Again, Alabama - Susan Sands
2015 Susan Sands
The Tule Publishing Group, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book, in its many forms, is the realization of a dream. Seeing my work in print is nothing short of a miracle made possible by lots of generous people. I would be remiss in not naming as many as possible.
Writers need mentors who are willing to take time out from their busy schedules to give a hand up to others. Karen White picked me up from my house and drove me to my first Georgia Romance Writer’s meeting (and she’d never met me). She still answers my calls! Thanks and love to Eloisa James aka Mary Bly. She knows her role in all of this. I will be forever grateful to call these ladies my friends.
To Christy Hayes, Tracy Solheim, Laura Butler and Laura Alford, my dear friends and critique partners: Through it all, you gals have been there for me and I love you for it. Such a wealth of support and fabulous brain trust we are combined! Also, to my sister-in-law and fellow writer with whom I took that trek to the west coast for our first writer’s conference. Thanks for allowing me to drag you all over the country in pursuit of this dream. Yours is still coming.
Rest in peace to my grandmother, Alice Noel, who recently passed away. She read everything I wrote and was my biggest fan. I was able to tell her my good news just a few months before she left us, and she was so proud.
To my parents, Ray and Linda Noel, who never even gave me a funny look when I told them I wanted to write a book. They’ve supported me from word one.
To my husband, Doug Sands, who bought the laptop and sent me across the country for my first writer’s conference without complaint, and to all the RWA conferences since.
To my children, Kevin, Cameron and Reagan: Sorry about all the time I’ve spent at the computer. Y’all have been champs.
To my agents at Inkwell Management past, Allison Hunter, and present, David Forrer: I so appreciate your continued support and encouragement. I can’t thank you enough for taking a chance on me!
To my fantastic editor, Sinclair Sawhney: You made my story shine with your focus and insight. Thanks for your willingness to roll up your sleeves and tackle this one!
Table of Contents
About the Author
CAMMIE STEPPED FROM the tiny bath into her childhood bedroom. She’d brushed her teeth, and briefly considered a shower after catching a terrifying glimpse of herself in the mirror, but opted for caffeine instead. Between her two a.m. arrival and very little sleep once she’d finally fallen into bed, the prospect of facing the siblings this morning made it a sound decision. And nobody was here to get a look at her like this anyway, thank God.
Cammie groaned and stretched. Right now, she required a gallon of coffee. Where were her clothes? Darn it, she was certain she’d dragged that suitcase case upstairs—
A sudden, loud banging outside her bedroom window nearly shot her through the roof. Whacking her shin on the corner of the antique, four-poster bed, she lunged toward the closed curtain and apparent source of the infernal noise. What the hell?
Someone or something was trying to hammer its way inside—on the second floor.
Flinging back the heavy drapes, Cammie was momentarily blinded by bright sunshine. She blinked, focused, and struggled to process what met her tired brain through her equally exhausted eyes.
She made out a shirtless and very manly muscled chest. As the chest moved downward, Cammie squinted hard, and recognized the strong chin centered with a deep dimple.
She thought she might vomit. Or faint. Or something equally humiliating. Over the years, the very thought of home, of Ministry, Alabama, had brought him to mind in the worst possible way. It was why she’d hardly been joking when referring to this town as “Misery” instead. He’d been her misery.