Pitch Black

“Crandall brings a strong new voice to the genre.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

PRAISE FOR SUSAN CRANDALL’S NOVELS

A KISS IN WINTER

“Everything a contemporary romance reader wants in a book . . . Susan Crandall is so talented that readers will want to read her backlist.”

—Midwest Book Review

“A very character-driven story,
A Kiss in Winter
is a tale of family expectations and disappointments.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

“Complex characters, intricate relationships, realistic conflicts, and a fine sense of place.”

—Booklist

ON BLUE FALLS POND

“A powerful psychological drama . . .
On Blue Falls Pond
is a strong glimpse at how individuals react to crisis differently, with some hiding or running away while others find solace to help them cope.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Readers who enjoy . . . fiction with a pronounced sense of place and families with strong ties will respond well to Crandall’s . . . sensitive handling of the important issues of domestic violence, macular degeneration, and autism.”

—Booklist

“Susan Crandall writes nothing but compelling tales, and this is the best yet. I’m moving her to the top of my favorite author list.”

—RomanceReviewsMag.com

“Full of complex characters . . . it’s a well-written story of the struggles to accept what life hands out and to continue living.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

PROMISES TO KEEP

“An appealing heroine . . . [an] unexpected plot twist . . . engaging and entertaining.”

—TheRomanceReader.com

“FOUR STARS!”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

“Another fantastic story by Susan Crandall.”

—
RomanceReviewsMag.com

“This is one book you will want to read repeatedly.”

—MyShelf.com

MAGNOLIA SKY

“Emotionally charged . . . An engrossing story.”

—BookPage

“A wonderful story that kept surprising me as I read. Real conflicts and deep emotions make the powerful story come to life.”

—Rendezvous

“Engaging . . . starring two scarred souls and a wonderful supporting cast . . . Fans will enjoy.”

—Midwest Book Review

THE ROAD HOME

“A terrific story . . . a book you will want to keep to read again and again.”

—
RomRevToday.com

“The characters . . . stay with you long after the last page is read.”

—Bookloons.com

BACK ROADS

“Accomplished and very satisfying . . . Add Crandall to your list of authors to watch.”

—
Bookloons.com

“An amazingly assured debut novel . . . expertly drawn.”

—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com

“A definite all-nighter. Very highly recommended.”

—RomRevToday.com

B
OOKS BY
S
USAN CRANDALL

A Kiss in Winter

On Blue Falls Pond

Promises to Keep

Magnolia Sky

The Road Home

Back Roads

This book was finished in the midst of wedding preparations, so I’d like to dedicate it to Reid and Melissa Crandall. May your marriage be happy and fulfilling and your love forever constant.

Acknowledgments

As always, a huge thank-you to those who helped me shape this book, who didn’t let me get off easy, and whom I couldn’t do this without. To Alicia, Brenda, Garthia, Pam, Sherry, and Vicky, I appreciate the constant support, as well as reading those last two hundred pages with lightning speed. To Karen White, thanks for all of the hand-holding, and for being both a great sounding board and a wonderful friend.

To my loving family for their unflagging support; especially my husband, Bill, who understands when I have to write during the hours most people are sleeping.

Prologue

C
heryl McPherson never saw him coming. One second she was standing at the top of the stairs with a basket full of dirty laundry, the next she was in a free fall. The shove was hard enough that she sailed over the first five steps. As if in slow motion, clothes drifted past her vision; soiled socks, her husband’s favorite blue shirt, her son’s Little League uniform with bright grass stains on the knees. When her shoulder slammed into the sixth step, the sound of snapping bones was accompanied by a white-hot pain that shot from the point of impact down the length of her spine. By the time the pain fully registered, she’d tumbled down two more steps and another bone had broken with an audible crack. Pain swelled in a riptide that tore at all of her senses.

She landed at the bottom with her cheek pressed against the cold marble floor, her heartbeat matching the rhythm of her pulsing pain.

The plastic laundry basket came to a bouncing halt against her right shin.

She’d known this day would come. She’d allowed it to happen. Love had twisted into something ugly and unrecognizable.

