Logan's Child. Lenora Worth
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Trixie knew she couldn’t hide from the truth forever.
Even though no one, absolutely no one, in Dallas knew about the baby, Trixie knew in her heart, knew in her soul, that somewhere out there she had a child.
It was her great secret, her great burden to bear. She had yet to forgive herself for her one youthful indiscretion, or for allowing those around her to force her to send her child away.
Sometimes she lay awake at night, asking God to help her bear the sorrow of her secret.
Did God ever hear her pleas? Could she ever be whole again?
Tomorrow she would face her past. Face the man she had loved so fiercely.
And Trixie desperately wished she could turn back time…
LENORA WORTH
grew up in a small Georgia town and decided in the fourth grade that she wanted to write. But first, she married her high school sweetheart, then moved to Atlanta, Georgia. Taking care of their baby daughter at home while her husband worked at night, Lenora discovered the world of romance novels and knew that’s what she wanted to write. And so she began.
A few years later, the family settled in Shreveport, Louisiana, where Lenora continued to write while working as a marketing assistant. After the birth of her second child, a boy, she decided to pursue full time her dream of writing. In 1993, Lenora’s hard work and determination finally paid off with that first sale.
“I never gave up, and I believe my faith in God helped get me through the rough times when I doubted myself,” Lenora says. “Each time I start a new book, I say a prayer, asking God to give me the strength and direction to put the words to paper. That’s why I’m so thrilled to be a part of Steeple Hill’s Love Inspired line, where I get to combine my faith in God with my love of romance. It’s the best combination.”
Logan’s Child
Lenora Worth
Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy.
He who continually goes forth weeping, bearing seed for sowing, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.
—Psalm 126:5-6
For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
—Psalm 30:5
To my best friend and neighbor, Cindy Sledge, my own “Pig Pal.” And to all the mothers who love their children, even when they can’t be with them. You are not forgotten.
A hot, humid September wind whipped across the flat countryside as mourners dressed in fashionable funeral black filed out of the small country church just outside Plano, Texas. Mingling together beside the expensive sports cars and chauffeur-driven limousines lining the graveled driveway, the elite crowd talked in hushed, respectful tones.
Tricia Maria Dunaway looked around at the cream of Dallas society, here to say their final farewells to her father, the famous bull rider, Brant Dunaway. Her mind was numb with grief and shock; her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses that did little to relieve the harsh glare of the bright Texas sun. Beside her, her fiance Radford Randolph III, looking as dapper as always in his dark navy summer suit, stood with one arm solicitously touching her elbow.
“C’mon, honey,” her grandfather, Harlan Dunaway, said, his usually firm voice shaky. “We’ve got to get back to the Hideaway. People’ll be coming around to pay their respects and it’s up to us to be there to greet them.”
Her mother, Pamela, pale and dark-haired, elegant and slender, in a black linen sheath and cultured pearls, nodded her agreement. “Granddaddy’s right, Trixie. We wouldn’t want to be rude to all these good people who came to your daddy’s funeral.”
Trixie looked straight ahead. “No, Mama, Dunaways can’t ever be rude, can we? I mean, what would people think?”
Pamela’s brown eyes held a glint as cold and hardedged as the huge marquis diamond in her necklace. “I’m going to ignore that remark, Tricia Maria, only because I know losing your father has been a great strain on you.”
With a halfhearted effort, Trixie reached up