Kitabı oxu: «A Sinclair Homecoming»
Free from the past
Wade Sinclair knows you can’t run from the past—he’s tried. After his beloved sister was murdered, he ran from Alaska to California only to discover there was no escape. So when a family crisis calls him back, he discovers therapist Morgan O’Hare knee-deep in their affairs. As soon as he meets Morgan, he feels as if there is brightness in the world again.
It would be inappropriate for them to get involved, yet the spark is irresistible. Wade never expected this kind of joy again. But is he really ready for this? Together, maybe they could find the strength to move on...if they’re brave enough to try.
“Can you help my mom?”
“I will certainly try,” Morgan answered. “A key to successful therapy is the patient’s willingness to accept help.”
“Well, she’s not exactly jumping up and down at the idea,” Wade admitted wryly. “Should we talk about the elephant in the room?” At Morgan’s quizzical expression, he said, “Simone’s death…”
“Ah, that. Yes, well, grief can cause all kinds of emotional as well as physical manifestations.”
“Well, some people aren’t as strong as others, I suppose.”
“It’s not a question of strength,” she corrected him with a gentle smile. “Some people find a way to cope but that doesn’t mean they’ve processed their feelings in a healthy manner.”
Why did it feel as though she was talking about him? “Well, at any rate…she’s ready for you. I just wanted to warn you before sending you into the lion’s den.”
“Thank you for trusting me with that information. Oh, and FYI, the coffee here will put hair on your chest. Very strong.” And then she left, coffee cup in hand, inadvertently causing a flush of awareness to remind him that he was a man and she was a beautiful woman.
He rubbed at his eyes, embarrassed by his inappropriate thought about his mother’s therapist.
Dear Reader,
I confess, when I first started writing Morgan O’Hare and Wade Sinclair’s story, I wasn’t quite sure who they were aside from the superficial. It wasn’t until I dug deeper into their story that their hearts were revealed to me. That’s what makes my job as a writer so rewarding. I love discovering deeper meaning in the words and honoring the characters’ journey as they find love.
Wade and Morgan are two people who are strong, professional and capable, yet under the surface, they are seething with dark hurts which are preventing them from claiming their joy. The road to true happiness is never easy but it’s the only road worth traveling, in my opinion, and I hope you agree as you turn the pages on Wade and Morgan’s love affair.
I enjoy hearing from readers. I can be found on Facebook, Twitter and through my website at www.kimberlyvanmeter.com, or you can send me something in the mail at P.O. BOX 2210, Oakdale, CA 95361.
Kimberly Van Meter
A Sinclair Homecoming
Kimberly Van Meter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberly Van Meter wrote her first book at sixteen and finally achieved publication in December 2006. She writes for the Mills & Boon Superromance and Mills & Boon Romantic Suspense lines. She and her husband of seventeen years have three children, three cats and always a houseful of friends, family and fun.
Contents
Dear Reader
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
EXTRACT
CHAPTER ONE
IF INSOMNIA WAS the devil’s handmaiden then Wade Sinclair was her bitch most nights.
Like tonight.
He rolled to his side, refusing to look at the red numbers glowing from his digital alarm clock because he didn’t want to know how much sleep he wasn’t getting. Five a.m. came early when operating on very little sleep.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried meditating but his mind was too unruly to cooperate.
Each time he came close to drifting to sleep, his baby sister’s face popped into his mental theater, and sleep fled like a deer with a cougar on its tail.
Simone—pretty, charming, too smart for her britches—dead.
It’s been eight years, he wanted to groan as if trying to negotiate with whatever demon prevented his eyes from closing and his mind from resting. How much longer was he supposed to carry this burden of unending grief and guilt?
He rolled to his feet and walked to the window to stare out across the forested land of the Yosemite National Park. But instead of California pines, he saw Alaskan hemlock and spruce, native to the Kenai mountains of his homeland. He saw the deep snow that had blanketed the ground and made the terrain hard to traverse. He saw his sister’s body trundled into the body bag as they carried her away.
This was Trace’s fault. If his brother hadn’t kept bugging him about coming home, he wouldn’t have been reminded daily of that awful day. No witnesses saw Simone climb into the car with her killer that night. No witnesses ever came forward to lend any clues.
And her killer continued to walk free.
Maybe that was what kept him awake at night.
No justice.
No closure.
And not even moving away to California had changed that.
