Finding Home (St. John Sibling Series Book 2) Read online

  FINDING HOME

  St. John Sibling Series, Book 2

  by Barbara Raffin

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  Copyright © 2013

  All rights reserved by author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Cover Art/Design: Covers by Rogenna.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. People and locations, even those with real names, have been fictionalized for the purposes of this story.

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  LINK TO MY WEB SITE: http://barbararaffin.com/

  LINK TO MY BLOG: http://barbararaffin.com/barbsblog/

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  OTHER BOOKS & STORIES

  BY BARBARA RAFFIN

  Taming Tess: St. John Sibling Series, Book 1

  The Mating Game

  The Scarecrow & Ms. Moon (novella)

  Jaded (novella)

  The Sting of Love (short story)

  The Visitor (paranormal)

  Time Out of Mind (paranormal)

  Wolfsong (romantic suspense)

  The Indentured Heart (historical)

  From award-winning author of the St. John Sibling series, another St. John Sibling contemporary romance, Finding Home by Barbara Raffin:

  When life handed Dixie Rae Carrington lemons, she made lemonade. Widowed in her mid-twenties, her husband's life insurance depleted by a custody battle with her father-in-law over her son, and the mortgage on her dream restaurant more than she can handle, she starts over with a defunct farm alongside a rural Michigan highway. She turns the first floor of her grandmother's farmhouse into a restaurant, the upstairs spare room into a rental, and the empty barnyard into a haven for cast-off animals.

  When life handed Sam Ryan lemons, he ran. But, after running away from his problems and obligations all his adult life, Sam's uncle offers him a means back into the good graces of his family. Unfortunately, what the family

  patriarch wants Sam to do is vilify his son's widow, Dixie.

  But Sam quickly realizes there is no dirt to dig up and the family he really wants is Dixie's. Now he just has to hope she doesn't find out what's really brought him into her life before he can win her heart.

  REVIEW QUOTE:

  4 stars: “A sweet and charming and quick read you’ll enjoy." — Cassandra Graham for BTS eMag

  CHAPTER ONE

  "That woman's not fit to raise my grandson!" The old man slammed his palm down on the mahogany desk in front of him.

  Sam Ryan shifted in the ancient leather chair on the one-who'd-been-summoned side of the desk. So much for pointing out the old man's son had chosen to wed that woman.

  "As for Michael's good judgment," the old man growled, bracing both hands against the broad desktop and leaning toward Sam. "She seduced him. Trapped him into marriage."

  Strike two. If the old man was implying she'd gotten pregnant to force a proposal from Mickey, then the pregnancy would have been a record at thirteen months post wedding.

  Not that Sam was going to make the mistake of pointing out yet another flaw in the old man's reasoning. He had nearly a lifetime of being reminded how futile it was to argue with Stuart Carrington. Twenty-five years, to be exact, since he'd first sat in this chair under the scrutiny of an uncle who had it within his power to decide his future. He still felt every bit the six-year-old boy he'd been then.

  And that brought Sam to the question that had nagged him ever since his uncle had summoned him from the banished lands abroad. Why welcome the family black sheep back into the fold now? It couldn't be to replace Mickey. Hell, Mickey had died over two years ago. If the old man wanted a replacement son, he'd have called him home a hell of a lot sooner.

  Not that Sam wanted to replace Mickey…not that he could. Michael—Mickey to Sam—had been the big brother he'd always wanted—needed, giving him the sense of family his globetrotting mother hadn't and buffering him from his uncle's wrath when Sam screwed up…which had been most of the time. He'd idolized Mickey—loved him. The one thing his uncle-slash-surrogate father and he had in common. They both loved Mickey.

  No, Stuart Carrington would never replace his son with his sister's mongrel whelp. But a grandson…

  Sam sighed in resignation, having known deep down all along the reason he'd been summoned. It was the specifics he didn't know. "Why am I here?"

  His uncle's flinty eyes narrowed at him. "I need you."

