Michael's House (Reunion: Hannah, Michael & Kate #2) Read online

  Startled, Michael straightened, bis attention riveted to the screen.

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Pat Warren

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Startled, Michael straightened, his attention riveted to the screen.

  He saw the photo of the familiar farmhouse, his parents holding hands by the porch, and then the snapshot taken by the barn of the three of them, Michael standing between Hannah and little Katie, with a big sheepdog seated by his feet.

  Rex—the dog’s name had been Rex.

  And then he swallowed down a lump in his throat....

  There she was, a slender, dark-haired woman with dimples as deep as his own. His mother—older, of course, but instantly recognizable. Michael rose to his feet, his heart pounding.

  “They told me you died,” he said aloud to the empty room.

  Dear Reader,

  The weather may be cooling off as fall approaches, but the reading’s as hot as ever here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. And for our lead title this month I’m proud to present the first longer book from reader favorite BJ James. In Broken Spurs she’s created a hero and heroine sure to live in your mind long after you’ve turned the last page.

  Karen Leabo returns with Midnight Confessions, about a bounty hunter whose reward—love—turns out to be far different from what he’d expected. In Bringing Benjy Home, Kylie Brant matches a skeptical man with an intuitive woman, then sets them on the trail of a missing child. Code Name: Daddy is the newest Intimate Moments novel from Marilyn Tracy, who took a break to write for our Shadows line. It’s a unique spin on the ever-popular “secret baby” plotline. And you won’t want to miss Michael’s House, Pat Warren’s newest book for the line and part of her REUNION miniseries, which continues in Special Edition. Finally, in Temporary Family Sally Tyler Hayes creates the family of the title, then has you wishing as hard as they do to make the arrangement permanent.

  Enjoy them all—and don’t forget to come back next month for more of the best romance fiction around, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Leslie Wainger,

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609. Fort Erie. Ont. L2A 5X3

  MICHAEL’S HOUSE

  PAT WARREN

  Books by Pat Warren

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Perfect Strangers #288

  Only the Lonely #605

  *Michael’s House #737

  Silhouette Special Edition

  With This Ring #375

  Final Verdict #410

  Look Homeward, Love #442

  Summer Shadows #458

  The Evolution of Adam #480

  Build Me a Dream #514

  The Long Road Home #548

  The Lyon and the Lamb #582

  My First Love, My Last #610

  Winter Wishes #632

  Tall I Loved You #659

  An Uncommon Love #678

  Under Sunny Skies #731

  That Hathaway Woman #758

  Simply Unforgettable #797

  This I Ask of You #815

  On Her Own #841

  A Bride for Hunter #893

  †Nobody’s Child #974

  *A Home for Hannah #1048

  Silhouette Romance

  Season of the Heart #553

  Silhouette Books

  Montana Mavericks

  Outlaw Lovers #6

  *Reunion

  †Man. Woman and Child

  PAT WARREN, mother of four, lives in Arizona with her travel-agent husband and a lazy white cat. She’s a former newspaper columnist whose lifetime dream was to become a novelist. A strong romantic streak, a sense of humor and a keen interest in developing relationships led her to try romance novels, with which she feels very much at home.

  Prologue

  Michigan

  September 10, 1978

  It’s several weeks since I left the hospital, and I seem no closer to finding my children than I was during the two years I spent as a patient there. Each night, I return to my small apartment to eat alone, to count my meager money supply and to weep. Charles Dutton, the private investigator I hired, has come up empty-handed, as well. But today, he offered me a slim hope—the name of a man who’s been successful in locating children who’ve been kidnapped or otherwise taken from their custodial parent. Mr. Dutton tells me that Sloan Bradford is a little rough around the edges, but what choice do I have? He’s my last chance to find Michael, Hannah and Katie. I plan to look him up tomorrow, and I pray he’s the answer.

  September 12, 1978

  I must finish this quickly, then pack and meet Sloan. We leave for Mexico tonight.

  How I wish it were my three we hope to find south of the border. The man I need to help me has a problem of his own to solve first, and I’ve agreed to assist him. His ex-wife and her latest lover have kidnapped Sloan’s seven-year-old son and he’s learned they’re headed for the rugged mountainous country of Durango, just north of Mazatlán. Sloan is unfamiliar with the area and doesn’t speak the language, but I know both. We’ve made a deal, as he calls it, although he was reluctant to include me, for there is the likelihood of danger. I don’t care about my own safety, for, if I help him, he will put all his efforts into finding my children after our return. He appears to be a man of his word.

  He’s a formidable man — tall, with wide shoulders and piercing blue eyes — and totally focused on bringing back his Christopher. I know just how he feels. Sloan hates needing and accepting help, as do I. But the ends will justify the means: for both of us, I pray. The authorities in Mexico will be even less help than the police locally have been. The mountain people are suspicious and often unfriendly to outsiders. Our mission is not easy.

