Excerpt of California Homecoming by Casey Dawes

Sarah Ladina turned the key and pushed open the oak door, her pulse quickening in anticipation. Stale smells of forgotten perfumes and long ago dinners wafted from the entrance hall. She crossed the threshold, shut the door behind her, and leaned against it.

Mine. This soon-to-be-inn is all mine.

She rubbed her hand on her stomach. Ours.

Cobwebs huddled in the high corners of the paneled entry and a screw sticking from the staircase newel told of a missing cap. Layers of dust added texture to the floor.

The work was also going to be all hers.

Her shoulders sank. What had she been thinking?

“If you want a job done right, do it yourself.” Other people aren’t dependable.

A bark from outside made her drop her bag of cleaning supplies, snacks, and tools on the floor. Cautiously, she opened the door.

A golden retriever sat on the porch, staring up at her, dark eyes pleading entry. The dog barked again, stood, nosed the door open, and walked in. He…or she…made a beeline for the front sitting room, circled, and laid down.

Great. A dog who thinks it owns the place.

Keeping a wide berth, she walked toward the dog. “Shoo,” she said. “Go home.”

The dog looked up at her, rolled over, and beat its tail against the floor.

Definitely a girl dog.

“Go! Get out of here!” Sarah raised her voice. She did not need anything else to take care of.

The dog whined and thumped her tail harder.

Tires crunched the driveway gravel.

Sarah groaned, stomped to the door, and opened it wide.

The dog got off the floor, followed her, and sat down crowded close to her leg.

The heat of the retriever’s strong body against Sarah’s leg gave her courage, ready to face whoever was coming to call. Maybe I do need a dog. A single woman—correction: a single pregnant woman—might be at risk living alone.

She glared at the newcomer’s car, a black Jeep polished to a gleaming shine.

A tall man with broad shoulders emerged from the Jeep. His dark hair was clipped short and he stood with the rigid carriage of a soldier, an odd contrast to the banana slug T-shirt and shorts he wore. His right leg ended in a prosthetic below the knee.

How sad.

“Hello,” he said, his deep voice easily carrying across the distance between them. “Nice dog,” he added and walked toward her.

A rumble from the dog’s throat made her put her hand on its head. The soldier wasn’t a threat.

Yet.

The man reached out his hand. Automatically, she took it. “I’m Hunter Evans.”

Her cold hand was engulfed by his strong warmth.

“I’m Sarah.” She withdrew her hand. “What can I do for you?”

“I understand you just bought this place.”

She nodded. “Today.”

“Will you sell it to me?”

She almost laughed out loud. Is he serious? “No.” She stepped back to close the door. The dog stood.

Hunter didn’t move. “I’d really like to buy it.”

“It’s not for sale any more. I bought it.”

His green eyes glittered with determination. “I know, but you haven’t had time to get attached to it yet. I’ll give you ten percent more than you paid.”

Now she was getting irritated. Why couldn’t he accept “no” to meant “no” and move on?

Typical male. “Why do you want it so badly?”

His lips went to a thin line. “My family used to own this house. I spent some of my best years here. After spending some time in the war…” He gestured to his leg. “I was hoping to return to happier times.”

Her irritation fled. “I’m sorry, I really am, but no.” She wouldn’t give up her baby’s future for anyone, even a vet. “I wish you well, but this house is not for sale. I’m going to make it into an inn.”

“Interesting.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled on it. “In case you change your mind.” He handed her the paper.

He gave her a mock salute, climbed into the Jeep, and drove off.

Sarah patted the dog, anticipation and regret tingling her nerves. Even with a bum leg,

Hunter Evans exuded testosterone. He was the kind of man who could take the place of Rhett Butler, swooping up a reluctant Scarlett, and ascending the stairs to bed.

She shivered at the imagined touch of Hunter’s arms around her.

Stop that. He’s probably nothing like Rhett Butler.

She regarded the dog. “C’mon you.”

Shutting the door, she picked up her purse and supplies and headed off to the kitchen, the dog’s nails clicking on the floor behind her.

