Nora was too far away for Logan to see details, but his mind could conjure every inch. The silly auburn curls that frothed around her shoulders. The round eyes, too big for her face, forest-colored, mostly brown with shards of green and bronze. Little-girl pink cheeks, freckles and an upturned, cheerleaderâs nose.
But a dangerous womanâs mouth, wide and soft and tempting.
Today, her head was bowed as she moved toward them, her pale face somber. She might have the coloring of a roseate spoonbill, but she had the soft melancholy of the mourning dove. The widow Archer. He squeezed the handle of the hammer he was holding. She was as beautifulâand as off-limitsâas ever.
Dear Reader,
Many years ago, on a wintery Florida afternoon, my mother, my little girl and I spent a couple of hours at the nearby Audubon Center for Birds of Prey. It was an idle choice, mostly an excuse to get outdoors.
But as we walked under the spreading oaks, we were caught by the magic of the place. The long-taloned, steady-eyed raptors. The impossibly tiny owls, who peeked out of their houses, mere cottonballs with button eyes. The dignified barn owl turning his head solemnly from side to side while we watched. We laughed at his hauteur, but we were secretly honored that he had deigned to notice us.
My mother has been gone a long time now, and my âlittle girlâ is a beautiful, independent woman. But that day lives on. That afternoon when we shared a mystical bond with nature, feeling completely at peace, one with the birdsâ¦and each other.
When I came to write Nora Archerâs story, I knew she needed a special kind of healing. Nora and her fatherless sons have been through so much. She needed a man, and a place, that could bring her that kind of peace. And soâ¦I remembered the birds.
I hope you enjoy Nora and Loganâs story. If you have a wildlife sanctuary near you, please visit and support them. Then drop by www.KOBrienOnline.com and tell me all about it!
Warmly,
Kathleen OâBrien
Kathleen OâBrien was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned to writing novels, which could be done at home. She works hard to pack her backyard with birds, butterflies and squirrels. Indoors, her two cockatiels, Honey and Lizzie, announce repeatedly, if not humbly, that they are âpretty birds.â Her colorful Gouldian finch, who lives in her office, fills every day with music.
To my much-loved mother and daughter, who shared that extraordinary day with me.
I wish we could do it again.
And to the Audubon Center for Birds of Prey, for working magic year after year.
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
A DRAGONFLY HOVERED INCHES from Nora Archerâs shoulder, its wings hypnotically beating the warm air of the hacienda courtyard. She ought to get up, get going, get Sean ready for Little League, but peaceful moments were too rare these days. She used to love sitting out here in the late afternoon, when the Bullâs Eye Ranch was quiet, the shadows stretched across the bricks, and the breeze was full of honeysuckle and wind chimes.
Milly, the housekeeper, was vacuuming on the second floor, a way of keeping an eye on Sean without making him feel like a prisoner. So, temporarily off duty, Nora lay on the lounger, prepared to steal a few more minutes.
A battle was coming with Sean, and she wasnât eager to engage. Theyâd quarreled as soon as he got home from school, about whether his homework could wait until after the game. She hadnât budged, though as always sheâd needed to steel herself against the pain behind his angry hazel eyes. He was only nine⦠Heâd been through so muchâ¦.
But dealing with Sean called for discipline and routine, not sloppy emotion and inconsistency. So sheâd held firm. As usual, heâd stomped upstairs in a fury and slammed his door.
Most days, after a scene like that, she would send Harry up to remind Sean it was time to shower and put on his uniform. No matter how prickly Sean was with his mother, no matter how sour heâd grown about his former love, baseball, he never took it out on Harry.
The hero-worship of a little brother had once been the bane of Seanâs existence, but not anymore. These days, Harry was the only one Sean seemed to trust.
Unfortunately, Harry was playing at a friendâs house.
So for just a few minutes more, she wanted to watch the dragonfly, bask in the spring sunshine, and pretend everything was normal. She wanted to pretend that her boys had a father, who at any moment might come whistling around the corner, shouldering a trio of fishing poles. She wanted to pretend that Sean hadnât grown surly and difficult, that he hadnât begun to hate everything he used to love, and that his nights were peaceful under acres of starry Archer sky, not haunted by nightmares of madmen, guns and fear.