The Way Home by Jean Brashear Read Free Book Online

new dishes they’ve made themselves, again at greater expense of both time and money.”
    She glanced at James, who was certain that he was not hiding a proud smile all that well. He winked at her, and her eyes reflected gratitude.
    “My point is that even for the prime buying demographic of eighteen-to-thirty-five-year-olds who have grown up on microwaves and instant messaging and family schedules so complicated that a shared meal is the exception in most households, there is a hunger for a world they’ve only heard about, one where you bought from the local merchant who was also a neighbor, and what you bought was made to last. They want some sense of stability in a world that changes so fast none of us can begin to keep up.”
    She scanned the group. “That nostalgia is exactly what Parker’s Ridge can provide them—handcrafted furniture would be one example, for those with the money to afford it, but another market comes from those who can’t pay for a one-of-a-kind item but would still relate to a family-owned business with a reputation for quality. Employees who are part of the family, as my father has made the people here. A place where they could see furniture being made, both custom pieces and stock, and experience a small town in the mountains, one rich in artisans and craftspeople and bed-and-breakfasts—a whole experience, a destination.
    “We have the raw material here—more than that, actually. We have the reputation my father and his father and grandfather built over years and years. We can turn a negative to a positive by letting go of the notion that we must compete with cheap goods.”
    Her dark eyes were shining now with the fervor of her convictions, and though she shared no blood with her adoptive mother, James could hear and feel Bella in every word, every gesture. Bella’s passion for the handmade, the homegrown, had taken root in her daughter in a manner that would have Bella’s buttons bursting.
    For a moment, James could barely breathe for missing his wife. Only his love for their daughter kept him in his seat, when his whole being cried out to race from this room and devote all his time to the search for her.
     
    “W E HAVE TO HANDLE this carefully,” Sam said, raking fingers through hair that already seemed to have been through an eggbeater. “You’re positive you’re ready?”
    She nodded past her inner quiver. “There’s a child out there who might need me.” She sighed. “Given my age, I understand intellectually that the child is most likely grown, but in here—” she tapped her chest “—it’s only a baby.”
    It. Why didn’t she know instinctively if the infant was a boy or girl? Maybe the child wasn’t hers.
    But no—she was certain about that, and somehow it was not the baby’s head but the man’s hand that convinced her. That hand…
    Simply the image of it made her feel safe. Cherished.
    “Sam, I don’t care.” She leaned forward. “Whatever I have to go through, I need this. Need them.”
    His expression was both sad and resigned. For a second, she almost thought—
    No. He wasn’t getting attached to her. He was not looking at her as a man does a woman.
    She sat back in her chair, stunned by the notion. Sam Lincoln was the finest of men, kind and caring. He reached out to those in trouble, that was all. Compassion went deep into his bones, a necessary part of the healer’s makeup.
    He was at least ten years younger than her. He could not possibly be attracted.
    She risked a glance. A man, not a doctor, stared back at her.
    She’d have to think about that later. “Take my picture, Sam. Go on, now,” she said softly. “I have to know.”
    Her fingers smoothed over the paper, absently tracing the curved skull of the child, the lean, strong fingers of the man. She’d discovered another piece of herself. She could draw—pretty darn well, as a matter of fact.
    She tried to lighten the mood. “Do a better job than the sheriff, okay? His was more like