Stranger at the Door

I only knew that when I raised my head, the handsomest man I’d ever seen was standing over me, hands in the pockets of his air force dress uniform pants. His head was slightly cocked to one side, a mischievous grin played on his lips, and he was studying me. My heart stopped.

“Running away?” His voice was like warm brandy. He didn’t wait for my answer. “Mind if I join you?”

“Are—are you sure?” I stammered.

“Never surer of anything in my life,” he said, sitting down beside me. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“For me?”

“I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you all evening.”

My breath caught. “Me?” I couldn’t think, much less converse, so caught was I in the tremulous quality of the moment.

He slipped an arm around my bare shoulder and turned me toward him. “What I’d really like to do is kiss you.”

And he did. All the fireworks and starbursts in the world were tame compared to the immediacy and power of that kiss. When we broke apart, he framed my face, brushed one finger across my cheek and with a lazy smile added, “And now I’m going to do it again.”

Dear Reader,

A writer often, wittingly or unwittingly, is influenced by events in her own life. I am no exception. By nature I am nostalgic and sentimental. Artifacts from the past—photographs, a pressed flower from a prom corsage, a birth announcement—transport me to a treasured moment or a special person. So it is with the billiken, which inspired Isabel and Sam Lambert’s love story.

The billiken, a small Buddha-esque figurine with a round belly, pixie ears and an impish grin, was the rage from approximately 1909 to 1912. My grandmother kept hers in a china cabinet crammed with dishes, glassware and tiny porcelain dolls. When she died, others took the valuable plates and crystal; I wanted the billiken. It has sat on my desk for forty years, waiting for its story—this story.

The billiken asks the question “What would it mean in life if things were as they ought to be?” Would dreams come true? Can life’s dark moment become the way things were destined? Isabel and Sam’s relationship is tested by conflict, separation, tragedy and secrets. But in the end, the message is exactly as it should be: true love endures.

Best,

Laura Abbot

P.S. I’d love to hear your reactions to

Stranger at the Door. Please write me at P.O. Box 373, Eureka Springs, AR 72632, or e-mail me at [email protected].

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

970—A COUNTRY PRACTICE

1059—YOU’RE MY BABY

1101—A SUMMER PLACE

1162—MY NAME IS NELL

1191—THE WRONG MAN

1300—SECOND HONEYMOON

This book is dedicated

to my special Thursday-morning friends who are such blessings to me and without whose unfailing encouragement and unconditional love, I would be so much the poorer.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

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

EPILOGUE

For detail concerning the United States Air Force

and the experiences of Vietnam-era pilots and their families, I am deeply indebted to Lieutenant Colonel Lyle E. Stouffer USAF (Ret) and Lieutenant Colonel Jack Anderson USAF (Ret). My thanks go also to their wives, Mary Jo and Rosemary, for additional insights and help. Any errors of fact are mine.

Breckenridge, Colorado

NERVES ON EDGE, MARK Taylor stood at the top of the driveway studying the large two-story log home shrouded by blue spruce and boasting a view across the tarn of craggy peaks. Unaccustomed to the altitude, he drew a labored breath, concerned that the next few hours would be awkward at best and difficult at worst. However, there was no turning back. For his peace of mind, the meeting was vital. And long overdue.

His strategy was surprise. Otherwise, immediate rejection was too real a consequence. But so was the possibility of shattering a family. He reminded himself it was too late for second-guessing.

The wide front porch, bedecked by hanging baskets, was inviting, serene. He paused, tension rooting him to the spot. Get a grip, he told himself. You’re a forty-year-old man, not a six-year-old.

Lungs working overtime in the thin air, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his ski jacket and walked toward the massive front door where a woodburned sign above it read Welcome To Lamberts’ Lodge. Closing his eyes, he mumbled a quick prayer, then pressed the bell. And waited.

An attractive older woman dressed in khaki slacks and an oversize flannel shirt answered. She looked like a friendly type with short salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines framing her mouth. “May I help you?” She held the door, poised to shove it closed.

He found his voice. “Mrs. Lambert, is your husband home?” Wariness clouded her expressive brown eyes and she pulled back.