|
 A
Home Of Her Own
Dundee, Idaho #4If
it weren't for bad luck, she'd have no luck at all... When
Lucky Caldwell was ten, her mother, Red — the best-known hooker in Dundee, Idaho
— married Morris Caldwell, a wealthy and much older man. It didn't last, of
course, but Morris's kindness was the highlight of Lucky's life.  Mike
Hill, Morris's grandson, doesn't feel too well disposed toward Red or her kids.
He believes they alienated Morris from his family. Even Morris's Victorian mansion,
on the property next to the Hill ranch, wasn't inherited by one of his grandchildren.
Instead the house went to Lucky, who left it sitting empty for years.
Now
that Red and Morris are both dead, Lucky's finally come back to Dundee. She plans
to restore the derelict place — and to look for her real father, who has to
be one of three men named in her mother's diary. That means
that Mike has a new neighbor. One he doesn't want to like... Read
Chapter One | Reviews
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Chapter
1
The vacant house looked haunted. Large
and imposing, with a full moon hanging immediately behind, the old Victorian cast
a grotesque shadow across the snow, and the windows shined like so many eyes. Ignoring
the gooseflesh that prickled her arms, Lucky Caldwell stood on the ornate porch,
braced against a chill wind as she pushed the heavy front door open a little wider.
She didn't really want to venture inside now that it had grown so late. The house
had sat empty long enough that rats, possums, raccoons or other crawling things
could easily have taken over. Or maybe she'd find some mass murderer taking refuge
in one of the rooms.... If she were anywhere else, she'd head
into town and get a motel for the night. As soon as anyone in Dundee spotted the
distinctive strawberry blond hair she'd inherited from her mother, word would
spread all over town that she was back. And she didn't want to alert anyone to
her return just yet. She needed to get her bearings. Coming here was a risk, a
huge risk, and she'd never been as lucky as her name. The
floor creaked as she stepped across the threshold. Instinctively she reached for
the light switch, but then paused. Somehow waltzing inside and lighting the place
up like a torch seemed far too brazen. She didn't belong here; she'd never
belonged here. But she didn't belong anywhere else, either.
Marshalling her nerve, she flipped the light switch anyway.
Nothing happened. The pace of life in Dundee was maddeningly
slow but, evidently, not so slow that Mike Hill, executor of the Caldwell Family
Trust, hadn't gotten around to having the utility company shut off the electricity.
Which didn't come as any big surprise, after six years. She'd inherited this rambling
Victorian when her stepfather died and hadn't been back since. During that time,
she'd received a couple of calls from Fred Winston, the town's only real estate
agent and a man she remembered as wearing a cheap brown toupee. He'd told her
the paint was peeling and the porch was sagging and asked if she wanted to sell.
But she knew who wanted to buy and the answer had been and still was--no. At least,
not yet. She had unfinished business here in Idaho. She set
her backpack on the dusty floor and searched out her flashlight. Unfortunately,
it was already on when she found it and had been, from the weak beam, for several
hours. Lucky considered returning to her car for the extra
set of batteries. But she was afraid she'd lose her nerve if she turned back now.
Better to forge ahead... She hefted her backpack to her shoulder,
trained what was left of the light in front of her and left the door open in case
she encountered something or someone she'd rather not meet. Stepping
into the formal living room, she quickly swept the light around the perimeter.
Nothing moved--but the familiarity of the place evoked bittersweet memories. As
bad as her childhood had been, for a few short months in this house she'd been
truly happy, especially that first Christmas after her mother had married Morris.
In the dark, cob-webby corner to her left, she could easily
imagine the giant, splendid tree that had once stood there, proudly bearing a
thousand twinkling lights and an abundance of shiny gold balls. That was the first
Christmas her family had possessed enough money to buy a tree any taller than
a token three or four feet. And to have it flocked with fake snow and decorated
so elegantly was really an extravagance. Since she'd become an adult, Lucky bought
as big a tree as her current abode would allow and flocked it every year, on principle.