Unable to move, unable to utter more than a weak moan, she stared ahead, looking down the long expanse of white marble toward the kitchen; where the telephone was, where she could call for help.

Drag yourself. Move! Move before he comes down the stairs.

But it was too late. His shoes appeared on the tile between her and that faraway telephone.

She only had time to blink; then the blow came. . . .

Chapter 1

I
T COULD HAVE BEEN THE THUNDER. Or perhaps the gust of wind that shook the house as if it was a misbehaving child. Something had jerked Madison Wade awake, with her breath locked in her chest and her heart racing. Perhaps it had been Mrs. Quigley’s tomcat romancing the Persian that spent her mornings on the sunporch next door. But it didn’t feel like any of those things. It felt heavy . . . dark, and stifling. She hadn’t suffered from this kind of anxious awakening for months, not since she’d moved to Tennessee.

She forced herself to draw a deep breath and release it slowly. Everything was fine. Her son—she’d finally grown accustomed to thinking of Ethan as such—was far away from the dangers in Philadelphia, safe from the people and circumstances that had threatened to pull him under. Things were good.

She glanced toward the window. No rain pattered against the pane. Although the new day did not creep as softly as it usually did upon Buckeye, the approaching storm seemed respectful and subdued, as was accorded by the early hour. That was one of her father’s idyllic boyhood stories that had proven true—one of the few truths that had ever passed his lips—here the days rolled gently one into the other. They were not announced with brittle light and a blare of car horns, or the sharp banging of Dumpsters dropped noisily to the ground. Here in Buckeye people respected the quiet of early morning. The day fell gently, as if delivered by a feather drifting from an awakening sky.

She arose and looked outside. The view from almost every window in this house was spectacular, contrasting in every way from the gray cityscape she had inhabited most of her life. Even after the passage of four months, she couldn’t help but pause each morning and take in the seemingly endless reach of the verdant wilderness. The setting was the main reason she had chosen this particular house. She wanted everything in Ethan’s life to be new, untouched by the cruel bleakness of his childhood.

Clouds hung low over the rolling green mountains; the valleys and draws cradled thick blue-gray mist. Had she sent warm enough clothes with Ethan? The nights could be chilly up there, even though it was only September.

She shook her head. When had she turned into such a sap? Ethan would really let her have it if he knew. That was part of what made the two of them work—love and honesty without the pretty bows and wrapping paper. It was a deal they’d struck early on; no bullshit.

Besides, her stewing was ridiculous. When she’d first taken Ethan in as a foster child at thirteen, he had spent more nights sleeping in the elements than any child should. He’d reminded her of this before he’d left—when he’d caught her surreptitiously checking his supplies, looking at the tag for the weather rating of his sleeping bag, and throwing in extra batteries for his flashlight—he was fifteen now. Which he said translated into something like twenty in regular suburban-kid years. “
Besides
,” he’d said, “
it’s a whole lot safer sleeping on a mountain with a few bears than it was sleeping on the streets in Philadelphia
.”

She’d looked into his wide blue eyes and nearly cried. Crying . . . now that would have sent him into orbit.

Luckily, these days his past was just a distant echo that she occasionally saw in the depths of his eyes. He was safe and loved; her responsibility . . . her son. The adoption had been finalized the week before they’d moved to Buckeye.

Thunder rumbled again in the distance. She hoped the boys made it back down the mountain before the rain hit. With the threatening weather, surely Mr. McPherson would pack up and head back early.

Jordan Gray’s stepfather took groups of boys camping once a month. The first two times Ethan had been invited, she’d managed an excuse—although she couldn’t say
why
she’d been so reluctant to let him go. This time he’d called her on it. Honesty . . . without the pretty packaging. He went.

She should have been happy that Ethan, a newcomer, had been asked. It was a great opportunity for him to bond with other boys of his own age. Of course, those were logical arguments, not the illogical fears of a mother who wasn’t truly comfortable with her new role as such. She attributed her heightened worry to her vast and intimate knowledge of how dangerous this world could be; up until a few months ago, she’d made her living writing about missing children, gang violence, and Internet predators.

