Bile burned Jordanâs throat as he forced his clenched fists open.
He could barely handle the thought that anyone, but especially their father, would hurt Jacob and Lacey. That the man would actually threaten their aunt Nell, the woman who was taking such good care of those kids.
Jordan took a minute before he spoke; the last thing Nell needed was another angry guy. âSo youâre going to adopt them,â he said in a mild voice.
âYeah. But I love them, too. I want to adopt them.â
How could he possibly sell the house where they lived until the adoption went through, and Nell and the kids were safe? Jordan closed his eyes, hoping the whole situation would magically disappear. But a minute later, when he opened his eyes, Nell still looked as if she was expecting her world to bottom out. Damn it. There had to be another way out of this mess.
Dear Reader,
Many of us live on a plateau for years, raising children, working, playing. But sometimes life takes a sudden turn, and we have to come out of that stasis and deal with mercurial situations. Not many people embrace change when itâs thrust upon them. Nell Hart and Jordan Tanner are no exception. Theyâre both so focused on their individual goals, when circumstances draw them into each otherâs orbit, neither is prepared for the impact that has on their lives.
I love writing stories about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. Although itâs a stretch to say Nell Hart is ordinary. Sheâs kind and compassionate and fierce in her loyalty to those she loves. She does, indeed, have heart. Jordan Tanner does, too, he just doesnât know it. His fast track to success gets derailed when Nell and her soon-to-be-adopted niece and nephew become part of his daily life. It doesnât take him long to realize money canât compare to the richness of family and community.
I had fun writing about the people who live at 879 Dunstan Lane. Nell stole my heartâthereâs that word again!âfrom day one. And who doesnât love a man who is kind and gentle with children? I hope you enjoy their story.
Iâd love to hear from you. You can email me at [email protected] or visit my website www.katekelly.ca.
Sincerely,
Kate Kelly
Growing up in New Brunswick, Canada, Kate Kelly had long red braids and freckles. Ah, you say, Anne of Green Gables. Not quite. Sunday mornings, outside the church they both attended, Mary Grannan, the author of the Maggie Muggins series, would greet Kate with, âGood morning, Maggie Muggins. How are you today?â Kate doesnât remember what she replied on those occasions, bedazzled by the wonderful, outlandish hats Mary Grannan wore. Kate has had a lifelong love affair with books, but writing came in fits and starts. She didnât take it seriously until her forties. Now she canât get along without it. She has the good fortune to still live on the east coast of Canada with her husband (the children have flown away). She writes, grow herbs and perennials and sails when the wind blows her way.
To June Kelly.
Wish you were here.
Many thanks to Lina Gardiner, the best critique partner ever!
To Norah Wilson, what a ride itâs been!
To the Domino Divas, my gang!
And, of course, to my guys, Adrian, Reed and Rei.
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
JORDAN TANNER PULLED UP across the street from the faded purple monstrosity and uttered a dozen different curses, each one ending with Great-aunt Beulah. Not that he wasnât grateful to have inherited the houseâmausoleum, whateverâbut he harbored no illusions. As the last Tanner standing, this legacy had come to him through default.
Rain beat against the windshield of his Lexus as the wind tore down the deserted street. The oak heâd parked under groaned from the assault. He should move his car away from the trees. But Dunstan Lane was entirely lined with the old giants, and he knew a stall tactic when he saw one.
Jordan climbed out, unfurled his umbrella and studied his new home through the pelting rain. Not home. Residence. Home was his I-canât-believe-I-finally-made-it condo forty minutes down the highway. All he had to do was ride out the next few months in the butt-ugly Victorian until the place sold. Then he would return to his real life.
A movement on the roof three stories up caught his attention. Curious, he crossed the street and peered upward. A small woman, maybe a girl, scampered over a dormer, stopped near the edge above him and raised her arms to the sky. You didnât have to be Einstein to know that was a curse ripping out of her mouth.
He tossed the umbrella aside and broke into a full out run. How long would it take him to get to the top floor? And then? Then heâd figure it out. Talk her down. Break into the third-floor apartment if he had to and find a way onto the roof. No one was going to kill themselves today. Not on his property.