When Hearts Speak

By Karen Hudgins

Sarah Grace Mayhew, a Southern widow, avoids new love. When enigmatic Wyatt Harper lifts her from a fountain, he gets under her wet skin. Yet how can she love the man whose phantom enemy also targets her? And why should Wyatt cherish a woman tied to his family’s worst nightmare? Only their hearts can say...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781613091456

Book preview

When Hearts Speak

Wyatt punched the gas pedal with his foot to speed up, and it wasn’t long until Sarah Grace and he sat next to each other on Sarah Grace’s porch swing finishing their late night snack. The hush of night wrapped them in private comfort. She nestled her head against Wyatt’s solid shoulder. He cupped her chin in his palm.

This has been a good night. I think we should go for a repeat.

Sarah Grace nearly popped inside with newfound hope. Wyatt had pushed the right buttons with her all evening. Maybe the Universe hadn’t forsaken her love life? It just had to reset the whirligig with her name on it and set her in motion with this beguiling man.

I’d like that, she said as he moved his mouth toward hers. Wyatt quickly sealed their plan with a resounding kiss that left her breathless… and smiling.

What They Are Saying About

When Hearts Speak

"When Hearts Speak is an entertaining read, warm and sensual, filled with love and spiced with danger."

Sharon Drane,

Author & Pop Culture Diva, http://Sdraneauthor.blogspot.com

"Karen Hudgins has penned another wonderful story. When Hearts Speak is one of those books that touches your heart. I highly recommend!

Judith Leigh,

Author, When the Vow Breaks

"Karen’s creativity is in full-bloom in When Hearts Speak. Deftly defined, memorable, and colorful characters…conflict and mysteries…in a rich, flowing narrative from beginning to end. Readers will rejoice with such a rewarding read." ~

Kay Nance,

Librarian-lover of books.

Other Works From The Pen Of

Karen Hudgins

One Night With Zorro, April, 2002.

A lace proprietor finds the man to fulfill her dreams—except an almost fatal tragedy steers him away from what she also fervently wants—children.

Midnight With Maverick, March, 2004.

A pastry chef and copper fortune heir find true love despite their backgrounds and the mystery that rocked their families apart twenty years ago.

Tonight With Tarzan, April, 2008.

An interior designer falls for a local Tarzan, whose work and secret dual identity pushes her to overcome fears—or lose the love of her life.

Best Man, January, 2011

After a polo accident a wedding couture designer tangles with her client’s Best Man, a vintner and polo who ultimately becomes her best man for life.

Wings

WHEN HEARTS SPEAK

by

Karen Hudgins

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Contemporary Romance Novel

Wings ePress, Inc.

Edited by: Joan Afman

Copy Edited by: Jeanne Smith

Senior Editor: Joan Afman

Executive Editor: Marilyn Kapp

Cover Artist: Erin Damon-Hill

Cover Image Provided by RomanceNovelCovers.com

Cover Models: Jimmy Thomas & Jacqi

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book 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 and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

http://www.wings-press.com

Copyright © 2013 by

ISBN 978-1-61309-145-6

Published by Wings ePress, Inc. at Smashwords

Published In the United States Of America

July 2013

Wings ePress Inc.

403 Wallace Court

Richmond, KY 40475

Dedication

For little grandson Jace, who delights. Love, and be loved.

Acknowledgements

Special people deserve huge thanks for helping with this novel. Joan Afman, my editor, provided expert guidance. Harry Schnabel, Seahorse Florist owner, Jacksonville Beach, FL, kept me in personal touch with flora. Anita Quick, Civil War historian and author, provided some historical details. Allison Hawkins and Inge Prinz cheered me along the way. George Hudgins helped proofread. Kathleen Coddington, author and living history volunteer, gave sisterly support and answers. Also, my gratitude goes to Elle Nyman for story talks, and author Skye Taylor for writer mini-breaks in St. Augustine.

One

Love is like a flower—you’ve got to let it grow.

