>
Praise for the novels of
SHARON SALA
“Sala’s characters are vivid and engaging.”
—Publishers Weekly on Cut Throat
“Sala’s latest romantic thriller is a well-written, fast-paced ride.”
—Publishers Weekly on Nine Lives
“Ms. Sala draws you in from the very beginning.”
— Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Butterfly
“Veteran romance writer Sala lives up to her reputation with this well-crafted thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly on Remember Me
“Perfect entertainment for those looking for a suspense novel with emotional intensity.”
—Publishers Weekly on Out of the Dark
“This is Sharon Sala at top form. You’re going to love this touching and memorable book.”
—Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on Whippoorwill
The Return
Sharon Sala
Home is supposed to be a place of comfort, and of safety—and of peace. But for some, that’s not always the case. Home is sometimes a place that you need to escape.
Home is the place that builds our character and the place that tears it down. And sometimes, even in leaving, you will be drawn to it in your dreams.
The yearning that leads us back to our roots is inherent. Because it was the first way of life that we knew, it is the place that shapes our hearts.
The inevitable parting that comes as we each “leave the nest” can be bittersweet or a matter of sanity. Torn between the excitement of life on our own and the pain of leaving loved ones behind, we often hurt those we love best.
Regret can cripple your life, leaving you with nothing on which to focus but the past. It’s only when you find the strength to return and face your errors that the healing begins.
This book is dedicated to the brave ones—the ones who aren’t afraid to go home.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
1
Rural Kentucky, 1973
T he night was cold—the moon full. A faint hint of wood smoke stirred in the air, while tortured shadows lay upon the decaying forest floor like puddles of spilled ink.
On a nearby hill, a cougar slipped between an outcropping of rocks on his way to his lair, dragging his prey as he went. Tomorrow, a farmer would find his best goat had gone missing, while down in the valley below, animals of the dark abounded. The night seemed no different from any other as they scurried about, intent upon the simplistic routine of their existence. Then, without warning, everything stilled.
A raccoon paused at a creek bank, tilting his head toward the forest behind him before dropping the minnow he had been about to eat and shinnying up a nearby tree. A fox, who had been lying outside her burrow letting her kits nurse, suddenly bolted to her feet and hustled them back inside. An owl abruptly took to the air from a nearby tree, moving through the forest on silent wings. On the heels of his flight, a primordial shriek shattered the silence, hanging on the air like mist, then echoing within the valley.
Over a mile away, and on another mountain, a woman up tending to her sick child heard the faint cry and shuddered as she glanced toward the partially opened window. Even though she knew it was most likely a cougar, the similarity between that sound and a woman’s scream was all too eerie—especially at this time of night. She pulled the covers back over her child, then walked to the window and pushed it the rest of the way shut.
Back down in the valley, another cry followed the first, weaker in intensity, but more distinct in sound. There was no mistaking it for that of an animal. It was the cry of a newborn baby, shocked by the abruptness of its entry into the world.
Flames from the campfire burning at the back of the cave flickered weakly, shedding little light on the drama playing out within the cavernous depths. A thin column of smoke spiraled upward, escaping through a small hole in the high domed ceiling, forming a natural chimney. It dissipated without notice in the outside air.
Nineteen-year-old Fancy Joslin lay only a few feet from the fire on a makeshift cot. The last spasms of childbirth had passed, leaving her weak and weary. Cradling her newborn child upon her belly, she cleaned the babe and herself as best she could. She wouldn’t let herself think of the lack of sanitation in which her child had been born. For now it was enough that they had both survived.
A suitcase near the mouth of the cave held all of her worldly goods. It wasn’t what she’d planned to take to her home as a bride, but it would have to do. All of the Joslin heirlooms that should have been hers had burned up over a month ago in the fire that destroyed their home. She couldn’t prove it, any more than her family had been able to prove any of their losses over the past one hundred years, but in her heart, she blamed Jubal Blair.
Uncle Frank was dead because of him. They’d called it an accident, but everyone knew it was just part of the ongoing feud between the Joslins and the Blairs. And, truth be told, over the years, the Joslins had done their fair share of keeping the hate between the two families alive. There were plenty of Blairs resting six feet below the rich Kentucky earth who could attribute their passing to an angry Joslin.
Even in Fancy’s lifetime, she’d heard the men in her family talking about things that they’d done in the name of justice, but there wasn’t anything fair about a feud. It was revenge, pure and simple.
She rolled her baby up into a blanket, then set her jaw. It did no good thinking about the hate that had destroyed her family and, ultimately, her home. As long as Joslins and Blairs still lived on the mountain, it would continue.
And that was the reason she was in hiding. She was the last of the Joslins, but she would not risk her life or her child’s by staying in this place any longer.
With a weary sigh, she lay back on the pillow. In a way, she’d already fallen victim to a Blair. Turner. But not in the way Jubal would have imagined. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t loved Turner Blair. But it was only after she got pregnant that panic set in. This was a secret she wouldn’t be able to hide forever. Turner’s joy in the news had lessened her fears, and when he’d insisted on a moonlight wedding ceremony beneath the overhang of Pulpit Rock, Fancy’s anxiety had lessened even more. The fact that it had been less than proper hadn’t mattered to either of them. In their hearts, they were man and wife.
And