  Sam's heart lurched in his chest before his brain could intercept the reflex. To be needed by the only father figure he'd ever known fed into the hunger of the lost boy still inside him. Yet, at the same time, he hated the notion because he knew whatever his uncle asked of him, he would do.

  #

  So here he was, some three hundred miles north of Chicago sitting in an empty parking lot under a darkened restaurant sign, the Ducati bike engine rumbling with a throaty purr between his legs. Another perk of doing the old man's bidding—getting the keys to whatever vehicle he wanted from his uncle's priceless collection, along with the promise that when he finished the job and headed back to Paris, the bike went with him. But, did he love the bike enough to ruin a woman's life? That was the one question that had sent him riding aimlessly along country roads rather than sticking to the highway and its direct route to his objective.

  Sam gazed up at his destination, the white-washed farmhouse gilded by a setting sun. Its multi-gabled upper floors cast soft shadows across the scalloped shingles of the inviting wraparound porch. Beneath the overhang, warm yellow light filtered from the curtained windows of the Victorian era farmhouse's first floor. Even the sidewalk was flower-lined. Norman Rockwell couldn't have painted a more idyllic scene. Hardly the setting he'd expected of a gold-digger.

  But appearances could be deceiving. He knew.

  For all the mischief and decadence of his thirty plus years, for all the running away from his uncle he'd done, what he truly coveted was family acceptance. Yup, all he had to do was dig up some dirt on a woman who'd never done him any wrong and he'd be back in Uncle Stuart's good graces.

  He flicked off the bike's engine, dismounted and stepped out from under the free-standing sign above him that read The Farmhouse. Appearances indeed could be deceiving, he thought, as he gazed into the warm glow coming from the windows of a home turned restaurant.

  With his Ducati silver and red helmet tucked under his arm, Sam climbed the broad front steps. A figure moved beyond the first floor curtains, a distinctly female figure. Mickey's widow cleaning up after a day of diners? He hesitated ever so briefly at the top of the porch stairs, doubt still niggling at him. Would Mickey approve of what he was about to do?

  He would if it saved his son from a mother who used the boy to gain her own end. Stuart was certain she was holding his grandson as collateral against the inheritance he denied her. And ransom had been the kindest of the words Stuart had used to describe his daughter-in-law's refusal to give the boy up to his care—his very money-advantaged care.

  Sam stood there facing the leaded glass panel of the front door—facing his dilemma. Was he really doing this for Mickey's family or for himself? Mickey, after all, had chosen her—married her—fathered a child with her; and Mickey had never been fooled by womanly enchantments.

  Then again, perhaps he could do right for both family and self. What harm would there be in visiting Mickey's wife and kid if there was no dirt to dig up? After all, Uncle Stu's army of detectives hadn't ferreted out anything he could use in court. What were the odds he, the family screw-up, would find anything?

  And if he d
id?

  Mickey would want his kid protected. The kid was all that mattered.

  Still, Sam opened his silver windbreaker with its red Ducati emblem and let in the balmy breath of the summer evening. As if anything could warm him—make him feel less reptilian about introducing himself to his cousin-in-law as a friend.

  "Simon Legree had more heart," he muttered and raised his hand to knock on the door.

  Yet something stilled his hand from completing the motion. Mickey, who'd raised a child with this woman for two years? Mickey, who'd emailed him pictures of a happy family and written endlessly of his love for them? Was the memory Mickey's way of trying to give him one more chance to do the right thing—the honorable thing? And was the right thing to leave? Stuart's needs be damned?

  Sam backed away from the door. That's when he heard the clatter of toenails coming fast toward him from the side porch—when the vibration of heavy footfalls reverberated up his legs from the old floorboards. He turned toward the stairs just as the biggest dog he'd ever seen skidded around the porch corner, ears flying, jowls flapping, strings of drool trailing from a fang filled mouth.

  He flung his helmet at the black and white blur of a dog coming at him, turned, and threw his body against the front door. But the door didn't budge. The next thing he knew, he was plastered against the leaded glass panel of the door and a pair of massive paws had him pinned by the shoulders.

