A Place to Call Home. Kathryn Springer
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Two weeks, he reminded himself. For O’Halloran Security, he could put up with anything.
Even Abby Porter’s smile.
Quinn paused, silently judging the distance between the buildings before cataloging everything else around him. The lodge. The cabins. The boathouse. Even the trees. It gave him an immediate sense of what fit so he would instantly know if something didn’t.
So far, the only thing that didn’t quite fit was Abby’s reaction to him.
She got as tense as a new bowstring if he got too close.
Her bright smile and unexpected sense of humor rose easily to the surface, but several times during the tour Quinn had sensed her retreating within herself. And the flash of panic in her eyes when he’d told her that he planned to stay on-site had bothered him, too. For a split second, she’d seemed…afraid.
Or was he imagining things?
KATHRYN SPRINGER
is a lifelong Wisconsin resident. Growing up in a “newspaper” family, she spent long hours as a child plunking out stories on her mother’s typewriter and hasn’t stopped writing since! She loves to write inspirational romance because it allows her to combine her faith in God with her love of a happy ending.
A Place to Call Home
Kathryn Springer
MILLS & BOON
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I sought the Lord, and he answered me;
he delivered me from all my fears.
Those who look to him are radiant;
their faces are never covered with shame.
—Psalms 34: 4, 5
To Anna
Because I have no doubt there will come a day
when you dedicate a book to me! Remember,
“He who began a good work in you will carry
it on to completion.” That’s a promise!
Contents
Prologue
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
Questions for Discussion
Prologue
“Quinn? There’s a headache waiting for you on line two.”
Ignoring the phone, Quinn O’Halloran shot a wry look at his secretary and reached for the cup of coffee he’d poured over an hour ago instead.
“Mel Burdock,” he guessed.
Faye McAllister shook her head. The movement sent the slender gold chains on her bifocals dancing. “No, Burdock’s more like the tension headache that climbs up the back of your neck and camps out in your temples. This guy—instant migraine.”
“Feel free to correct me on this, but I thought I hired you to intercept the migraines.”
“You did. But this is the third time today I’ve intercepted this particular one.” Faye aimed a scowl at the phone. “When I told Mr. High and Mighty that your policy is to return phone calls between four and five o’clock, he didn’t seem to think it applied to him. He insists on talking directly to you but won’t say what he wants. And—” another scowl “—he refused to tell me his name. Must be from out of town.”
Quinn suppressed a smile. Faye took pride in her ability to deal with anyone who walked through the door of O’Halloran Security. It was one of the reasons he’d hired her. Quinn preferred to work behind the scenes and let Faye handle the customers. Those she didn’t manage to scare away usually ended up signing a contract.
Glancing at the clock, he mentally scrolled through the rest of his afternoon schedule. If he ate lunch in his truck on the way to Mel’s, it would give him an extra five minutes to deal with the anonymous headache on the line.
“I’ll take it in my office.”
“I’m sorry.” Faye huffed the words. “If I let a salesman get through, I’ll bring in doughnuts tomorrow morning.”
Quinn grinned. “Are you kidding? If you let a salesman through, you’ll bring in doughnuts for the next month.”
After topping off his cup, Quinn followed the worn path down the center of the carpet to the oversize closet in the back of the building that doubled as his office. The red light on his desk phone continued to blink out a warning. A testimony to the caller’s patience. Or stubbornness.
With a shake of his head, he picked it up. “O’Halloran.”
“It’s about time,” a voice snapped.
Faye was right. Instant migraine.
“Good morning, Mr.—”
“Alex Porter.” There was a significant pause, as if he expected Quinn to recognize the name. “Porter Hotels.”
Now Quinn recognized the name.
The deluxe hotels had their roots in Chicago, where Quinn had lived for eight years before returning to Mirror Lake, Wisconsin. Under Alex Porter’s management, offshoots now sprouted in other major Midwestern cities. Not only did they successfully compete against the larger, well-known chains, but the fact that Porter Hotels remained a family-run enterprise made it even more unique.
“What can I do for—”
“I want to hire you.”
Quinn let out a slow breath. No wonder the guy had raised Faye’s hackles. Everything Alex Porter said came out sounding like a command instead of a request. As if he expected his name would open doors that were closed to mere mortals.
The trouble was, Quinn thought with a trace of bitterness, it probably