“You want to see how he is, don’t you?”

      That was certainly true. Julia hadn’t climbed down the ravine, had the wind knocked out of her and taken an unplanned mud bath just to have Cameron die on her. She went to the back of the ambulance and took the paramedic’s proffered hand. He helped her inside and returned to work, adjusting gauges and checking IV lines.

      Cameron lay on the stretcher. She took a few awkward steps toward him in the confined space. He tried lifting his head, but his movements were limited by a restrictive collar. Nevertheless, he smiled. That same devastating smile she remembered shining on her from the podium of a Riverton College classroom, not even diminished now by a background of nasty lacerations.

      The medic pointed to Julia. “Professor, meet Miss Julia Sommerville, one-woman mountain rescue team.”

      “Actually, we’ve met before.” He stared intently at her before adding, “Moon Pie?”

      Dear Reader,

      Hopefully once in a lifetime each of us will find a place that feels like home even when it isn’t. The Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina have been the home of my heart since I first visited there thirty-five years ago. That’s why I had to write about two characters who find love and happiness in the mystical, magical mountains.

      Julia and Cameron returned to the small valley town of their childhoods for different reasons— Cameron to reconnect with the folklore of the hills, and Julia to lend support to her family after a heartbreaking suicide left them floundering. Neither Cam nor Julia intended to stay. Neither expected this particularly splendid autumn would inspire them with so much pain and so much promise. Tragedy brought them back, but the love of a little girl and each other made them stay.

      I love to hear from readers. You can visit my Web site at www.cynthiathomason.com, e-mail me at [email protected] or write to me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355.

      Cynthia Thomason

      Her Sister’s Child

       Cynthia Thomason

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Cynthia Thomason writes contemporary and historical romances as well as an historical mystery series. She has received the National Readers’ Choice Award, nominations for the Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewers Choice and the Golden Quill. She and her husband own an auction company in Davie, Florida, where she is a licensed auctioneer. They have one son, an entertainment reporter, and a very lovable Jack Russell terrier. Learn more about Cynthia at www.cynthiathomason.com.

      This book is dedicated to my “Buddy”

       of nearly thirty years, who longs, as much as I do, for a waterfall to appear around the next mountain curve.

      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

       PROLOGUE

      THE SOUND of the front door closing roused Tina from a drowsiness brought on by having drunk too much wine. She glanced at the clock by her bed. 2:18 a.m. Wayne had promised to be home by midnight, but Tina had known he wouldn’t be. She reached beside the bed, picked up the bottle she’d set there a few minutes ago and tipped it to her lips. It was the last swallow and it tasted bitter. She dropped the empty to the floor, rolled it under the mattress and heard it clink against the other one she’d hidden there a couple of hours ago so her daughter wouldn’t see it.

      Wayne’s heavy boot connected with the partially opened bedroom door, swinging it wide. He stood a moment, squinting against the soft light of the bedside table. “You still awake?” he asked unnecessarily.

      “You promised you’d be home hours ago,” she said.

      He closed the door, strode awkwardly to the middle of the room. “Don’t start, Tina. I’m beat.” He slipped his T-shirt over his head, tossed it onto a chair and unzipped his jeans.

      “Where have you been?” she asked, knowing she wouldn’t believe the answer.

      “I told you. I met my brother at the pool hall. We had some wings, played a few games.”

      “Until two o’clock in the morning?”

      “Yeah, until then.” He stepped out of the jeans and threw them on top of the shirt. She caught a whiff of something floral and cloying.

      “Daryl sure smells good these days,” Tina said.

      Wayne crawled between the sheets. “I’m going to ignore that. There were women at the bar.”

      “I want you to tell me where you’ve really been all this time.”

      He rolled onto his side. “Turn out the light.”

      She sat a little straighter, the effects of the wine making her dizzy and nauseous. But she couldn’t give in now. All evening she’d planned this confrontation. No, she’d planned it for weeks and tonight it was going to happen. She jostled his shoulder. “Wayne, we need to talk.”

      He tensed, but didn’t turn toward her. “Fine. You talk. But I’m going to sleep.”

      A single tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away. “I’m miserably unhappy.”

      He yawned. “What else is new?”

      “No, I mean this is serious. I…”

      “Go to sleep, Tina. We’ll talk in the morning.”

      She trapped a sob in her throat. “This can’t wait until morning.”

      “It’s gonna have to.” He punched his pillow hard. Tina flinched. “Now either go to sleep or leave me alone so I can.”

      She waited at least a minute, hoping he would move, say something else, look at her. He didn’t. The clock read 2:22 a.m. when Wayne began snoring.

      Tina got up, smoothed her nightgown down her body with damp palms and went into the bathroom. Grabbing the sink for support, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. When had she grown so old? So sad? So worn-out from the task of living each day?

      She stumbled in bare feet to the living room and took an envelope from the old oak desk scarred with cigarette burns. She’d sealed the envelope a couple of hours ago. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the faint hope that she wouldn’t need the note, that something would happen to change her mind. Foolish hope. That’s all it was. She picked up a pen and wrote “To Wayne,” and leaned the envelope against a picture of her and her daughter on the fireplace mantel.

      She walked into the tiny second bedroom of her run-down cottage and stood by Katie’s bed. The child slept peacefully, unaware of the tears flowing down her mama’s face. Lately, Tina knew, Katie’s dreams had been the only place the little girl found true contentment.