The Wishing Season (A Chapel Springs Romance Book 3) Read online

  Acclaim for Denise Hunter

  “A beautiful story—poignant and heartwarming, filled with delightful characters and intense emotion. Chapel Springs is a place anyone would love to call home.”

  —RAEANNE THAYNE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR (FOR THE WISHING SEASON)

  “No one can write a story that grips the heart like Denise Hunter . . . If you like Karen Kingsbury or Nicholas Sparks, this is an author you’ll love.”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE HOPE BEACH SERIES

  “Denise Hunter knows how to warm up an inspirational romance with sizzling chemistry.”

  —KRISTIN BILLERBECK, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF WHAT A GIRL WANTS (ON DANCING WITH FIREFLIES)

  “Romance lovers will . . . fall for this gentleman who places his beloved’s needs before his own as faith guides him.”

  —BOOKLIST (ON DANCING WITH FIREFLIES)

  “Hunter’s latest Chapel Springs Romance is a lovely story of lost and found, with a heroine struggling to accept that trusting God doesn’t make life perfect—without loss or sorrow—but can bring great joy. The hero’s love for her and willingness to lose her to save her is quite moving.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4-STAR REVIEW (FOR BAREFOOT SUMMER)

  “The Trouble with Cowboys is a fast, fun, and touching read with the added draw of a first kiss that is sure to make my Top 5 Fictional Kisses of 2012. So saddle up, ladies: We have a winner!”

  —USATODAY.COM

  Other Novels by Denise Hunter

  THE CHAPEL SPRINGS ROMANCE SERIES

  Barefoot Summer

  Dancing with Fireflies

  The Wishing Season

  Married ’til Monday

  A December Bride

  THE BIG SKY ROMANCE SERIES

  A Cowboy’s Touch

  The Accidental Bride

  The Trouble with Cowboys

  NANTUCKET LOVE STORIES

  Driftwood Lane

  Seaside Letters

  The Convenient Groom

  Surrender Bay

  Sweetwater Gap

  Novellas included in Smitten, Secretly Smitten, and Smitten Book Club

  © 2014 by Denise Hunter

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION ®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. ® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8705-2 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hunter, Denise, 1968-

  The Wishing Season : a Chapel Springs Romance / Denise Hunter.

  pages cm. -- (A Chapel Springs romance)

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8704-5 (pbk.)

  1. Christian fiction. 2. Love stories. I. Title.

  PS3608.U5925W57 2014

  813’.6--dc23

  2014023770

  14 15 16 17 18 19 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Reading Group Guide

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  In loving memory of Diann Hunt

  You taught me by example, you inspired me with your beautiful spirit, you made me laugh until I cried. But most of all you loved me, just as I am. I’m so grateful God brought you into my life. You will forever be in my heart.

  “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.”

  Proverbs 31:25

  Patricia “Diann” Hunt

  August 2, 1955–November 29, 2013

  Chapter One

  PJ MCKINLEY WAS ALMOST READY TO CALL IT A NIGHT when she heard the sound. She paused in her bed, hand stilling over her tablet.

  Slam.

  It was probably just the wind. Or the old furnace or a loose shutter. She’d been in the rental less than a week, wasn’t familiar with its sounds. She needed to chill. She was always freaking out over nothing.

  She saved the changes she’d just made to her marketing plan. It was almost perfect. Just two more days. She took a breath, her nose filling with the savory aroma of the fettuccine carbonara she’d made hours before. Next time she’d try it with pancetta instead of bacon for a less smoky flavor. Maybe a touch less Parmesan and a splash of white wine.

  Thud.

  The sound was close. On the porch. She swung her feet to the floor. Not a 911 emergency yet, but she’d feel better with her cell in her hands. Unfortunately, she’d left it charging in the kitchen. Her heart pumped wildly.

  Stop freaking, PJ.

  This was Chapel Springs, not Indianapolis. But she was used to living on campus surrounded by dozens of students, not alone. Much less set back off the road in the woods.

  Clunk.

  Her heart raced. That one was even closer. At the front door. She reminded herself to breathe.

  She had to get to her phone, never mind the curtainless picture window or her flimsy tank and boxers. It was definitely 911 time. What good would hiding do if someone were breaking in? She eased off her mattress and tiptoed across the room.

  Please, God . . . I know it’s been awhile, but—

  The doorknob rattled as she reached the living room. She sucked in a breath, her eyes darting to the door. The light from her bedroom shone into the darkened room, gl
eaming off the brass knob.