  #

  Dixie Rae Carrington stepped into the entry hall just as the guy she'd spotted prowling her porch hit the door. With cheek and lips smeared across the glass, he didn't look so menacing. In fact, he looked downright comical.

  A glance the length of the door's oval glass insert and she amended her opinion yet again. He had on a pair of jeans faded out in all the right places. Yessiree. Faded and polished thin in the very best of places…those jeans. Set the mind of a widow to pondering on activities she hadn't partaken of in a couple years. That's what those tight, faded jeans did to her.

  Too bad the fellow wearing them had been prowling around her front porch. No good ever came from a skulking man.

  Or maybe it had been the motorcycle helmet he'd been carrying that had her thinking ill of this comical-looking man wearing decidedly sexy jeans. Though the helmet had been an innocuous silver color. That's what had caught her attention first; the light reflecting off the helmet as the man had skulked past her dining room windows. What kind of man wore a silver motorcycle helmet? Not a Hell's Angel. That was for sure.

  Still, any guy lurking about had to be trouble. So much for that thick mop of chocolate-brown hair making her fingers itch for a feel.

  Then again, his big brown eye was huge with a plea for help. And was that Ben on the end of Bear's leash shouting for the dog to get down? Blast that kid, but he was getting good at giving her the slip. She'd better get out there and rescue the stranger from dog and four and a half-year-old.

  #

  An image of blond hair and buxom shapeliness imprinted upon Sam Ryan's brain as his head hit the glass. But the fact that his uncle's Dobermans were trained to bite chunks out of trespassers on command, and whatever had pinned him to this door was easily three times the size of any Doberman, prevented him from fully enjoying the view. Besides, the shapely blonde had just fled what appeared to be an entry hall8 and whoever controlled this doggie King Kong sounded suspiciously like a kid.

  Sam chanced a glance over his shoulder. A biscuit-scented muzzle huffed in his face and a huge, pink tongue sliced through the saliva strings and over glistening fangs. He shouldn't have dropped his helmet. Better high-impact plastic jammed between those canine teeth than any part of him.

  "Nice doggy," Sam croaked.

  "Get down, Toto," cried a child-like voice as the hound from hell pawed Sam's shoulders. He'd be two inches shorter by the time anyone hauled the beast off him and, at five foot ten, he couldn't afford to lose any height.

  Sam squinted past the gleaming fangs. Yup. It was a kid swinging back and forth on the handler end of a dog leash like a midget Quasi Moto. What responsible adult put a pint-sized kid in charge of the jolly giants of dogs?

  An unfit mother?

  That's what Uncle Stuart had sent him to ferret out. That's why he was now on the porch of an old farmhouse turned restaurant along a highway in North-eastern Wisconsin about to get his jugular torn out by a dog big enough to saddle and ride.

  "Auntie Em," the kid shouted. "Help me, Auntie Em."

  Auntie Em? Toto? Either he'd taken a wrong turn out of Chicago and wound up in Kansas, or Cousin Mickey's widow had relatives in residence that his uncle's detectives had missed.

  Arruf, went Hellhound in his ear.

  "Shhh, Toto," the kid pleaded. "Icky witch'll hear."

  A witch, too? Make that a wrong turn to Oz.

  "Bear, quiet," commanded a decidedly feminine voice from behind them.

  "Quiet?" Sam croaked out, straining to see over his shoulder and through the droopy jowls of Toto, or Bear, or whatever the dog's name was, at this 'Auntie Em'. He was about to be turned into kibble and all the woman could say was quiet?

  "How about getting this beast off me?" he demanded.

  "Bear means no harm," the languid female voice responded, nearer this time. "He's just a puppy."

  "Some puppy," Sam grumbled, trying to dodge the huge tongue lapping up the side of his head. "You should post a warning sign. Beware of greeting by big, rambunctious puppy."

