Kentucky Home

Sarah Title

eKENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

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Table of Contents

Nobody would be reading this book if it weren't for Bobbi Smith and her amazing RT Advanced Writing Workshop. That not only gave me the kick in the pants I needed to finish the book, but she also helped me massage the manuscript into something worth submitting to an editor. She's amazing, and she made me see possibilities I was too chicken to consider myself.

Thank you to my editor (my editor!) Alicia Condon for taking a chance on me. I am still metaphorically sitting on my office floor, trying to take it all in. And to my agent (my agent!!) Louise Fury for some great Hollow Bend jam sessions.

Way back before that, Sarah Glassmeyer and I were riffing on a family-run horse farm and the love it inspires. Our original idea involved sheiks and feisty Irish horse trainers, but the well ain't dry yet. Also, Craig Lefteroff helped me come up with the original name for this book:
Harlequestrian
.

Over the course of several years, I brought pieces of this book to my amazing writing group, the Black Dogs. None of them read romance, but ha, ha, I fooled them. Beverly Delidow (thanks for the toad joke), Jen Grover, Matt Wolfe, Llewellyn McKernan, Jenn Hancock, Carol Brodtick, Marc Miller—thank you for all of your support, feedback, and horse stories. And now you can read the love scenes.

A few people heard tell of my foray into romance writing, and have been cheerleaders and readers and publicists: Toni Blessing, the best boss ever; Tricia Stringer (and our boyfriend, Adam Harris), who reads stealthily but promotes boldly; Pam May, who corrects my Appalachianisms; Marsha Alford and Karan Ireland, who loved this book without even reading it; and Anne McConnell, the secret inspiration for Miss Libby. JK. Also to Emily Bacon, who deserves a Pulitzer for her patient photography in Kanawha State Forest. I do not enjoy having my picture made.

Also to my family, who is insane, but whom I love very much: Tom, Amy, Mary Ellen, and Brian. Thank you all for being psyched for me, even though I didn't tell you forever. Adelaide and Emmett, you guys are too young for this book.

Luke Carson sat in a chair on the fire escape outside of his DC apartment window, his feet resting on the railing. He tilted the chair back, breathing in the humid summer night. It wasn't much of a porch, and it wasn't much of a view over the edge of the building next door, but he needed some fresh air. He cracked his beer open and thought it might be time to move on again.

Where to this time? He had a pretty nice gig with this catering company. The hours were flexible, the bartending was easy, and the owner was nice enough to let him share her bed from time to time. She was pretty flexible, too, he thought as he took a long pull of his drink. Still, he itched to move on. Serving watered-down drinks at suburban charity functions was lucrative, especially since his Kentucky charm seemed to help pad the tip jar, but he needed more. The city was starting to stifle him, the long green lawns of DC parks no match for the rolling hills of home.

He laughed. Like he really missed home. Sure, the food was good and the horses were heaven, but going back to his family's farm was like walking on a treadmill set to slow-as-hell. Nothing changed. Nobody took chances, least of all his father. And he'd be damned if he turned into a clone of his father like his brother, Keith, had. Luke couldn't say he blamed Keith for hiding out—some things were too painful to face. But three years . . .

Besides, Luke could think of a lot more appealing places than Hollow Bend, Kentucky to watch opportunities pass him by.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking his missed calls to see if Dave had any word on that breed horse auction. It wasn't exactly on the up-and-up, but it would be good to be part of the excitement.

Three missed calls, all from Mal. What had that girl gotten herself into this time? He hit send to call her back, but hung up when he got her voice mail. He'd see her, eventually, even though she hadn't been at the last few functions he worked at. Not a surprise, considering.

He remembered the first time he'd met her, at a party for the new pediatric wing at a hospital in Maryland. Mal's husband was the man of the hour—apart from the big donors, of course. Michael was the hotshot oncologist, and he made sure everyone knew that it was because of him the wing was being built. He had been courted by the hospital's administration, lauded by the head of the division, blah, blah, blah. Luke listened to the whole thing while waiting to take his drink order.

What Luke had really been looking at, though, was Michael's wife. Luke liked the wives at these things. They were the colorful, curvy plumage that made his job worthwhile. Not the most progressive attitude, but, hey, you can take the boy out of the country . . .

The night he met Mal, she was wearing one of those short, tight numbers the wives favored. Hers was not as short and tight as some, but it was a brilliant blue that made her brown eyes pop, and it was plenty tight that he could tell she was not into starving herself so she was all bones and implants. She was an all-natural woman. All natural, and immune to his charms. Oh, sure, she smiled politely at him, even laughed at one or two of his jokes, but as soon as Michael joined her at the bar, she was all business, introducing Luke to her husband (as if Michael cared), and following him out into the crowd with barely a look back.

