Home At Last Read online

  Home at Last

  Other books in the Chicory Inn series

  Home to Chicory Lane

  Two Roads Home

  Another Way Home

  Close to Home

  HOME AT LAST

  Copyright © 2016 by Deborah Raney

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission can be addressed to Permissions, The United Methodist Publishing House, 2222 Rosa L. Parks Blvd., P.O. Box 280988, Nashville, TN, 37228-0988 or e-mailed to [email protected].

  The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in association with The Steve Laube Literary Agency

  Macro Editor: Jamie Chavez

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Raney, Deborah, author. | Raney, Deborah. Chicory Inn novel.

  Title: Home at last / Deborah Raney.

  Description: Nashville : Abingdon Press, [2017] | Series: A Chicory Inn novel

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016041059 (print) | LCCN 2016044551 (ebook) | ISBN 9781426770487 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781501837456 (e-book)

  Subjects: LCSH: Interethnic dating—Fiction. | Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | Missouri—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3568.A562 H65 2017 (print) | LCC PS3568.A562 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016041059

  Scripture verses are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.TM

  In memory of my precious grandparents

  who carried on—then handed down—

  a legacy of faith and love.

  We intend to keep it going.

  Acknowledgments

  It seems like only yesterday that I was signing the contract for this five-book series. I could hardly imagine a day when the first book would be finished, let alone a day when I’d be writing “the end” on the final book! But here I am, and I must admit I shed a few tears saying good-bye to the Whitman family. We authors are strange that way. Our characters truly do become like family to us.

  And once again, I’m struck with awe at how many people it takes to make a book become a reality. And how many people I owe such deep gratitude.

  It would take an entire book to thank everyone who contributed to this series, whether through help with research, critiquing and editing, or the all-important “author support,” which my dear friends and family do so well.

  As always, my agent, Steve Laube, deserves a huge thank-you. We’ve been traveling this road together for over thirteen years now, and I can’t say enough how much I appreciate you, Steve.

  My critique partner and dear, dear friend, Tamera Alexander, has been walking with me even longer—ever since she offered to critique my novella at the very first ACFW conference in Kansas City in 2002. Tammy was published a few years later, quickly became one of my favorite writers on the planet, and has been running circles around me ever since! You are a gift from God, Tammy.

  My original editor, Ramona Richards, shared my vision for this series about an ordinary yet extraordinary family simply living out their faith and learning to hang tight to God through the ups and downs of life. She and Jamie Chavez have given me such tremendous editorial direction throughout these past four years. I’m so grateful for you both.

  The team at Abingdon Press has been wonderful to work with, and I am grateful and honored to be one of your authors.

  To my dear Club Deb and my precious friends who know me better than anyone—and still somehow love me: Courtney, Mary, Roxy, Sharon, Terry. I can never express how much your friendship means to me.

  So many friends, family, acquaintances, and complete strangers help in the research stage of a novel. I’m especially grateful to Noah and Julia Collins, Veronica Brayboy, and others who shared their experiences with me.

  To my own big, loving family—my precious mom and dad, my wonderful spunky mother-in-law, my brother and sisters, my kids and in-laws of all varieties: thank you all for loving me, believing in me, offering support and encouragement. Daddy, I think you single-handedly sold (and gave away!) more books than most of the bookstores! Vicky, thank you for reading galleys for me when my deadlines didn’t allow.

  And as always, to the man who makes this earthly life So. Much. Fun. The love of my life, the man of my dreams, my best friend and garage-sale buddy, the father of my children, and the “papa” in Papa and Mimi. There simply are no words, babe, to say how much I love and respect you. But give me a few more years, and maybe I’ll come up with something.

  Finally, to my Lord and Savior, Jesus, the Christ, how very grateful and humbled I am that You have written my name in heaven.

  For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility, by setting aside in his flesh the law with its commands and regulations. His purpose was to create in himself one new humanity out of the two, thus making peace, and in one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit.

  Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone. In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.

  —Ephesians 2:14-22

  1

  A thin layer of snow and ice covered the narrowing road, and Link Whitman tapped the brakes to slow his pickup. Police in the little berg of Langhorne, Missouri, were famous for doling out speeding tickets, and Link already had two on his record—which gave new meaning to the premium in insurance premiums.

  Running his fingers through unruly curls that could stand a good cut, he leaned to check his reflection in the truck’s rearview mirror. His sisters would have given him a hard time if they’d seen.

  Who you primping for, Linkie? Must be a girl!

  He grinned to himself, hearing their high-pitched voices as clearly as if his sisters were in the seat behind him.