His last conversation with Trace was too fresh in his mind to ignore, and he felt like a royal shit for being so curt with his younger brother, but he couldn’t drop everything in his life just to play mediator between his siblings and his parents. Just because he was the oldest didn’t mean he had the answers to every problem.
“It’s bad, man,” Trace had said emphatically. “I didn’t want to believe it but Mom is going to die in that house if we don’t do something. And Dad...he’s in total denial and too stoned half the time to be of any help.”
“I can appreciate that but I have responsibilities here that preclude me from hopping a plane anytime my family demands it,” he replied, giving more attention to an environmental impact survey than to what his brother was saying. “I’m sure it’ll blow over if you give it time.”
“Stop giving me your practiced administrator rhetoric and start acting as if you actually give a damn,” Trace said. “The house has been condemned. They wouldn’t do that if it weren’t necessary.”
“What do you mean condemned? Surely, that’s an overreaction to the situation,” he said, frowning. How bad could it be? His mother had never been a terribly neat and tidy person but she’d never been an abject slob. Their home had been lived in, but never dirty. “On whose authority?”
“Adult Protective Services. And they’re not going to let her back in until it’s been resolved to their satisfaction.”
He exhaled a breath of irritation. “So where is she staying now?”
“With a friend. But she keeps sneaking back to the house when no one is looking. Miranda has caught her there twice already. She’s acting like a kid who won’t take no for an answer. I’m worried about her mental health and that’s not an exaggeration. I can’t believe it, but Mom’s a hoarder.”
Maybe he could pencil in a day or two to fly over there...but even as the thought crossed his mind, he had to immediately cross it out. “We’ll just have to trust the authorities to handle the situation. They’re far more equipped to deal with someone in her situation than us.”
“I can’t believe it.” His brother’s incredulous tone made Wade shift in discomfort. There was no misunderstanding Trace’s disgust in his lack of action. “You’re willing to completely let our family twist in the wind because it’s too inconvenient to come home? Screw you, Wade. They’re your parents, too. Miranda’s been trying to handle this situation because neither of us held up our end but that’s done. We need you home. Now. And I don’t give a shit about your fancy admin job. Find a way. You’ve got to have personal leave available to you. Use it.”
Wade blinked against the harsh truth, surprised Trace had called him on the carpet. But even though Trace was right—he did have plenty of personal leave banked up—Wade didn’t want to go. He’d rather have his fingernails peeled off than board a plane for Alaska. And not even his brother’s contempt could compel him to return to the one place where ghosts from the past roamed free.
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” he said, wiping at the sudden beads of sweat popping along his hairline and causing his skin to itch. He rubbed his hands on his slacks, realizing with a flush of shame he was being a coward but he wasn’t ready to go back to Alaska. He might never be. “You’ll just have to figure out something without me.” And then he’d hung up on his brother.
No one liked to admit when they’d acted less than heroically. And Wade knew leaving Alaska had been an act of cowardice but in the time since he’d been gone he’d worked hard to make a life for himself where he did good things and tried to make a difference.
So it chafed pretty hard when he found himself forced to be the bad guy.
He was the superintendent of a national park, not some paper-pushing, middle-management drone who could split at a moment’s notice just because someone in the city housing authority deemed his mother a bad housekeeper.
Things would blow over and everything would revert to the way it was before— perhaps no better—but at least no worse.
Yeah, so why did he feel as if something really bad were just around the corner?
Wade finally glanced at the alarm clock and noted with weary relief that 4:00 a.m. wasn’t the earliest he’d showered and started his day so he might as well get moving.
As he walked to the shower and turned the water on, he purposefully shoved all thought of his family to the bottom of his mental cache. He had his own life to live and he refused to feel guilty about it.
End of story.
* * *
MORGAN O’HARE WAS an excellent example of the fact that fidgeting was not reserved for children.
“Nervous?” a soft voice inquired gently and caused Morgan to jump. A plump, older woman with graying hair smiled and introduced herself, saying, “I’m Cora. Is this your first time to our grief support circle? I haven’t seen you before and I come every week.”
“Yes, actually,” Morgan answered, hesitating to strike up a conversation with the kind stranger. She knew support groups were useful—she often referred her own clients to such groups if the need arose—but she’d been unable to get herself to commit to one for herself. Even now, she’d traveled far from her own city of Homer to Anchorage to attend a meeting because she didn’t want anyone to know that she still hadn’t gotten over her husband’s death from three years ago. Intellectually, she knew that there was no statute of limitations on grief, but people had a tendency to judge just the same. And she couldn’t afford anyone in her own sphere to realize she was struggling when she counseled people every day on how to move on from their mental obstacles. Morgan focused a bright, engaging smile on Cora and said, “My name is Melinda.”