One thing she knew for sure. Hunter Evans was a damn good-looking man.

Too bad she’d sworn off the species.

Once they reached the kitchen, the dog wagged its tail, sat down, and peered up at her expectantly.

“What am I going to do with you?” Sarah asked. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed. “Hi, Mom.”

“How are you doing?” Elizabeth asked. “Is everything okay?”

Her mother was going to drive her crazy. Ever since Sarah had told Elizabeth she was pregnant, her mother had pinged between being furious that Sarah was throwing her life away and worrying about Sarah miscarrying like Elizabeth had done so many times.

“I’m fine. Healthy. Mom, stop worrying.”

“Um. Sure. Fine. Stop worrying about my unmarried pregnant daughter who just sank all her money into a rundown house. Sure. Okay. Whatever you want. Dinner should be ready around seven. I’ll see you then.” Her mother hung up the phone.

Elizabeth had flipped from worried to furious with the speed of a NASCAR racer.

Sighing, Sarah redialed.

“Mom, can you listen? I need some advice.”

“Oh. Okay.” Elizabeth’s voice brightened.

“It’s just…well…there’s this dog. It came in the door and won’t leave. Any idea who I should call?”

“SPCA. They’ll come get him, I think. Do you have the number?”

“They won’t kill her or anything, will they?”

“Well, I don’t know, Sarah. They try to place all their animals, but if an animal is there too long….”

The silence lingered. Sarah looked down at the dog who regarded her steadily as if she knew her fate was being discussed.

Who could have abandoned such a beautiful animal?

“I’ll have to think about it,” Sarah said. “I’ll be home in time for dinner. See you then. Love you, Mom”

“Love you, too.”

Sarah hung up the phone. “C’mon you,” she said. “Let’s explore.”

She poured through the bag she’d brought with her. Unsure what she’d find upstairs in dark corners, she grabbed a flashlight. Time to find out what work lay ahead of her.

Even though the day had been unmarred by winter rain, the January light was fading.

Sarah flicked on the light switch and a solitary bulb turned on. Shadows lingered in the corners—the Victorians had been cheap with their fixtures.

The dog thumped her tail, got up, and trailed Sarah up the stairs and into the main upstairs hallway. This time flipping a switch produced no light. Sarah turned on the flashlight, halfway expecting to see a mouse scurry along the baseboard.

Nothing but layers of dust and cobwebs.

She breathed out. Good cleaners and elbow grease would take care of those problems.

Hard work would keep her from remembering the ugly scene with Rick when she’d told him about the baby—their baby.

The five upstairs bedrooms were passable. Once the inn was making money, she could redo the wallpaper and get rid of the bordello-like flocking on the walls. But for now, she could tell prospective guests they were having a true Victorian experience.

She chuckled. Good thing she’d started with hotel marketing classes at Davis.

A flash of melancholy washed over her, but she pushed it aside. There were things to do.

The last bedroom was the only one with a closet carved from the space. She’d have to find wardrobes for the other rooms. Peering into the small nook, she realized she’d need to get some kind of light fixture installed.

Her flashlight beam caught on a box tucked back on a shelf. Curious. The rest of the house had been empty.

Using the tips of her fingers she nudged the box to see how heavy it was.

She wasn’t going to be able to get it down without a stepstool.

The twinge in her side caught her unaware and she bent double, her breath leaving her as if someone had punched her in the gut.

As quickly as the pain had come, it passed.

Had she imagined it?

No.

She pushed back the tears. Keep thinking positive thoughts and everything will be okay.

Won’t it?

The dog pawed at Sarah’s foot, as if she knew something was wrong.

Sarah smiled weakly at the animal. “Maybe I should keep you,” she said, still short of breath. “But you need to behave or it’s off to the pound with you,” she said, knowing it was a step she’d never take. “And you’re going to need a name.” She glanced at the bedroom wallpaper. Rose didn’t seem right.

“I think I’ll call you Daisy,” she said and patted the dog on the head.

Daisy’s tail thumped.

“Time to call it a day.” Sarah started back down the hall. “Let’s go face the music.”