A Home for Christmas

Other Bell Bridge Books titles by the author:

ONLY YOU, Book One, The Angel Ridge Series

Visit Deborah Grace Staley at deborahgracestaley.com

A Home for Christmas

By

Deborah Grace Staley

Bell Bridge Books

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 30921
Memphis, TN 38130

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2004 by Deborah Grace Staley

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 permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

A mass market edition of this book was published by Echelon Press Publishing in 2004

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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Cover photo credits:
Winter trees - © Chee-onn Leong | Dreamstime
Ornament - ©
Photowitch
| Dreamstime.com
House - © Steve Holsderfield | Dreamstime.com
Texture - © Peter Zaharov | Dreamstime.com

:Mz:01:

Dedication

For my husband, Fred Staley,

whose love has given my heart a home.

Acknowledgments

To my girlfriends who keep me sane and grounded: Charis Wolfe, Janene Satterfield, Kim Thompson, Beth Catchot, Beth Eason, Patty Harrison, and Teressa Gregory. I don't know what I'd do without you! For Susan Sipal. Your vision and focus make the stories so much stronger. You're the best! For Ruth and Keith Law, my thanks for allowing Blake to live in your house. Last, but certainly not least, for the readers who have embraced this series, your enthusiasm keeps me writing.

Welcome

Hi, y'all. Excuse me a sec, would ya?

“Hey, boys. Come on in and have a seat. I'll be right with you.”

“No hurry, Dix. Take your time.”

Sorry about that. Lunchtime's busy around here, but I've always got time for you newcomers, and you return visitors, too. Welcome to Angel Ridge! Dixie Ferguson's the name. As you can see, I run Ferguson's Diner. You won't find better food or service in any fancy-schmancy restaurant you'd care to compare us with. I hear tell folks pay good money for insects, toads, and crawdads in some of them places. Crazy. Anyway, let me tell you a bit about the place I've called home for most of my life.

Angel Ridge. Population three hundred forty-three—soon to be three hundred forty-
four
seein' as how Sally Crawford's expectin' any day now. Yeah, Angel Ridge is a fine place to put down roots and raise a family.

It was established along the Little Tennessee River in 1785. In the early days, its first families—the McKays, the Wallaces, the Houstons, the Jonses, and the Craigs—built plantations along the river. Well, all except for the Craigs. They were traders and craftsmen. Men of commerce, if you will. Meanwhile, the town developed above the river on a high ridge.

In the early 1970s, the Flood Control Board bought up all the property along the river so they could put in a dam. Some folks say they was forced out of their homes, and I guess they were. So those rich folks down in the valley moved up to the ridge with everyone else. Course they built elaborate Victorian mansions such as this quaint little town had never seen. Stick out like a sore thumb if you ask me, but I digress.

Most of the families I mentioned earlier are still around. You'll recognize their names on the businesses along Main Street. These folks are hardy people. Why, in all the time they've lived here, they've endured Indian attacks, floods, divided loyalties in the Civil War, and yes, even feuds. The older folks are still marked by the hardships of the past. I suppose you could call 'em old-fashioned, but don’t count my generation out. We're makin' our mark, too. We can respect the past, but you know, we gotta make our own way in this old town.

Well, enough with the history lesson. I don't want to bore you and I can see you're anxious to get on with your visit. You've picked a fine time to visit our town. Christmastime . . .  I just love it. We dress everything up with real greenery here. No shiny tinsel-shaped bells or flashing snowflakes hanging from our lampposts. Our gas-burning street lamps decorated with red velvet bows from the town florist do just fine.

If you want to see displays of the electric variety, several of the old Victorians up on Ridge Road really do it up right. Particularly my brother's, Blake Ferguson's place. Not that I'm prejudiced or anything.

Ah, yes. This is what you could call an enchanted time in Angel Ridge. A time of miracles. It's also when folks feel loss and loneliness more than any other time of the year.