~John Lennon

Sarah Grace Mayhew swept her gaze over her paint box where bright colors waited for her brush. Each was her ally and carried meaning, as in Permanent Rose red for love. They held purpose—like Potter Pink for filling in fluffy azaleas. The hues also evoked emotions. Lemon Yellow for happy. Prussian Blue for sad or restfulness. Sap green went with all as Nature’s color.

So, she wondered while finishing the watercolor in front of her, If courage were a color, what would it be? She wished for a sizable cake of it now. It was difficult to handle change, say goodbye, and move on. But she was getting closer.

This one’s for you, Sarah Grace whispered and signed her name on the lower right corner.

Setting the brush aside, she lingered for a moment. Pale gold orchids filled the paper taped to a tilted board resting on a small, portable table. Soft, frilly edges of the sepals dipped in waves and touched a stout stem. Their soft color summoned a bittersweet smile to her mouth.

Pushing herself up from the folding chair, Sarah Grace stretched. Her work on this piece was finished, and not overdone, a skill that took her months to master. Aside from grant research work for the Eco-Green Foundation, her painting hobby gave her deep satisfaction. So much so she had made a point to dabble as often as she could, with appealing results.

Except after the tragedy fourteen months ago, she found little to inspire her, including lifting a paintbrush. Her heart fell dark and empty. Even her love for flowers diminished for a spell.

Still, Sarah Grace had taken her afternoon sweet tea in her home painting room. This was the all-season sun porch shaded by a sprawling live oak tree draped with Spanish moss like countless others growing in the older neighborhoods of Ruby, Georgia.

There, in her own space, she could work, muse about life’s unexpected turns, and read. She napped in the comfy chair and visited with callers. Emma Louise French, her best friend, stopped by on Tuesdays and Thursdays after closing Miss Dinah’s Tea Room for the day.

Sarah Grace liked Emma Louise all the more for it and cherished the chance to share what was on their minds. They chatted about new books on Kindle, too much rain or no rain, iron skillet recipes, sales at the mall, and Emma Louise’s love life, which soared and dove depending on who was courting her.

I seem to find love and lose it, Emma Louise had said. Like it’s some kind of cycle I’ll just never quite understand. She hesitated. You don’t think love has passed me by, do you?

Sarah Grace shook her head. I do not. It took me a long time to find Lee. I suppose our best love comes later.

You mean after we’re thirty? Emma Louise said, her mouth lifting at the corners. If so, then I’m overdue.

Then, on another occasion, they had talked about Sarah Grace’s change of circumstance.

Our family lawyer escorted me to the bank this morning, Sarah Grace shared. He says that I’m now a woman of means.

Emma Louise said in reflection, I suppose it’s sort of a gift.

Hmm. It feels awkward.

Emma Louise had nodded. Just still be your good self, please?

Sarah Grace raised her moistening eyes. Yes, that’s a good place to start.

Emma Louise handed her one of her crochet-edged hankies. Enjoy your new position, she nearly whispered. Perhaps if you treat it well, it’ll return the favor?

Let’s hope.

To Sarah Grace, though, it was a sad, lonely trade-off. She received a sizable beneficiary windfall in exchange for her beloved husband’s life. She’d give up every bit of it to have him back. Her only choice now was to think on the positive side. Having the funds allowed her more autonomy, and the timing seemed cosmic.

Her urge to paint as much as she could grew so strong she had talked about it with Emma Louise. Putting down her teacup, Emma Louise said in her most serious tone, This is a calling, and y’all need to pay attention and follow.

Sarah Grace agreed, but not without reservation. At thirty-five, it seemed a big jump into something that didn’t feel much like work. Also, painting for others would be different from doing it just for her. Lastly, being a widow made her more careful. She had no idea where watercoloring all day could take her. But her calling taunted her until she gave three-quarters of her weekly hours at Eco-Green to an eager intern.

At first, Sarah Grace reaped relaxation as she worked to her heart’s content. Privately, though, she occasionally suspected her heightened artistic efforts were a temporary way of recovering from loss. But something down deeper inside wouldn’t buy that theory.

