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      The daughter of a town marshal, LINDA LAEL MILLER grew up in rural Washington. The self-confessed barn goddess was inspired to pursue a career as an author after an elementary school teacher said the stories she was writing might be good enough to be published.

      Linda broke into publishing in the early 1980s. She is now the New York Times bestselling author of more than sixty contemporary, romantic suspense and historical novels, including McKettrick’s Choice, The Man from Stone Creek and Deadly Gamble. When not writing, Linda enjoys riding her horses and playing with her cats and dogs. Through her Linda Lael Miller Scholarships for Women, she provides grants to women who seek to improve their lot in life through education.

      For more information about Linda, her scholarships and her novels, visit www.lindalaelmiller.com.

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      For Karen Beaty, with love.

      Dear Reader,

      It is my joy and pleasure to welcome you back to Stone Creek, Arizona, the town I originally created for The Man from Stone Creek. To think I thought it would be a one-time visit when I wrote that first book

      The saga continues with At Home in Stone Creek, a wintry story in which you will renew your acquaintance with all these contemporary characters and get to know Ashley O’Ballivan, Brad and Olivia’s sister, and her mysterious, now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t man, Jack McCall. Is that even his real name? Hard to tell, with a man like Jack.

      I hope you’ll enjoy this latest O’Ballivan adventure, and there’s at least one more in the works, Return to Stone Creek, starring Ashley’s twin sister, Melissa, and linking the O’Ballivans with yet another of my favorite families, the Creeds.

      With love,

       Linda

      Chapter One

      Ashley O’Ballivan dropped the last string of Christmas lights into a plastic storage container, resisting an uncharacteristic urge to kick the thing into the corner of the attic instead of stacking it with the others. For her, the holidays had been anything but merry and bright; in fact, the whole year had basically sucked. But for her brother, Brad, and sister Olivia, it qualified as a personal best—both of them were happily married. Even her workaholic twin, Melissa, had had a date for New Year’s Eve.

      Ashley, on the other hand, had spent the night alone, sipping nonalcoholic wine in front of the portable TV set in her study, waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square.

      How lame was that?

      It was worse than lame—it was pathetic.

      She wasn’t even thirty yet, and she was well on her way to old age.

      With a sigh, Ashley turned from the dusty hodgepodge surrounding her—she went all out, at the Mountain View Bed and Breakfast, for every red-letter day on the calendar—and headed for the attic stairs. As she reached the bottom, stepping into the corridor just off the kitchen, a familiar car horn sounded from the driveway in front of the detached garage. It could only be Olivia’s ancient Suburban.

      Ashley had mixed feelings as she hoisted the ladder-steep steps back up into the ceiling. She loved her older sister dearly and was delighted that Olivia had found true love with Tanner Quinn, but since their mother’s funeral a few months before, there had been a strain between them.

      Neither Brad nor Olivia nor Melissa had shed a single tear for Delia O’Ballivan—not during the church service or the graveside ceremony or the wake. Okay, so there wasn’t a greeting card category for the kind of mother Delia had been—she’d deserted the family long ago, and gradually destroyed herself through a long series of tragically bad choices. For all that, she’d still been the woman who had given birth to them all.

      Didn’t that count for something?

      A rap sounded at the back door, as distinctive as the car horn, and Olivia’s glowing, pregnancy-rounded face filled one of the frost-trimmed panes in the window.

      Oddly self-conscious in her jeans and T-shirt and an ancient flannel shirt from the back of her closet, Ashley mouthed, “It’s not locked.”

      Beaming, Olivia opened the door and waddled across the threshold. She was due to deliver her and Tanner’s first child in a matter of days, if not hours, and from the looks of her, Ashley surmised she was carrying either quadruplets or a Sumo wrestler.

      “You know you don’t have to knock,” Ashley said, keeping her distance.

      Olivia smiled, a bit wistfully it seemed to Ashley, and opened their grandfather Big John’s old barn coat to reveal a small white cat with one blue eye and one