SING ME HOME (Love Finds A Home - Book One) Read online

  Istoria Books

  --eBooks You Want to Read at Prices You Want to Pay™--

  Presents

  Sing Me Home

  by Jerri Corgiat

  Copyright 2004 and 2011 by Jerri Corgiat

  Book One

  in the Love Finds a Home series

  Originally published in paperback by Penguin’s Signet imprint

  Be sure to purchase the other books in this award-winning romance series:

  Book Two: Follow Me Home

  Book Three: Home at Last

  Book Four: Home by Starlight

  Book Five: Take Me Home

  More information about the books in this series is found at the end of this novel.

  Cover photo copyright Amanda Kelsey, Razzle Dazzle Design

  **

  Get on the Istoria Books mailing list!

  Subscribers learn of special limited-time-only discounts. Sign up at the website where you can also view other Istoria Books titles:

  www.Istoria Books.com

  Sing Me Home by Jerri Corgiat

  Country music star Jonathan Van Castle is intent on two things--reviving his career and regaining custody of his two children. At a stop in picturesque Cordelia, Missouri, he meets Lily (Lilac O'Malley Ryan), a young widow trying desperately to hold onto her livelihood and rebuild her own life after the tragic loss of her husband. Singularly unimpressed with the famous Mr. Van Castle, Lily instead falls for his two children. They, and not their sought-after dad, steal her heart, and she lets herself be convinced to join him in a marriage of convenience as he fights his custody battle. The widow and the singer eventually discover their liaison means more to them both than they'd originally planned.

  What the critics say about the Love Finds a Home series:

  "a treasure...a tender, romantic story of a big-time musician and a small-town girl discovering the things that matter most." -- Susan Wiggs

  "...builds rapidly toward a shattering climax." -- Booklist

  "wonderful...a novel about the struggles that people face everyday." -- A Romance Review

  "...warm and touching...one of those wonderful romances that truly captures the heart....strong characterizations spring vividly to life...Filled with joy and laughter, pathos and challenges...very highly recommended." -- Cynthia Penn, Midwest Book Reviews

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  About the Author

  Also Available from Istoria Books

  CHAPTER ONE

  OFF IN THE DISTANCE, the steep hills of the Missouri Ozarks were shrouded in blue, arcing to meet a seafoam sky, dipping into timbered hollows and fresh-water lakes—all of it way too close for Jonathan Van Castle’s comfort.

  From under the brim of his Stetson, Jon stared out the tinted bus window at the rolling pastureland that marked the start of the hill-and-lake country in the southern half of the Show-Me State. His fingers, long and tipped with calluses from his guitar strings, drummed on his thigh. He’d grown up in that backwoods, and every turn of the wheels brought him closer to Monaco. And his ex-wife. Ex-wives had a way of spoiling even the prettiest scenery, and his was a regular vandal.

  Unearthed from mothballs eight weeks ago, the Van Castle Country Tour bus took the leading country rock singer in America and his band around the curve on the two-lane highway. The bus slowed as it entered Cordelia, the last burg of any size before the lakes. The town slumbered in bucolic glory under the haze of late July.

  Inside the custom-built bus, his companions were quiet. Beside him on the opposite end of a leather sofa, bass player Zeke Townley put his long legs up and locked them at the ankles. Idly, he flipped through the pages of GQ. In a set of swivel chairs nearby, several security guys played cards with the band’s stylist Sidney. Today Sidney’s hair was green, his pants purple. Snores issued from behind a curtain at the rear of the bus where Van Castle’s drummer Three-Ring slept.

  Several dozen of his crew and his business manager, Peter Price, had gone ahead to Lake Kesibwi, another fifty miles down the road. They were likely already lined up on deck chairs at the Royal Sun Resort, knocking back beers.

  Jon squirmed, and Zeke nudged him with the toe of a black boot that matched the bass guitarist’s hair, beard, and eyes. “Ants in your pants?”

  “No, just the pants. Damn uncomfortable.”

  Zeke eyed the fringed leather pants with the air of a man whose perfectly creased white trousers would never dare ride up.

  Jon grimaced. “Got up late, and these were on the floor.” They’d left Kansas City at nine, not an early wake-up call—unless you were coming off two gigs at Sandstone and umpteen others at similar burgs.

  Zeke nodded and looked out the window.

  The driver took Cordelia’s outlying area of tract housing and fast food joints at an even gait. As they passed a schoolyard, some kids paused in their play, wrapped grubby fingers around a chain-link fence and gaped. No wonder. Rendered in Outlaw Purple Metallic, a pair of outsized guitars plastered the sides of the bus.

  “Look familiar?” Zeke asked.

  “Haven’t been through here in eighteen years.” A scared teenager on a Greyhound bound for the big time. Zeke knew all that. They’d been together ever since Jon had stepped off that bus and into a bar in Nashville.

  “And what changes time has wrought.” Zeke’s voice was laconic. Zeke’s middle name was laconic. “Take away the cars, plant a few hitching posts, and it’d look like it did a hundred years ago.”

