Finding Her Heart (McCormick's Creek Series Book 2) Read online

  Finding Her Heart

  Jen Peters

  Blue Lily Books

  Copyright © 2018 by Jen Peters

  Blue Lily Books, Blue Lily Publishers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 978-1-949876-07-9 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-949876-06-2 (e-book)

  To my sweet Blaik,

  who has taken me on a lifetime of adventures

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Safe in His Heart (excerpt)

  Thank You

  The McCormick’s Creek Series

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Mitchell Blake pushed himself faster and faster along the paved path. Pulse pounding, muscles screaming—anything to get the residue of the morning out of his head.

  He dodged moms and strollers, overtook an elderly couple, and passed numerous benches with office workers enjoying lunch in the sun. Portland was a lovely city in the summer, but right now he didn’t care.

  His morning appointment had left him both dumbfounded and incensed, and once again he questioned the area of law he had chosen. What the client wanted was legal, but that didn’t mean it was right. Now, sweat ran down Mitch’s back, making his t-shirt cling to his body, but no matter how long his stride, how hard his breathing, nothing changed.

  He finally slowed to a walk, gulping for air, muscles quivering. Three times around the two-mile loop of Garfield Park was more than his body was used to. A cool shower would help, and perhaps calm him before facing the grind again.

  Forty minutes later, he was back at his desk on the sixteenth floor, eating a protein bar while pulling up the documents he’d need. And trying hard to keep the client’s beefy face out of his mind.

  Right. It was as easy as “don’t think of elephants.”

  The image was so intrusive that when he heard a rap on the door, he almost expected the man to appear. But no, his secretary would have buzzed him first.

  “Are you in, Mitch?” came Melanie’s sultry voice, followed quickly by her carefully made up face.

  That voice had won many a judge over, especially when it was backed up by a brilliant legal mind and ruthless determination, but Mitch grimaced inwardly. Melanie Xanthe was the latest in a long string of women he made social appearances with, but who were really only interested in his money and his name. Or rather his grandfather’s name. Beautiful but manipulative, extremely bright but lacking any real warmth—that seemed to be the only type of woman he attracted.

  Dates with Melanie weren’t bad—he could at least enjoy her conversation even if his heart didn’t engage, as long as she didn’t make too many sly comments. But lately she was finding a lot of reasons to be on his floor instead of hers.

  “Melanie,” he greeted her. “I hope it’s something quick—I have to leave in an hour, and I’ve got a ways to go with this.”

  She pulled her generous mouth into a smile. “Of course, Mitchell. I won’t keep you but a moment. I just wondered if you’d like to attend a gallery opening tomorrow. Sort of abstract impressionism.”

  He enjoyed art, but he had just taken her to a city function the week before. Too many dates too close together would give her the wrong impression. “Sorry, I’ll be with my grandfather." He didn’t need to tell her it was only for the day.

  “That’s quite all right—next time, perhaps."

  “Perhaps,” he echoed. She closed the door behind her, and he got back to work.

  An hour later, with instructions left for his paralegal, Mitch gladly shut his computer down, locked his office door, and made his way up to his grandfather’s apartment. The bold artwork contrasted nicely with the heavy furniture, but couldn’t disguise that the penthouse was home to a near-invalid now, complete with a male nurse.

  After a stroke six months ago, Granddad leaned heavily on a cane, but his mind was as sharp as ever. Mitchell was grateful for his recovery, but he still hated to see how age had settled on his grandfather: shoulders stooped, hands quavery and knotted with blue veins, age spots and arthritis. His height had shrunk so that Mitch looked down on the top of his thinning hair.

  “Don’t stare, boy,” Granddad said, thumping his cane on the floor. “Let’s go!”

  Once the elderly man was settled in Mitch’s Porsche, they headed south out of Portland and finally up the curving highway into the Cascade Mountains, up to the small town of McCormick’s Creek, named for Granddad’s grandfather.

  “So what kind of memories do you have of this town of yours?” Mitch asked, popping a peppermint in his mouth.

  “This town of ours, you mean? Your roots are there, boy,” came Granddad’s sharp voice.

  Mitch shrugged. Granddad provided all the roots he needed. Mitchell had been born and raised in the city, and McCormick’s Creek was as far from his normal life as you could get. It was a town that nobody stopped at anymore, a town where you had to be on the right street to get a cell signal. “So what was it like?” he asked again.

  Granddad closed his eyes and smiled. “Homey. Lots of well-kept houses, tree-lined streets, the Lamplighter where we had dances every Friday." He tightened his hands on his cane and turned to look at Mitch. “Not your school dances, mind you. These were nights out for courting couples, and for married folks too. I remember Granny staying with us while my parents went out. Mother would be all dolled up, wearing her favorite perfume.”

  Mitch pictured his grandfather dancing: young, mobile, energetic. Not that he wasn’t energetic now, but his stroke had left him moving slowly and carefully. “Did you grow up at the mansion?”

