Her Sister's Child

Her Sister's Child
Cynthia Thomason

“You want to see how he is, don’t you?”

That was certainly true. Julia hadn’t climbed down the ravine, had the wind knocked out of her and taken an unplanned mud bath just to have Cameron die on her. She went to the back of the ambulance and took the paramedic’s proffered hand. He helped her inside and returned to work, adjusting gauges and checking IV lines.

Cameron lay on the stretcher. She took a few awkward steps toward him in the confined space. He tried lifting his head, but his movements were limited by a restrictive collar. Nevertheless, he smiled. That same devastating smile she remembered shining on her from the podium of a Riverton College classroom, not even diminished now by a background of nasty lacerations.

The medic pointed to Julia. “Professor, meet Miss Julia Sommerville, one-woman mountain rescue team.”

“Actually, we’ve met before.” He stared intently at her before adding, “Moon Pie?”

Dear Reader,

Hopefully once in a lifetime each of us will find a place that feels like home even when it isn’t. The Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina have been the home of my heart since I first visited there thirty-five years ago. That’s why I had to write about two characters who find love and happiness in the mystical, magical mountains.

Julia and Cameron returned to the small valley town of their childhoods for different reasons— Cameron to reconnect with the folklore of the hills, and Julia to lend support to her family after a heartbreaking suicide left them floundering. Neither Cam nor Julia intended to stay. Neither expected this particularly splendid autumn would inspire them with so much pain and so much promise. Tragedy brought them back, but the love of a little girl and each other made them stay.

I love to hear from readers. You can visit my Web site at www.cynthiathomason.com, e-mail me at cynthoma@aol.com or write to me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355.

Cynthia Thomason

Her Sister’s Child

Cynthia Thomason

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cynthia Thomason writes contemporary and historical romances as well as an historical mystery series. She has received the National Readers’ Choice Award, nominations for the Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewers Choice and the Golden Quill. She and her husband own an auction company in Davie, Florida, where she is a licensed auctioneer. They have one son, an entertainment reporter, and a very lovable Jack Russell terrier. Learn more about Cynthia at www.cynthiathomason.com.

This book is dedicated to my “Buddy”

of nearly thirty years, who longs, as much as

I do, for a waterfall to appear around

the next mountain curve.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

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

PROLOGUE

THE SOUND of the front door closing roused Tina from a drowsiness brought on by having drunk too much wine. She glanced at the clock by her bed. 2:18 a.m. Wayne had promised to be home by midnight, but Tina had known he wouldn’t be. She reached beside the bed, picked up the bottle she’d set there a few minutes ago and tipped it to her lips. It was the last swallow and it tasted bitter. She dropped the empty to the floor, rolled it under the mattress and heard it clink against the other one she’d hidden there a couple of hours ago so her daughter wouldn’t see it.

Wayne’s heavy boot connected with the partially opened bedroom door, swinging it wide. He stood a moment, squinting against the soft light of the bedside table. “You still awake?” he asked unnecessarily.

“You promised you’d be home hours ago,” she said.

He closed the door, strode awkwardly to the middle of the room. “Don’t start, Tina. I’m beat.” He slipped his T-shirt over his head, tossed it onto a chair and unzipped his jeans.

“Where have you been?” she asked, knowing she wouldn’t believe the answer.

“I told you. I met my brother at the pool hall. We had some wings, played a few games.”

“Until two o’clock in the morning?”

“Yeah, until then.” He stepped out of the jeans and threw them on top of the shirt. She caught a whiff of something floral and cloying.

“Daryl sure smells good these days,” Tina said.