Page 5 of The Nanny's Homecoming

Zach shoved an agitated hand over his military-style haircut. “What happens?”

Mark opened the folder. “This is in your grandfather’s handwriting, notarized and witnessed as part of his last will and testament. He says, ‘Should any of you choose not to spent one full year in Clayton, the entire inheritance, including the family home, with apologies to my dear Arabella, will go to Samuel Clayton. We’ve had our share of bad history, but he is my brother.’”

“What? That’s crazy.” Vivienne’s blue eyes flashed. “There’s no way Grandpa would leave anything to Great-Uncle Samuel or his clan of rotten Claytons.”

Mark offered the folder for Vivienne’s perusal. “I tend to agree with your sentiment, Vivienne, but your grandfather was adamant. After his spiritual awakening, he felt badly about some of the things he’d done to his brother.”

They all knew the story. Grandpa George had not only stolen Samuel’s girl and married her, but he’d also convinced his ailing, blind father, Great-Grandpa Isaac, that, as an attorney, he was best suited to handle the family landholdings. Grandpa George had wound up owning most of Clayton, whereas Samuel had only his home and a few acres. The resulting bad blood had flowed into Samuel’s three sons and their children, too.

“Some of us have too many wounds from Great-Uncle Samuel and his bunch to let them inherit anything,” Brooke said as she stroked Zach’s shoulder. The muscles beneath her hand were rock hard with tension. She remembered the lies Vincent Clayton had told that had almost destroyed Zach’s dream.

“There are some decent people in this town,” Mei said. “We all know what Great-Uncle Samuel’s bunch would do with that kind of power and money.”

Grimly, Vivienne nodded. “Destroy everything in their rotten path. I don’t know if I can take off a year, but—”

Mei’s melodic voice finished the thought. “We have to try.”

Zach stretched a hand toward them, palm down, the way they’d done as kids. “Agreed?”

Like old times. One for all. All for one.

“Agreed.” Brooke slapped her hand over her brother’s and looked to the others.

Slowly, one at a time, with doubt and uncertainty hovering, the other three joined the circle of family and added a hand to the tentative promise.

They would try.

But it was the missing hand that had them all worried. What if Lucas didn’t come?

Chapter Two

The summer morning was cool, as still and fresh-smelling as only mountain air can be, and the sun streaked pale gold through fat white clouds. Brooke, breath coming in small puffs, jogged down the hillside and around the curvy road of Bluebird Lane leading to the white frame home where she, Zach and Vivienne had come of age. The old place looked weary and sagged a little but Arabella, the eternal optimist, had done her best to keep the house livable.

After a short trip to Colorado Springs to pack and give up her apartment, Brooke had arrived late last night, three days after the reading of the will, still in a quandary. She was here, in the near ghost town of Clayton, beginning a year that might lead to nowhere. Unless her siblings and cousins followed through—a prospect that worried her a lot—she’d be no better off in a year than she was now.

She’d called her former fiancé and apologized. She was still embarrassed about the fit she’d thrown that day in his car—a door-slamming fit that had broken her pinky finger. A part of her had been hoping he’d changed his mind, that the wedding she’d been meticulously planning was back on. Marty had been polite but firm and cool. In the days since their breakup, his time in prayer had brought him to one conclusion. He and Brooke were a comfortable habit—not a match made in heaven.

He’d mentioned nothing about the original reason for the breakup. Nothing about the disagreement over having children. He was leaving next week, he’d said, for a year of mission’s work in Guatemala.

In three days, the man with whom she’d planned to spend her life had moved on without her.

Running shoes slapped the gravel road as she pushed harder. Marty’s words had stung. The reminder that she’d once prayed about everything also stung.

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