  It turned.

  Her breath became shallow. Think, PJ! She grabbed the first thing she saw: a French violet in a sturdy clay pot. She darted to the back side of the door, lifting the planter overhead just as the door cracked open.

  Her breath froze in her lungs. Her fingers curled around the pot. The door flew open, banging against her bare toes and bouncing back into the body that stumbled in. A man. Tall and broad.

  She went up on tiptoes, aimed for his head, and came down with the pot as hard as she could. The clay broke apart in her hands as a squeak escaped her throat.

  The man grunted, swaying in the doorway. Please oh please oh please! He dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.

  “Omigosh, omigosh.” PJ danced in place, her hands trembling, her legs quaking with adrenaline. She flipped on the light, ready to grab another weapon.

  But the man didn’t stir. She hopped over him and went for her phone. She tapped in 911 and reported the break-in to Nancy Lee, who promised she’d send Sheriff Simmons right over. But PJ knew what that meant. The sheriff moved at a snail’s pace, and she had a dangerous criminal facedown on her living room floor. A criminal who could wake any second.

  Ryan. He could get here faster. She speed-dialed her brother and filled him in with a series of disjointed sentences.

  “Lock yourself in your room and take your phone with you,” he said. “I’ll be there in three.”

  She hung up, staring at the still lump on the floor, scowling. Not even a week on her own and already needing her family’s help.

  The man wore jeans and a dark T-shirt. She wondered why he didn’t have a jacket to ward off the May chill. Maybe hardened criminals didn’t get cold. He had short dark hair and thick arms, one thrown out behind him, the other curling up toward his head. She squinted at something on the floor. Blood?

  She tiptoed back into the room, her heart racing. It was blood, she saw as she neared. Matting his dark hair, pooling on the wood floor at an alarming rate.

  Omigosh, I killed him.

  No way was she checking his pulse. She just hoped he wasn’t bleeding out on her floor. A knot was already forming on his forehead, but it was the top of his head that was bleeding.

  Thank God Ryan was on his way. He was a volunteer firefighter, an EMT. Should she stanch the blood flow? But what if he woke up? She moved away from the man, staying by the open front door as if that would get her brother there sooner.

  A couple minutes later she heard the hum of an engine and the crunch of gravel. Ryan or the sheriff. She was putting her money on her brother.

  A car door slammed, and soon Ryan barged through the open doorway.

  He took in the sight on her floor, then shot her a look. “I told you to lock yourself in your room.”

  “He was bleeding.”

  She neared the man, feeling braver now that her brother was here. She nudged his back with her foot until he rolled over.

  “Mister? Hey, mister?” His chest rose and fell. “He’s breathing. Thank God.”

  Ryan knelt down, taking his pulse, checking his wound.

  Her eyes roamed the man’s face. It was a nice face. Tom Brady nice, with a sturdy jawline and long dark lashes that fanned the tops of his cheeks. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He didn’t look like a criminal, that was for sure.

  Like you’ve seen so many of them?

  “Get a towel and apply pressure to his head,” Ryan said.

  She followed his orders, kneeling down and placing the towel on the man’s head.

  “What’d you hit him with?”

  She gestured to the shattered remains of the pot and clumps of flowers and soil. “Mom and Dad’s welcome home planter. So much for that.”

  “Yeah, well, not like it stood a chance anyway.”

  She shot him a look as he began treating the wound.

  A minute later he frowned, setting his hand on the guy’s forehead. “He’s burning up.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Ryan’s eyes flickered up. “It means he’s sick.”

  “But why would a sick man break into my house?”

  Ryan looked around, picked something shiny off the floor, and held it up. A key. “Maybe he wasn’t breaking in.”

  Her eyes fell on something else she hadn’t noticed before. A small gray duffel bag that had fallen between the coffee table and couch. “Look.”

  Ryan’s eyes followed hers. “Looks like your burglar may not be a burglar after all.”

  Chapter Two

  COLE EVANS WOKE TO PAIN THROBBING IN HIS HEAD. Chills racked his body, and he huddled into the warmth. A voice chattered nearby. Water dripped, then something cool settled on his forehead.

  Where was he? He fought through the fuzz in his head, tried to pry his eyes open. A bird chirped somewhere. More chatter. A woman’s voice, pleasant, lilting. He was dreaming. Then he heard the sound of singing. Bad singing.

