Prodigal Daughter. Patricia Davids

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      “If I can help, you know I will,”

      Richard said gently.

      He sounded sincere. Melissa was tempted to confide in him, to share her troubles, but she held back. “Thanks, Mr. McNeil.”

      “You used to call me Richard.”

      “And you used to call me brat.”

      He chuckled. “Not to your face.”

      She smiled for the first time in days. “No, not to my face, but I knew you disapproved of me.”

      Turning in his seat to face her, he said, “I never disapproved of you, Melissa, but sometimes I disapproved of the things you did.”

      She couldn’t meet his gaze. “The wildest Hamilton kid has a news flash for you, Richard. Recently I’ve done a lot of things you wouldn’t approve of. Making mistakes seems to have become my forte.”

      “People can change, Melissa. It’s not too late.”

      “I hope you’re right.”

      DAVIS LANDING:

      Nothing is stronger than a family’s love

      PATRICIA DAVIDS

      was born and raised in the farm and ranch country of central Kansas. As a tomboy with four brothers, Pat spent an idyllic childhood where horses, softball, church activities and books formed the foundations of her rich imagination. Today Pat works as an R.N. in the NICU, spoils her grandkids and tries to find time to write down the stories roaming around in her head. She is president of her local RWA chapter and believes that helping new writers learn the craft is the best way to repay the people who helped her. After seven years of writing, she sold her first book to Steeple Hill in June of 2004. Dreams do come true—as long as you chase after them with hard work, determination and faith.

      Prodigal Daughter

      Patricia Davids

      MILLS & BOON

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      To my daughter, Kathy, with all my love.

      Thank you for the precious gifts of Joshua and Shantel and for being my best friend.

      “There is hope for your future,” declares the Lord,

      “and your children will return to their own territory.”

      —Jeremiah 31:17

      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

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      “Y’all be careful up there, sugar.” The elderly woman’s rich Tennessee drawl slid off each word the way warm honey slips off a spoon.

      Richard McNeil glanced down at his great-aunt. At eighty-eight, Lettie was still a spry lady who faced life with wit, humor and an abiding love for her family. Today, she wore her favorite pale blue cotton print dress and a thin blue sweater tied over her slightly stooped shoulders. Her snow-white hair was styled into old-fashioned waves, and she had a death grip on the side of the rickety folding ladder he stood on.

      “I’ll be fine, Aunt Lettie, but maybe you should move away…just in case.”

      She scurried to the other side of the camel back sofa with amazing speed for a woman her age.

      “If you fall, you’re likely to lie on this floor until the cows come home ’cause there’s no way I can be picking up a man your size.”

      Richard replaced the burned-out light in the high ceiling fan and stepped down with a sigh of relief. He had lost a good twenty pounds after his doctor took him to task, but his six-foot-two-inch frame still carried plenty of muscle. The antique stepladder his great-aunt had pulled from the depths of her hall closet for the occasion had creaked and groaned, but held—this time. He would see that she had it replaced with a sturdy new one before the next bulb died.

      “And the Lord said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was. Thank you, my boy. That surely will help these old eyes to see the Good Book again.”

      “My pleasure, Aunt Lettie. Is there anything else I can do while I’m here?” He resisted the urge to glance at his watch. He enjoyed Wednesday afternoons with Aunt Lettie, but each time he came to visit, she would find excuse after excuse to keep him from leaving. She was lonely, he understood that. More than once over the years, he had tried to convince her to move into a retirement home where she would have the company of folks her own age.

      Lettie stubbornly refused to budge from the apartment over the shop in downtown Hickory Mills, Tennessee, that had once belonged to her and her husband. Their furniture store had long since closed and the space downstairs had been sold and converted into a shoe store, but Lettie wouldn’t budge from her home. She always said that she had lived here for seventy years and the only way she was leaving was in a pine box. When it came to stubbornness, the good Lord had broken the mold after He fashioned Lettie Corbet McNeil.

      Glancing around, Richard had to admit her home was cozy. The high, molded plaster ceilings made the place feel spacious while the tall arched windows with white lace curtains let in plenty of sunshine. Their gleaming panes were reflected in the polished surface of the cherrywood sideboard with its brass candlesticks and artful arrangement of old china plates and figurines. All of her antique furnishings shone with loving care, from the gilt-and-black-lacquer Regency writing desk in the corner to the massive oak pedestal dinning table with its ball-and-claw feet.

      His great-aunt was, he realized, very like the things she owned—a beautifully preserved part of a bygone era.

      The tiny woman laid a hand on her cheek and tapped gently as she considered what needed repairs. “Let me see. The front door gets to squeaking something awful when the humidity is high.”

      “I oiled it when I first came today.”

      “Oh, that’s right, you did. Well, I reckon that’s all there is,