  “Oh no. We lived down the street, a nice enough house but nothing like my grandparents.’ I remember playing hide and seek in all the mansion rooms when I was a child." He sighed. “They lost it toward the end of the Depression. My grandfather held onto it as long he could—it about killed him when he finally had to let it go. They ended up moving in with us for a year before renting a place across town." He closed his eyes. “I wonder if our old house is still there. It would be on the way to the mansion.”

  Mitch smiled. If his grandfather wanted to chase old memories, Mitch would be happy to indulge him. He gave the old man a few moments of silent thoughts, then asked, “What else besides the dance hall?”

  “Oh, a couple of beautiful churches, the park along the creek—we’d have church picnics there, play ball, eat ice cream and splash around. The creek was only good for splashing there, but there was a swimming hole farther upstream. Had to walk a long way to get to it, and you know our dads wouldn’t drive us. Waste of gas, it was, especially during the war. And farther up from that was Warm Springs, where groups of boys or girls would go to soak and try out their smoking skills. Never m
ixed, oh no, although if a girl seemed a little fast, her beau might try to take her up there to neck.”

  Mitch chuckled, imagining if Melanie Xanth ever managed to get her claws into him. She’d probably love a hot tub, but rocks and bugs? She’d hightail it back to Portland before he could say “natural spa.”

  Mitch turned at a lonely gas station and followed a two lane road for a mile before they reached the Welcome to McCormick’s Creek sign.

  “Six thousand people, when did that happen?” Granddad said.

  “Progress, Granddad. Towns are always growing.”

  But that didn’t seem true as they drove through—the place felt like it had never left the sixties. Worn down and flat. The IGA grocery store was busy, and the Shell and Chevron signs were fairly new, but the rest had been left behind. Even the McDonalds had an old set of golden arches.

  Grandad was looking right and left. “The Lutheran Church is gone. And there was a movie theater over there.”

  “Stop!” Granddad suddenly shouted.

  Mitch braked hard, pulling the Porsche to the side of the road. “What? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, blast it,” the old man barked. “I want to put some flowers on my grandparents’ graves while we’re here. You go in. I want yellow roses. And daisies—Granny loved daisies.”

  Mitch looked around and noticed a florist shop tucked in between a furniture store and a boarded-up display window. He sighed, turned off the purring engine, and headed in.

  The shop was filled with pre-made bouquets, arrangements in baby bootie containers, and even bunches of candy bars on sticks. The glass walk-in refrigerator was stocked with more types of flowers than he would know what to do with. But for all the decor and stock, there wasn’t a person in sight.

  He looked for a bell or buzzer on the counter. Nothing. Just an old push-button desk phone, with no way to call someone inside. “Hello,” he called. “Anybody here?”

  He waited, but all he got was a cat jumping up on the counter and rubbing at his sleeve. Great. Cat hair.

  Mitch glanced out at his grandfather, who seemed to be dozing in the front seat. He’d do anything for this man who had raised him, but his physical frailty these last few years worried Mitch more than he wanted to admit. He wasn’t ready to lose him.

  He turned back to the cat. “Where’s your owner, huh?” he asked it in spite of himself. He scratched the cat behind the ears for a moment, then gave up. He pulled out his phone and entered florist into Google Maps. There was nothing closer than two towns over. “That’s why these guys are still in business,” he muttered, heading for the door. “Nowhere else to go.”

  “Oh!” he heard suddenly from the back. The voice was female, young and surprised. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  “You might have, if you had a bell or something to ring,” he said shortly. “I wonder how many customers you’ve lost because you didn’t know about them.”

  He stared her down, but it was more difficult than he expected—the abundance of black curls cascading down her back was quite distracting. Could they even be real?

  “I’m sorry,” the young woman apologized again, bringing Mitch back to himself. “I’m the only one here right now and most people know to come find me.”

  Small town attitudes—one more reason he preferred the city. “Now that I’ve found you, I’m looking for daisies and yellow roses to put on a grave.”

  She frowned. “Nobody’s died recently.”

  Mitch raised an eyebrow. “There are other graves in the cemetery, I imagine. Perhaps even going back a few years?”

  “Well, yes, but that would be locals, and I don’t know you. I mean …” she trailed off, probably realizing how rude she’d been.

  Mitch just watched her.

  “Look,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Let me start over. I’m Ree Swanson. Welcome to McCormick’s Creek. I’d be happy to put a daisy-and-rose bouquet together for you. Do you want them in a plastic sleeve, which will last through a rainstorm or two, or a vase that’s made for sitting on grass?”

  He didn’t know. He’d never taken flowers to a grave before. What would Granddad want? “Uh, let’s go with a vase.”

  She prattled on while she gathered flowers. “Where are you from? Is this your first time here? Do you have relatives in the cemetery? Do you need directions?”