  The highway narrowed into a shaded street lined with gingerbreaded Victorians and airplane bungalows, all fronted with broad porches. Jon noted the padded swings, the hanging pots of fuschia and ferns, the freshly-swept walks. His mother had liked fuschia. “I always wanted a house like one of those.”

  “Let’s see. A manse on twenty acres outside Nashville versus Ma Kettle’s abode in the middle of the back of beyond. Tough decision.”

  Jon’s lips curved, but he didn’t comment. A home, a mansion didn’t make.

  “I’ll raise you two.” Sidney threw two quarters on the table. “And I’ll see you.”

  The change hit wood. The bodyguard Roy, rock-hard and squat in a seat near the driver, groaned. Sidney swept up the pot.

  Following the highway sign, the driver curved onto Main, one of four streets framing a church in the middle of the town square. Looked like God and state must have battled for supremacy, and God had won. The lawn around the church was sun-crisped, but r
ibbons of red geraniums cabled the walkways twisting between maples and sycamores. Surrounding the church were rows of two-story brick buildings, each with lower level shops and upper level windows with white trim, shades half pulled like lids drooping over sleepy eyes. Leftover from Fourth of July, patriotic bunting drifted from concrete cornices.

  The bus slowed to a judicious crawl. A get-up like this spelled money to small-town sheriffs with their eyes on the municipal coffers. Around here, money was scarce. Jon knew.

  Up-in-the-Hair Beauty Salon slid by, its windows full of flounced pink curtains and steam, followed by Peg O’ My Heart Cafe. The meat loaf was on special. A few doors down was O’Neill’s Emporium. Out front an old geezer swept the sidewalk. As the bus passed, the guy propped forearms on his broom handle and watched. Merry-Go-Read Bookstore stood next to the Emporium. Except for the old guy, the square was empty. According to the driver, this month was one of the hottest Missouri had ever seen.

  They neared the green-and-white striped awning of a parlor on the corner. Zeke’s eyes were amused. “Sin-Sational Ice Cream? The mind boggles.”

  “About as clever as those last lyrics you came up with.” Jon snorted. “‘Maiden fine in my mind?’ Gimme a break.”

  Zeke lazily kicked Jon’s thigh. “Let’s see. And what did you come up with? Oh, that’s right, I remember. Nothing.”

  The corner of Jon’s mouth hitched, although inwardly he sighed. As the trip to Monaco had neared, words had dried up.

  The bus braked at a stop sign.

  Jon leaned toward the driver. “Stop at the park.” Zeke raised narrow eyebrows, and Jon shrugged. “I need a walk.”

  “What you need is a spine. She won’t eat you.”

  He wondered. “Just give me a few minutes to get the wool out of my head.”

  When Jon got off the bus—alone, despite bodyguard Roy’s protests—Sidney gave his hair a pointed look. “Tuck it under or you’ll be sorry.”

  Jon rolled his eyes at the stylist and wondered why he kept Sidney around, beyond the obvious entertainment value. Sidney cheated, and his garb wasn’t a country fashion statement. A moment later he felt penitent. It wasn’t Sidney.

  Still, he left his trademark blonde-and-brown ribboned hair pulled back, not tucked under.

  ***

  Minutes later, he found himself fervently wishing he’d listened to Sidney but mostly missing Roy.

  He hadn’t tucked his hair under, he hadn’t stayed in the park. He’d picked Maple Woods Drive at random. Now, his boots scuffed along, not with the pace of a leisurely stroll, but with the stiff-legged gait of a man wanting to run and trying to hide it.

  Sweat rolled from under his hat, but he didn’t dare take it off. He’d already caught a startled look from a young woman with apricot hair. She’d been lounging on the porch swing of a rambling bungalow about a block behind him.

  He pulled the brim on his Stetson low and glanced behind. Sure enough, she’d followed. She was about a half-block back, her hair looking like it had exploded from her head like shook-up Neff’s Peach Soda. She was just this side of skinny. And he’d bet she was fast. He picked up his pace, hoping to put more distance between them before she realized she’d seen what she’d seen.

  “Jooonathan Vaaan Castle!”

  Too late.

  She shrieked, then shrieked again.

  Shit. It was like the blaring of bugles. Her screech pierced the rattle of air conditioners, stilled the birds, almost tore a crack in the earth. Screen doors banged open. Faces peered out.

  She started running, still hollering. He started running, still sweating. And pretty soon a whole gaggle of women had fallen in with her.

  He darted into an alley, crashed over a picket fence, hugged the side of a house, caught his breath, moved on and pretty much lost himself in the lanes and alleys between the park and the square.

  Finally, a glimpse of green-and-white striped awning oriented him. Sides heaving, he burst onto Main, saw nothing, saw nobody, and bounded across the street toward the church. Running low, darting between trees, he flew up the sweep of steps at the church entrance. The doors were ornately carved, heavy oak—and locked.

  Swearing under his breath, he twisted, just in time to see the redhead and her rabble-rousing crowd—well, really only a half dozen women, but even two was one more than he could handle in this condition —explode from the ice cream parlor. They must have gone in through the rear.