Madison turned from the window and chafed her hands over her chilly arms. She’d lived alone throughout her adulthood, preferring a solitary life, relying on the only person she knew she could count on—herself. Dedication to her work had filled her days; she’d never felt lonely. But now, as she stood in her bedroom listening to the wind, she suddenly realized how starkly empty the house felt without Ethan.

Get a grip. He’s only been gone since yesterday morning.
She’d always thrived on independence and respected it in others. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought she’d be inclined to stew and worry while her child was off living his life. What had she known?

Certainly not how quickly a person became used to hearing overgrown feet thudding on the floor overhead; or how not finding a dirty cereal bowl in the sink made a person’s chest feel hollow.

As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she was glad she’d agreed to have breakfast with Gabe Wyatt this morning. It wasn’t a date; she didn’t date. Not now that she was the working mother of a teenage son. Both her and Ethan’s lives had been in enough upheaval without adding the complication of a new romance.

But Gabe’s friendship was becoming difficult to keep at that casual level. He’d subtly insinuated himself into her life, often serving as a sounding board concerning adolescent male behavior (being an only child, her only firsthand experience with the teenage male before Ethan had been her own pubescent dating). Gabe had also done his best to help her learn which toes were the most delicate in this new small town. Since she was editor of the local daily paper, more often than not those lessons went unheeded. They were appreciated nonetheless.

Up until yesterday, she’d managed to resist his repeated invitations to dinner and movies—no easy feat. From the very first time she’d heard him speak, his smooth Southern voice had had a nearly hypnotic effect on her Yankee heart. She now understood the power of those so-called “whisperers”—people who could calm animals with only their voices. It was certain Gabe Wyatt’s voice called to something primal deep inside her. She had no business getting involved. But he kept asking in that voice. . . .

When the invitation had been breakfast, she’d justified that breakfast was different. Colleagues and friends met for breakfast. Breakfast was innocent, noncommittal. Breakfast wasn’t a date.

She glanced at the clock. If she didn’t hurry, she was going to be late.

At seven-thirty she turned onto High Street. With a gust of wind, the first fat drops of rain hit her windshield. Gabe’s Jeep Cherokee with SHERIFF printed plainly on the sides and back gate was parked at the curb in front of the Smoky Ridge Café. She parked next to it.

She felt more relaxed just seeing he was here.

Relaxed. Relaxed—not bubbling with joy.

She tamped down that ripple of pure pleasure and wondered when she had started lying to herself—something as foreign to her as these hills had been on her first day here. She’d always been as pragmatic in her personal relationships as she was in her work. She wasn’t sure what to think of this new aspect of herself.

She stopped asking herself questions she didn’t really want to answer and hopped out of the car. The second she closed the door, the clouds cut loose. Holding her purse over her head, she made a dash for the café.

The door swung open just as she reached it. Gabe held the door and hurried her inside. For a long moment, he just stood there grinning at her.

“What?” she asked. “Never seen a drowned rat before?”

“Mermaid.” The warmth of his voice poured over her, banishing the chill. “I was thinking you look like a mermaid.”

“You Southern boys, always let your good manners get ahead of your good sense,” she said, breaking eye contact.

“You Yankee women, never can gracefully accept innocent Southern flattery.”

She looked up at him with a half-grin. “Thanks.”

“For the compliment?” he asked. “Or for calling you on your Yankee ways?”

“Oh”—she feigned a surprised look—“I thought they were both compliments.”

He rolled his eyes. “Here we go again.”

“You started it.” She walked toward an empty booth, her heart fluttering in a most
un
pragmatic way.

Gabe slid into the booth beside her and picked up a menu.

She gave him a sideways look and cleared her throat.

“Yes?” He turned innocent green eyes her way.

“Are we expecting someone else?”

“Not that I know of.”

She pointed across the table. “Then get your ass over on the other side of the booth before people start talking.”

With a heavy sigh, he moved.

Madison looked around the crowded café and saw knowing grins, raised eyebrows, and a few lips pursed in disapproval. The damage had already been done.

She leaned across the table and said in a hushed voice, “Everyone thinks we spent the night together.”

