Not on Her Own

Sure, the doors still weren’t hung, the water supply and electricity weren’t hooked up and the inside shelves she’d planned weren’t installed, but this was a place to work. A place where her dreams could come true.

She walked around the corner of the house to see Brandon, shirtless, standing at an outside spigot, water rushing into his open hands. He didn’t hear her at first as he splashed water on himself.

The twilight revealed a well-built body, not an ounce of spare fat anywhere. Not the gym-sculpted, steroid-assisted six-pack she’d grown accustomed to in New York. No, this was the real thing, form beautifully following function.

An urge to sculpt such a body overtook Penelope—as well as the urge to explore those planes and angles with her hands.

The splashing halted abruptly as Brandon caught her staring at him

“You, um, could have come in the house. I have hot water inside, you know.”

“Well…soap and hot water would be nice.”

“C’mon.” She indicated the house with a jerk of her head and turned to hide her scarlet face. What was the matter with her? She, who’d painted and sculpted nude, well-built male models, was acting like a schoolgirl. How could this man’s bare chest undo her?

Dear Reader,

Ever fall in love with someone at first sight? Well, I did. I fell in love with the character of Uncle Jake when he came to life in Where Love Grows, the first book I wrote about the nefarious Richard Murphy. I couldn’t let Uncle Jake go without justice, and his nephew Brandon seemed to me the perfect hero to help him get that justice.

Who should Brandon’s heroine be, though? What woman was feisty enough to take him down a peg or two? And what chasm could be almost too big for Brandon to negotiate in order to win his happily-ever-after?

I discovered that heroine to be not a Southern girl at all, but one who is far different in mind-set from me. She proved to be a challenge from day one, mainly because she isn’t Southern. I’ve come to the conclusion that we Southern women view the world—and our men—from a unique perspective. Love, however, is universal!

I hope you enjoy Brandon and Penelope’s story. Let me know via my Web site, www.cynthiareese.net.

Cynthia Reese

Cynthia Reese lives with her husband and their daughter in south Georgia, along with their two dogs, three cats and however many strays show up for morning muster. She has been scribbling since she was knee-high to a grasshopper and reading even before that. A former journalist, teacher and college English instructor, she also enjoys cooking, traveling and photography when she gets the chance. Not on Her Own is her third book.

To two very special women:

to Laura Shin, for making my dreams come true, and to my mom, who battled back against the odds and is with me still. May these women have the best that life can offer them.

This book would not be a reality without the intensive help I received from my wonderful editor, Victoria Curran. She literally saved this project. I’d also like to thank my sister, Donna, for helping me through the early planning stages, and my critique partners, Tawna Fenske, Cindy Miles, Stephanie Bose and Nelsa Roberto. Thanks also to my dad, who helped answer some of the technical aspects of welding, and to Tawna and her friends Larie and Minta for helping me with how Oregonians plan weddings—

all errors are mine!

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

N O GOOD DEED ever goes unpunished, and Brandon Wilkes, who’d sworn to serve and protect the good people of Brazelton County, Georgia, was living proof of that.

“You sure? Brandon, are you positively sure?”

Brandon clamped his jaw shut, trying not, in his effort to get to work on time, to lose his patience with Prentice O’Keefe. The man had the comprehension of an eight-year-old, and the comic-book-violence imagination to go with it.

“Prentice, I swear. No aliens are going to come down here and get you and take you back to their planet. It was just a movie. Okay? Just make-believe.”

“But they could, couldn’t they? I mean, they were big, Brandon and…” Here Prentice’s lower lip trembled. “Scary. Bad scary.”

Prentice’s older sister, Ella, pushed open the raggedy screen door. “Prentice, he’s told you that there’s no such thing as aliens! Now why can’t you believe him? Man’s got to get to work and he’s come all this way out of town to tell you not to believe such garbage!”