  The apricot head started to swivel his way. With what he thought was admirably fast thinking, he dove over the railing and into a clump of shrubs. Hat askew and flat on his back, he laid perfectly still, mostly because he wasn’t sure he could move. Thirty-five was way too old for this crap.

  The voices faded and he raised his head. The square was empty. No sign of anyone, not even the geezer.

  Jon stood up, swiped his fingers through his hair, and plopped the Stetson back on his head. He didn’t know which way they’d gone, and he didn’t know if he could outrun them again.

  As his heart slowed, his brain kicked back into gear. All he needed to do was call the bus and tell the driver to pick him up.... He pawed at his pants, then dropped his hands and groaned.

  He’d left his damn cell phone back on the bus.

  He needed a phone. He studied his options, which weren’t many. Both the Emporium and Merry-Go-Read had Sorry We’re Closed placards leaning in the windows. In small town fashion, the proprietors had closed for the noon hour. He shuddered at the idea of entering the beauty shop, which left the ice cream parlor and Peg’s diner, both undoubtedly stuffed for lunch.

  He was about to check out another street, when the door to Peg’s arced open.

  A tall, slender girl with short, lemon curls, and a not-so-short, lemon dress, stepped from the cafe. Her gaze focused dead ahead, she neared Merry-Go-Read and pulled out a key.

  While her attention was on the lock, he took a step toward her. A branch snagged his boot. He lurched forward, crashed out of the shrubs, windmilled across the green and caught himself just short of a dive onto Main.

  Her head snapped sideways and she froze.

  No girl, a woman. In her late twenties or early thirties. As their eyes met, the line of a new lyric darted into his brain; it always happened at the damnedest times. China blue eyes… Such a surprise. He steeled himself for a shriek of recognition. Instead, she bent her head to the lock, her movements now frantic.

  A distant voice sounded from Maple Woods Drive. “Back this way!”

  He bounded across the street, straight at the blonde.

  She glanced up, then fumbled some more at the knob. The door swung open.

  The redhead burst into view, head turned away as she shouted over her shoulder. Without missing a beat, he charged into the blonde’s back, shoved her inside, and slammed the door. Chimes jangled.

  The blonde skidded into the bookstore and barely kept her feet. Skirt swirling, she spun around to face him. They stared at each other. She was a looker. No trendsetter, but a looker. The dress was old-fashioned, sleeveless, but even buttoned up to the neck, it didn’t hide her willowy figure. A silhouette of long legs was spoiled only by a pair of flat, brown shoes. Her curls were caught back by a ribbon, not gunked up by mousse. Nothing lined her eyes…china blue eyes…except a fringe of dark lashes and an arc of dark brows. Emotion, not powder, colored her cheekbones. The lack of window-dressing was nice.

  He realized by the widening eyes what she saw. Not Jon Van Castle, a top pick for People’s Sexiest Man Alive, but a long-haired crazy in a clown outfit stained with sweat.

  Looking like she faced a mad dog, she backed up and kept going until her hips bumped the counter at the rear.

  “What do you want?” Her voice was hoarse, but her chin came up.

  He held a finger up and turned away to peek past the edge of faded curtains. The redhead-led crowd milled about in confusion. He locked the door.

  Behind him, a dial tone buzzed. Quiet as a sigh, she’d moved behind th
e counter and picked up a phone.

  He closed the space between them, his boots gunshots on the pocked wood floor. “Don’t.” He made the word more plea than threat. “I only want to use the phone.”

  Some of the color returned to her face, but a vein pulsed in her long neck. Carefully, he placed a hand over hers on the receiver and let a smile renowned for making women swoon spread over his face. He squeezed her fingers. “Please.”

  She moistened her lips. How had he missed the mouth? Rosebud, definitely rosebud. And with those sweet lips parted, she looked…well, not to be immodest, she looked kind of swoony herself. Familiar as it was, that look was something coming from her.

  He looked down at the hand he held. A band wrapped her ring finger. He loosed his grip. That was territory he never wandered into.

  “And the locked door?”

  “A…phobia.”

  She paused, keeping her eyes on his, and wordlessly handed him the receiver. He held onto his smile, still waiting for recognition, some shocked surprise, but she only folded her hands on the counter and waited. Feeling unreasonably irritated, he dropped the smile and reached to punch a number. Then stopped. All he knew were his speed-dial numbers. One for Peter Price. Two for Zeke. And three for Roy. Helluva lot of good that’d do him now. He slammed down the phone.

  The woman paled again. God, she probably thought he was a robber—or worse. “I, uh, changed my mind.” He thought fast before she screamed and bedlam ensued. Last thing he needed was his face splashed all over the National Tattler—again. “I decided to shop.”

  She blinked.

  “Honest,” he added, thinking he might touch her hand, to reassure her, that’s all. When he moved, though, she drew back slowly as if she didn’t want to spook him. Sweet Jesus, there was something about her.

  “Then, may I help you?” Her voice hardly wobbled, and her chin stayed up. He admired her for that.

  He tipped his hat back, tried an I’ll-charm-you grin. “Sorry about shoving you. I stumbled.”