Their little dance continued—she'd get her drink, they'd hang out, Michael would commandeer her, and Luke wouldn't see her until the next time. Then he ran into her at a café. Luke was on a date, but when the woman made it clear she wasn't interested (she was Ivy League, he was barely finished high school), he joined Mal, who looked like she needed company. And she was still pretty cute, even without the tight dress.

Over the course of the next month, it became abundantly clear to Luke that Mal didn't need a man on the side. She needed a friend. None of the other hospital wives seemed to care that Michael belittled her in front of them, or that she spent Memorial Day weekend alone because Michael decided that was the only time he could get away from it all to go on a cruise. Who would go on a cruise alone when he had a beautiful woman to go with him?

Luke knew the answer to that, so he took pity and invited Mal over. His roommate, Claire, was attempting an urban barbecue, and Luke was in charge of grilling on their pathetic little fire escape. Mal brought fruit salad and a look of hope he hadn't seen on her before. It suited her. She was going to stay at the house with Michael for now, she told him, but he'd agreed to a separation. Divorce papers would be drawn up after the holiday weekend.

Claire had given him a look—a don't-you-dare-make-a-move-buddy look. So Luke agreed to meet Mal for coffee, and that was it.

Somehow the only part of leaving he would regret was losing Mal's friendship. He liked that Mal leaned on him for support, and he liked how he made her feel. She listened to him, laughed at his stories, and shook her head when he was being a bastard. She understood him, his need to grab a part of something bigger, but not knowing what that was yet. They had that in common.

A bang at the door interrupted his thoughts. His chair fell forward and he spilled some beer on his shirt.

“Dammit, Claire,” he mumbled as he climbed through the window. She'd forgotten her keys. Again. “Good thing I'm off tonight or you'd be sleeping in the hallway.”

But it wasn't Claire when he opened the door.

“Mal? What happened?” Her eyes were red, and her right cheek was puffy with the start of a bruise.

“Hey, Luke,” she said. “Can I come in?”

“It turns out staring at the screen won't make the figures add up.”

Keith turned in his seat and smiled wearily at Miss Libby as she stuck her head in his doorway, followed by a waft of that sweet rose perfume she wore. He should have seen her walking across the yard to the farm hands' bunk he had converted into a small—very small—one-bedroom home with a living room/office of sorts. But his eyes were crossing just trying to focus on the spreadsheets; he didn't think he could focus anywhere else even if he wanted to.

As Libby entered his office, the smell of coffee overpowered the roses, and he gratefully reached out his hands for the mug she handed him. She bent down to give Peanut a scratch behind the ears. Peanut responded by raising his head half off the floor, then flopping over onto his back, his three legs in the air. Miss Libby obliged him with a belly rub.

“How long have you been at it?”

“Feels like just about a month. But I guess since breakfast.” A corner of Keith's mouth lifted. Miss Libby came and stood behind him, resting her hand on his shoulder as she looked at the computer screen.

“How'd we do this month?” She blinked mildly at the computer screen. She was just about as good with numbers as any of the Carsons were, which was not at all. “Never mind. How about a break? I know you must be hungry by now . . .”

“I just want to try to sort this out before—”

“Before, before, before. Keith, sweetheart, come to the house and eat dinner.”

“I'll get a plate later.”

“Who says there will be any left?”

Keith smiled up at her. “You gonna let me go hungry, Libby?” “I won't, but your brother might. Luke's back.”

Great,
thought Keith.
What is it this time? What deal did he find that he just could not pass up?
“Must've been nice for you to see him.”

“Said he just got homesick for my cooking. But I know he's worried about this place. And you.”

“There's nothing to worry about! I'm—”

“I know, I know, you're fine. It's been three years since you lost Vanessa and you've been fine every day since then. Anyway, don't worry about Luke's questions tonight. He's in a state because he hit traffic on the way in. Lives out of town for a few years and the case of road rage on that boy is unbelievable.”

Keith gave her a questioning look. “Traff ic?” They had traffic in Hollow Bend?

“The Harvest Festival? Happens every fall, although I can see how you might have missed the leaves changing. I don't think you've set foot off the farm since the summer.”

Keith looked guiltily toward the barn that held the official office next to the tack room. There was a window, he was pretty sure, but now the low table in front of the window was piled so high with boxes and papers (mostly bills, he thought miserably) that he could only see out if he stood up. Just as well, since the trees on the rolling hills beyond the house were changing from that sweet mixture of yellow and orange to the brutal red that meant fall was well and truly on its way out. He loved that view. He didn't need the distraction. Still, he should get a file cabinet. Add that to the list of things to make time to do to help him get ahead. Where was that list?

Miss Libby patted his shoulder sympathetically. “You work too much, sweetheart.”

“I have to.”

Miss Libby stroked the back of his head maternally. “I don't want to argue with you, not when there's a celebration goin' on inside.”

“What celebration? I thought Luke was home and cranky. Seems like that happens enough for it to pass unremarked.”

“Luke's got himself engaged.”