almost every night.”

Michah’s eyes revealed a warm tenderness and concern that made Laurel’s heart beat faster. Knowing his strength and intelligence were at her beck and call gave her the assurance that she desperately needed.

Writing has been a lifelong interest of this author, who says that she started her first novel when she was eleven years old and hasn’t finished it yet. However, since 1984 she’s published thirty-two contemporary and historical novels and three nonfiction titles. She started writing professionally in 1977 after she completed her master’s degree in history at Marshall University. Irene taught in secondary public schools for twenty-three years, but retired in 1989 to devote herself to writing.

Consistent involvement in the activities of her local church has been a source of inspiration for Irene’s work. Traveling with her husband, Rod, to all fifty states, and to thirty-two foreign countries has also inspired her writing. Irene is grateful to the many readers who have written to say that her inspiring stories and compelling portrayals of characters with strong faith have made a positive impression on their lives. You can write to her at P.O. Box 2770, Southside, WV 25187 or visit her Web site at www.irenebrand.com.

But the Lord is faithful, and He will strengthen and protect you from the evil one.

—II Thessalonians 3:3

To Carlene Thompson, a fellow writer and former student, whose fiction books have earned her a noteworthy reputation in the world of mystery and suspense.

And to Keith Biggs, also a former student, who contributes to my writing career by keeping my computers in working condition.

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

Persistent rain drummed a staccato rhythm on the tin roof of the back porch as Laurel Cooper leaned a ladder against the outside wall of her Tennessee antebellum home.

“There would have to be another downpour before that lazy contractor got here,” Laurel fumed. She tied her raincoat’s hood over her red hair and climbed the ladder. Laurel shook her fist at an offending eaves spout, which, rather than draining as it should, was spewing water into her favorite bed of hostas.

Laurel had learned to do a lot of things since she’d been the owner of Oaklawn, but this was the first time she’d tackled a leak in the middle of a thunderstorm. The raincoat provided some protection from the torrent as she took a hammer out of one of her pockets, stuck some nails in her mouth and leaned toward a metal strap that had broken and caused the gutter to separate. She scowled at several miniature ponds in her landscaping. With all of these delays, how could she possibly beautify Oaklawn in time for Debbie’s August wedding just three months from now?

Believing she was alone, Laurel almost fell off the ladder when a loud knock sounded at the nearby door. Recovering her balance, she peered through the screened back porch. Protected by a large umbrella, a man stood at the door.

“It’s high time you got here,” Laurel shouted above a roll of thunder. “I’ve been waiting two days for you to come and do what should have been done weeks ago.”

“I beg your pardon,” the man said.

“And so you should,” Laurel answered crossly. “My hostas are about ruined. Come and fix this leak.”

He left the doorstep and walked languidly toward her. She didn’t recognize him, but the contractor who’d renovated her home employed a lot of people. She’d seen many different workers during the renovation. As this man approached, Laurel backed down the ladder. She extended the hammer and nails to him, irritated that a workman would appear on her doorstep empty-handed.

A smile seemed to lurk at the corners of his mouth, but his vivid blue eyes were unfathomable. He laid aside the umbrella, took the hammer and nails and obediently climbed the ladder. “It isn’t funny!” Laurel said angrily. “I spent more money than I can afford on this project, and this is the fourth time I’ve had to have one of your workers redo something.”

The workman winced when a spurt of water splashed his face and drenched the front of his shirt.

Laurel bit her lips to stifle further comments, since her conscience hurt a little because the man was getting soaked. Maybe she should have delayed the repair until the rain was over, but she couldn’t afford to replace the plants. Besides, why would he come to work on a day like this dressed only in a cotton shirt and dress trousers? And without any tools? She knew reliable workers were hard to find, but this was ridiculous!

With a few deft movements, the man squeezed the guttering together, pounded three nails in the brace that held the guttering to the building, and the leak was fixed. Still atop the ladder, he turned and said, “Is the work satisfactory now, ma’am?”

His long, thick black hair, dusted with gray, was plastered to his head. Compelling blue eyes gleamed from his square, tanned face. He wasn’t a particularly handsome man, but his clinging wet clothes revealed a tall, rugged, perfectly proportioned body. Why did she have the feeling he was laughing at her?

Laurel realized she’d been staring at the man when he prodded, “If the work suits you, I’d like to find a drier place. I’m reminded of my dad’s expression about people who didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain.”