But she'd been living off the money she'd inherited from Morris, which was barely
enough to get by, considering she gave most of it away. In order to keep traveling,
she'd had to cut down on expenses. The places she'd been renting, for a few months
here and six weeks there, had low ceilings and generally weren't the nicest. Which
meant she'd never been able to duplicate the opulence of that damn tree. She
wrinkled her nose at the musty smell and glanced back at the open door before
moving deeper into the house. The moon filtered through the bare, thick-paned
windows, painting silver squares on the hardwood floor and, together with the
faint beam of her flashlight, made it possible for her to see. The
Georgian-style staircase swept up in front of her. A large office with double
doors jutted off to the right, along with what used to be an impressive library.
Lucky waved a cobweb out of the way and poked her head into the library, then
the office, relieved to find them both vacant of scurrying animals and--thank
God--anything larger. She continued her search, pausing to
listen carefully here and there, until she reached the kitchen and family room.
Situated off the back of the house, these rooms were more like one big room with
impressive floor-to-ceiling windows that curved into a semi-circle and looked
out over the pond at the bottom of the hill. Unfortunately,
most of the windows were broken now. Bending to retrieve a small rock lying among
the glittering shards of glass on the old cobblestone floor, Lucky tossed it up
and caught it again. So much had changed. Morris was dead. Her mother, too. Her
brothers, Sean and Ken, who were both older than she was, had sold the land they
inherited and moved elsewhere. But the feeling of being unwelcome here, the resentment
of this small community seemed to linger. Lucky tossed the
rock away, watched it skitter across the floor. So much for the hope that coming
back would be easier than she'd anticipated. Owning a house didn't make it a home.
Considering the state of the Victorian, she wondered whether
she should sleep in her car. A metallic blue '64 Mustang, it was fully restored
and beautiful. But sitting out in her car would be as cramped as it was cold.
She'd be better off inside. Despite the creepy feel of the place, she hadn't seen
anything more threatening than a few spider webs. Discarded trash here and there
indicated that others had been inside the house since it had been shut up, but
nothing showed recent activity. Her tension easing, Lucky
delved inside her backpack and retrieved her supplies. Ten tall, fragrant candles.
Three Presto-logs. Matches. A jug of water. Trail mix. And barbecue flavored sunflower
seeds. Her suitcase, cleaning supplies and bedding were still out in the car.
With its stone floor and broken windows, the kitchen was colder
than the front of the house. But the family room portion had a wood-burning stove
and provided the most natural light. Come morning, Lucky planned to make the place
livable. For now--she blew on her hands to warm them--she just needed to get through
the next six or seven hours. She lit the candles, then arranged
them on the marble countertop. They created a dim, ethereal glow and gave off
a comforting, familiar scent that helped dispel the dank odor of neglect. Building
a fire didn't take long, either, thanks to the Presto logs. When Lucky was a senior
in high school and Morris had divorced her mother and moved back in with his first
wife, Red had stripped the place bare, taken everything of value down to the drapes,
the stained glass window on the second floor landing, even the expensive knobs
on the cupboards. But, thankfully, she hadn't bothered carting off the wood by
the stove. Lucky used the last of the split logs to build up her fire, welcoming
the infusion of heat and hoping it would last for a few hours. Then she moved
gingerly back, her feet crunching over the broken glass from the windows, which
was thickest by the stove, to watch the smoldering orange flames catch and grow.
The fire seemed symbolic somehow--her first step, a beginning.
But the settling noises of the old house reminded her that she still needed to
explore the upstairs, just to be sure she was as alone as she thought she was.
After tapping her failing flashlight, to no avail, she went
outside to retrieve the sack of items she'd tossed in the backseat of her car.
She replaced the batteries, left the front door standing open again for reassurance,
and climbed the stairs to the five bedrooms and three bathrooms she knew she'd
find there. A dark spot on the landing showed water damage.
Clearly, the wind and rain had pushed through a flap in the plastic her mother
had used to cover the hole when she took the stained glass window. Lucky frowned
at the stain, disappointed that she hadn't stood up to Red that day. Red hadn't
had any real use for the window. She'd ended up sticking it in a closet of the
mobile home she'd moved into when she remarried. But Lucky
wasn't sure, even now, that it would've done any good to fight her mother. Red
had been determined to take absolutely everything she could loosely interpret
as "furniture"--because that was all she'd been awarded in her and Morris'
divorce, and she wasn't happy that ten years of marriage to one of Dundee's wealthiest
old ranchers hadn't netted her more. The door downstairs slammed
closed, and Lucky bit back a startled scream. "Hello?"