Emma Louise’s other words, It’s your destiny, echoed in Sarah Grace’s heart, and she liked the sound of them. So, weather permitting, she spent hours immersed in shades of vermillion, indigo and green, producing floral paintings directly from the Magnolia Midlands region.

Inevitably, her unique style emerged. To her surprise and modesty, her work attracted steady local acclaim and still gained popularity. Three months ago, she had expanded her work area by renting space at Cornerstone Courtyard between the wine shop and the candle store on historic Fremont Street. She set up a studio for in-house finishing, framing and display. It had a front room and a small office, a workroom, kitchen, supply storage area, and bathroom. She used the front as a gallery open to the public. The place suited her start-up needs perfectly.

Next, Jewel Hamilton came on board as her assistant. Private commissions, gallery shows, and floral paintings for a regional calendar shaped Sarah Grace’s schedule. Every day she gave thanks for how her work life transformation was going. But her personal life lagged.

Seeking more closure from the tragedy was what had brought her here to the Orchid Room at the Gibbs Plant Conservatory on the south edge of town.

This watercolor painting was indeed special. Her late husband, Lee, had discovered this orchid on a long-ago trip to Costa Rica. He’d named it after her, Cattleya Sarah Grace. To her delight, the staff at Gibbs added the species to its garden collection. By finishing this image, she was paying him a final tribute. She would hang the art in his old home office.

Removing her smock and straw hat, Sarah Grace sighed at the memories of him. Lee had loved her the way she needed to be loved and gave her reasons to love him back. For one, he took her hobby seriously and had arranged for painting lessons with Alberto Pellini, a visiting master artist at the local college where Lee taught botany in conjunction with his work at Gibbs.

Lee had often teamed with Dr. Henry Cooper, renowned taxonomist, who also worked in the downstairs lab. Together they identified, catalogued, and conserved plant specimens for building the conservatory’s herbarium. Then, on a rainy day, Lee’s self-made luck ran out in a mudslide in the Bolivian jungle.

Sarah Grace had never lived through a darker day than the Wednesday when she received a surprise call from the elderly Gibbs Executive Director, Bill Overbrook.

Sarah… Sarah Grace, are you at home?

I am, Dr. Overbrook.

Good.

Are you alone?

Yes. Do you need some help?

No, actually… I’m coming over there in a few minutes.

From the tone of his voice and her intuition, Sarah Grace leaned against the kitchen counter. Is something happening at the conservatory?

He paused. Yes, and I will be there very soon.

Fifteen minutes later, she invited Dr. Overbrook and his assistant into her living room. His expression was so grave, she wondered if he were ill.

I don’t have good news, he started and took her hand. I’m incredibly sorry… We lost Lee yesterday.

What do you mean, ‘lost’? she stammered, her heart rate speeding. He had his GPS with him.

Dr. Overbrook explained he had died and how as gently as he could, she was sure.

His body was found by a farmer in a flooded field, he added heavily. Dr. Cooper will be bringing him home.

Sarah Grace fell instantly into a vat of numbness. She closed her eyes and didn’t care if she breathed anymore. Her family and Emma Grace were summoned and had done all they could. Ten terrible, grief-stricken days later, friends, family, and colleagues crowded together in All Saints Cemetery. Lee died doing what he loved, they had said. She couldn’t have argued the point. But even with all that loving support around her, Sarah Grace was never more alone. Thankfully, time and some counseling had started their work saving her, relieving her anger about how unfair it seemed for him to die so young, and helped her look forward to next week and the next.

Now, checking her watch, Sarah Grace found it was just after four o’clock. The day had flown by in a flash. If she didn’t get a move on, she’d be late running her errands and for meeting Emma Louise for dinner. She gathered her paraphernalia and slipped the painting into a black card portfolio. She tucked her good-luck pearls under the collar of her white shirt. She smoothed her hair with her finger tips and re-cinched the waist tie of her loose slate grey slacks.