  He loved his sisters, but they could annoy the tar out of him too. And ever since Bree had gotten engaged, the Whitman women had upped the ante big-time. After Bree and Drew’s wedding next month, he’d be the last Whitman standing, and the pressure was on. All his siblings had kids too, and no doubt Bree would want to start a family right away. Yep, he was a slacker, and his sisters would remind him at every opportunity. Mom would do worse. She’d already tried to set him up with some great-niece of a friend of a friend of a friend.

  No thank you. He could find his own woman. And he’d do it when he was good and ready.

  He gave a little snort. Who was he kidding? He’d been good and ready for a long time. But he wasn’t going to settle for the first pretty thing that came along. He had standards. Standards too high, according to his sisters.

  Well, they’d be happy to know he was on a mission to
day. A mission involving a woman. He didn’t think Mom suspected anything when he’d jumped at the chance to make a bakery run for her this morning. But a certain girl who worked there had caught his eye.

  He’d actually met Shayla first at the homeless shelter in Cape Girardeau. He and some buddies from work had done a couple of volunteer projects there last summer, getting the shelter’s Internet and office computers set up. He’d pulled into the parking lot at the same time as Shayla and had helped her carry in a stack of boxes from the bakery.

  Listening to her snarky banter with the other volunteers and a crazy client they were dealing with, he’d fallen in love with her a little bit that day. Then more than a little, once he got up the courage to talk to her the following week. And the week after that. And the one after that. The shelter’s computers had never run so seamlessly. And since he was volunteering his time, he felt only slightly guilty for making excuses to keep “tweaking” their system on the days he knew Shayla would be delivering. And he had made things work better each time he was there. But if someone—say his sisters, or Shayla—wanted to make a case against him for stalking her, they wouldn’t have to look too far for evidence.

  He didn’t care. The more he’d gotten to know Shayla, the more he liked what he saw. Not that she was making it easy. Over bad coffee, compliments of the shelter, they’d practically solved the problems of homelessness, world hunger, and the recent city council elections. They’d also agreed on best doughnut—sour cream cruller—and which houseplants were the easiest to kill—maidenhair fern and fiddle-leaf fig, which Shayla knew from experience and Link could discuss semi-intelligently thanks to his sisters. But he had yet to learn anything really personal about the mysterious Shayla. Unless you counted that she hated her hair—thick, wild curls that weren’t quite an Afro, but close . . . and cute as all get out, in his opinion. Which she hadn’t asked for and he hadn’t given.

  He’d flirted with her the last couple of times he’d been in the bakery. And if he knew anything at all about women, it seemed the feeling might be mutual. Shayla. He was still working on getting her last name. His mission today: get that name and talk her into a real date. Just coffee. He didn’t want to scare her off.

  His cell phone chirped from his pocket, and he fished it out. Mom. He tapped the brakes again and answered. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

  “Have you already left the bakery?”

  “Nope. Just got into town.”

  “Oh, good.” She breathed a relieved sigh into the phone. “Could you also see if they have any cinnamon rolls? Or maybe a coffee cake? Anything that would feed four guests in the morning? We got a last-minute reservation and I have too many other irons in the fire to be baking.”

  “Sure. But don’t you feel guilty putting the Chicory Inn’s reputation on the line like that?” he teased.

  “Not one bit. And don’t you go trying to change things.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll bail you out. It’ll cost you though.”

  “Ha ha.” She tried to sound irked, but Link heard the smile beneath her tone.

  “I’m here now,” he said as the Coffee’s On Bakery came into view. “See you in about twenty minutes.”

  “You’d better not show up here in twenty minutes. There is no way you can do all that and get back here in twenty minutes, and I happen to know you don’t need another speeding ticket.”

  “What? How did you find—”

  Something—a dog? a coyote?—darted into the street in front of him, a blur of brown against the dirty snow paving the street.

  He slammed on the brakes, spewing a word his mom would not appreciate.

  “Link? What happened? Link?”

  His brakes squealed as the pickup skidded, and he held his breath as two tons of steel careened directly toward the anim—Wait! That wasn’t a dog. It was a kid!

  The brake pedal was already pressed to the floor, but he pushed harder then gave the pedal a frantic pump, his pulse screaming in his ears. Please, God! No!

  Somehow his cell phone had ended up in the passenger seat, and he could hear his mother’s distant frantic cries. But he had bigger things to worry about. The kid stood frozen in the middle of the street staring up at him through the windshield, mouth agape, her wild curly hair blowing in the wind. She needed to move! Now!

  The pickup was in a slow-motion, sideways skid now. There was no time to lose! Adrenaline gushing, he slammed the gearshift into park, threw open his door, and half ran, half slid toward the girl. He scooped her to his chest and rolled with her out of the path of the front fender.