she called, pressing a calming hand to her chest. Only the keening wail of the
wind rushing through the eaves outside answered. She gripped
the flashlight tighter, her heart pounding as she listened for footsteps. She
heard nothing but couldn't help imagining ghosts. She certainly wouldn't blame
Morris if he'd decided to stick around and haunt this old place. After all he'd
done for her mother, for the whole family, he'd been treated pretty shabbily in
the end. It had been his first wife who'd come through and nursed him once his
health turned. But Morris had been a good man. Certainly he
had better things to do in the afterlife, Lucky thought wryly. Chances were far
greater Red would be the one rattling chains and roaming the grounds.... "There's
not much left here, Mother," she muttered as chills rolled down her spine.
"You took everything except the sheetrock and two-by-fours." Silence
settled on the house like a fresh layer of dust as Lucky leaned over the banister
and shined her flashlight into the corners below. She saw bird droppings, an old
rug that looked as if it had been chewed on one end, a broken chair. Lucky's brothers,
who'd stayed in Dundee a little longer than she had, had once told her that Morris
had never moved back in or fixed up the place after Red left--and they were obviously
right. Finding nothing of particular concern, Lucky moved
on more slowly, still apprehensive as the plastic flapped noisily behind her.
She found bedrails in two of the bedrooms, an old mattress
with no bedrails in a third. The master had a retreat which had been lovely. But
the mirrored doors on the closets and the mirror over the vanity were now cracked.
Graffiti covered the walls. "Bitch!... Whore!... Killer!... May you rot in
hell!" A searing pain in Lucky's stomach--her ulcer acting
up--made her feel as though she'd swallowed acid. She forced herself to turn away
from those nasty words and think about practical matters. That was the trick,
wasn't it? To grow a thick skin like her brothers and not let the legacy of shame
and embarrassment her mother had left behind bother her? There
was so much else to think about, so much work to be done. She
glared over her shoulder at the graffiti. Maybe she'd start by painting. After
a few months, when she had the place fixed up, she'd finally sell out and put
Dundee behind her forever. Just as soon as she found what
she was looking for. # Mike Hill brought
his Cadillac Escalade to an abrupt stop in the center of the road and squinted
toward the property next to his ranch. He couldn't tell for sure, but a light
seemed to be burning in the big Victorian. From the dim glow, he thought it might
be candles. Kids in these parts loved to visit his grandfather's old mansion.
Occasionally, they broke in to make-out or vandalize it. On Halloween, he'd caught
a group of teenagers trying to spook themselves by holding a séance, although
they were too drunk to take anything seriously. He knew this because he'd done
his best to scare the hell out of them so they'd think twice about coming back,
and they'd simply laughed and fallen over each other as they piled out. He
grinned at the memory. Mike didn't mind a few fun and games; he'd never been a
saint himself. But he was afraid some poor kid would accidentally burn the place
down, possibly injuring someone in the process. And he couldn't bear the thought
of losing the house. Mike had grown up spending his weekends there, with Grandpa
Caldwell. He loved the Old Victorian, had always been told he'd inherit it one
day. That hadn't happened as it should have. Instead, his grandfather had left
all his grandchildren equal shares in a large ranch located in Eastern Utah, which
they'd since sold. But whether the house belonged to him or not, Mike couldn't
stand by and allow it to be destroyed. Shoving the transmission
into reverse, he made a quick, three- point turn and started bouncing down the
long, rutted drive to the house. A set of car tracks cut through the crusty, week-old
snow, confirming that at least one other vehicle had recently passed this way.
The tracks led to a vintage Mustang parked behind the silly
fountain Red had bought and placed in the front yard. Mike didn't recognize the
car as belonging to any of the young people he knew--and in a town of only 1,400
people, most folks knew each other. But it could easily belong to someone from
a neighboring town. Grabbing the cowboy hat sitting on the
passenger's seat and jamming it on his head, he parked behind the Mustang and
stomped the snow off his boots as he approached the door. He listened but didn't
hear any noise coming from inside--no music or voices--so he doubted anyone was
tearing up the place. More likely it was a pair of young lovers borrowing the
old mattress he'd seen in one of the upstairs bedrooms. He
scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He really didn't want to walk in on something like
that. But there was the issue of the candles. And he felt fairly confident, if
a couple had to drive all the way out here for privacy, there was a mother somewhere
who'd thank him for rousting them out. "Damn kids."
