The Protector's Promise

Honor’s voice was calm, without the anxiety he’d seen in her eyes.

“If he has, he’ll let us know,” Grayson replied.

“Hopefully soon. The girls are scared. I want to be able to tell them everything will be okay.”

“Who will tell you that, Honor?”

She met his eyes. “I’m an adult. I don’t need anyone to.” She stepped out into the cold, cutting off their conversation.

Grayson followed, tensing when he saw the sheriff’s grim expression. He’d found something.

“Ms. Malone, can you come with me, please?”

Honor walked toward the sheriff, aware of Grayson’s gaze as she did so. His intense focus was as warm as a physical caress, tempting her to reach back, take his hand, allow the support he’d offered.

She wouldn’t.

Not even for tonight.

She wouldn’t allow herself to depend on him. That could only lead to heartache.

has always loved making up stories. As a child, she daydreamed elaborate tales in which she was the heroine—gutsy, strong and invincible. Though she soon grew out of her superhero fantasies, her love for storytelling never diminished. She knew early that she wanted to write inspirational fiction, and began writing her first novel when she was a teenager. Still, it wasn’t until her third son was born that she truly began pursuing her dream of being published. Three years later she sold her first book. Now a busy mother of four, Shirlee is a homeschool mom by day and an inspirational author by night. She and her husband and children live in Washington State and share their house with a dog and a guinea pig. You can visit her Web site at www.shirleemccoy.com.

For when your faith is tested, your endurance

has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be strong in character and ready for anything.

—James 1:3–4

To Sara. The darker the night,

the more beautiful the sunrise.

And in loving memory of Willetta Ruth Pothier

who once told me that I had capable hands. I didn’t understand then. I do now. May I prove to be as capable of sacrifice, of service and of love as she was.

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

Something woke Honor Malone from deep sleep, the scratchy scrape of it pulling her from dreams of the green hills and cool mists of her native Ireland. She lay silent for a moment, listening to the old bungalow settling and to the quiet whisper of her daughter’s breath. Neither was the thing that had woken her. Something else had dragged her from peaceful sleep. She sat up, her heart pounding, her mind racing with images she’d rather forget—a dark shadow, a knife, blood.

The past, she reminded herself. That was in the past, now.

She was in a new home in a new neighborhood. There was nothing to be afraid of. No way that the ugliness that had touched her life could have followed her from St. Louis. She probed the shadows anyway, searching the room for anything out of place. Moving boxes stood against one wall waiting to be unpacked. Her nurse’s uniform hung from a hook on the closed bedroom door. Outside, the wind howled, pushing through the cracks in the house’s old windowpanes and leaving the air in the room chilly and damp.

Honor shoved aside the heavy quilt her mother had sent as a housewarming gift and stood shivering in her flannel pajamas. Her daughter lay in the bed across the room, and Honor went to her, wanting to assure herself that the four-year-old was okay. Lily lay on her side, sleeping deeply. Safe. Cocooned in blankets and sheets. Just as she should be.

A soft scraping sound froze Honor in place, the noise discordant against the backdrop of wind. Scrape. Tap. Scrape. Like a stick scratching against the window.

Or a knife.

Fear raced up her spine and refused to leave, no matter how many times she told herself that the sound was nothing but the branch of one of the old rosebushes butting up against the window. Her feet moved in slow motion as she walked toward the sound, her stomach hollow with terror. She wanted to climb back into bed, pull the thick comforter over her head and pretend she hadn’t heard anything, but she had a family—her daughter and her sister-in-law—to protect. She’d face anything to keep them safe.

Her hand shook as she eased back the curtains and peered outside, bracing herself for whatever she might see. All she saw was darkness pressing against the glass and wispy tendrils of fog that danced eerily in the yard, swirling and swaying, concealing and revealing as the wind blew them away.

Was something else moving out there?

Honor leaned close to the window, squinting as she tried to find substance in the mist.