I guess you could say this is a story about loneliness and figuring out where you belong. A heartwarming story about a hometown boy and a city girl. Yep, I've got a feelin' that this year a couple of lonely hearts will find something they've been waitin' a long time for. Who knows? If they open themselves up to the magic of Christmas and our resident angels, their hearts might just find a home.

So have yourself a cup of cheer, sit back, and enjoy your time in Angel Ridge.

Chapter 1

They say you can never go home.

Janice Thornton glided up to the curb in front of the old two-story Victorian and killed the engine. It looked much the same—gingerbread trim in the eaves, wide wraparound porch with wicker furniture. The house was huge, but in the short time she'd spent here as a child, it had felt cozy to her.

Sitting here looking at it through adult eyes, she realized the appeal had never been the house itself, but the home her grandparents had made in it. Their house had been her ideal of what a home should be. A home she'd longed for as a child. A home she'd never had with her own parents.

Janice slid her sunglasses off and laid them in the empty passenger seat next to her. She always got sentimental around the holidays. She didn't know why. Her formative years had been spent at exclusive boarding schools. Christmases always involved a trip, either with her parents, or more often, with school friends. Each year, her grandmother had invited her to spend Christmas break in Angel Ridge, but her mother wouldn't hear of such a thing. She'd always been embarrassed by her humble roots and didn't want her daughter revisiting them.

Janice hadn't been in Angel Ridge, Tennessee since she'd gone behind her parents' backs and borrowed a friend's car when she was sixteen to come during her spring break. It hadn't changed much. Tall, old houses lined one side of a street that ran high above the Tellassee River, with church steeples just visible a few blocks over. It was a sleepy little town that time seemed to have forgotten, but for some reason, it burned in Janice's memory like a warm, inviting fire on a cold winter morning.

A movement in her peripheral vision made her refocus on the old Victorian. She noticed that a man had appeared from behind the house carrying a ladder. The sun glinted off a pile of tangled Christmas lights, bunched near the steps of the porch, drawing her attention. Janice smiled. She was glad to see that this man, whoever he was, continued her grandfather's tradition of decking the house out in grand style for Christmas.

The man leaned the ladder against the house. As he turned toward the mound of lights, he noticed her and smiled. Her breath caught and hung inside her chest. It was an easy smile, full of good humor that enticed a person to come sit a spell on the porch and enjoy the unseasonably warm, late autumn sunshine.

Tall and lean with whipcord muscles, he wore faded and well-worn jeans with a T-shirt that looked like it had once been black, but now was more a soft charcoal dotted with paint stains. A tan leather tool belt slung low across his narrow hips. A lock of thick, dark hair fell across his tanned forehead as he bent to retrieve the lights.

Janice shifted and the leather seat creaked. A sheen of sweat misted her forehead, and she cracked the window.

What must the home's owner be thinking? But he acted as if seeing a strange woman in a new, silver BMW parked outside his house was an every Saturday morning occurrence. He turned, and without giving her a second glance, started up the ladder. Stopping about eight rungs up, he leaned to his right, toward one of the bay windows on the ground floor.

Shifting the lights to his other hand, he reached out to pull at something above the window. He teetered. One foot went up in the air as he tried to shift back to find his balance. But the ladder tipped sideways with the movement, and Janice watched in horrified disbelief as he began to fall.

Years of medical school, emergency room rotations, residency, and private practice had honed her instincts so that she didn't even give it a conscious thought. She was out of her car and at his side almost before he hit the boxwoods and rolled to the ground.

“Ah, jeez . . . ” he groaned.

Janice had already clicked into professional mode. “Don't worry, I'm a doctor. Try not to move.” She ran her hands down his arms, checking for broken bones. “Where does it hurt?”

The man chuckled. It was a low rumble that had a crazy effect on her. And that smile . . . it should be registered as a lethal weapon.

“If I said everywhere, would you keep doing that?”