“Melinda, such a pleasure to meet you. Grab a cookie and a seat. The circle will start in five minutes.”
“Sounds good,” Morgan said, but knew she wouldn’t stay in spite of her best intentions the moment the fake name had slipped from her lips. She’d hoped that by making the commitment to drive all the way to Anchorage, she’d find the courage to cry in front of strangers, but when push came to shove, she couldn’t. And as more time went on, how could she explain that she couldn’t talk about the death of her husband without talking about that other thing that had happened, too?
“Melinda, are you coming?” Cora waved her over from the gathering circle of people as they took their seats, and Morgan nodded and waved but began backing toward the exit.
“I’ll be right there after I visit the ladies’ room,” she answered with a bright, entirely false smile. As soon as Cora turned away, Morgan booked it out of there with her heart pounding and her palms sweating. She didn’t feel halfway normal again until she’d put Anchorage miles behind her.
“Epic fail,” she muttered, borrowing a phrase from her younger clients. And embarrassing. An instant replay bloomed in her mind and she cringed. Why couldn’t she do this? Why couldn’t she sit in that damn chair and tell her story? Share her grief? Because staying silent was easier, less painful and less messy than letting it all out. She didn’t have time to grieve any longer. Her client list was long and her practice well-established. Morgan O’Hare was a respectable authority on mental health. She’d even written a book on the subject! And she was a damn hypocrite.
Morgan managed to make it home in time for her favorite show, and after wiping off her makeup and twisting her hair in a ponytail she settled into her late husband’s recliner and clicked on the television. Let the good times roll, she thought with a sigh, wondering if there would ever come a time when she didn’t feel like a fraud living someone else’s life.
Not likely if she couldn’t get past this. David died three years ago.
She wasn’t sure which stage of grief she was stuck in because she jumped between all the stages like a child playing hopscotch. Sometimes she was hurt; other times she was angry.
No, angry wasn’t a strong enough word.
She was enraged.
But she couldn’t show that side of her grief. People understood her tears; they wouldn’t understand her rage.
Morgan rose abruptly and padded into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and reached for the wine but then stopped. David’s favorite brand of pinot grigio awaited her as it always did but she wanted a beer. In the early days of their marriage, David had lightly chastised her penchant for beer as low-class and had endeavored to educate her palate. She supposed he’d succeeded for she dutifully drank the finest wines and could appropriately pair wines with their courses. But she really still preferred a cold beer.
Her daddy had always said he couldn’t trust a man who wouldn’t share a beer with him.
Suffice to say, Daddy and David hadn’t been the best of friends.
Maybe her daddy had seen something she’d completely missed because she’d had hearts in her eyes.
“I wish I’d listened, Daddy,” Morgan murmured as she grabbed a beer by the neck and pulled it from the fridge. With two twists, she’d cracked the top and took a deep swig. “What do you think of that, David?” she asked to the empty kitchen. Nothing but silence answered. Great. She ought to get a cat if she was going to start having conversations with people who weren’t there.
People thought she didn’t date because she was afraid no one would be like David. Morgan always smiled and nodded, letting them go on thinking that.
The real truth? Morgan was afraid she’d find someone just like him.
CHAPTER TWO
WADE WAS DEEP in a meeting with the local county’s Native American leaders about passes for the indigenous people when his cell phone went off.
“Sorry about that,” he murmured, chagrined at having forgotten to turn it to silent for the meeting. As he went to send the call to voice mail, he saw it was his sister, Miranda. Ordinarily, he would’ve ignored the call with the intent to call her back later but given everything that’d been going on lately with his family, he excused himself, saying, “I’m very sorry but I think I should take this call. I should only be about five minutes. Help yourself to a doughnut and some coffee.” He ducked out of the conference room at the tribal center and into the hallway to answer. “Hello?”
“Wade, it’s Miranda...something terrible has happened and you need to come home right away.” Before he could launch a response, she said, “Mom’s in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“She had a heart attack. The doctors were able to stabilize her but she’s already had surgery to have two stents put in. But it gets worse...because the first responders couldn’t get to her quickly, the heart muscle was damaged.”
