Blackberry Winter
I am illegitimate. But this was never a problem for me–it was just me and my mother against the world.Mother never told me much about her past, and after a couple of unanswered questions in childhood, I stopped asking. Now, Mother is sick, and she's decided to revisit the past–literally–by taking an unexpected trip to the mountains where she was born.I was worried; I was scared. I followed her. And my mother's journey became my journey, too. I discovered that I have a father–and my parents are still in love. Their life together just took a detour that lasted over forty years.Their relationship was like a blackberry winter…the colder the weather, the sweeter the berries in spring. And now that I've found the truth, will I have the strength to make it through my own blackberry winter?
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Ainât nothing but a stray awayâ¦
Loran had only just heard the quaint expression while she was waiting in the checkout line at the little discount store in the North Carolina mountains. Two old women had been talking about someoneâs granddaughter, one who frequented places where she had no business being. And it wasnât that the girl âhadnât been raisedâ and didnât know better, they had assured each other. It was that she apparently was just like Loranâs mother. Maddie knew betterâbut she did it anyway.
âMotherââ
âLoran, stop worrying. Iâll feel much better after I shower and eat something.â
âI wish I could believe youâyou have no idea what itâs like having such a liar for a mother,â Loran said, and Maddie laughed.
âAh, well. We all have our heavy burdens to bear.â
Loran kept driving. They werenât far from the B and B now. Maddie did seem better. She was sitting up a little straighter, at any rate.
âYou know what they sayâif you donât sow your wild oats when youâre young, youâll sow them when youâre old.â
âCouldnât you have picked someplace a little closer to home?â
âHome is a state of mind, my darling.â
Cheryl Reavis
Cheryl Reavis is an award-winning short-story and romance author who also writes under the name of Cinda Richards. She describes herself as a late bloomer who played in her first piano recital at the tender age of thirty. âWe had to line up by heightâI was the third smallest kid,â she says. âAfter that, there was no stopping me. I immediately gave myself permission to attempt my other heartâs desireâto write.â Her Silhouette Special Edition novel A Crime of the Heart reached millions of readers in Good Housekeeping magazine. Her books, The Prisoner, a Harlequin Historical title, and A Crime of the Heart and Patrick Gallagherâs Widow, both Silhouette Special Edition titles, are all Romance Writers of America/RITA>® Award winners. One of Our Own received the Career Achievement Award for Best Innovative Series Romance from Romantic Times BOOKclub magazine. A former public health nurse, Cheryl makes her home in North Carolina with her husband.
For my editor, Tara Gavin, and my agent,
Maureen Moran. Thank you both for bringing shovels.
With appreciation to Dawn Aldridge Poore,
fellow writer and my âmountain friend,â who graciously answered all my questions about the Appalachian experience. Any mistakes are mine, not hers.
And special thanks to Linda Buechting and
Janet Wisst, and to Pat Kay, Lois Dyer, Julia Mozingo, Myrna Temte, Lisette Belisle, Laurie Campbell, Chris Flynn and Allison Davidsonâfor their wisdom, encouragement and boundless generosity.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
S he stood at the open window, feeling the cool breeze that always rippled off the mountain after the sun went down. She turned her head slightly to savor the feel of it on her face, never once taking her eyes off the line of trees that obscured the old logging road deep in the shadows on the mountainside.
She had no idea what time it was or how long sheâd been waiting. There were no working clocks in the house except for the small windup alarm clock she used to catch the school bus on time. She didnât dare leave the window long enough to go and get it for fear of missing the small flicker of light among the trees that would mean he had finally come for her.
A question formed in her mind, but she immediately pushed it aside. It was the kind of question her mother would have asked, the unanswerable kind a woman who didnât matter couldnât keep from asking. She didnât want to think about her mother nowâor her father. He lied when he didnât have to, and he did as he pleasedâalways. Tommy wasnât like him. Tommy wouldnâtâ
Where is he?
For a brief moment she was afraid sheâd spoken out loud, because if she had, if she voiced the fear she didnât dare give a name, it would become real, inescapable.
She took a deep wavering breath and forced her hands to unclench.
No. He wasnât like her father. Never.
Always before, meeting Tommy had been so easy. She would stand exactly where she was now, and in no time at all she would see the blink of light among the trees that meant he was waiting for her, for herâMaddie Kimballâwhen he could have any girl in the valley, girls whose families had money and whose fathers werenât Foy Kimball.
It had never taken this long for him to get here before. If anything, he was apt to come too soon, before it was even dark enough for her to be absolutely certain sheâd seen his signal. And when she did see it, she always waited just a little longer before she slipped away from the house, in case her father had seen it, too. Foy Kimball was a hard man to fool, primarily because he had done so many devious things himself and because hindering other people was a pleasure to him. Getting away tonight should have been easy. Foy wasnât here. Her mother wasnât here. The house was wonderfully and unexpectedly quiet, and all she had to do was watch for the light, then pick up the brown paper grocery bag that held a few of her carefully ironed clothes and go.
