Finding Home (Coming Home Series Book 2) Read online

  Coming Home Series

  Book Two

  J.M. Adele

  FINDING HOME

  Copyright © 2017, J.M. Adele

  All Rights Reserved

  This work is protected under copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental. Any actual places, products or events mentioned are used in a purely fictitious manner, without permission or sponsorship, and with acknowledgement of their trademarked status, and trademark owners.

  Edited by Eeva Lancaster

  Cover Design by Book Flare Publishers

  Formatted by Book Flare Publishers

  Kindle Edition

  Coming Home Series

  Shattered Home

  Remembering Home

  Finding Home

  Leaving Home (TBA)

  Coming Home (TBA)

  Sensing Series

  Sensing You

  Convincing You

  Indulging You (TBA)

  Bloodlust Series

  Ashes and Dust

  Ember and Flame

  Bone and Blood (TBA)

  Dedicated to the wonderful group of ladies and gents

  I am so incredibly fortunate to call friends.

  Chapter One—Hard Decisions

  Chapter Two—A Tall Drink of Water

  Chapter Three—New Friends

  Chapter Four—Back to Business

  Chapter Five—What The?

  Chapter Six—I Have Arrived

  Chapter Seven—I’m Taking You Home

  Chapter Eight—Helpful Advice

  Chapter Nine—Celebrations

  Chapter Ten—A Little Encouragement Goes a Long Way

  Chapter Eleven—Witchcraft

  Chapter Twelve—Giving Thanks

  Chapter Thirteen—Skeletons

  Chapter Fourteen—Did We …?

  Chapter Fifteen—You’re What?

  Chapter Sixteen—Now She Was Getting It

  Chapter Seventeen—Gino

  Chapter Eighteen—Who’s The Father?

  Chapter Nineteen—Stay

  Chapter Twenty—Not Again

  Chapter Twenty-One—Who the Fuck is She?

  Chapter Twenty-Two—You Will Never Be Her

  Chapter Twenty-Three—Sweet Home

  Chapter Twenty-Four—Country is in My Blood

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt from Remembering Home

  About the Author

  Hard Decisions

  2006

  Greyson’s lungs convulsed from sucking down too much dust, diesel fumes, and cow stench, as he tossed another hay bale onto the truck. Bending forward, he spat the grit from his mouth, watching his shadow jerk as he returned a little piece of Mississippi to its rightful place.

  “Fuck this shit.”

  The muffled protest came out of his mouth once a week, probably closer to daily in the last few weeks, as his desperation became a palpable force driving him to crazy town.

  Wiping his mouth on his shoulder, he walked behind the rumbling truck, inching its way around the loose bales in the field.

  “Shut up before Papà hears you.”

  Turning his head, Grey leveled a sneer at his brother for daring to scold him. “He won’t hear, he’s driving the truck. Besides, I don’t give a shit if he hears. I hate this job and he knows it.”

  “He might know it, but he won’t accept it.”

  Antonio threw another bale, and straightened with a groan. Removing one worn leather glove and his hat, he scrubbed a hand over his sweaty buzz cut. It was clear they were brothers in the same dark shade of their hair, their slate gray eyes, and strong chins. A legacy from their father and his Italian heritage. But their differing hair styles were the clearest indicator of their personalities. Antonio was happy to conform, while Grey’s hair hadn’t seen the clippers for four years. He had no interest in fitting into anyone’s regulations. The ponytail he wore was a big fuck you to conformity.

  “He’ll have to accept it soon enough.”

  Removing his cowboy hat, Grey tugged on the ends of his hair, dislodging the piece of hay that was scratching under his collar.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Anton flicked his eyes sidelong, taking a swig from his water bottle.

  Plonking his hat back on his head, Greyson grabbed his own bottle. “I’m leavin’.” He stared down his brother, challenge marking his face and his stance.

  “What are you talkin’ about? Where are you goin’?” The water bottle dangled from lax fingers, all but forgotten, as Anton gaped at his older brother.

  “You repeat yourself a lot. You know that?” Grey smirked.

  “Cut the shit, Grey. Where are you going? Does Mama know?”

  “She’s been supportive.”

  He bent, heaving another bale through the air to be caught and stacked on the truck by the ranch hands. His two sisters were taking turns walking beside the vehicle, guiding Papà when to stop or slow down.

  “She wants me to follow my heart.”

  “Where to?” Shock lifted the pitch of Antonio’s voice.

  “The kitchen. A real kitchen where I can learn to cook from the best.”

  “You’re not serious?” Capping his bottle and letting out a shrill whistle, Anton threw it to one of the ranch hands on the truck. “He’ll never speak to you again. You know what happened to our uncle.”

  Yeah, success happened. If his father couldn’t support that, then … Grey didn’t give a fuck.

  The bitter fallout from Uncle Matteo’s escape still lingered in the old farmhouse. A constant pollution of ash in the air, cloying every conversation or family gathering where his absence was glaringly obvious.

  Greyson clenched gloved fists, holding his body in check. He didn’t want to antagonize his brother. Antonio was built for ranch life. Grey wasn’t.

  “I’m aware, and I’m willing to take the chance. It’s worth it. I can’t rot away on this ranch. It’s not the life I want.”

  “What about the family?” Anton’s arms flailed, emphasizing his point. “What about your friends? Lory?”

  “Lory would want me to be happy.”

  His younger brother took off his hat, slapped it on his thigh, and whistled a long, low note. He eyeballed Grey under heavy brows, shaking his head. “You haven’t told her. You’re a chicken shit.”

  Grey’s muscles tightened, gathering for a fight.

  One side of Anton’s mouth tipped up in a mocking smile. “Well … I’ll miss ya. I’d say make sure you visit, but I don’t know if you’ll be welcome.”

