Chapter One

      Jordan Conley’s phone rang for the third time in as many minutes. She gave her horse Bartlet one last scratch on the neck and nudged him out of the way. “Sorry, old boy. Three calls in a row is a distress signal.”

      She tossed the curry comb into the pail next to the stall and dug her phone out of her back pocket. It was her twin sister. “Claire?”

      “Oh, thank God you answered.”

      Jordan could hear the newest baby, the one they called Sweetness, screaming in the background. “What’s up?”

      “Sweetness has a double ear infection. And the principal at Kiera’s school called. She punched a girl in last period and they won’t put her on the bus. I have to pick her up right now.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      Claire sighed. “I just got a call from the county. They need someone to pick up a three-year-old boy at the hospital. I told them twice we couldn’t do it. They just called again and said they’re going to have to keep him at the office tonight if we can’t take him.”

      “Where do I pick him up?” Already Jordan’s mind was sifting through what she needed to do to make it happen. She didn’t have time for this. Of course she didn’t. She could barely manage the horses’ upkeep much less build her therapy practice, but there was a three-year-old in a hospital with no one.

      She had a therapy session at five she could postpone. Opening the door to the tack room, she grabbed a toddler car seat from the storage closet, hauling it out the door of the barn before heading into the big house, where Claire and Joe lived with their—at least for the moment—eight kids.

      A shuffling pause and Claire was back. “Sorry. He’s in Mobile in the Children’s Unit. The resource manager said he was hurt pretty bad but didn’t give me any details. No, Georgia, no Cheerios in your ears. Anyway, I don’t know what you’re going to find when you get there.”

      Jordan rummaged through a stack of children’s pajamas and pulled out trains in a size 3T and rocket ships in 2T. She shoved them in a spare diaper bag and grabbed a couple of diapers out of a basket labeled fives. “So basically, it’s situation normal.”

      “Basically. Okay, I just pulled in at the school. I’ve gotta go. Thanks, Jordan.”

      Even before her sister hung up the phone, Jordan was zipping up the diaper bag. She grabbed an apple on the way out the back door and tossed the diaper bag into the front seat of her old truck. The car seat, with its many hooks and straps, went into the back seat.

      She’d learned a lot of new skills since she and Claire started fostering. Things like the temperature a bottle needed to be and that all diapers weren’t created equal. That little boys didn’t really care how shoes looked, only that they were “fast.”

      She’d learned that she’d never met a night terror she didn’t hate. And kids who had been through what their kids had been through were rightly scared of the dark. She learned that parenting, especially foster parenting, was exhausting, exhilarating and humbling.

      When Claire and Joe got married and Joe and his daughter moved into the big renovated plantation house, Jordan had moved to Joe’s cabin on the other side of Red Hill Farm, which she and Claire had inherited from their biological father. This setup actually worked better for her, since she was working to build her equine therapy practice, Horses, Hope and Healing. But still, with eight kids, there was always a baby to feed, homework to help with, hair to be fixed.

      Her phone buzzed again. A text from Claire.

      Forgot to tell you the caseworker is meeting you at the hospital with the paperwork. Baby’s name is Levi Wheeler.

      Yes, a name was kind of important.

      Ash is on his way, too. We were in his office when we got the call.

      Her heart stopped beating for an almost imperceptible second. Ash was the town pediatrician and her brother-in-law. And he was the most perfect human being she had ever met. She wasn’t even sure she liked him because when it came to Ash, she turned into a klutzy teenager every time she got close to him. As if going through that stage once wasn’t enough.

      She pulled out of the driveway onto the highway and began to pray, one of those new skills she’d acquired. The children who came to live at Red Hill Farm brought heartbreak and grief and trauma. Since she couldn’t take it away from them, the only alternative was to walk through it with them, and to do that, she needed Jesus. That had become abundantly clear very quickly.

      Surround that little boy with Your peace, Lord. Heal his wounds, body and spirit. Let him never feel ashamed for what others did to him. Let him never feel unloved, unwanted, unworthy. He is Your child, Lord. Yours. Give me the strength and courage to be Your body, Your welcoming arms, for this child.

      There were other things that were hard, but the prayers came easy.

      At the hospital she walked through the doors, looking for the information desk, and ran into Ash. Her bags went flying, arms flailing.

      When he put his arms out to steady her, her heart started thumping in her chest. He had on a pale blue pinpoint oxford cloth shirt and a crisp white lab coat with his name embroidered on the pocket. Ashley Sheehan, MD.

      “You okay?” His summer-sky eyes were concerned.

      “Fine, thanks.” She realized she had the lapels of his formerly pristine lab coat fisted in her hands and loosened her grip with a wince. “Sorry.”

      Jordan took a step away from him and brushed off her jeans, noticing a brown smudge that she really hoped was just dirt. No wonder Ash didn’t see her as dating material. The supermodel types he went out with wouldn’t be caught dead wearing horse poop. Laughing at herself now, she leaned down to collect her stuff. “Have you seen our little patient yet?”

      “Not yet. I was waiting for you. He’s in room 314.”

      The caseworker, Reesa, a petite woman with a riot of lavender curls, was waiting for them as they got off the elevator on the third floor. “Hey, guys, they’re about to discharge Levi. He’s been treated for chemical burns, tape burns, neglect. Cops called us when they picked up the parents for cooking meth.”

      Jordan’s eyes stung. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of the caseworker—not in front of Ash—but already she wanted to weep. “He’s three? Any family?”

      Reesa started down the hall. “Not that anyone is willing to tell us about, so there won’t be any visits, at least for now. I’ll let you know if that changes. And yes, he’s three, but he’s small. He’s also