Her arms full, she followed the brick paths that led her back through the main entrance to the Conservatory and out into the parking lot. It was March. The sun shone and birds twittered. She reached her Honda CRV parked by the waterfall splashing into its stone pool. She pulled her cell phone from her purse after setting everything down on the warm asphalt by the back bumper. By then, her assistant was waiting for her call.

Jewel, I’ve finished the painting, Sarah Grace said with due relief.

Ohhh, I bet it’s beautiful, came her reply. I can’t wait to see.

You can help me pick the matting and framing, Sarah Grace said, barely noticing two men walking toward her.

Sure thing. Are you still meeting with Nell Cooper in the morning at the Peach Hill Inn?

Yes, she wants a painting of the Palm Court.

Jewel didn’t miss a beat. I’ll contact the Inn to arrange for your work time and space. Will it be morning or afternoon?

Sarah Grace thought aloud, Sunlight is better in the mornings. I’ll do my best then.

And the Inn might like to have reproductions for notecards for their gift shop.

Good thinking. I’ll discuss permissions with Nell, she said. Oh, we need to order some supplies. My best number three sable brush is worn to a frazzle, and the mauve and raw sienna are gone. Anything else I need to know for now?

Hmmm, just that three dinner invitations came in, and one of them was from Phil Waggondorfer. He said he was sorry he missed your call the other day. She paused, then, I think he sounds nice, don’t you?

Sarah Grace nodded slowly. Phil’s nice, yes.

A quiet beat followed. Okay, there’s nothing more, except… I think he’s around your age. Jewell hesitated and then added, He’s a golf caddy and was a bachelor for the auction for infant incubators at the hospital.

Sarah Grace made a half turn and leaned against the bumper. It was hard to miss the hope in Jewel’s voice. The dear woman was worried about her. Only yesterday Jewel had asked, How soon after losing a spouse is it socially acceptable to be ‘socially available’ again?

Sarah Grace had fumbled for an answer. The possibility was still far from her mind and how she was handling it felt deeply personal. Yet, Jewel knew loneliness. For several years she had been an Army wife. Fortunately, her husband made it back home, and they reset balance for their home, marriage, and each other.

Thank you for looking after me, Sarah Grace said in earnest.

I’ve got your back, Jewel said softly.

Sarah Grace drifted for a moment, and then told her, I’m off for now. Later.

She hit End Call and repocketed her phone. Jewel was such a romantic. She had soulful brown eyes and curly blond locks to prove it. It was crystal clear that she wanted to see her boss be happy. Preferably, with a new love. By the weekend.

Thing was, Sarah Grace was sure she had married The One. Even Lee’s faults were still dear to her. So how would she ever accept another love?

For now, Sarah Grace continued keeping in touch with passion through her work. Not quite the same as a man’s caress, she knew. Except there were no vipers, diseases, or floods to rob her of what was good. It was just her, paint, and paper.

As Sarah Grace turned around to load the items into her car, the two scruffy men with menace in their eyes narrowed the gap. Her protective instincts kicked in. She swallowed and tried heading for the driver’s door. But it was too late.

Two

Wyatt Harper spotted trouble as he downshifted the Harley rumbling beneath him. He cut across the parking lot of Gibbs Plant Conservatory. Two men were quickly closing in on a woman standing alone by her car. One yanked her pink bag from her arm. She nearly lost her balance and cried, Help! Help me, please!

Hearing her frantic call, Wyatt winced, raised his right hand, and circled the air with his forefinger. In four seconds he and his two buddies, Ace and Willie Dean, surrounded the thieves and the pretty lady.

Surely, the fired up hogs would’ve deterred the assailants, but they were too busy. As if on cue, Wyatt and his friends dismounted. He removed his sunglasses and hung them on the handle bar. He then turned and strode into the fray, demanding, What’s going on here, fellas?

None of yer damnation bizness, growled the bigger of the men, who tossed the purse to his partner in crime. Wyatt swept his gaze over their victim. She was trim with long legs. A frown wrinkled her forehead, and she pursed her full mouth in distress. She widened her blue-green eyes. Shaking, she gazed into his.

