The Last Bridge Home. Linda Goodnight
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Zak To The Rescue
Doing the right thing always came easily to firefighter Zak Ashford. So he can’t refuse taking in the dying wife he thought divorced him long ago—and watching over her three troubled children. The only person Zak can turn to is his cute neighbor, Jilly Fairmont, who helps him and the children through their loss. And not just because she secretly cares for Zak. Yet it isn’t long before Zak realizes what this honest, compassionate woman means to him, too. Can he convince Jilly that his life would be complete if she agreed to share his future?
Redemption River:
Where healing flows….
“You have a wife. You’re married.”
Zak dropped his arms, shoulders sagging, and on a long sigh said, “Yes. Technically, I guess I am.”
Jilly wondered if God believed in technicalities, but figured now was not the time to ask. Zak was more than freaked out. She gripped his forearm with her fingers. He was trembling. Or was that her?
“I don’t even know where she lives,” he said numbly. “Or what she’s been doing for the past ten years. But it’s obvious she doesn’t have much. She’s broke and sick and alone.”
Compassion, usually welcome, rose in Jilly. As much as she hated saying the words, she forced them out. “She needs your help. You have to give it.”
“I know.” Zak took her hand, a casual gesture, though he’d never done so before. He lifted her fingers one by one, traced a spray of freckles across the back, and then gripped her hand with such force, Jilly knew he was about to say something momentous.…
The Last Bridge Home
Linda Goodnight
So do not throw away your confidence;
it will be richly rewarded. You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what He has promised.
—Hebrews 10:35–36
For Diane in Dallas (You know who you are, girl!), who always reads the ending first
and who can make me laugh with her warm, witty, encouraging emails.
Contents
Chapter One
A guy ought not to look that good in baggy old shorts and a holey T-shirt, but Zak Ashford did.
Jilly Fairmont yanked the rope on the cantankerous lawn mower and tried not to stare at her neighbor, cocked back in his lawn chair, shades in place, taking it easy on a sunny summer Saturday. She was surprised he wasn’t playing baseball.
Yes, she noticed the comings and goings of her single neighbor. They were friends, buddies, pals. If she hollered, he’d come running. If he wanted someone to watch the game with, she’d be there in a flash. Zak didn’t know it, would be shocked to even think it, but his best pal, Jilly, was in hopeless, unrequited love with him.
She yanked the rope again. No luck.
Across the quiet street and the rise of lush green lawn separating her home and his, Zak’s voice called, “Hey, Jilly, need some help?”
No, she needed a new lawn mower. And a life. And she needed to stop mooning over her firefighter neighbor.
“I’m good. Thanks anyway.” She backhanded the sweat from her eyes and yanked once again, muttering words like “trash heap” and “salvage yard” to the old mower. The incantation must have worked because the motor roared to life and shot black smoke and grass flecks from underneath.
With a wave toward Zak, she struck out across the thick, sweet-scented grass just as an unfamiliar car turned down her street.
Certain days in a man’s life should come with warning labels. For Zak Ashford, that particular sunny day turned his world upside down, and nothing—not one single thing—was ever the same again.
He saw the battered old Chevy—a white Cavalier with a dented fender and one brown door—round the corner and rattle down the street in front of his house. Cars came and went. No big deal.
Kicked back in his lawn chair with a cold Pepsi at his side and fantasy baseball on his iPod, he focused on Jilly’s dog of a lawn mower expecting it to wheeze and gasp to a stop at any moment. She’d need him over there pretty quick. Not that he minded. That’s what friends were for.
He set his Pepsi aside ready to jog across the street to Jilly’s just as the Cavalier chugged up the slight incline of his driveway, shuddered a couple of times and died. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, leaned forward in the chair and squinted.
“Who—”
The driver’s gaunt, pale face turned to stare at him. His belly went south. An electric current zipped from his brain to his nerve endings.
“No way. No possible way,” he was muttering as he slowly rose for a better look. When he did, three small heads popped up from the backseat. Kids. A tiny blonde girl and two boys with dark hair. Not one of them had a child safety seat.
The adrenaline jacking through his blood centered on that one thought. No matter who the driver, she was irresponsible. And she was breaking the law.
The brown door of the white Chevy