The Way Home. Irene Hannon

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      “Lean your head against me and relax,” Cal whispered.

      Relax? With her cheek pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear? With the faint scent of his aftershave filling her nostrils? With the angle of his jaw brushing against her forehead, the faint end-of-day stubble creating a sensuous texture against her skin? He must be kidding!

      But as they swung gently back and forth and dusk slowly deepened, she did relax. Cal knew she was afraid, just as he was, and he understood her caution. But he also knew—in fact, was even beginning to hope—that perhaps their fears were groundless. And before they left the mountains, he intended to find out.

      IRENE HANNON

      has been a writer for as long as she can remember. This prolific author of romance novels for both the inspirational and traditional markets began her career at age ten, when she won a story contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. Today, in addition to penning her heartwarming stories of love and faith, Irene keeps quite busy with her “day job” in corporate communications. In her “spare” time, she enjoys performing in community musical theater productions.

      Irene and her husband, Tom—whom she describes as “my own romantic hero”—make their home in St. Louis, Missouri.

      The Way Home

      Irene Hannon

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      Not as man sees does God see, because man sees

       the appearance, but the Lord looks into the heart.

      —1 Samuel 16:7

      To Tom—my friend, my hero, my love…always

      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

      Letter to Reader

      Chapter One

      “There’s your man!”

      Amy Winter turned in the direction her cameraman was pointing and quickly scanned the group of people milling about in front of the courthouse.

      “Where?”

      “Straight ahead. Tall, dark hair, gray suit, intimidating. Carrying a black briefcase.”

      It took Amy only a moment to spot Cal Richards. “Intimidating” was right. As he strode purposefully through the group of people clustered on the sidewalk and headed toward the door, his bearing communicated a very clear message: “Back off.” But clear or not, it was a message Amy intended to ignore. She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the microphone.

      “Okay, Steve. Let’s go.”

      Without waiting for a reply, she headed toward her quarry and planted herself directly in his path.

      Cal Richards didn’t notice her until he was only a couple of feet away. Even then, he simply frowned, gave her a distracted glance and, without pausing, made a move to step around her. Except that she moved, too.

      This time he looked right at her, and their gazes collided for one brief, volatile moment that made Amy’s breath catch in her throat. The man had eyes that simultaneously assessed, calculated, probed—and sent an odd tingle up her spine. But before she had time to dwell on her unsettling reaction, his gaze moved on, swiftly but thoroughly sweeping over her stylish shoulder-length light brown hair, vivid green eyes and fashionably short skirt before honing in on the microphone in her hand and the cameraman behind her. His frown deepened, and the expression in his eyes went from merely annoyed to cold.

      “Excuse me. I have work to do.” The words were polite. The tone was not.

      Amy’s stomach clenched and she forced herself to take a deep breath. “So do I. And I was hoping you’d help me do it.” Though she struggled to maintain an even tone, she couldn’t control the slight tremor that ran through her voice. And that bothered her. She resented the fact that this stranger, with one swift look, could disrupt the cool, professional demeanor she’d worked so hard to perfect.

      “I don’t give interviews.”

      “I just have a couple of questions. It will only take a minute of your time.”

      “I don’t have a minute. And I don’t give interviews,” he repeated curtly. “Now, if you’ll excuse—”

      “Look, Mr. Richards, this trial is going to get publicity whether you cooperate or not,” she interrupted, willing her voice to remain steady. “But as the assistant prosecuting attorney, you could add a valuable perspective to the coverage.”

      Cal expelled an exasperated breath. “Look, Ms….” He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

      “Winter. Amy Winter.” She added the call letters of her station.

      “Ms. Winter. As I said before, I don’t give interviews. Period. Not before, not during, not after a trial. So you’ll save us both a lot of trouble if you just accept that right now. Trust me.”

      Before she could protest, he neatly sidestepped her, covered the distance to the courthouse door in a few long strides and disappeared inside.

      Amy stared after him in frustration, then turned to Steve, who gave her an I-told-you-so shrug.

      “Okay, okay, you warned me,” she admitted with an irritated sigh.

      “Cal Richards has a reputation for never bending the rules—his own or the law’s. Everyone in the news game knows that. Did you see anyone else even try to talk to him?”

      Steve was right. The other reporters in front of the courthouse, most longtime veterans of the Atlanta news scene, hadn’t even approached the assistant prosecuting attorney. They’d obviously learned a lesson she had yet to master after only six months in town. Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted to learn that lesson. If she was ever going to win the anchor spot she’d set her sights on, and ultimately a network feature slot, she had to find a way to make her coverage stand out. This story had potential. And getting Cal Richards’s cooperation would be a coup that could boost her up at least a couple of rungs on the proverbial career ladder.

      She turned once more to gaze thoughtfully at the door he had entered. Maybe Steve was right. Maybe the assistant prosecuting attorney wouldn’t bend. Then again,