Wyatt tightened his jaw. It’d been a long time since a woman had visited his eyes. She did it so sweetly it almost hurt. But he’d sworn off that kind of hurt last year when Celia had ditched him for a stevedore on the coast. He blinked once and thrust himself back into action.

Let’s go, the partner grunted and stuffed the purse down his gray t-shirt.

I don’t think so, Wyatt stated and yanked a fistful of the punk’s stringy hair. With one push he steered him into the receiving arms of Ace, who forced him down onto his knees. Willie Dean pinned the man in place with a meaty hand. Give it up, you yaller dawg, he said. The white lightning-scented robber hastily obliged him with the pink purse.

Meanwhile, the lead snatcher shoved the lovely woman against the fender. She seemed a delicate sort, fair of skin, with sun-streaked strawberry-blond hair. Sudden fire erupted in her eyes. She flung out an awkward swing at the crook with her fist as he jabbed her bare ankle with his foot. Missing her aim, she crumpled to the ground by a black portfolio.

Wyatt grimaced as the man reached down and grabbed the zebra-striped tote bag next to her.

Drop it, Wyatt demanded, closing the distance and keeping a wary eye on him and the woman, who leaned her back against a tire. Cowering, she pulled her knees up to her chest, and squeezed her beautiful eyes shut.

The snatcher shrugged, dropped the tote bag and pulled out a knife from a sheath on his waistband. You want a taste of this? No? Then back off, dude. I’m busy here.

Wyatt spat, So am I. He charged and delivered a serious kick to the robber’s ribs. The hoodlum reeled, quickly straightened and held his knife steadfast. Lunging forward, he swiped at Wyatt, almost nicking his earlobe.

Wyatt roared an oath. The woman reopened her eyes and groaned. She looked paler than the six-hundred count white sheets his mother had given him for Christmas, which he exchanged for stone gray.

Hold on, Sugar. We got ‘em, Wyatt told her, and she nodded.

He suddenly plucked the black portfolio from the ground. Shielding himself, he dove into the assailant and brandished a wallop punch. Nanoseconds later, the blade ripped through the portfolio and glinted brightly in the sun. Ready for his next move, Wyatt tossed the portfolio over his shoulder and out of sight. He then countered with a jaw kick that knocked the big guy onto his back. Groaning, he passed out.

NO! Ohhhh, no, the woman cried. Look what you’ve done.

Wyatt turned toward her and found horror written all over her face. He was expecting a gush of gratitude, not this. He hiked an eyebrow. Two things got his goat. One was injustice, which he had just witnessed and curbed. The other was silly rudeness, and now it came from her.

Done? he countered in disbelief. Maybe, we saved your ass… ets from big trouble?

He doubted she heard him, because she was running to the fountain. Hopping the low stone wall, she landed in the water and sloshed forward. She reached for the black protector and lifted it to the sky.

How could this happen? she wailed, then glared at Wyatt. Soaked to the skin, her body revealed some serious ladies’ underwear and feminine curves. He hadn’t seen either of those for a while, either. Ace and Willie Dean hooted under their breaths.

Wyatt cleared his throat. Hold on, gentlemen, while I wrap this up. He took off his boots and handed his leather vest to Ace. The felled robber stirred back to life under Ace’s guard.

Good, Willie Dean said. The mayor’s waiting on us inside.

Wyatt stepped over the fountain wall and strode into the cool water. Just as he reached his target, she slipped, and he wrapped his arm around her waist for support. She felt like a wriggly wet rabbit—sort of light, soft, and so vulnerable. Reaching under her firm thighs with his other arm, he lifted and carried her from the water. Gently, he set her down on a marble bench put there in loving memory of a Jane Willow ten years ago.

Are you okay? he asked, eyeing her before he headed for his boots.

She lowered her sad eyes and untied the portfolio. Slowly she pulled out the contents and laid a paper on her wet lap. Tears followed. Wyatt’s mouth started to go dry.