He tried the door and found it unlocked. Probably the boy had climbed through
a window around back and let his girlfriend in the front. That was how they usually
did it. Rusty hinges protested as he poked his head inside,
but a rich vanilla scent greeted him immediately. The light came from the kitchen.
Heat seemed to emanate from that part of the house, as well. Evidently someone
was trying to make things cozy.... "Hello?" Mike
banged on the door as he entered to give warning of his presence. "If you're
undressed, cover up. I'm comin' in." He heard rustling
at the back of the house. Then a flashlight snapped on and the beam hit him right
in the face, blinding him before he could take another step. "Stop
right there!" He put up a hand to block the light. "Or?"
"Or...I'll shoot." He could
tell by the voice that it was a woman. He had no idea where her boyfriend might
be, but she seemed to be alone for the moment. "You have a gun?"
he said incredulously. "What do you think?" Mike
couldn't remember anyone ever being shot in Dundee--unless it was in some kind
of hunting accident. But he supposed anything was possible. "What kind of
gun is it?" "Does it matter?" "Just
curious." He was still doing his best to protect his eyes. "One
that will put a hole in you," she said. "Happy?" "Not
particularly." The quiver in her voice told him she was probably lying about
the gun, which he'd suspected from the beginning. He could understand why she'd
feel a bit intimidated with a six foot two, two hundred and ten pound stranger
barging in on her. What bothered him was the light--that and the question of what
she was doing here. "Who are you?" "I could
ask the same of you," she said warily. "Mike Hill.
I own the ranch next door." Mike had grown up in these
parts. Most everyone knew his family. But if she recognized his name, she didn't
say so. "What are you doing here, Mr. Hill?" "Do
you mind?" He scowled at the light as she stepped closer. "You're
the one who walked in uninvited. Why?" She had to be
alone, or he would've heard someone else by now. "I came to tell you that
you'd better put out those candles and hightail it out of here before I call the
police. You're trespassing on private property." "Is
it your property?" she asked. "It should
be." "But it's not, is it?" He
didn't like her tone. The fact that he'd lost the house, of which he had so many
fond childhood memories, to a gold-digger and her children still bothered him.
The fact that he'd been robbed of the time he could have spent with his grandfather
in the last ten years of Morris Caldwell's life rankled even worse. "What
happens here is none of your business," she went on briskly. "Please
go." Mike had no intention of leaving. No one was going
to chase him out of his grandfather's house--especially with nothing more threatening
than a flashlight. "Get that damn light out of my eyes." "Or?"
she said, coming back at him with his own line. Mike welcomed
the challenge. "Or I'll take it away from you." "Then
I'll--" "Shoot? You don't even have a gun. If you
did, you wouldn't need to blind me." She hesitated, but
Mike didn't give her a chance to decide, just in case he was wrong about the gun.
With two quick steps, he caught her around the waist and pressed her up against
the closest wall. The flashlight fell and rolled away as he
pinned her hands out to the side. But he'd moved her close enough to the light
in the kitchen that he could barely make out a straining chest covered by an overlarge
sweatshirt, a pale oval face, and a thick halo of long curly hair that, if he
had to guess, was blond. She was young, all right; but older than he'd thought.
Certainly not a teenager. She looked small, perfect, porcelain--like an angel.
But the glint in her luminous eyes had nothing to do with innocence and everything
to do with red-hot fury. She began to raise her knee, but
he managed to keep hold of her and protect his groin at the same time. "Let
go of me you, son-of--!" "Whoa, calm down, little
lady!" He used his body weight to press her more firmly against the wall,
until she couldn't move, so she wouldn't try to knee him again. "Little
lady?" she bit out, breathing so hard he could feel every intake of
breath. "I suppose you think that kind of condescending bullshit passes for
manners out here, huh, cowboy?" Mike blinked in surprise.
What was wrong with little lady? "My manners are a hell of a lot
better than anything I've seen from you," he snapped. "I'm
not the one who came barging into your house!" That took
him back. "What?" "You heard me. Whether
you think this place should belong to you or not, I own it, so let me go."
