Somebody's Hero. Marilyn Pappano

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      Marilyn Pappano

      SOMEBODY’S HERO

      MARILYN PAPPANO

      has been a daydreamer and a storyteller all her life. After traveling across the country in the course of her husband’s career, she’s now back home in Oklahoma, living high on a hill overlooking her hometown. With woods, a pond and a small orchard, she keeps busy outside and has learned such skills as operating a chain saw and building flower beds and steps with the rocks that are her most abundant crop. She and her husband have one son, who’s following his own military career through places like Italy, Korea, Iraq and Afghanistan, and a houseful of dogs who are fully convinced they’re children, too. You can visit her Web site at: www.marilyn-pappano.com.

      To my own hero, Bob.

       I love you.

      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 1

      Fat, wet snow collected on the windshield, obscuring the view ahead. Jayne Miller nudged the intermittent action of the wipers up a notch, and the blades swept across the glass, but the view didn’t improve. She wanted desperately to believe that she was at the wrong house, but the directions she’d gotten from the man at the gas station left little room for doubt. This was not only the last house on the left, it was the only house on the left for the past two miles.

      The wooden sign hanging next to the front door, clearly visible with each swipe of the wipers, left even less room for doubt. Miller, it announced in rough letters carved in a half moon around a flower.

      It was a great old house, Greg had told her when the news had come that he’d inherited it. Big, with high ceilings, hardwood floors and a banister just made for sliding down. It was too big for their little family of three, with its huge yard, gardens and orchard.

      The wipers cleared the window once more and she stared at the house. It looked about the size of a two-bedroom apartment. There was no second story and, therefore, no banister. And the yard, if it had ever existed, had long ago returned to the wild. High ceilings? Hardwood floors? Gardens? She doubted it.

      At some point in its existence, the house had been painted white—at least, that was the shade the few chips that remained took on in the headlights’ glare. The shutters at one front window hung askew and were missing completely from the other. The porch appeared crooked from where she sat—or maybe it was straight and the house was tilted. Or, hell, maybe both porch and house were level and she was the one off balance.

      She choked back a laugh for fear it would turn into a sob, then twisted in her seat to check her daughter. Five-year-old Lucy was asleep in the backseat, snoring softly, a quilt pulled over her and a teddy bear serving as a pillow. Their adventure, as she’d insisted on calling their move from Chicago to the southeast Tennessee mountains, had worn her out. Jayne was starting to feel pretty worn out, too.

      She tucked the quilt closer around her daughter, then pulled on her coat, a hat and gloves. With the house key clenched tightly in one fist, she left the SUV’s warmth for the wet snow that was rapidly accumulating and tramped across uneven ground to the porch. The first step sagged precariously under her weight, and she climbed the others with more caution. The last thing she needed was a broken ankle or neck out here in the middle of nowhere.

      It took some effort to work the key into the lock, then a jiggle and a jerk to get it to turn. When she swung open the door, she could see little inside. It was only four in the afternoon, but the late-March snowstorm that had led them here turned the day dark. Groping blindly, she found a light switch and flipped it, but nothing happened. Of course not. She hadn’t called ahead and arranged to have the power turned on…if there even was power. What if Greg’s grandmother had lived by candlelight?

      She shuddered, then gave herself a mental shake. The darkness was her own fault, and she could remedy it first thing in the morning.

      With a glance back at the truck, she eased into the house. The lumpy shadows were furniture, draped in heavy dust cloths. There was one sofa-size, two chair-size. A fireplace of native stone filled most of one wall, so heat was a possibility—if there happened to be some firewood lying around somewhere—and the oil lamp on the mantel sloshed when she picked it up. Let there be light, she thought gratefully.

      She did a quick tour of the house: a kitchen with a tiny corner set aside for the dining room, a decent-size bedroom, a bathroom—thank you, СКАЧАТЬ