His unlikely homecoming, p.1
His Unlikely Homecoming, page 1
“Hi, I’m Libby Taylor and I can’t thank you enough for returning Wags to us.”
Nick stared at the creamy white skin of her delicate hand for a moment. Although he always scrubbed his when he finished a job, motor oil and grease were a part of his life, hazards of his job as a mechanic. His motorcycle repair and restoration business might be successful and entice cycle enthusiasts from across the state to seek him out, but that didn’t change the fact he was often covered in dirt and grease. And here she stood dressed in that pristine white sweater. He was almost afraid to stand next to her for fear of transferring grease and oil on to her somehow.
What is wrong with you, Cabot?
He wasn’t blushing. Marines, even former ones, did not blush. No way. Of course, marines didn’t stutter either, but he had been doing just that a few moments ago.
Dear Reader,
For me, stories evolve from one thing or many things. I save up human interest stories or personal experiences and put them away in the back of my mind to be explored later. They are sometimes matched with something else I’ve seen, heard or experienced.
A writer friend, Tina, texted me a picture, suggesting that I might be able to use it for inspiration. And boy, did I ever. Messages flew back and forth between us as she helped me brainstorm the characters and basic plot for what would become His Unlikely Homecoming.
Nick and Libby’s story was born that afternoon and went to the head of my queue for stories I wanted to write. What was the picture? It was a tough-looking guy with tattoos and biker gear holding kittens. The picture reminded me of a real-life event that I had stored in the back of my mind for later use: I was at the vet waiting to pick up my cat. As I waited, I stood next to a guy with tattoos, piercings and leather. I was expecting them to bring out a Rottweiler or some other fierce-looking dog. Instead, the vet tech brought out a sweet kitten. He cradled the kitten to his chest and told it how much he’d missed his baby that day. The writer in me was intrigued and I never forgot that incident. Seeing the picture prodded the incident and Nick was born.
I hope you enjoy his story. Let me know what you think. I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at authorcarrienichols@gmail.com.
Carrie
His Unlikely Homecoming
Carrie Nichols
Carrie Nichols grew up in New England but moved south and traded snow for central AC. She loves to travel, is addicted to British crime dramas and knows a Seinfeld quote appropriate for every occasion.
A 2016 RWA Golden Heart® Award winner and two-time Maggie Award for Excellence winner, she has one tolerant husband, two grown sons and two critical cats. To her dismay, Carrie’s characters—like her family—often ignore the wisdom and guidance she offers.
Books by Carrie Nichols
Harlequin Special Edition
Small-Town Sweethearts
The Marine’s Secret Daughter
The Sergeant’s Unexpected Family
His Unexpected Twins
The Scrooge of Loon Lake
The Sergeant’s Matchmaking Dog
The Hero Next Door
A Hero and His Dog
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
This one is for my friend Tina Medlock, who gave me the idea and helped me form it into a story.
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
Epilogue
Excerpt from A Maverick for Her Mom by Stella Bagwell
Chapter One
“Why in the world would you want to run away from a sweet setup like this?” Nick Cabot asked his passenger as he eased his restored classic 69 Ford Ranger to the curb in front of a pale yellow two-story home.
The only response from Nick’s passenger was a whine deep in his throat.
He liked to think that the noise sounded repentant. “Maybe your little adventure will help you appreciate how lucky you are.”
Turning back to the house, he studied the well-maintained exterior. The home and the quiet tree-lined street in Loon Lake, Vermont, was not just a continent away but an entire world apart from the crime-riddled area where he’d grown up.
The Cape Cod–style home had dormers above a porch that ran the width of the house. The residence, separated from the road by a public sidewalk and a small grass-covered front yard, had six wooden steps leading to a blue-painted front door. Smooth round columns, painted bright white, held up the porch’s roof, and four lush Boston ferns, spaced between the columns, hung from the rafters. The porch railings, pickets and step risers were also painted bright white. Blue ceramic pots overflowing with colorful flowers lined one side of the steps and flanked the front door.
He double-checked the house number with the one he’d scribbled on a scrap of paper. Yep, it was correct. In an uncharacteristic flight of fancy, he decided the wholesome picture before him matched the voice of the woman who’d answered his call. He’d been drawn to that melodious voice despite knowing that girl-next-door types were only interested in guys like him for a temporary walk on the wild side. He’d been used in the past and had no plans to revisit that.
His passenger, a fluffy miniature American shepherd who’d been sitting quietly at attention during the ride, began to squirm and whine, drawing Nick’s attention back to the matter at hand.
“Yeah, yeah, time to get you back to where you belong,” he told the dog. The woman he’d spoken to over the phone had said her five-year-old daughter had been inconsolable over the missing pup. “I know for a fact they will be grateful to get you back.”
The dog turned to look at him with a how-can-you-doubt-it expression, causing Nick to laugh and rub the fluff around the floppy ears. “Damn, but you are pretty sweet.”
