Dedication

       This book is for Sunny.

       7/28/49–1/1/05

      Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man whose sin the Lord does not count against him and in whose spirit is no deceit.

      —Psalms 32:1–2

      Acknowledgments

      I owe my gratitude to so many who impacted this project, whether they knew it or not.

      To my Crossroads Church family in Newnan, Georgia, (especially the Williams/Worhola/Zauner Community Group) where “Being and Building Disciples of Christ” is a way of life.

      To the readers who gave me so much positive feedback on Hearts in Bloom and encouraged me to take the faith in my writing to a deeper level.

      To my daughter, Maegan, my sunshine.

      To my son, Paul, for planting a seed that grew into the character of Luke Dawson.

      To my darlin’ Michael—you make it all worthwhile.

      And to three incredible women who prove it’s never too late to become biker babes. My amazing sister Pam Hruza has never let me down, not even once. My gifted critique partner, Silhouette author Dianna Love Snell, makes me a better writer. And my precious friend Sunny Rigsby inspired me with her “Ride it like you stole it!” enthusiasm for life.

      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

      Letter to Reader

      Chapter One

      Claire Savage gripped the wooden knob of the stick shift and dropped the limited-edition pink pony into low gear for the steep climb up the bridge that spanned the Houston ship channel. On a Saturday morning when the worst driving hazard should have been glare from the relentless Texas summer sun, something just beyond the crest of the high, arching bridge interrupted the progress of weekend traffic.

      As a chain reaction of red taillights flashed, she jammed a foot on the brake of her 1967 coupe. Her gaze flew to the rearview mirror and she pleaded aloud with the truck on her tail not to collide with the recently rechromed bumper. The driver struggled but managed to control his heavy-duty pickup and the fully rigged boat that fishtailed behind him. Within moments, everything ground to a standstill.

      Claire switched off the finicky air conditioner and cranked the window down. She pumped the clutch with her left foot and accelerated with her right as the traffic crept forward, inching up the sharp incline along with the other vehicles. Rubberneckers turned their heads to catch a glimpse of the nuisance that dared to delay their interstate progress.

      Curious like everybody else, she sat tall in the seat and craned her neck to see beyond the sedan in front. When a long-legged, yellow Lab pup lumbered between the cars up ahead, her hand flew to her face to cover the gasp that escaped her mouth.

      Horns blared and the bewildered animal darted in one direction, then another. Panic ballooned in Claire’s chest for the poor dog that was surely moments from tragedy. She punched the emergency flashers, shifted the manual transmission into neutral and pulled the hand brake. As she reached for the door handle, another flash of movement caught her eye.

      A male figure in faded jeans and a black T-shirt wove between the vehicles, alternately appealing to the dog and then waving thanks to the drivers for their patience. The scene was as charming and heroic as it was dangerous and foolhardy.

      Who was she calling foolhardy?

      Her hand was still poised to push the door open so she could call the dog to safety herself. Beaten to the punch, she breathed a sigh of relief.

      Three foster pets at one time were enough. She needed to find permanent homes for Buck, Tripod and R.C. before she took in any more animals.

      God’s grace was clearly with the Good Samaritan as the otherwise aggressive Houston drivers became amazingly cooperative with the rescue attempt. Claire’s heart melted over the loving way he coaxed the terrified Lab, now paralyzed with fear.

      “Come here, buddy,” the man urged, as he crept closer. “It’s okay, Luke’s gonna take good care of you.”

      Shuddering from head to tail, the pup cowered on the hot pavement and hung his chin. He flinched the moment a gentle hand made contact with his dirty coat, but then lifted huge, pleading eyes in gratitude. The man squatted, scooped the dog into his long arms and held it securely to his chest.

      Claire swallowed the lump in her throat, thinking of the lost sheep parable. But the thought was immediately erased when the man turned about-face to carry the dog away from the traffic. She was glad for the dark shades over her wide eyes as she studied him.

      Where his face was Bruce Willis attractive, the flesh on the left side of his neck, from his jawbone to the collar of his shirt, bore an angry scar.

      She sucked in her breath, ashamed to be staring.

      “Thanks, everybody,” he called but seemed to avoid any particular eye contact.

      “God bless you for what you just did,” she said aloud, though he was out of earshot.

      As traffic began to inch forward, she kept an eye on his progress until he made it to the side of the bridge, where she lost sight of him.

      Savage