“Why couldn’t the paramedics get to her?” he asked, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand. “Are the roads bad?”
“No, she was in that damn wreck of a house again and it was sheer dumb luck that she was able to call 911. But the paramedics could barely get inside the house and get to her.”
Wade remained silent for a moment as Trace’s conversation came back to him. He hadn’t actually believed his brother when he’d said their mom was a hoarder. Could it really be that bad? Surely not as bad as those people on that TLC show. But if the paramedics couldn’t get to her...the evidence seemed pretty damning. His gut ached as the realization hit that he couldn’t put off a trip home. “I’ll check the flights,” he said, the words slow to fall from his mouth. “Can you meet me at the airport?”
“Yeah,” she agreed, pausing to add, “we really needed you sooner. This is a worst-case scenario that I was hoping to avoid. I mean, there was no way of knowing that Mom was going to have a heart attack, but I had a feeling something bad was going to happen in that house with the way that it is.”
“Okay, I’m coming home,” Wade muttered, guilt causing irritation to leach into his tone. Did his sister have to pound it into his head that he should’ve taken her concerns more seriously? He got it. Move on. “I’ll text you my flight information as I get it.”
“Okay,” she said, bristling a little. “Don’t get pissy with me just because you’re inconvenienced. You were raised better than that. You’re the big brother. Time to act like it.”
Now his little sister was schooling him? The day just kept getting better and better. “That’s unnecessary. Are you finished?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Text me if Mom’s condition worsens. I will text you with my flight information. Bye.” He clicked off without waiting for Miranda’s response. He wasn’t about to trade words about his so-called lack of familial responsibility with either of his siblings. He had better things to do. He returned to the meeting with another brisk smile of apology and discussions continued around him but he had a hard time concentrating. He made appropriate responses but was glad when the meeting was over. After a few handshakes and exchanged pleasantries, Wade made a hasty exit straight to his office to book a flight.
* * *
MIRANDA TOSSED HER phone into her purse and tried to rein in her temper. Wade had balls the size of an elephant to be acting pissy with her after they’d tried and tried to get him to come home and help with their parents’ situation. Well, Mr. Big Shot, time to cancel that tee time because you’re needed at home. Tough titty. She didn’t feel bad for him one iota.
Jeremiah entered the room just as she’d emitted a short growl of frustration and he frowned. “Everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay. They are far from okay,” she muttered, then skewed her gaze to her fiancé with apology. “I’m sorry. My brothers tend to bring out the worst in me. That was Wade. He’s booking a flight...finally. It took a major catastrophe for him to board a damn plane, though, and that pisses me off. I’ve been dealing with Mom and Dad mostly on my own until Trace got involved, and now Wade is throwing a hissy fit—in his own controlled way—because we need him here. It drives me nuts that he manages to make me feel like the whiny nag because I need his help.”
“So your brother hasn’t been home since Simone died?” Jeremiah asked, making sure he had the facts straight about the family history. At Miranda’s nod, he sighed. “Well, I know a thing or two about running away from pain. Chances are if someone had forced my hand into returning to Wyoming before I was ready, I’d be less than social, too.”
Miranda cast Jeremiah a look of warning. “You’re not allowed to be on his side, just so you know. He’s wrong, and I’m right—drill that into your head and you won’t find yourself sleeping alone.”
“You’re such a bossy broad,” Jeremiah said, pulling her into his arms with a chuckle. “If I didn’t know how much you enjoy my company at night, I’d take that threat with more seriousness. But before you get your panties twisted in a knot, know that I’m on your side—that goes without saying. However, your family has been through the ringer...and everyone deals with their pain differently. Cut him some slack. He might not be happy about it, but at least he’s boarding that plane. Right?”
She grudgingly agreed, hearing the wisdom in Jeremiah’s perspective. “Simone’s been gone eight years. It’s time everyone puts her to rest.”
“Wise words from the woman who up until a few months ago was still drowning her pain in booze and men.”
“Ouch. If being on my side means you don’t pull your punches, don’t be on my side,” Miranda grumbled against his chest. She took a moment to enjoy the simple pleasure of being snuggled against the man she loved and then said, “Well, I guess you’re right. Maybe we’ll get lucky and whatever Wade needs to heal will come to him. Mamu says that the ancestors bring us what we need, when we need it.”
“And do you believe that?” Jeremiah asked as Miranda pulled away.
