The Prodigal's Return. Anna DeStefano

she catch a break in this town?

      Some in the church had been concerned, her father had said, when she’d taken on the floundering teen group.

      Concerned.

      After all, given her history, was she really the kind of person they wanted influencing their impressionable children? The facts were what they were. She’d been a runaway. An unwed teen mother. She was only a slightly older version of the girl who’d turned to the parties and addictions to obliterate the self-hatred and emptiness she’d only made worse. She’d destroyed her relationship with her parents and had almost cost her father his church.

      She’d come back home determined to live down her past and make a fresh start for her daughter’s sake. Now with one simple offer to help a reckless teenager who reminded her too much of herself at seventeen, she was angling for trouble all over again. The kind of trouble that made being seen taking a few bags of food to Nathan Cain a nonissue.

      Wrestling open the rusted door of her car, she slid inside and stared at the picturesque world on the other side of the windshield. Fought the childish urge to pick up Mandy at Ashley’s and drive away from Rivermist and the past that seemed incapable of letting her go.

      She’d felt a shining moment of strength when she’d stood up to her father that morning. With a snort, she pulled out onto North Street and headed for the Cain place. Had she really grown up and grown stronger over the last seven years, or had she simply gotten better at faking it?

      NOW ENTERING RIVERMISt, GEORGIA, the faded sign read in the midday sun. The same faded, beaten-up sign that had been there for as long as Neal could remember.

      He was hands down the most unwelcome person to ever enter Rivermist. But somewhere between his apartment and the office that morning, he’d accepted the inevitable. He had to make sure his father was all right. It was time to settle things with the man and this place. So Stephen had taken the Martinez meeting solo after all, and Neal had settled for a soul-searching, two-hour detour down I-75 South.

      A part of him hated Nathan for making him care this much again. Another, desperate part needed to see the old man so badly it made no sense. Nothing good could come from letting himself be sucked back into this place. He’d bet his restored ’65 Mustang GT Fastback on it—one of the few luxuries he’d indulged in since regaining control of his trust fund.

      Neal winced.

      He’d been so certain staying away the last three years was the right thing. Most of him still was. But what if…

      Damn.

      There was no room in his world for what-ifs. He’d finally accepted his mistakes and he’d moved on. He’d been determined that as much good as possible would come from Bobby’s death, his prison sentence and the lives both had shattered. What-if wasn’t going to make that happen. But second thoughts had hounded him the entire drive over.

      Medical what-ifs—all likely candidates for a man his father’s age—that Doc Harden hadn’t confirmed nor denied. What the cranky old doctor had said repeatedly was that Neal should get his black-sheep self home and ask his father what was going on in person.

      Neal shoved the transmission into Reverse. Gripping the steering wheel, he fantasized about banking into a steep turn and barreling back to Atlanta and the people he actually could help. Then with a curse, he yanked the gearshift back to Neutral and set the hand brake.

      Nathan had refused any but the most basic medical intervention for whatever ailed him. Maybe Neal could talk his father into doing more, the doctor had suggested.

      Maybe.

      The one useless thing Neal despised more than what-if.

      His life was about cold, hard reality. No more destructive emotions. No grand gestures. No time for wishing things were different or looking back to what had been. Now maybe had brought him to a screeching halt on the outskirts of town, unable to keep going for more reasons than just Nathan.

      “Jennifer Gardner.”

      There. He’d said her name, and it hadn’t hurt a bit.

      She’d no doubt moved away years ago. Gotten on with a life that could never have included him. She’d have missed him. Mourned for him. But she’d have moved on by now. And that’s what he’d wanted for her, why he’d refused to answer the letters she’d written to him in prison. Thirty of them in all. Precious ties to the beautiful girl he’d once loved. Letters still kept in the back of his bedroom closet.

      Unopened.

      Unread.

      Impossible to throw away.

      With the discipline that came from years of practice, he refused to let her face materialize in his mind. But as always, the perfection of her crystal-clear laugh haunted him.

      What if she was still in Rivermist…

      With a curse, he revved the idling Ford engine, hating the rush of helplessness that came with the sound. Only a coward would turn back now, but that’s exactly what his instincts told him to do.

      Run.

      Run just one more time, and leave these people in peace.

      Flipping his hometown’s welcome sign the bird, he revved the motor again. But he stayed put, same as before. Not able to move forward or head back. The man he’d become didn’t run. He fought until he found a way to get through whatever was facing him.

      So why did the reality of finally being back here have him spinning his wheels and going absolutely nowhere?

      CHAPTER FIVE

      FACING THE CAIN kitchen door and the layer of rust covering its outer screen, Jenn mentally counted backward to her last tetanus shot. A ridiculous excuse for stalling, but now that she was here, she needed time. Just a moment to shut out Traci’s bombshell at lunch and refocus on the next Hallmark moment of her day.

      The rickety front door had been locked and no one had answered the bell. So she’d snaked around back through the overgrown yard she’d once turned cartwheels in, and the reality of the run-down place, of all that had been left broken for too long, hit home.

      Broken.

      What a way to describe the chasm yawning between her and this man she’d once loved like a father. The Cain and Gardner families had shared holidays, birthdays and summer barbecues. Winter ski trips. She and Neal had run with the church youth group while their parents chaperoned—a euphemism for keeping the youngsters out of trouble while the adults acted like kids themselves. Their families had been inseparable, intertwining, planning for a shared future, right up until that night. That awful night.

      A blast of wind tugged at her coat and her second thoughts. This wasn’t about what they’d had, or what they no longer meant to each other. This was about helping Nathan Cain now. Spending a few minutes letting him know someone still cared. Just a few minutes. Was that too much to ask?

      She pulled back the screen and knocked. After the fifth knock, her dread at seeing Nathan again gave way to concern. She tried to peer through the curtains covering the center window. But there was nothing to see but dust and shadows. Then, from out of nowhere, one of the shadows moved toward her.

      She screamed, her bags dropping in a heap on top of her foot.

      “Ouch!” She leaned on the door and massaged her foot through her tennis shoe.

      Okay! She got it. She wasn’t welcome here.

      Then the lock clicked and the door jerked away. Her balance shifted forward. Squealing, she tipped into a mountain that smelled of stale beer and way too little personal hygiene.

      “Damn it,” Nathan Cain grumbled as she righted herself.

      He was dressed in the same filthy, torn jeans as the other night. No shirt, no socks, nothing to combat the morning temperatures. His blond, gray-streaked hair stuck out in more directions than should be possible in a three-dimensional