Blue Ridge Hideaway. Cynthia ThomasonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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Dorie’s brother needed that money, so she’d have to convince this ex-cop.…
Bret rubbed his hand over his neck and said, “You have to admit that I’m not responsible for my father’s mistakes.”
“What about the Donovan family honor? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “I think our family honor, if we ever had any, went up in smoke at the craps table in Mountain City. Let me sleep on this. I’m going to try to work something out that’s fair to everyone.”
“So I’m supposed to just go away and come back tomorrow?”
“You don’t have to leave. If you attempt the drive down the mountain in the dark, you could end up wrapped around an oak tree.”
“Okay, I’ll stay. But I’m sleeping with one hand wrapped around my can of Mace.”
Bret placed his hand over his heart. “Ouch.” And then he smiled, and she felt that sense of comfort again. And she didn’t like it all that much. A girl gets to feeling too comfortable with a man, and that’s when her life starts unraveling.
Dear Reader,
Have you ever happened upon a special place, one you knew would stay in your memory forever? I had just such an experience at the Walasi-Yi Outfitters in the north Georgia Blue Ridge Mountains. A rustic building of wood and stone, the campers’ store and refuge was old, solid and welcoming. Its enduring architecture made the structure an integral part of the mountain environment.
I saw many hikers with rugged shoes, hats to shade their faces from the sun, and large backpacks. I also saw dogs with their own packs, slung like saddlebags over their backs.
The store had everything a backpacker could need. Freeze-dried foods, lightweight cooking utensils, sleeping bags, bug spray. Most hikers came for an hour or so and then continued on their way, refreshed and restocked for the rest of the journey.
I longed to place a story in this setting, and Blue Ridge Hideaway provided the perfect opportunity. I hope you will enjoy Bret and Dorie’s journey, and maybe even trek through the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains someday. If you see the Walasi-Yi, stop and visit.
I love to hear from readers. You can contact me at [email protected] or visit my website, www.cynthiathomason.com
Cynthia
Blue Ridge Hideaway
Cynthia Thomason
CYNTHIA THOMASON Cynthia inherited her love of writing from her ancestors. Her father and grandmother both loved to write, and she aspired to continue the legacy. Cynthia studied English and journalism in college, and after a career as a high school English teacher, she began writing novels. She discovered ideas for stories while searching through antiques stores and flea markets and as an auctioneer and estate buyer. Cynthia says every cast-off item from someone’s life can ignite the idea for a plot. She writes about small towns, big hearts and happy endings that are earned and not taken for granted. And as far as the legacy is concerned, just ask her son, the magazine journalist, if he believes.
This book is dedicated to my beloved husband,
Buddy, who walked many trails with me.
I will remember every one.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
“THIS IS IT!”
Dorie slammed on her brakes, bringing her work-weary Ford Ranger to a shuddering halt in the weeds bordering the two-lane North Carolina Route 23. “The place actually exists!”
A shaft of sunlight had managed to spear through the gloom of gray clouds, illuminating an arrow and the words The Crooked Spruce crudely painted on a roadside plaque. Another few minutes and dusk would have settled, making it likely Dorie would have missed the sign altogether.
She turned her wheel sharply to the right, grinding her front tires on the road’s gravel approach. “You’d better be here, Clancy! I didn’t drive all this way to find out I’ve been on a wild-goose chase.”
The sign nailed to a wooden post could have been constructed twenty years ago or only yesterday. The road looked as if it hadn’t been regularly navigated since...well, in a long time.
Dorie tossed aside the penciled map the clerk at the convenience store had scribbled for her twenty minutes and twelve miles ago. He hadn’t been much help, telling her he had seen the name Crooked Spruce on a small sign on a rural highway.
“No kidding, it’s a small sign,” she mumbled, starting the ascent up the mountain. When she’d asked the clerk if he’d ever been curious enough to investigate the place, he’d scratched his chin and told her to come back and tell him when she found out what it was.
Armed with this scant information, Dorie drove under the canopy of tall trees whose bare limbs waited for the first leafy buds of spring. She shivered in the skeletal shadows of branches dripping with the icy remnants of a late-afternoon shower. She’d left the balminess