  I hate to delay the search for my own, but I’ve explored every avenue and been unsuccessful. My only hope lies in this brusque, determined man. I must trust him, despite my misgivings. I will write down my thoughts as frequently as I’m able.

  May God go with us.

  Chapter 1

  San Diego, California

  December 1995

  He was winded from his run, and thirsty. Michael followed his white sheepdog, King, inside, bumped the door shut with his hip, grabbed a bottle of crystal-clear water from the fridge and took it into the living room at the back of the house. The windows that looked out on the Pacific Ocean drew him, as always. He drank deeply, then drank in the view.

  Flopping into his favorite easy chair, he glanced at his watch. He had time before his shower to relax a bit. A note propped on the end table caught his attention. He picked up the single white sheet and read the brief message.

  “I taped a segment of an important show for you. Watch it before I get home. I know you’ll want to talk about it then. I love you.”

  Michael smiled. She was always doing little things like that, surprising him with one of his favorite golden-oldie movies, searching out a special bottle of wine, taping a sticky note to his shaving mirror if she left the house first. It was only one of the many reasons he lov
ed her.

  King ambled in and lay down by the hearth to rest after their run. Another long swallow of the cooling liquid, then Michael reached for the remote and clicked on the largescreen television at the far end of the room. Selecting Play, he started the tape.

  He’d seen the television show before: “Solutions.” It was one of those that encouraged the viewing audience to call in if they had any information on reenacted crimes they presented or if they could help reunite families torn apart by a variety of circumstances. The filmed segment, according to the debonair host, was about a search for three siblings who’d been separated over twenty years ago.

  Leaning his head back, Michael took another drink as the voice informed the audience that Child Protective Services had taken the children from their farm home in Frankenmuth, Michigan, after their father had been killed in an accident and their mother had to be hospitalized due to a life-threatening illness. Startled, Michael straightened, his attention riveted on the screen.

  He saw the photo of the familiar farmhouse, his parents holding hands by the porch, and then the snapshot taken by the barn of the three of them, Michael standing between Hannah and little Katie, with a big sheepdog seated by his feet. Rex. The dog’s name had been Rex. Swallowing down a sudden lump in his throat, he wondered who had brought this to the attention of the show’s producers.

  Then she was there, a slender, dark-haired woman with dimples as deep as his own. His mother—older, of course, but immediately recognizable. Michael rose to his feet, his heart pounding. “They told me you died,” he said aloud to the empty room.

  He listened as the woman named Julia told how she’d been searching for her children ever since she’d gotten out of the hospital two years after the separation. Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears as the host implored the viewing audience to call the number at the bottom of the screen if they knew the whereabouts of any one of the three Richards children.

  Shakily, Michael noted the number, then sat back down. He stared at the screen as the segment ended and they moved to a commercial. Now he understood why she’d filmed this for him and why she knew he would want to talk about it, he thought, as he hit the Off button.

  His mother, Julia Richards, alive. Could that be? Why had the authorities lied to him? Where were Hannah and Katie after all this time? So long ago. He’d been only fourteen that fateful summer.

  Leaning back, Michael let himself remember.

  San Diego

  September, two years earlier

  “Michael’s House,” Michael said into the phone.

  In Colorado, the woman on the other end frowned and gripped the receiver tightly. She felt her eyes fill yet again as she brushed back a lock of hair. She bad to stay in control. Mom was crying enough for both of them. “Hello. I just found a slip of paper in my sister’s jacket pocket with this phone number and name on it—Michael’s House— both words capitalized. Would you be Michael?”

  “Yes, I am. And who would you be?”

  “Fallon McKenzie.” A faint hope stirred in her heart. “I’m looking for my sister, Laurie.” Who was this Michael? Laurie had never mentioned him. “Is she there with you?”

  Michael cradled the portable phone to his ear with his shoulder, walked to the kitchen counter and poured himself a mug of fresh coffee. “What does she look like?”

  “She’s five-four, slender with long chestnut-brown hair and big dark eyes. She usually wears jeans and loose shirts, probably tennis shoes. She just turned sixteen and she’s...she’s shy and sweet.” Fallon struggled to keep her voice steady.

  The woman with the intriguingly husky voice had just described about fifty percent of the teenage girls Michael saw every day. The other half were blondes. But he heard the emotion in her voice and softened his own. “No, she isn’t here. What made you think she might be?”

  Feeling the disappointment, Fallon sat down heavily at her sister’s desk in the typical teenager’s room, wall posters of hunks contrasting with a collection of teddy bears on the bed. “As I explained, because of the note with your name on it. I recognize your area code and, to my knowledge, Laurie doesn’t know anyone in San Diego. Is she a friend of yours?”