Gabe glanced around, then grinned at her and whispered back, “Of course they don’t. What man in his right mind would be out of your bed at this early hour on a Sunday morning?”

Tilting her head, trying to appear sweet and Southern, she drawled, “Why, Gabriel Wyatt, I declare, I should slap your face for such a shamefully inappropriate remark.”

He gave her a wink. “Now that’s how to take a compliment.”

Madison made a point of
not
lingering over coffee after breakfast. Lingering was too date-like.

“I really need to get home. Ethan will be back from camping,” she said, wiping her lips with a paper napkin. Now she was lying to other people as well as to herself; Ethan wasn’t due home until around noon. But she couldn’t stay here listening to Gabe’s voice and looking into his moss-green eyes any longer. Not when her own mind had begun to follow the pattern of the other patrons; several times now she’d caught herself wondering what it would be like to spend the night in Gabe Wyatt’s bed.

She reached for the check; the cash register was by the front door and Gabe paying was one step closer to this being a date.

Gabe put his hand firmly on top of hers. “Apparently you still have a lot to learn about living in the South.”

She liked the way his calloused palm felt against the back of her hand—too much.

“All right then.” She pulled her hand from beneath his. “I’ll just use my money to buy myself something frilly that smells of gardenias.”

He laughed. “Now you’re talkin’.”

With a dramatic huff, she got out of the booth.

He was still chuckling as he followed her to the front.

He paid, then she thanked him, painfully aware of dozens of eyes on them.

“My pleasure. How about dinner Saturday?”

His gaze held hers as his voice worked its magic. “I . . . I—”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He opened the door and pushed her out into the rain before she could say anything else.

ONCE HOME, MADISON OPENED HER LAPTOP
and began working on the duties of her new career. If someone had told her four years ago that she’d be content working at a newspaper with a circulation of less than ten thousand, editing stories about the mayor’s plan for parking meters and the debate over replacing the bridge on the north side of town, she’d have laughed in their face. But here she was, miles beyond content. All because of Ethan.

And perhaps—a little voice whispered, trying to keep her honest—a little because of a certain smooth-talking Southern sheriff, too.

She’d never before let a man railroad her into a date like that. Really, she had to stop reacting to that voice. . . .

“Enough of that foolishness,” she muttered. She’d just cancel . . . later. Right now, if she finished proofing these articles for the
Buckeye Daily Herald
, she could do some research for a freelance article she was contemplating.

She opened the file her reporter had e-mailed her and started to read.

The work did not hold her attention. She caught herself watching the clock instead of concentrating on the article in front of her. If she hadn’t been so stubborn and hurried off after breakfast with Gabe, she wouldn’t have this long lonely stretch of time before Ethan came home.

She thought about how they would spend the rest of the day after he returned. Since it was cool and rainy, maybe she would take him to Augustino’s for pizza. She imagined the blast of warm moist air, redolent of yeast and spices, that always hit her when she opened the door to the little restaurant. Her mouth watered. She’d thought she’d miss national chains and five-star restaurants when she moved to this little town. Again, what had she known?

At twelve-fifteen, she started making trips to look out the rain-streaked front window for the approach of Mr. McPherson’s white van.

At one o’clock she called Jordan Gray’s mother.

“Hello, Mrs. McPherson, this is Madison Wade. I was wondering, have you heard anything from the boys?”

“Please, call me Kate.”

“Of course, Kate.” She’d only met Kate McPherson in person once; usually it was a wave from the car as they picked the boys up at each other’s houses. “Is Jordan back?”

Kate didn’t sound in the least concerned when she said, “No, but don’t you worry now, hon. Steve gets carried away up there. He’s probably showing the boys thunderstorm survival skills or something.”

“Oh, well, okay then, that’s good to know.”

“Keep in mind, with this rain and all, it could take ’em longer to get down the mountain. It’s not like hopping on the bus in the city, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s right.” This wasn’t the first time she’d had to be reminded that time moved differently here than in Philadelphia.

Kate said, “I promise I’ll give y’all a call if I hear from them. But really, don’t worry.”