As their name—miniature—implied, the dog breed was smaller than their sheep-herding Aussie cousins, but Nick knew they possessed the same drive and intelligence. That intelligence—along with a good dose of mischief—was apparent in this guy’s mismatched eyes. The pup’s left eye was a bright blue and the right a deep brown. Heterochromia. That was what the condition was called. Nick had looked it up along with more information on the dog’s breed. Apparently, mismatched eyes weren’t all that unusual.
If the eyes weren’t cute enough, the dog’s coat looked as if a child had splashed watercolor paints all over him. Although predominantly brown and white, the fur had splashes of black, tan, red and gray in no discernible pattern.
Nick turned his attention back to the home as the front door burst open. A girl came racing down the steps, brown pigtails flying out behind her as she ran toward the truck. He noticed she had Down syndrome.
The dog’s entire body shook as he watched his little mistress’s approach, and Nick hustled out of the pickup with the puppy on his heels. He sidestepped out of the way to avoid getting knocked over by the eager dog, who bounded toward the child.
“You’re home safe. I missed you so much,” the girl said, her arms outstretched, a glowing smile on her face.
The dog leaped, and the girl caught the wiggling dynamo but stumbled back before landing on her butt on the grass next to the sidewalk.
Nick had started forward when the girl fell but stopped when she began to giggle, deciding she must not be hurt. She continued to laugh while the puppy showered her with slobbery kisses.
“Mommy says you was very naughty running away like that,” she scolded the dog but continued giving him kisses and love pats.
Grinning, Nick wondered who was more excited to see whom. He had to admit that seeing this joyful reunion was worth the ribbing he’d get from some of his customers when they heard about another successful lost-pet reunion.
How or why errant pets found their way to his motorcycle repair business was beyond his understanding. Of course, he had to see to it that the animals were reunited with their rightful owners. Why would anyone find that small thing such a big deal?
His niece, Oakley, hadn’t helped the situation. She might live all the way across the country, but that didn’t seem to matter because she’d found out about his Loon Lake reputation and had promoted it on social media. Local resident Gabe Bishop, an acquaintance from Nick’s Marine Corps days, had found the post, so now the whole town knew about it.
Damn Gabe and his big mouth.
The girl scrambled to her feet, and Nick refocused his attention on her and the pet.
“Thank you, mister, for finding my Wags and bringing him home. I was so worried about him,” she said and gave Nick a cheerful smile.
“More like he found me,” he said.
The dog, tired and thirsty, had shown up at Nick’s place as if road signs had directed him there.
Before he could prepare, the girl ran forward and threw her arms around him in a hug as exuberant as the one she’d given the dog. Accustomed to most people judging him by his outward appearance, Nick was flummoxed by the girl’s unbridled enthusiasm. Most people s tepped back to give him space. A hug was the last thing he came to expect from people meeting him for the first time. And that was fine by him. He wouldn’t call himself a people person anyway.
Looking up at him with dark brown eyes, the sweet girl said, “I asked Mommy why you was bringing my doggie home, and she said you must be a Good Samaritan. I never met one of those a’fore. But Pastor Cook talked about them when I went to bacation Bible school, so I heard of them. Is you married?”
Blindsided just as much by the girl’s non sequitur question as he was by the hug. Nick gave her an awkward pat on the head and tried to move away as he searched for a response. “W-w-well, I—”
“Rebecca,” a woman scolded loudly as she hurried through the open doorway and onto the porch. She wiped her hands on a towel, draped it over the top porch railing, and came down the steps. “Give the man some space.”
“But Mommy, I had to thank him for bringing Wags home. I was a-feared I wouldn’t ever see him again if something bad happened.” the girl said. But she did release Nick and move away.
The puppy play-growled in agreement and jumped up as if his back legs were made of springs, nearly knocking the girl over again.
The woman gave an exasperated sigh. “Wags. Down.” But the excited puppy ignored her.
Nick put his hand out palm down and ordered the wriggling puppy to sit in a voice reminiscent of his days as a platoon sergeant in the Marines. The dog made complaining noises but managed to plunk his wiggling butt on the ground.
“Look, Mommy! He did it.”
“I see that,” the woman said, her tone full of surprise.
The girl scrunched up her face and looked at him. “How did you do that, mister? Mommy has been trying to make him behave since we got him, but he ignores her.”
“Seems like I’ve lost control of everyone,” the woman muttered and gave her daughter a stern look. “You were supposed to wait for me before you went outside. We agreed. Remember?”
“But, Mommy, you didn’t tell me you was gonna be on the potty when the man got here. I couldn’t wait no more. I had to see Wags. And he wanted to see me.”
The puppy continued to sit but stared adoringly up at his young mistress as if to confirm she was telling the truth.
“We’ll discuss your disobedience later, young lady,” the woman admonished, face flushed. She then turned to the dog. “The same goes for you. You gave us quite a fright.”
