“Ahoy, Miss Meg!”
A black-haired boy dressed in an oversized pirate’s hat and black rain boots stepped in front of her.
“Ahoy, yourself, Davy.” She recognized Davy Diaz, whose grandfather was her landlord.
“Be ye knowin’ this comely lass, son?” The tall, handsome man with Davy glanced down at the boy, then winked at Meg.
Her heart did a flip.
Davy nodded. “Miss Meg is my Sunday school teacher.”
“Sunday school, huh? You lucky kid.”
Warmth crept into Meg’s face as both Davy’s and his father’s smiles widened. Then Davy looked up at him.
“Did you go to Sunday school, Dad?”
“You betcha.”
“Shiver me timbers!”
The man laughed, his gaze catching Meg’s as he held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss Meg.”
“Meg McGuire.”
“I’m Joe Diaz.”
Meg’s heart skittered again. What was wrong with her? Losing herself in the warmth of his eyes and that smile, she thought, maybe it was true that when God closed a door, somewhere he opened a window….
GLYNNA KAYE
treasures memories of growing up in small Midwestern towns—Iowa, Missouri, Illinois. She traces her love of storytelling to the many times a houseful of great aunts and uncles gathered with her grandma to share hours of what they called “windjammers”—candid, heartwarming, poignant and often humorous tales of their youth and young adulthood.
Glynna now lives in Arizona where she works full-time for a medical products corporation. When she isn’t writing, she’s gardening, enjoying photography and the great outdoors, and keeping one step ahead of What Not To Wear camera crews.
Dreaming of Home
Glynna Kaye
Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.
—Proverbs 3:5–6
So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
—Isaiah 41:10
To Mom and Dad, whose love for God, family and each other proves there are still happily ever afters.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Sheryl, Pam, Sandra and Manuel for all your help getting this manuscript ready to go.
Thanks to my “Seeker Sisters”
(www.Seekerville.blogspot.com) for your prayers, support and occasional kicks in the seat of the pants.
And an extra special thanks to my editor,
Melissa Endlich, for welcoming me to the Steeple Hill family.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
At precisely one o’clock on a sunny September Saturday afternoon, Megan McGuire spied the pirate.
Had Canyon Springs been a coastal, historic reenactment community or adjacent to Disneyland, she might not have looked twice. But to the best of her knowledge, the mountain country of northern Arizona generated little demand for the likes of seafaring swashbucklers.
Only minutes earlier, she’d propped open the door of the general store, allowing warm, pine-scented air to permeate the cool interior of the natural stone building. Once again huddled behind the oak counter and intent on reviewing next week’s lesson plan, the creak of the wooden floor reached her ears. At that moment she glimpsed the flash of a gold hoop earring and a black eye patch as a bandana-headed man disappeared behind a shelf.
What now? The little town, with its many seasonal visitors, seemed to draw from a bottomless grab bag of eccentric individuals. Meg gave her short, tousled hair a shake and smiled. She’d come here as one of them herself six months ago, so she could afford to be tolerant.
Reluctant to leave her cozy little nook, she nevertheless set aside her pen and straightened her maroon Arizona State hooded sweatshirt. The guy was probably a motorcyclist, not a pirate as her too-active imagination labeled him. But to fulfill her role as a part-time employee of Dix’s Woodland Warehouse, his appearance warranted an investigation.
She found the man crouched in front of the medication shelf, his muscled arm extended toward a row of aspirin boxes. Short-sleeved black T-shirt. Faded jeans. Well-worn tennis shoes. Except for a gold band on his left hand, all other fingers were pinched into dime store-quality, gem-studded rings. A foot-long plastic sword tucked securely in a belt loop topped off his unconventional regalia.
Nope, not a biker. A pirate.
Definitely a pirate.
“Yo-ho-ho. May I help you, matey?” Meg bit her lip, chiding herself for the glib intro. After all, the customer was always right, even if the customer was a healthy-looking specimen of maleness dressed like a five-year-old’s concept of a buccaneer.
He glanced up, one startled brown eye meeting hers. The other remained concealed beneath a black satin patch. The man pulled a box from the shelf and stood. Ramrod straight, legs slightly apart. Just like Meg’s