Miss, he began, Or ma’am, I’d really…

I’m not Sugar, Miss, or Ma’am. I’m Sarah Grace Mayhew, she said as two sheriffs’ cars arrived on the scene.

Mayhew? Wyatt took a sudden long hard look at her. She’s Lee Mayhew’s widow! sank in. He held back a frown.

Okay, got it, he said and introduced himself. I think my work’s done here. The police are here to help you now.

Still wrought up, she waved them off. It’s too late.

God, she’s even prettier up close blazed through his battling mind. She gazed back up at him from under dark eyelashes, only this time icily. Wyatt held his ground. Considering everything, maybe he should’ve just ignored this whole situation. Left her to her own lousy-punch defense.

Damn right. He could have just walked inside with his two friends and showed up early for the commendation the mayor was about to confer on them for donating and planting one hundred trees on Stonewall Road on Arbor Day.

But there was still something alluring about Sarah Grace. Something urgent. Something needy, despite her aloofness. Whatever else, she was genuinely distraught about the soaked paper she cradled in her hands.

Look, seeing how upset you are about that picture, Wyatt began, trying to be fair. How about I buy you another just like it in the gift shop? I’ll even have it framed for you.

Sarah Grace leveled her smoldering gaze on him.

You don’t understand, she said.

He looked away, then back at her. Her uppity tone was annoying him. What’s not to understand?

This is my own work.

Wyatt eyed the paper hugging her lap. Even in its messed up state, he could see splotchy yellow fluffy petals and a streaked green leafy background.

You paint flowers?

Sarah Grace nodded. Mostly, and sometimes gardens or trees.

Nice. Look, I’m sorry this happened. It doesn’t matter what your picture looks like now. I’ll just take it. How much, please?

She raised her chin higher. It’s not for sale. This was personal, a last tribute to my late husband. And, although you might have helped me, the work is ruined.

Might have helped her? Wyatt stepped back and shook his head. How an act of simple good will could get so screwed up so fast, he couldn’t figure. He could barely pry his eyes off her. She was irritating, but she had polish and spirit. This also meant she was probably complex. Lately, he was comfortable with simple. Why make things harder?

Ace tapped him with his elbow and said under his breath, She’s spitting fire for now, but you’ll think of something.

Here come the Law, Willie Dean called as a sheriff’s car pulled up close. We’re fixin’ to be done here.

You’ll be in good hands, Wyatt reassured Sarah Grace.

Sadness flickered in her eyes along with a faint sparkle he’d not seen earlier. Yes, I’ll be fine, she said, drawing in a long breath and exhaling in a rush.

Wyatt wasn’t so sure. He turned and left her as the sheriff’s deputies gave her her purse and tote bag. But he knew what counted more. That ruined damned flower painting. He should’ve picked another foil, like a rock.

Tinges of regret tapped his conscience while he pulled on his boots. No one had to tell him that loss was difficult to handle. She had lost her husband too early in life. Now the valued piece of art was gone. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Silently he vowed, despite the situation that haunted him, Somehow I’ll make it up to the widow Sarah Grace. Then, he would walk away and put this unfortunate matter to rest—and her out of his mind.

~ * ~

All the way back to the studio office, Sarah Grace shook inside. Frustration, disgust, and wonder helped her press the gas pedal through town. She parked her car and let herself in the front door as Jewel hung up the phone. Shock contorted her assistant’s face.

Oh, Lordy, what happened to you? Jewel asked, rising from her chair. You’re all wet.

I am that, Sarah Grace agreed, dropping her keys, bags and warped portfolio on her desk. And I’m famished. I lost the painting, and I was sort of mugged. She glanced at the clock on the bookshelf. I need to get home, shower, finish errands, eat dinner, call Emma Louise, and meet the lady who’ll sit my parents’ house while they’re gone. All that before bed.

Jewel walked to her side, ready to comfort. Ohh-kay. Time out. First, why not change into some dry things? There’s an individual veggie pizza in the little fridge I can microwave to tide you over. She paused, then, Wait. What’s ‘sort of mugged’ mean?

Sarah Grace kicked off her soaked