The woman may have scolded, but she reached out and welcomed the dog the same as the girl had done, with loving pats.
With the woman’s attention on the pup, Nick took a moment to observe her. He’d spotted her a few times from a distance along Main Street. She’d been either coming or going from the Adventures in Quilting shop, but he hadn’t had a chance to see her up close. From a distance she was attractive, but this close she was stunning.
She had dark brown eyes like her daughter and glossy dark hair that shone when the rays of the sun hit it. The hair framed her face and fell past her shoulders. She wore dark blue dress slacks and a white cotton knit sweater that gathered at her trim waist. Yep, she looked like her voice. Very all-American girl next door.
“Mommy was on the potty when you came,” the girl turned and told him in a stage whisper.
Nick bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at her candor.
The woman’s cheeks turned pink again, making the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and cheeks stand out more. Embarrassed or not, she stepped forward with a smile that looked forced and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Libby Taylor and I can’t thank you enough for returning Wags to us.”
Nick stared at the creamy white skin of her delicate hand for a moment. Although he always scrubbed his when he finished a job, motor oil and grease were a part of his life, hazards of his job as a mechanic. His motorcycle repair and restoration business might be successful and entice cycle enthusiasts from across the state to seek him out, but that didn’t change the fact he was often covered in dirt and grease. And here she stood dressed in that pristine white sweater. He was almost afraid to stand next to her for fear of transferring grime onto her aura of perfection.
“You might have caught me in the bathroom, but I swear I washed my hands,” she said into the growing silence.
What is wrong with you, Cabot?
He wasn’t blushing. Marines, even former ones, did not blush. No way. Of course, Marines didn’t stutter, either, but he had been doing just that a few moments ago.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to give you that impression,” he said, finally taking the hand she offered. “I’m Nick Cabot, and I’m usually the one with the dirty hands.”
“Oh?” She drew her eyebrows together in confusion.
“I work in a motorcycle repair shop,” he explained.
“Oh, yes, now I remember you. From what I’ve heard, you don’t just work there but you own it. And I understand it’s quite a successful business,” she said.
“I manage to do okay.” He shrugged as if it meant nothing, but her words made his chest swell, which was strange because he didn’t normally go around looking for validation.
After he dropped her hand, he realized only part of his hesitation had to do with grease. He’d hesitated to touch her. And he’d been right to feel that way. Despite the short duration, that skin-to-skin contact had sent a slight electric charge through him and awoken something. Something best left to sleep because women like Libby Taylor did not fall for tattooed, motorcycle-riding guys who lived above the repair shop. At least not once they came to their senses.
“...already met Rebecca,” Libby was saying.
“And you met Wags,” Rebecca put in.
Nick hoped if he centered his attention on the girl, Rebecca, he’d have the opportunity to forget the warmth of Libby’s skin against his and that little electric pulse.
“Is that his name? Wags?” he asked, setting aside all his inappropriate thoughts.
“Uh-huh. He wags his whole body because his tail is so short. Mommy says his kind of doggy has short tails. It’s...it’s... What’s that word, Mommy?”
“Genetic,” her mother supplied, sounding as if they’d been down that road before.
“That’s it. My grandpa said I should pick a dog with a real tail and eyes that matched, but I wanted Wags. I love him and he’s sorta like me.”
“I see that your eyes match, so you can’t mean that.” Nick raised an eyebrow in an exaggerated gesture. “Are you saying you don’t have a tail, either?”
“That’s silly. People don’t have tails.” Rebecca giggled but suddenly turned serious. “Do they, Mommy?”
“Not any that I know,” Libby said and smiled. This time the smile reached her eyes.
Nick swallowed hard. What would it feel like to have all that warmth and sunshine directed at him? He scolded himself for that thought. This was not the time or place to deal with feelings the woman might create in him.
“See? And Mommy would know because she’s really, really smart,” Rebecca said.
“Then I stand corrected about the tails,” Nick replied with mock seriousness.
“You talk funny, Mr. Nick.”
“Rebecca, that’s rude.” Libby sighed, giving Nick an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”
“No, Mommy, I like the way he talks to me.”
“You do?” Nick said at the same time as Libby.
“Uh-huh.” Rebecca nodded. “Sometimes people talk to me like I’m a baby, but I’m not. I’m five. I got Down syndrome, but I’m not a baby.”
Nick’s heart clenched at Rebecca’s words. He hated the thought of people talking down to her because she had Down syndrome. Squatting on his heels in front of her, he said, “Well, if I ever talk down to you, please tell me because I see you’re not a baby.”
He glanced at Libby and caught her watching him, her eyes shining, her mouth soft and inviting. Would she taste as sweet as she looked?
Whoa. He needed to stop thinking about her like that, stop thinking about her, period. He wasn’t looking for anything serious. And Libby Taylor had serious written all over her. What did he have to bring to a relationship? Apart from some fun times, all he had to offer was an armful of tattoos and a drawer full of military medals. Not exactly relationship material.
