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Praise for Tara Taylor Quinn’s
WHERE THE ROAD ENDS
“Quinn smoothly blends women’s fiction with suspense and then adds a dash of romance to construct an emotionally intense, compelling story….”
—Booklist
“Tara Taylor Quinn takes readers on a journey…and brilliantly explores the emotions involved.”
—Romantic Times
“Quinn ties you up in knots emotionally as her wonderful voice explodes into the mainstream….”
—Reader to Reader
“One of the skills that has served Quinn best…has been her ability to explore edgier subjects.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With mesmerizing prose, Quinn takes the reader through the darkest of shadows, weaving danger and intrigue into every step, until at last emerging into a dazzling world of new possibility and metamorphosis…. Where the Road Ends comes very highly recommended.”
—Wordweaving
“Emotionally complex and powerful novel… Moving and deep, this book has much to say about priorities and love…. Look for a great future for this author.”
—Huntress Reviews
Dear Reader,
I’m still celebrating your response to my debut for MIRA Books. Where the Road Ends was out last summer, and I can hardly believe it’s time for another release.
I bring you Street Smart with a bit of trepidation and a whole lot of heart. The trepidation comes from your expectations, which I don’t want, ever, to disappoint. This is not like any other book I’ve written. It explores topics I have not explored before and never thought I would. And yet, as with every single story I tell, it comes from within me. My work seems to happen on its own, almost in spite of me. The people, their lives come from somewhere deep inside. How they get there, I don’t question. What to do with them, I don’t ask. I sit. I think and feel. I type. And I give them—my characters—to you.
I offer you Street Smart with my very best wishes.
Tara Taylor Quinn
I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 15065, Scottsdale, AZ 85267 or check out my Web site: www.tarataylorquinn.com.
Street Smart
Tara Taylor Quinn
To the coolest girls I know—
Patricia Potter, Carol Prescott, Lynn Kerstan and Mary Strand. I’m a lot smarter because of the four of you. And looking forward to how much smarter I’m going to get!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
1
She pushed as hard as she could. Pushed until her insides felt as though they were ripping away from her bones. There was supposed to be time in between. Time to breathe. To maintain sanity. Instead, one wave of mind-altering pain followed another.
How long she’d been lying there, Francesca Witting had no idea. She’d lost track of time during the night. It was all a blur to her now. Pain. Despair. Determination.
And fear.
Something was wrong. She didn’t have to see the worried expressions on the faces of the medical personnel as they examined her, measured, watched screens, to know that. If her instincts weren’t insistent enough, her body was telling her that this son of hers was not coming into the world as nature had intended. He wasn’t helping enough. Or she wasn’t. Instead of sliding down the birth canal, he was tearing her apart from the inside out.
Terrified, she rode the pains, accepted them, for they meant she was still alive—and that maybe he was.
Most of the time speech flew around her, over her. Tense, staccato words—orders she couldn’t understand. In a language she knew only peripherally.
Francesca was used to being alone. Was in Italy now, alone, by her own choice.
She’d just never thought she’d die this way.
Never thought she’d die without seeing Autumn again. Without knowing that her runaway half sister who’d been missing for more than two years was safe and well.
People she’d never seen before—and didn’t really see now—came and went from the little gray-walled room. Touching her. Mostly she couldn’t feel them. The searing pain from within left no room for other sensation. When she could focus, she saw them, all moving quickly in their green scrubs, their hair covered, their features serious. Intensely engaged. Most were wearing thin plastic gloves. Or pushing fingers into them. Or peeling them off.
Few paid attention to the American woman’s face. Their concern was lower down, inside the tented sheet, on the miracle that was becoming a tragedy.
Francesca’s legs had been spread in stirrups beneath that sheet for so long the position felt permanent. A lot more permanent than her life, or the tiny life that she prayed was still alive, struggling inside her.
“Aahh.” She heard the wail, but didn’t immediately identify it as her own. As she’d been doing for hours, she stared