  Mitch looked out the door, ignoring most of the questions. “We’ll probably need directions—the town’s changed since my grandfather lived here. I’ll go find out which cemetery.”

  “Your grandfather!” Ree exclaimed. “He’s from here? What’s his name?"

  “McC—“ he started, then stopped. She was quite the chatterbox, and Granddad would be a celebrity here in the town his family had founded. He gave a slight shake of his head and went out to the car to ask about the cemetery.

  “Presbyterian, like any good Scot,” Granddad informed him. “It should be about two blocks over.”

  Back inside, the girl had made quick work of the bouquet. Daisies, yellow roses and some little white flower spilled from a vase with a squat bottom, the better not to fall over with, he assumed. “That’s nice, thank you. And we need to go to the Presbyterian Church cemetery—he says about two blocks?”

  She nodded, her mass of curls swaying, catching the light like a raven’s wing. “Turn on Jefferson, and you’ll see it. But you didn’t tell me your name!”

  Mitch smiled and paid for the bouquet. “You have a nice day, now." The bell over the door rang as he left. He handed his grandfather the flowers, collected a smile in return, and leaned against the headrest once he sat.

  “What?” Granddad asked.

  “That girl in there would wear anybody out. Never stopped asking questions, and when she found out you were from here…I didn’t know if you wanted me giving out your name.”

  “Don’t see why not, I’m certainly not ashamed of it,” the old man answered. After a pause, he said, “You’re probably right. They even have a Founder’s Day for my grandfather, parade and all. If they find out I’m the McCormick who bought back the old mansion, who knows what they’ll do.”

  Mitch headed for the cemetery, still thinking about Ree Swanson and her inquisitiveness. Nosiness, more like, he thought. How did any business keep going with her running it?

  Chapter 2

  Ree wrapped a florist wire around the long rose stem and managed to poke her thumb with the sharp end of the wire. She watched blood well up in a tiny dot, still thinking about the stranger who had wanted cemetery flowers. She’d never had such an un-chatty customer. He wouldn’t even tell her his name!

  She sucked on her finger, sighed, and reached for another rose. At least she wasn’t doing another funeral arrangement. This birthday bouquet was filled with pink roses, purple iris, and her mother’s edelweiss. And if she let her eyes go unfocused, it might even remind her of a Monet painting she had seen in a Portland museum.

  That was the worst thing about living in a tiny place. After five years in Eugene at the University of Oregon—she’d switched majors three times—and one glorious summer interning in Portland, she was more unhappy than ever with her hometown. The closest she could come to anything cultural in McCormick’s Creek was squinting to make her work seem interesting.

  Still, she had the skills to make birthday arrangements look like a work of art. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Rich, intoxicating…the perfume from the roses swept her away to the year before, to her time with Luc at college.

  Luc, her hot French boyfriend who brought her flowers at random times. Luc, who had thought she was cute when she hung out at the French co-op to absorb any sort of ambience she could. Luc, who had taught her what romance truly was. Or so she thought.

  She grit her teeth and opened her eyes, unshed tears softening the iris and roses into more impressionist colors. She had looked forward to a life with him, living somewhere romantic like Provence, walking amid flowers and vineyards. Or visiting the Louvre
and browsing the stores along the Champs-Élysées.

  When Luc did what he did, her dream of living in France had crumbled to pieces, right along with her confidence in love. In defense, she had rebelled against the idea of men altogether, and her mind had thrown France out the window. Perhaps England instead, the Thames, seeing plays in London’s West End. Or even Germany or Switzerland, managing a small hotel in the mountains. To just be anywhere but Oregon.

  But instead of exploring the world, escaping both Luc and McCormick’s Creek, she hadn’t even finished college yet. She was two semesters short of her degree in Hospitality and Tourism, her plans of working in a European boutique hotel on hold while her mother recovered from hand surgery.

  Pumpkin, her mother’s orange cat who thought he ruled the shop, interrupted her thoughts with a rough meow from his perch on a high cabinet. “Fine for you,” she said to him. “You don’t care about career plans or romance anyway. You just sit there and watch all of us scurry around."

  Ree was glad his scratchy voice had cut her thoughts off—she’d end up having a proper pity party if she didn’t watch it. She snipped the end of another deep purple iris for the bouquet and gently stroked the velvet of the petals before turning the vase to judge it. It was good, just needing one more frond of greenery. The birthday customer would love it.

  With a glance at the clock, she breathed a sigh of relief, turned the sign to Closed, and locked the front door. All the arrangements were done for the next day. Pumpkin rubbed against her leg, and she set a bowl of fresh water down for him and refilled his kibble. She stroked his fur before stepping out the back door, breathing deeply into the cool air of dusk. Shadows played across her car, and the fir trees behind the shop had already turned night-dark. One more deep breath, her lungs filling with oxygen, and she went back in to clean up before checking on her mother.