The Prodigal's Return. Lynn Bulock
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“Do you want to pray about this, Tripp?”
It wasn’t what Laurel intended to ask, but it just popped out.
“Not really. I’m sure God has better things to do than to handle my petty problems. Especially when I’m capable of handling them all by myself.”
“Oh, right. Your idea of handling this is rushing off to St. Louis, locking Ashleigh in a tower like Rapunzel.”
“Put that way, it does sound a bit rough. But she’s my little girl.”
“And she needs reminding of that. Gently, from a loving father. Do you want company?”
“Maybe I do. I’m out of my depth here. Maybe you can stop me from saying anything I’ll regret.”
“I can try. But I won’t make any promises. I’ve already seen you in action, Sheriff Jordan, and I can’t imagine you’re easy to stop in any situation.”
He tipped his hat up with one finger. “Some day we’ll have to test that theory.”
LYNN BULOCK
lives in Thousand Oaks, California, with her husband and two sons, a dog and a cat. She has been telling stories since she could talk and writing them down since fourth grade. She is the author of nine contemporary romance novels.
The Prodigal’s Return
Lynn Bulock
MILLS & BOON
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Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.
—Philippians 4:6–7
To Joe, always,
and
To my “other mother,” Louise Bulock:
I don’t think I could have
done this one without you.
Contents
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
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Chapter One
“Ring, already,” Laurel Harrison told her silent phone. It was only nine in the morning in her cheery yellow kitchen in California, but that didn’t matter.
What mattered was that it was already eleven in Missouri. This was the information age, wasn’t it? So where was her information? She wanted the news from home and she wanted it now. Or maybe even ten minutes ago. That fit with her L.A. lifestyle.
She took a sip of coffee and made a face no one saw. Her latte had gotten cold. She’d already stuck it in the microwave once, so that wasn’t an option. She stood in the middle of her beautiful kitchen and tapped one foot, thinking.
Going to the freezer in the built-in, side-by-side refrigerator, she found the bag of coffee ice cubes. She knew without even wondering that no one else in her family kept ice cubes made of decaf espresso in the freezer. It just wasn’t the kind of thing one did in Missouri. And right this moment it seemed a little odd to her, too.
Shrugging off her discomfort, she took the bag of ice cubes over to the mini-bar between the family room and kitchen. Other houses in the neighborhood had a full-fledged wine bar there, or a cocktail island. Laurel had a coffee bar to rival those of the professionals. She poured her cooling drink and a generous portion of the ice cubes into the blender, put on the lid, and turned the appliance on.
As she poured the frozen concoction out of the blender a moment later, she looked up at the framed poster over the mini-bar. It was from the theater release of what had been Sam’s last movie. Somehow it seemed fitting that she needed to dust the glass.
“This just isn’t home anymore, Sam,” she said softly. Not for her, anyway. When Sam was alive this had been home. This morning it didn’t feel like anything but a house. Her elegant surroundings looked almost foreign to her.
A wave of desire to go home, really home, to Friedens, Missouri, washed over her. Granted, it hadn’t been home in almost seventeen years. But without Sam, Southern California didn’t feel like where she belonged anymore.
If Jeremy walked in on her while she was in this mood, he’d groan. They’d already had this discussion a few times in the past year, and each time Laurel’s feelings got stronger. Without Sam here, California didn’t feel like the place to raise a teenager. But Jeremy’s main argument against the move was that they probably didn’t even have skateboards in Missouri.
Not that she could argue with him much. They hadn’t seen many skateboards when they’d gone back to Friedens for her dad’s wedding. Was that really only six weeks ago? Laurel marveled at how her life had changed again in that amount of time.
When she’d gone back to California after the wedding, she’d managed to convince herself that maybe she did belong here, after all. Maybe Jeremy’s argument that he should go to high school here, with his friends at Westlake, made sense, and she could postpone moving until he was in college.
Instead, God trailed his fingers through her well-ordered life and stirred things up. In the course of half a day, her new direction was clear and obvious. Did the Holy Spirit make person-to-person telephone calls? Until this week, Laurel would have said no. Now she was pretty confident the answer was yes.
Deciding to do something practical while she waited for the phone to ring, Laurel got a clean cotton towel from the kitchen and dusted the poster frame and glass. The small date down in the corner, from two years earlier, still didn’t look right. It was hard to believe Sam had been gone for 18 months, too sick to work on screenplays for half a year before that.
If she needed a reminder, there was his computer. It sat silent these days, except for Jeremy’s e-mail and video games. She and Jeremy were the lone occupants of this house that was far too big and grand for just the two of them.
Usually mornings found her sitting at the breakfast bar making lists over a cup of coffee. Her silly coffee was her one indulgence. She wanted