A Season For Family. Mae Nunn

      “Good afternoon, I’m Olivia Wyatt. Welcome to Table of Hope.”

      The man turned his face toward hers. As their eyes met, she felt a powerful spark shoot through her system.

      “Heath Stone.” He stood and reached to shake her hand. “Detective Biddle said you’d be expecting me.”

      Olivia took a second to compare the reality before her with the computer hacker she’d agreed to take in while he worked off a hundred hours of community service.

      If this guy’s an internet nerd, I’m a Mexican drug lord.

      Olivia had been warned that beneath Heath Stone’s quiet exterior there was a clever cybercriminal. Well, growing up around a lying father and then earning a degree in social work had taught Olivia a thing or two about men. Not only would she keep a close eye on Mr. Stone, she’d keep him busy with laundry, cooking, cleaning and Bible study.

      But how would she keep herself from staring at those dangerous eyes?

      MAE NUNN

      grew up in Houston and graduated from the University of Texas with a degree in communications. When she fell for a transplanted Englishman living in Atlanta, she moved to Georgia and made an effort to behave like a Southern belle. But when she found that her husband was quite agreeable to life as a born-again Texan, Mae happily returned to her cowgirl roots and cowboy boots! In 2008 Mae retired from thirty years of corporate life to focus on her career as a Christian author. When asked how she felt about writing full-time for Steeple Hill Books, Mae summed up her response with one word: “Yeeeee-haw!”

      A Season for Family

      Mae Nunn

      Jesus replied, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself. All the law and the prophets hang on these two commandments.”

      —Matthew 22:37–40

      A Season for Family is dedicated to Bill and Peggy Biddle.

      Your love for one another, your courage in the face of adversity and your faith in our Lord Jesus Christ is an inspiration to everyone who knows and loves the two of you.

      Acknowledgments

      With love and thanks to my son, Paul Nunn, just the skeptical male I needed in my life while I was developing the character of Heath Stone.

      Special thanks and appreciation go to Alan Beck for sharing your amazing stories and years of experience as an undercover officer.

      Thank you to Pat Magid of Studio Gallery in Waco, Texas, for answering all my questions, even the dumb ones.

      I’m grateful to My Brother’s Keeper in Waco, Texas, for the tour, the education and the incredible work you do for the people you serve.

      As always, I owe my deepest gratitude to Michael. I am forever in your debt for being my critique partner, my first line editor and my biggest fan. You make it all worthwhile, my darlin’.

      Lastly, special thanks to Libo for keeping me company.

      Contents

      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

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      The buzzer installed at Table of Hope’s bulletproof security door echoed through the hallway, signaling to Olivia Wyatt that she had a visitor. Somebody needed to get inside the homeless mission and out of the gusting wind, which was unusually cold for Waco, Texas, even in November. The converted warehouse was perpetually locked from the inside since it was in a dicey, old part of town that was beyond the reach of revitalization.

      “I got it, Miss Livvy,” Velma called from the check-in desk.

      Olivia was elbow-deep in a carton of jeans donated for her shelter’s clients when Velma swept into the women’s sleeping quarters a few minutes later and swooned across a lower bunk with Scarlett O’Hara flair.

      “If you’re already worn out, it’s gonna be a long night for me,” Olivia said, doubting that fatigue had anything to do with her buddy’s theatrics. Velma was a natural drama queen.

      “Not tired, just need some smelling salts after bein’ up close to what just came through the front door,” she insisted, fanning herself and rolling playful eyes. Though she was prone to exaggeration, this was excessive even for Velma.

      “Let me guess—Brad Pitt needs a place to stay tonight?” Olivia continued sorting clothes.

      “This man’s every bit as good lookin’ but more in a Johnny Depp with a shaved head kinda way. And he’s asking for you, so go take a look at those dangerous eyes for yourself.” Velma sat up, crossed stubby legs campfire-style and reached for a plus-size pair of secondhand denims.

      Olivia turned her full attention to the conversation.

      “Really, he asked for me?”

      “Said his name’s Stone but looks more like velvet,” Velma giggled and fake shuddered.

      Olivia couldn’t help laughing at her friend, a key member of the core group accepted for Table of Hope’s resident program. Working side-by-side with her small team was changing Olivia’s life as much as it was changing theirs.

      By the grace of God her dream of providing homeless outreach had become a reality when they’d served their first meal on a sultry summer evening five months earlier. The days had scattered like fall leaves and now a Thanksgiving wreath made of yellow and orange gourds decorated the front door. It was a perfect complement to the building she’d painted rooster red with green shutters to make it inviting in spite of the burglar bars on every window.

      “If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’, Miss Livvy,” Velma insisted. “He’s all wrapped up in a black jacket with a hood probably to hide jailhouse tattoos. But this one smells real nice.”

      “Girl.” Olivia slurred the word as Velma would. “You need to get a grip and stop carrying on every time a clean man walks through our door.”

      Velma pointed toward the hallway. “Take a gander at that tall drink o’ water for yourself.” She fanned both hands before her chubby face.

      “Okay,” Olivia gave in. “I wasn’t expecting Mr. Stone until tomorrow but now’s as good a time as any to get started. I need to stretch the kinks out of my legs and check on dinner anyway.”

      She