  He couldn’t even dream right.

  “Cole? Hey, Cole. Wake up.”

  Cole fought the pull of oblivion and strained toward the dream. Toward a heavenly sweet flower scent. Pain accompanied the reach. He moaned.

  “So you are alive. You going to open your eyes? ’Cause I have to go to work, and I’m not nuts about the idea of leaving you here alone all day again.”

  He fought the battle with his eyelids and won. A brown-haired angel leaned over him. Doe eyes, silken hair. Pretty lips, the lower one thick, almost buckling in the center.

  “Thank God. I was afraid I killed you.”

  He wet his lips. “Where am I?” His throat was as dry as sawdust.

  “Here you go.” She held a straw to his lips, and he drank deeply. “You seem more alert this time. Doc Lewis checked you out. You’re pretty sick. Well, plus I kind of konked you on the head.” Ice rattled in the jug as she set it down.

  He dropped his head to the pillow and closed his eyes a second, breathing like he’d just gone twelve rounds.

  “You have a concussion. Sorry about that.” She winced as she bent over his head, lifting something. She smelled like flowers and sunshine. He inhaled deeply.

  Lines furrowed on her forehead. “Oooh, that looks bad.”

  He let his eyes drop shut for a long second. “Where am I again?”

  “You don’t remember? You broke into my house. Well, except you had a key, and when you came around you said you’d rented the house? I guess there was some kind of mix-up, so technically you weren’t breaking in. And it’s not actually my house, but I’m renting it for the summer. This is my pool house—only I don’t really have a pool, so I guess it’s more like a garden shed.

  “Anyway, I’m PJ McKinley. I already know who you are—Cole Evans. My brother looked through your wallet. Sorry, but he was kind of freaked about me taking care of you and asked Sheriff Simmons to run a background check—don’t worry, you’re clean. Otherwise we wouldn’t have let you stay, but the doctor said you needed to stay put, and you said you had nowhere to go—do you remember any of this?”

  Had he thought the voice pleasant? It was too loud and saying too many words. He scanned the tiny room, sparsely furnished, windows on every wall, letting in too much light. He groaned.

  “You probably have a headache, right?” Susie Sunshine reached for something beside the table, and pills rattled in a bottle. She dropped them into his hand, still rambling about her house.

  He raised his head for another sip of water and then lay back, letting his eyes fall shut. He thought back to his last memory. Driving toward Chapel Springs, Indiana, his body aching like it would the morning after a strenuous workout. His mind foggy, his stomach woozy.

  Chapel Springs. The contest. The presentation. His eyes snapped open. “What day is it?”

  “Wednesday.”

  He’d lost a day. Where was his stuff? He struggled to sit up.

  She set a hand against his chest. “Whoa, whoa. Where you going?”

  He swung his jean-clad legs over
the edge of the bed and felt the room spin. “Where’s my stuff?”

  “Listen, you’re really sick. You need to lie back down.”

  He scanned the room, his eyes settling on his gray duffel on the sofa. He stood, blinking against the wave of dizziness, and crossed the small room.

  “You shouldn’t be up. You have a concussion, and you’re sick.”

  He unzipped his duffel and riffled through until he found the folder. Only then did his racing heart begin to settle. He wavered, rocking back on his heels.

  “That’s it. Back to bed.” Her hand wrapped around his bicep and tugged fruitlessly.

  “What time is it?”

  “Morning. I mean it, back to bed.”

  He let her tug him toward the bed, her hands cool on his heated skin. He clutched the folder in his hands. He had a lot to do before tonight. And somehow he had to think through the fog in his brain.

  “I left some food over there. You’ve got to be hungry. My mom’s going to stop by and check on you a couple times like she did yesterday. I have to leave the door unlocked ’cause I lost the key—long story.”

  He sank onto the flimsy mattress, blinking against the dizziness. She felt his forehead, then gave him a long look as if trying to figure him out. “Your temp is down. That’s good.” Her eyes darted down his chest, lingering a moment before returning to his face.

  Something pulled in his stomach at the look in her eyes.

  “Anyway . . . are you going to be okay, ’cause I’m going to be late for work. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got for the time being, and I can’t get fired or I’ll lose my house. And I’d never hear the end of that.” She muttered the last part.

  “I’m fine.” Or would be when he had all his papers in order and his brain in gear. And quiet. That would help too.