The Wishing Season
Acclaim for Denise Hunter
“A beautiful story—poignant and heartwarming, filled with delightful characters and intense emotion. Chapel Springs is a place anyone would love to call home.”
—R
AE
A
NNE
T
HAYNE
,
N
EW
Y
ORK
T
IMES
BESTSELLING AUTHOR
(
FOR
T
HE
W
ISHING
S
EASON
)
“No one can write a story that grips the heart like Denise Hunter . . . If you like Karen Kingsbury or Nicholas Sparks, this is an author you’ll love.”
—C
OLLEEN
C
OBLE
,
USA T
ODAY
BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF
T
HE
H
OPE
B
EACH SERIES
“Denise Hunter knows how to warm up an inspirational romance with sizzling chemistry.”
—K
RISTIN
B
ILLERBECK
,
BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF
W
HAT A
G
IRL
W
ANTS
(
ON
D
ANCING WITH
F
IREFLIES
)
“Romance lovers will . . . fall for this gentleman who places his beloved’s needs before his own as faith guides him.”
—
B
OOKLIST
(
ON
D
ANCING WITH
F
IREFLIES
)
“Hunter’s latest Chapel Springs Romance is a lovely story of lost and found, with a heroine struggling to accept that trusting God doesn’t make life perfect—without loss or sorrow—but can bring great joy. The hero’s love for her and willingness to lose her to save her is quite moving.”
—
RT B
OOK
R
EVIEWS
, 4-
STAR REVIEW
(
FOR
B
AREFOOT
S
UMMER
)
“
The Trouble with Cowboys
is a fast, fun, and touching read with the added draw of a first kiss that is sure to make my Top 5 Fictional Kisses of 2012. So saddle up, ladies: We have a winner!”
—USAT
ODAY
.
COM
Other Novels by Denise Hunter
T
HE
C
HAPEL
S
PRINGS
R
OMANCE
S
ERIES
Barefoot Summer
Dancing with Fireflies
The Wishing Season
Married ’til Monday
A December Bride
T
HE
B
IG
S
KY
R
OMANCE
S
ERIES
A Cowboy’s Touch
The Accidental Bride
The Trouble with Cowboys
N
ANTUCKET
L
OVE
S
TORIES
Driftwood Lane
Seaside Letters
The Convenient Groom
Surrender Bay
Sweetwater Gap
Novellas included in
Smitten
,
Secretly Smitten
, and
Smitten Book Club
© 2014 by Denise Hunter All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION ®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. ® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-4016-8705-2 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hunter, Denise, 1968—
The Wishing Season : a Chapel Springs Romance / Denise Hunter.
pages cm. -- (A Chapel Springs romance) ISBN 978-1-4016-8704-5 (pbk.)
1. Christian fiction. 2. Love stories. I. Title.
PS3608.U5925W57 2014
813’.6--dc23
14 15 16 17 18 19 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
In loving memory of Diann Hunt
You taught me by example, you inspired me with your beautiful spirit, you made me laugh until I cried. But most of all you loved me, just as I am. I’m so grateful God brought you into my life. You will forever be in my heart.
“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.”
Proverbs 31:25
Patricia “Diann” Hunt
August 2, 1955–November 29, 2013
PJ M
C
K
INLEY WAS ALMOST READY TO CALL IT A NIGHT
when she heard the sound. She paused in her bed, hand stilling over her tablet.
Slam.
It was probably just the wind. Or the old furnace or a loose shutter. She’d been in the rental less than a week, wasn’t familiar with its sounds. She needed to chill. She was always freaking out over nothing.
She saved the changes she’d just made to her marketing plan. It was almost perfect. Just two more days. She took a breath, her nose filling with the savory aroma of the fettuccine carbonara she’d made hours before. Next time she’d try it with pancetta instead of bacon for a less smoky flavor. Maybe a touch less Parmesan and a splash of white wine.
Thud.
The sound was close. On the porch. She swung her feet to the floor. Not a 911 emergency yet, but she’d feel better with her cell in her hands. Unfortunately, she’d left it charging in the kitchen. Her heart pumped wildly.
Stop freaking, PJ.
This was Chapel Springs, not Indianapolis. But she was used
to living on campus surrounded by dozens of students, not alone. Much less set back off the road in the woods.
Clunk.
Her heart raced. That one was even closer. At the front door. She reminded herself to breathe.
She had to get to her phone, never mind the curtainless picture window or her flimsy tank and boxers. It was definitely 911 time. What good would hiding do if someone were breaking in? She eased off her mattress and tiptoed across the room.
Please, God . . . I know it’s been awhile, but—
The doorknob rattled as she reached the living room. She sucked in a breath, her eyes darting to the door. The light from her bedroom shone into the darkened room, gleaming off the brass knob.
It turned.
Her breath became shallow.
Think, PJ!
She grabbed the first thing she saw: a French violet in a sturdy clay pot. She darted to the back side of the door, lifting the planter overhead just as the door cracked open.
Her breath froze in her lungs. Her fingers curled around the pot. The door flew open, banging against her bare toes and bouncing back into the body that stumbled in. A man. Tall and broad.
She went up on tiptoes, aimed for his head, and came down with the pot as hard as she could. The clay broke apart in her hands as a squeak escaped her throat.
The man grunted, swaying in the doorway.
Please oh please oh please!
He dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.
“Omigosh, omigosh.” PJ danced in place, her hands trembling, her legs quaking with adrenaline. She flipped on the light, ready to grab another weapon.
But the man didn’t stir. She hopped over him and went for her phone. She tapped in 911 and reported the breakin to Nancy Lee, who promised she’d send Sheriff Simmons right over. But PJ knew what that meant. The sheriff moved at a snail’s pace, and she had a dangerous criminal facedown on her living room floor. A criminal who could wake any second.
Ryan. He could get here faster. She speed-dialed her brother and filled him in with a series of disjointed sentences.
“Lock yourself in your room and take your phone with you,” he said. “I’ll be there in three.”
She hung up, staring at the still lump on the floor, scowling. Not even a week on her own and already needing her family’s help.
The man wore jeans and a dark T-shirt. She wondered why he didn’t have a jacket to ward off the May chill. Maybe hardened criminals didn’t get cold. He had short dark hair and thick arms, one thrown out behind him, the other curling up toward his head. She squinted at something on the floor. Blood?
She tiptoed back into the room, her heart racing. It was blood, she saw as she neared. Matting his dark hair, pooling on the wood floor at an alarming rate.
Omigosh, I killed him.
No way was she checking his pulse. She just hoped he wasn’t bleeding out on her floor. A knot was already forming on his forehead, but it was the top of his head that was bleeding.
Thank God Ryan was on his way. He was a volunteer firefighter, an EMT. Should she stanch the blood flow? But what if he woke up? She moved away from the man, staying by the open front door as if that would get her brother there sooner.