  "Bear, down," the woman commanded in a voice smooth as a thirty-year old single malt liquor, closer this time.

  The weight of the dog's paws lifted from Sam's shoulders. But the hot breath against the back of his neck warned him the dog hadn't gone far. Cautiously, Sam turned, faced the Godzilla of Great Danes and…

  Angel of all angels.

  She stood behind the dog, just out of reach…the golden-haired vision he'd glimpsed in the entry hall. An ankle-length skirt draped her womanly hips and a white, tailored blouse was buttoned to her throat. But the frilly bib-apron cinched to her narrow waist defined every inch of her female ripeness. Those curves made every woman his Uncle Stuart had tried to marry him off to seem anemic by comparison.

  Auntie Em?

  The woman placed a small, porcelain-pale hand on the kid's shoulder. "Go in the house, Ben."

  Sam's attention snapped to the boy. Ben? As in Benjamin Carrington, only grandson of Stuart Carrington?

  As in, Cousin Mickey's son?

  "But Toto an' me gotta get to the Em'rald City 'fore Icky Witch catches us," the kid protested.

  Maybe Uncle Stu hadn't overstated his case this time. Under the mother's care, the poor kid had clearly developed an identity crisis.

  The mother's care. Sam thumped the back of his head against the leaded glass door insert. If Benjamin thought he was skipping along the yellow brick road and Toto was really Bear, of course Auntie Em must be the nefarious Dixie Rae Carrington whom his uncle had sent him to expose as an unfit mother and extortionist.

  "Into the house," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. "You know you're not supposed to play outside after dark."

  Okay. So, she didn't let the kid stay out this late.

  "Ah, gee," the kid protested.

  "Go. But leave Bear."

  Leave Bear? Hellhound's abandoned leash slapped across Sam's toes, reminding him he still had a dog the size of a mini-van holding him at bay. The Dane's ears swiveled in the direction of a door slamming at the back of the house. Now it was just him, Hellhound, and—

  "So," the woman who was no doubt the kid's mother drawled in the flirtatious timbre of the late, lusty Mae West, "What are you doing snooping around my porch?"

  "Looking to see if the restaurant is open?" Sam ventured. A voice like that could distract a man from the worst of circumstances…or most stalwart of plans.

  "Sign's not lit." She nodded toward the parking lot where his bike stood alone beneath the towering restaurant sign. "That usually means closed."

  "The
dining room lights are still on," he returned hopefully.

  "Just a few," she leveled and cocked her head to one side, setting in motion the soft curls that had come loose from her upswept do. The movement stirred the air, carrying the aroma of fresh-baked bread and spiced apples to him, a distraction he couldn't afford.

  He forced a smile over the Dane's pricked ears. "How about calling off your dog and we talk things over?"

  She planted her hands on her hips. "Whether I call off my dog depends on whether or not you're a process server."

  Process server? What the hell? No wonder she was in no hurry to call off the dog.

  He shook his head. "I'm no—"

  "We string up process servers in this neck of the woods," she leveled back at him, not a hint of flirtation in her tone now.

  "I'm not a process server. I'm Mickey's er Michael's cousin…Sam, Sam Ryan," he rushed out.

  She reached around the dog, caught Sam's chin between her fingers, and tipped his face into the light shafting over his shoulder.

  "I know we've never met," he hastily added.

  "I've seen pictures," she said, kneeing the dog out from between them.

  "Great," he murmured. His life and limb depended on stiffly posed family portraits which depicted a tightly collared lad with slicked back hair. The only thing the boy in those pictures had in common with the man he now was extreme discomfort.

  "I'm surprised all photos of me weren't purged from the family records?" He tried to laugh, but all he managed was a lame squeak.

  "Spoken like the Sam our Michael knew and loved," she said, smiling once more and releasing his chin.

  The Sam Michael knew and loved.

  The air went out of Sam as if he'd been sucker punched. But who had delivered the final blow—an uncle who slanted the truth to fit his purpose, or a gold-digger with the voice of a seductress?