Mike didn't budge. The last time he'd seen Lucky Caldwell
she'd been a pudgy eighteen-year-old with more than her share of acne. She'd worn
her reddish hair in a tight ponytail and waited for the school bus out front every
morning, hugging her books to her chest and glaring daggers at him whenever he
drove by. "I don't believe you," he said. "Your
grandfather told your whole family that my mother tried to kill him by giving
him too much insulin. She claimed it was an accident, but he divorced her and
cut her out of his will. Would I know that if I was just some squatter?"
"Pretty much everybody knows that," he pointed out,
trying to see her more clearly. "At least around here." "Okay,
you bought the land next door from Morris when I was ten and you were somewhere
in the neighborhood of twenty-five. Josh was a couple years younger. You and he
started a stud service with a black stallion that had a white star on his forehead
and white socks." At his surprised silence she added
grudgingly, "That horse was beautiful. I used to bring him sugar cubes and
apples." Slowly, Mike let go of her and eased away, wondering
why his stallion hadn't keeled over if she'd been feeding it food from her evil
mother's pantry. Now that he could see her a little better, he couldn't help noticing
that she wasn't wearing anything, other than maybe a pair of panties, beneath
that baggy sweatshirt. The hem hit her almost at mid-thigh; bare, shapely legs
extended from there. "It's cold. Where're your pants?"
he asked. "In case you haven't noticed, it's late. I
happened to be in my sleeping bag when you so kindly broke into my house and ruined
my night. Forgive me for not dressing more modestly." With
that biting edge to her voice, he could tell she still had plenty of spunk. But
she'd certainly changed in other ways. Mostly, she'd grown up. Although she had
large breasts, especially for such a small woman, the fat had melted away, and
her hair was long and curly and tumbled around her face almost to her waist. With
the light from the kitchen acting like a halo behind her, he could now see that
it was more red than blond. Mike bit back a whistle and couldn't
help wondering whether she would've looked that good six years ago if she hadn't
pulled her hair back every day. If so, she might have commanded a little more
positive attention from the boys in town. As it was, she hadn't been particularly
attractive. Nor, with her unpleasant personality, did she have anything else to
recommend her. "Why didn't you tell me it was you?"
he asked. Her hands curled into small fists. "Maybe I
appreciate my privacy." More likely she enjoyed being
caustic. He remembered Lucky clinging to Morris's arm the day Morris had invited
Mike over to meet his new wife and children. Because of his grandparents' divorce
and the quick second wedding, it had been a difficult year for Mike's whole family,
but particularly for Mike, since he'd always been closest to his grandpa. Everyone
else had refused to acknowledge Morris's invitation to come to the house, but
Mike had shown up, hoping that everything he'd been hearing was a lie, or at least
not as bad as it seemed. He'd thought he knew his grandpa. He'd thought his grandpa
would never change. But Morris had been swept away in the excitement of his new
relationship and was never the same after falling in love with Red. Mike had known
he was in trouble when Morris hugged Lucky close and introduced her as "his
new girl." "This one's a little doll," he'd said, but the moment
he turned his back, Lucky stuck out her tongue at Mike and ran away. Mike
blinked, wondering what had finally brought Lucky back to Dundee. After Red died,
his mother had finally stopped talking about how "that woman" and "those
children" had stolen Morris's love and attention, as well as his money, then
left him, when he was old and sick, for those who really loved him to
care for him. She'd finally quit telling Mike, every chance she got, that it was
Red who'd caused his grandmother to die shortly after Morris did. The doctor's
say it was heart failure. Of course it was. Her heart broke when she found out
about Daddy's affair with Red. She was never the same after she left him and moved
to town. Finally, the scandal had slipped into the background. Mike hated to see
the whole issue resurrected. "Are you here to stay?" he asked. When
Lucky threw her shoulders back and brought up her chin, he knew he hadn't done
a very good job of concealing his hope for a negative answer. But then, he couldn't
imagine her expecting anyone to be happy about her return, his family least of
all. "I might stay for a while," she said. "You
don't have any problem with that, do you?" He had a problem
with it, all right, but he'd already done all he could about Lucky. As soon as
he'd learned that his grandfather had never legally adopted her and her brothers
as they'd all thought, he'd sued her for the house. And lost. Then he'd tried
to buy it from her, several times. But she'd refused to sell. Bottom line, Lucky
legally owned the place his grandfather had always promised to him; she could
stay as long as she liked. "What you do is your decision,
of course," he said, his tone as curt and formal as hers. "My
thoughts exactly." She clasped her hands in front of her. "Now, if you
don't mind, it's late, I'm nearly naked, and it's cold." He
leaned sideways to gaze through the short hallway to the kitchen. Aside from the
candles, and the crackle of a fire, she didn't seem to have many comforts in there.