  Heart slamming, he watched the truck come to a full stop, tires grinding against the curb. When he could finally catch a breath, he scrambled to his feet with the girl in his arms. She scarcely weighed more than a feather, but she started screaming like a banshee, kicking at his knees with her little brown boots. Sharp-toed boots. Ouch! And while she might be a featherweight, fear had given her the strength of a cornered doe.

  “Oww!” He grabbed her legs with his free hand and tried to hold them still while also remaining upright—no easy feat considering the ice.

  About that time, a woman came flying out of the bakery, wailing. She stepped off the curb—and instantly bit the dust. Link watched, open-mouthed, as she rolled over and scrambled on all fours on the icy street, looking frantically to where Link was trying to stay on his own feet on a thin sheet of sleet and ice. With this little spitfire still flailing in his arms.

  “Stay there!” he yelled, his breath forming puffs of steam in the cold November air. The next vehicle to come by might not see her, and she definitely wasn’t taking time to look both ways before crossing the street.

  “Portia! Baby? Are you okay?”

  He knew that voice. It was Shayla! Her gaze didn’t leave the child in Link’s arms.

  He shifted the little girl to face outward so Shayla could see she was in one piece—despite the blood-curdling screams pouring from the tiny creature. Tucking the girl under one arm like a football—or more like one of those crazy bouncy balls his nephews had—he half skated across the street.

  He helped her to her feet with his free hand and started to transfer the little girl to her arms when Shayla began pounding her fists on his chest.

  “You could have killed her! You could have killed her!”

  He stumbled backward, trying to fend off the mama bear’s blows while baby bear continued to thrash in his arms. “Hey, stop! She’s okay. She’s going to be okay!”

  Seeming oblivious to the fact that he held the little girl, Shayla continued screaming at him, then, without warning, she wilted into a puddle at his feet.

  He didn’t think she’d recognized him yet. She was, understandably, a little out of her mind. It seemed a petty thought considering what had just happened, but he hadn’t known she had a kid. Did that change things? Not that it mattered now. Nearly running over a woman’s daughter probably wasn’t his best pick-up line.

  Shayla wept gulping sobs that might have scared him a little more if he hadn’t been raised with three drama queens for sisters. Not that Shayla didn’t have cause to be upset, but her little girl was obviously fine.

  He set the child down on the sidewalk next to her, keeping tight hold on the fur collar of the kid’s coat so she didn’t escape again. “Hey?” He knelt beside Shayla. “You okay?”

  Without looking up, she waved him away, then pulled the little girl onto her lap.

  “It’s cold out here,” Link said. She was in shirtsleeves except for the bib apron that bore the Coffee’s On logo. “And that sidewalk is a sheet of ice. Why don’t we get you both inside?” He offered his hand.

  But she batted it away. “I can get myself inside. I think you’ve helped enough for one day.” She sniffed and looked up at him, topaz-colored eyes blazing. Slowly, recognition dawned in them. “It . . . it’s you.” Her creamy brown complexion went rosy.

  “Yes. It’s Link.” He offered his hand again.

  But she ignor
ed it. “Go on about your business. We’re fine.” She pushed the little girl’s corkscrew curls off her forehead and inspected her for injury. The child’s hair and skin were a paler shade of brown than Shayla’s—almost a muddy blonde—and her eyes were a striking blue-gray. Even so, she was the spitting image of Shayla. The little girl whimpered, but she didn’t appear to be bleeding or otherwise harmed. A miracle.

  Watching them together, the sequence of events replayed in his mind, and he shuddered, feeling a little weak in the knees himself. “That was a close one.”

  Shayla pierced him with a look. “Yeah, well . . . You might want to think about slowing down next time. You could have killed her.”

  “So you said.” About fifteen times. He narrowed his eyes. “And you might want to think about watching your kid closer next time.” He turned toward the street, half wishing he’d held his tongue. But seriously? She was going to blame him? He’d quite possibly saved the kid’s life. She should be thanking him.

  “Hey!”

  He turned back at the strident chord in her voice, preparing to get chewed out again.

  But she only said, “You’re coming for the order for the B&B, right? The Chicory Inn?”

  He eyed her. “Yes.” Wanna make something of it?

  “Your order’s ready.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Inside.”

  “Oh.” He curbed the urge to roll his eyes. “Thanks. My mom would’ve killed me if I forgot.” He winced inwardly. Nice choice of words, Whitman. Way to remind her you nearly ran over her daughter and that you’re running errands for your mommy.

  Shayla struggled to her feet, testing the sidewalk beneath her before lifting the girl into her arms. “Come on in. I’ll ring you up.”

  Did he hear a hint of truce in her tone? “You’re sure I’m allowed in your store? After all, I did almost kill your daughter.” He couldn’t help it. The sarcasm came second nature.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but instead, hitched her daughter higher on one hip and opened the door to the bakery.