Annoyed because of his suspected levity, Laurel answered tartly, “As long as the water is going down the gutter, it’s okay. I’m sorry you got wet, but you should know better than to come to work on a day like this without a raincoat. Come inside, there’s something else I want you to do.”

Micah Davidson stepped down and handed the hammer to Laurel. He shouldered the ladder and set it on the porch, then picked up his umbrella and joined her. His humor at the situation was tempered by the fact that he was drenched.

“Ma’am,” he said, “let me introduce myself—”

“This way,” Laurel said, and motioned imperiously. He followed her into the broad entryway of the palatial mansion. She untied the hood, shrugged out of her raincoat and hung it on the rack by the door.

Micah’s eyes widened appreciably. The woman’s red hair, with tints of reddish gold, clung to her head in short curls. She had alabaster skin and a petite body, giving her an appearance of fragile beauty. Judging by the way she’d been bossing him around, she certainly wasn’t frail. Her green eyes flashed like neon lights when she was angry, and he thought humorously that, with her red hair and green eyes, her head would make a good Christmas tree ornament. He still had no idea who she was.

Laurel placed her right foot on the bottom step of the curved, hanging stairway in the central hall. The board wiggled back and forth beneath her sturdy white shoes.

“That board hasn’t been nailed down, and it’s an accident waiting to happen. My daughter tripped on it last week.”

Micah’s lips twitched as he said, “I’ll have to borrow your hammer again. And maybe a nail or two.”

“Just a minute!” Laurel said, suspicion dawning in her mind. “Why’d you come to work without any tools? Aren’t you from Bowman’s Contractors?”

“No, ma’am.”

Because of a sudden flash of embarrassment, Laurel’s temper flared again, and she said, “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I tried to, ma’am.”

“Oh, stop calling me ma’am. My name is Laurel Cooper. Who are you anyway?”

“Micah Davidson.”

“What’s your business here?”

He reached into his damp pants pocket, pulled out a leather case and handed her a business card.

“Micah Davidson—Photojournalist,” she read in a subdued voice. Laurel turned away from him and covered her face with both hands. He sensed she was close to tears.

“My miserable temper is always getting me into trouble,” she confessed in a muffled voice. “I’m so humiliated. Please go away, Mr. Davidson, and save me further embarrassment.” She turned toward him with downcast eyes peeking out over her hands. “Although I suppose I should be polite enough to ask what brought you to Oaklawn.”

“I noticed a sign along the highway indicating you have apartments for rent. I have an assignment in this area and I need a place to live for a few weeks.”

Still refusing to meet his eyes, she stared at the floor. “Would you like to come back later when you have dry clothing? I’m sure you must be miserable.”

“My luggage is in the car. If I can rent one of your apartments, I’ll have a place to change my clothes. Do you have anything available?”

“I have a vacant upstairs apartment. The central part of the house was built in 1830, but a two-story ell was added around 1900. I had that wing converted into four apartments when I inherited this house two years ago. They’re modern and quite comfortable. Come with me, and I’ll let you see the rooms. Most of my renters are students at nearby Walden College and are on summer break now. I hold their rooms for them through the summer at a reduced rate.”

Laurel motioned him to follow her through the rear door into a large flower garden, bordered by a white wooden fence. The thunderstorm had passed, leaving a moist, fragrant scent to the newly mowed grass. Drops of moisture decorated dozens of rosebushes, enhancing the sweet aroma of the flowering buds. An industrious robin pulled a fat worm from the damp ground and hopped across the wet grass to feed her fledgling off-spring. Micah surveyed his surroundings with pleasure. For years he’d rambled around the world with no place to call home. Why did he now experience the comfortable peace of belonging?

“I’m on assignment to photograph and write an article on antebellum homes in Tennessee and Kentucky,” Micah explained, “and Oaklawn is one of the houses on my list. I hope you’ll let me feature your home in my article.”

Laurel slanted a glance his way. His deep voice contained a pleasant hint of huskiness. “That would be wonderful! This house has been in my husband’s family for generations. I’m often overwhelmed by its vastness, but it’s my daughter’s heritage, and I’m trying to maintain it for her.”

Micah discreetly glanced at Laurel’s hands. Seeing no wedding band, he decided she must be a widow, or she wouldn’t have been the one to inherit the home.

Laurel opened the door into a two-room apartment with a small kitchenette. “It’s warm in here now, but there’s a window air conditioner,” she explained. “A senior at the college moved out of the apartment when she graduated last week. It’s been thoroughly cleaned since then, so it’s ready for occupancy if it suits you.”