Surely, staying in such a barren, filthy place had to be miserable, especially
for a young woman. But he didn't want her to be too comfortable, did he? Then
she might prolong her visit. "Is there anything else?"
she asked when he hesitated. Letting his breath seep slowly
between his lips, he stooped to retrieve his hat, which had fallen off when he'd
"disarmed" her. "No." She moved to the
front door and opened it expectantly. If she'd been anyone
else, he would've said something neighborly, something like, "If you need
anything, I'm right next door." Because she was a woman, and young and alone,
he had a tough time not saying it. But she wasn't just any woman. She
the daughter of the most selfish, grasping woman he'd ever met, someone he'd never
liked to begin with. "Good night," he said coldly
and walked out, carrying his hat. If Lucky had turned out as much like Red as
he suspected, she could certainly take care of herself. Reviews4-1/2
Stars & "Top Pick" from RT Bookclub Magazine "...It's
a given that romances have happy endings, but with the carefully crafted and seemingly
insurmountable odds stacked against Lucky, Novak's phenomenal tale kept me on
the edge of my seat, Kleenex in hand, totally enthralled to the last page. This
is a forget-about-dinner-just-order-a-pizza kind of read!"
--Christine
Merrill
B+ from All About Romance "A
HOME OF HER OWN is the kind of series romance that's increasingly rare: a well-written,
character-rich and deeply emotional read. ...In many ways, it's the best series
book I've read all year. From the very first page, the author's writing is strong
and evocative...This is a poignant story full of genuine feeling. Anyone hungry
for a good story, series or otherwise, should check out this complex and involving
tale."
--Leigh T. 4.5 stars from CataRomance
Reviews "Brenda Novak has penned a poignant love
story about two unlikely characters in A HOME OF HER OWN. The dramatic story unfolds
gradually, giving the reader a tender glimpse of a love that grows into something
beautiful. Ms. Novak ended her tale with a cliffhanger that has me waiting with
baited breath for STRANGER IN TOWN, the continuation of this series in May 2005.
I am very sure you will not want to miss a single book in the Dundee series!"
--Donna Zapf 4.5 Blue Ribbon Rating from Romance Junkies.com "Mike
Hill finally gets his own story, and wow, what a story. Ms. Novak cleverly weaves
several different plots in this tale while keeping the emotional tension very
high. The love between Mike and Lucky seems destined to fail, but yet, Ms. Novak
manages to keep the denouement very believable and very romantic. She also sets
up the next story in the series due to be released in May 2005. This reviewer
highly recommends reading A HOME OF HER OWN. Lucky and Mike's story will have
you enthralled from the first page to the very last, with plenty of surprising
twists thrown in to make for an amazing story."
--Sarah W.
Falling
Into Autumn Book Reviews "This book is FANTASTIC!!!!!!! I
can see it on TV so easily. After reading this book I can't wait for Gabe's story.
A HOME OF HER OWN is a perfect Holiday Stocking Stuffer. This book was perfection
from the first sentence."
--Jai Reader to
Reader Reviews "Reading a book by Brenda Novak
is pure heaven... A HOME OF HER OWN is a wonderful love story you just can't put
down... A super secondary cast makes the book top notch... Brenda Novak is an
outstanding author who never disappoints her readers."
--Suzanne Coleburn Romance
Reviews Today "A HOME OF HER OWN is strong, romantic,
and heart-warming... I definitely recommend it and plan to read the next chapter
in this city's colorful story."
-- Carolyn Chrisher
AwardsWinner
of the Winter Rose
Finalist in the Holt Medallion
Finalist in the
Writer Touch Reader's Award
Winner of the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence
Nominated for RT BOOKclub Reviewer's Choice Award
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