“Maybe. It seems to have worked out that way for me and Trace. Maybe it’ll be that way with Wade, too. Although, he’s the most rigid out of all of us, so even if what he needed was standing right in front of him with a big neon sign, he’d probably refuse to see it.”
“He has that Sinclair stubbornness in spades, huh?”
“Oh, yeah...my older brother could write a book on how to be a stubborn jackass.”
“That’s saying something because you and Trace... Well, I’d say you’re both pretty stubborn.”
“Only when people don’t agree that our way is the best way,” she quipped half joking. When Jeremiah’s mouth lifted in a wry grin she conceded, “All right, I see your point but don’t push your luck. No one likes to be reminded of their shortcomings. Shall I list a few of your less than desirable personality traits?”
“Point taken.” He grinned. “Now, are we going to eat lunch or go straight to afternoon delight? Your tirade against your brother has eaten into our lunch breaks. I’m not sure we have time for both.”
Miranda grabbed Jeremiah by the tie and began leading him to the bedroom. “I wasn’t that hungry, anyway. C’mon, you big, sexy man o’mine. Let’s see how well you perform under pressure.”
“Baby, I eat pressure for lunch. I’m an administrator, remember?”
She laughed and they disappeared behind their bedroom door.
And for the next thirty minutes, Miranda’s thoughts were blissfully free of any member of her damn family.
* * *
MORGAN WAS BUSY studying her case notes for her next client when her secretary, Remy, came into her office with a scandalized expression on his face. With Remy, she never knew if he was simply being theatrical or if there was something truly scandalous to share. At any rate, Remy was entertaining at the very least. And he was family so she’d long since given up trying to change him. Not that she would if she could. Remy kept her sane around a bunch of crazies, as he put it.
“Girlfriend, you are not going to believe what file just crossed my desk for processing.” Without waiting for Morgan to guess, Remy said, “You remember those poor Sinclairs? You know the family whose girl was killed all those years ago by some psycho? Well, seems the mama has gone and had a heart attack and now Adult Protective Services is involved. They want a full evaluation of her mental status, if you know what I mean.”
Morgan frowned and accepted the file from Remy. “Why would APS need an eval after a heart attack? What am I missing here?”
“Check out the pics in the file,” Remy said.
Morgan opened the file and pulled aside the intake paperwork to see the enclosed pictures. She stared in shock. “Oh, my...word...” Her gaze returned to Remy. “She’s a hoarder?”
“Either that or she’s auditioning for world’s worst housekeeper,” Remy quipped.
“Oh, dear...that poor family,” Morgan said under her breath as she went through the pictures. Clutter of all sorts, from brand-new items to trash, littered every available space in the modest home and choked the halls. She returned to the intake paperwork. “It says here the paramedics couldn’t get to her because of the mess. It’s a wonder she was able to call 911. This is just awful. That family has been through so much already.”
“Oh, and it gets worse,” Remy said, delighted to have some relevant gossip. “On the day that APS booted her from the house and condemned it, police arrested the father for marijuana cultivation. He’s been in jail for weeks. Wouldn’t let anyone post bail. That’s a weird thing. Why would anyone want to sit it out in jail?”
“Maybe he felt more in control there,” Morgan answered, though her attention was on the Sinclair mom.
“How does being locked up make you feel more in control?” Remy asked. “I would say that’s the opposite of being in control when someone else is telling you when to eat, when to sleep and when to go outside.”
Morgan paused in her reading to answer her inquisitive cousin. “Well, if he has a substance-abuse problem and he doesn’t think he has the willpower to stay clean, being in jail takes care of that problem, doesn’t it?” Remy recognized the rhetorical nature of her question and shrugged.
“I suppose.”
“Well, at any rate, the father’s problems aren’t my concern. Adult Protective Services wants me to evaluate the mom so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make time to do it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to keep your lip zipped about confidential cases, right?”
“Honey, now you’re just being rude. Of course I don’t talk about your crazies to anyone else.”
“Please don’t call them that. It’s insulting.”
“Oh, fine. You’re in a mood today. Is it time for Aunt Flo to visit?” But Remy didn’t stick around for an answer and sashayed from the room. That man drove her nuts at times but out of anyone in her family, Remy was the one who knew her secrets and never whispered them to a soul. For that, she was forever grateful.
Shaking off the odd vibe of her wandering thoughts, she shoved the file into her satchel to read at home tonight. In the meantime, her next client was scheduled in ten minutes and she still hadn’t finished going over her notes. Time to get to work.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
