Familiar Stranger In Clear Springs. Kathryn Albright
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“Just what do you think you are doing, terrifying us like this?” Elizabeth demanded, and stood up in the buggy to tower over him.
“We need to talk.”
He ripped the reins from her hands and tossed them to Gemma. In one quick motion he scooped Elizabeth onto his saddle, in front of him. Her eyes widened and she looked to be gathering another wail of a breath.
He looked hard at her. “Stop!”
She clamped her mouth shut.
“I’ll bring her back as soon as I’ve had my say.”
With that, he reined the Major away and, with Elizabeth cushioned in front of him, galloped off.
I love stories about second chances—about people who fight for their happily-ever-after despite the curves life has thrown them. In Familiar Stranger in Clear Springs, Elizabeth must break through her fears in order to grasp her happy-ever-after.
As much as I love writing about La Playa, on San Diego’s harbour, I enjoyed taking a trip with this story to Clear Springs—a fictional town that I modelled after Julian in the backcountry of San Diego.
I hope you enjoy Tom and Elizabeth’s story.
Familiar Stranger in Clear Springs
Kathryn Albright
KATHRYN ALBRIGHT writes American-set historical romance for Harlequin Mills & Boon. From her first breath she has had a passion for stories that celebrate the goodness in people. She combines her love of history and her love of story to write novels of inspiration, endurance, and hope.
Visit her at kathrynalbright.com and on Facebook.
This story is dedicated to my beautiful sister, Phyllis, who has been with me from the start in this dream to write stories. You have offered unconditional love, support, encouragement, and fun.
It means everything to me. Love you!
I would also like to acknowledge and thank Charlotte Mursell and Julia Williams, my amazing editors at Mills & Boon, who took the raw form of this story and helped me see the nuggets of gold. You are the best!
Contents
Southern California, 1876
Elizabeth looked up from marking the last sale in her ledger and frowned at the youngster standing by the large wooden crate of fruit from the backcountry. “Timothy Daugherty! I saw that! That apple does not have your name on it. Put it back right now. Gently please!”
Ten-year-old Timothy looked sufficiently chastised; however, Elizabeth knew better. Under that contrite expression he was plotting how he would talk his way out of this. It wasn’t that he was starving. With his father managing the building of the new nail factory up the road, his family had the funds for whatever they desired here in the mercantile. It was the challenge that drove Timothy. He wanted to boast to his friends that he’d given “old Miss Morley” the slip and had gotten away without her realizing she had one less piece of fruit to sell.
His best friend and cohort, Lucas Slater, stood shoulder to shoulder with him and, by the looks of him, was also hiding an apple behind his back. He, however, concerned her. His mother, Martha, struggled to put food on the table for him and his sister ever since her husband passed on suddenly a year ago.
Timothy scowled and tossed the apple back in the crate.
Elizabeth winced. That would be a bruised—and therefore unsellable—piece of fruit. She mentally counted to ten. Deep breath in, deep breath out, letting the briny scent of the harbor fill her lungs. Better that than saying something she would regret. It would be so easy to