  “I wouldn’t say so.”

  “Can you explain where she might have gotten your number?”

  Michael was used to calls like this. He fielded several a week ever since he’d opened his halfway house several years ago as a haven for troubled teens. While he always cooperated with the police, he didn’t give out information on his young guests indiscriminately to just anyone. And certainly not over the phone.

  He took a sip of hot coffee. “No, I can’t. She could have heard about us any number of ways. Is she in trouble? Has she run away from home?”

  His voice was deep with a hint of impatience that caused Fallon’s already strained nerves to bunch and tighten. How had he guessed so readily? Her imagination, activated by too little sleep and too much stress lately, had her conjuring up frightening images of Laurie alone in a strange city, exposed to thieves, drug dealers, white slavery. Exactly who was this us Michael referred to? “What connection do you have to runaway teenage girls?”

  He caught the fear and understood her concern. “I’m the director of Michael’s House, which is a safe place for young people, the ones who’ve left home under, shall we say, less-than-ideal circumstances. And because of those very reasons, they can’t return.”

  She studied the slip of paper. “How do kids know about your place?”

  “They hear about us through word of mouth, posters in bus stations, flyers around town, ads in the newspapers.”

  Fallon was taken aback. “Are you saying you take these kids in, even advertise for them, and keep them from the parents who love them and are searching everywhere for them? Don’t you know what agony you put their mothers and fathers through, not knowing where their child is?”

  Michael sighed. It was discouraging, but he knew how much easier it was for a relative to blame an outsider than to handle the responsibility themselves. “Look, Ms. McKenzie, I don’t keep anyone here against their will. Teenagers leave home for a variety of reasons, but mostly because of some intolerable situation. They come to us with limited education, and practically no money. They’re often frightened and heartsick. Some have been abused. Suddenly they find themselves on their own, afraid to trust strangers, where merely surviving can take all their wits and energy. Some really terrible things can happen to kids living hand-to-mouth on the streets.”

  He let his words sink in before continuing. “Michael’s House offers an alternative, a chance to get their lives back on track. If they truly want to return home, we give them assistance. If not, we help them start over and direct them to programs that will allow them to eventually be self-supporting. Instead of condemning us without checking out our place in person, you might be asking yourself why it is that your sister ran away in the first place.”

  Fallon felt her rush of anger drain away, because the man was on target. She’d been asking herself that very question since receiving her mother’s nearly hysterical phone call three days ago. Actually, Laurie had been gone two weeks before Fallon had been informed because Mom had felt that surely her younger daughter would walk back in at any moment. Only she hadn’t.

  So Fallon had asked for a couple of days off from work and driven to Colorado Springs to see how she could help. Since then, she’d questioned nearly everyone Laurie knew and still hadn’t a clue where she might have gone. The cryptic note she’d left propped on her dresser had revealed very little. “Mom,” it had said. “I need to get away for a while. Please don’t worry about me. Love, Laurie.”

  Her mother had said that there’d been no serious arguments lately that might have precipitated Laurie’s departure. Fallon had been raised in the very same household and, although she’d experienced moments of rebellion as a teenager, she’d gotten over them. She couldn’t picture her shy sister—who was every bit the dreamer their father had been—prefe
rring to live on the streets rather than in her lovely room.

  “I’m sure the teenagers who come to your place are as you describe, troubled and in need of help.” She heard the defensiveness in her tone and cleared her throat, wanting him to understand. “But my sister’s not like that. Our mother’s a very loving woman and her husband, although strict, is a good person. Teens are highly emotional and sometimes blow small things out of proportion. They overreact, and a misunderstanding becomes a serious conflict from their viewpoint. I know Laurie will realize that and want to come home. After all, it’s not as if she’s been abused.” Why did her voice lack conviction, then?

  Her mother’s husband, she’d said. A stepfather. Michael found himself wondering if Laurie had left because she hadn’t gotten along with the strict stepfather. He’d encountered that sort of thing more times than he cared to recall. Would her sister not know this, or was she in denial? “Verbal abuse can be as damaging as physical abuse, Ms. McKenzie.”

  “I’m aware of that.” She’d been ten when Roy Gifford had married her widowed mother, and had received more than one tongue-lashing from him before she’d left his house in Colorado Springs for college in Denver on a full scholarship. But abusive, verbally or otherwise? No, she wouldn’t call Roy’s Rules, as she’d tagged her stepfather’s many edicts for proper behavior, abusive. They were an annoyance but not impossible to abide by. She’d never been able to love Roy, but after all, he had stepped in and raised two daughters fathered by another man. She didn’t agree with Michael’s supposition that all teenage runaways had serious problems. “Thank you for your time. I’m sure Laurie will come home any day now and—”