  The tension seeped out a little, but Grey knew it wouldn’t disappear until he was in his pickup on the interstate.

  “I’ll visit anyway. He can’t stop me from coming to town.”

  “Basta!” The brothers whipped their heads toward the truck where their father was leaning out of the window, motioning with his arm. “When you’re done with your women’s meeting, maybe you could load the truck.”

  “Sì, Papà.” Antonio tipped his chin in acknowledgement before turning back to Grey. “Come on. Let’s get this done so we can enjoy some of Nonna’s pasta.”

  Eyeing the back of his papà’s head through narrowed slits, the muscles in Grey’s jaw worked out his annoyance. He’d grind his teeth to stumps if he stayed here any longer. Shifting his gaze, he watched his brother diligently working at cl
earing all the bales. He didn’t seem all that concerned about Grey leaving. Or maybe he didn’t believe that Grey would go through with it.

  His determination solidified. He could no longer spend his life doing something he didn’t care for. He was already half packed. It was only a matter of days. All he had to do was tell his papà.

  They finally finished loading the last of about two thousand bales. Garlic wafted down the dust track and over their makeshift seats of hay, as they made their way back to the hay barn. He could see the old white farmhouse in the distance, with its dormer windows marking the second story bedrooms, and the long veranda where he’d often sit listening to the sounds of the night.

  Grey’s nose twitched, capturing the alluring scent. Way better than cow shit, or almost anything he could think of. He rubbed his callused palms together, thinking about going into the kitchen after they off-loaded the bales. It was a distraction from the nerves rampaging in his stomach at the thought of the conversation that had to happen soon. If he was smart, he’d let it wait until his father was full-bellied after a hearty meal.

  Grey jumped down, listening to his papà’s barrage of instructions, as if they all didn’t know how to operate the bale elevator, or stack hay. They’d been doing this for years, for Christ’s sake. Every word from that man’s mouth was gasoline on the fire in Grey’s belly to get the hell out. Every muscle ache, every creak in his bones, every scratch or cut on his skin, drove the flames higher.

  He stretched his neck, pinched his mouth shut, and took up his position at the elevator, ready to unload his last bales of hay. If he never saw hay again, he’d be as happy as … a chef in a kitchen.

  _____

  After showering, Greyson followed his nose to the heart of the house, listening to Nonna singing in Italian, and his sisters chatting as they set the table.

  “Smells good, Nonna.”

  His grandmother held up a spoon full of sauce for him. “Tastes better,” she replied in her native tongue.

  Rarely did she speak English at home. He’d learned Italian first, despite his mother’s efforts to get him speaking English. But growing up a Mississippi boy, the Italian influence had not been enough to assuage his strong, southern drawl.

  “Mm. My favorite. I could smell it as we drove in.” He noticed crispy curls of deep fried pastry on a plate on the bench. “Cartocci Siciliani for dessert?”

  “Mm hmm, with ricotta cream.” She pulled a bowl across the bench and plonked it in front of him. “You can make the cream.”

  He reached for the ingredients she had set out, jerking back at the stinging slap of a wooden spoon on the back of his hand.

  Fuck! “What was that for?” He shook out the pain.

  “Wash your hands.” She frowned in disapproval.

  “I just showered.” He reached for the ricotta again.

  Nonna wasn’t backing down, wielding the spoon in front of him with puckered disdain on her wrinkled face.

  “Okay.” Retreating to the sink, hands up in surrender, a small smile played on Grey’s lips.

  He’d miss her. She was the reason he loved to cook. She was the one who’d secretly kept in contact with his uncle, and planted the seed of hope that there might be a future outside of this hellhole.

  He shook off the water and dried his hands on the towel his Nonna threw at him.

  “And don’t forget to strain it after you add the powdered sugar.”

  His smile stretched out to full. “Yes, Nonna.”

  She might have barely reached five foot three, but she was the only person he willingly took orders from. It was probably all in the delivery. Nonna managed to frown and scowl with love.

  Antonio came through the door followed by their sisters, Sofia and Marianne, still chattering away, using their hands as much as their mouths.

  “Odori buono, Nonna. I can’t wait to eat the lovely meal you’ve cooked for us.”

  “Your sisters helped.”

  “Oh … damn. It still smells good, though.”

  Nonna slapped him over the back of the head.

  “Ah!” He laughed rubbing the sore spot. “If I keel over from poisoning, will you do the eulogy, Grey?”

  “Ask Marianne. She’s good with words.”

  “Whose eulogy?” Their mother joined them, her brown hair in a haphazard tumble behind her neck.

  “Anton’s being dramatic.” Marianne rolled her eyes.

  As the eldest sister, she’d inherited their maternal grandmother’s name, and her looks too. Mousey brown hair, pale blue eyes. She’d taken on the olive complexion from their Italian side, but that was it.

  “Anton doesn’t trust our cooking,” Sofia explained.

  She was quite a bit shorter than her elder sister and took after her namesake, Nonna, in looks and personality. Although, Nonna’s dark curls were now a pale gray and tamed in a bun. If either of them held a wooden spoon, everyone knew to steer clear.

  “It smells delicious, honey.” She flung her arms over her daughters’ shoulders. “Thank you all for your help today. We’re well stocked for winter feed, and we’ll be rewarded with this wonderful feast that you’ve prepared for us. Molte grazie, Mamma.”

  Lines crinkled around his mother’s blue eyes as she smiled at her mother-in-law. Since he’d told her of his plans to leave, they’d gradually appeared, fanning over the deepened shadows underneath like papercuts marring her beauty.

  He swallowed back his guilt, and focused his attention on pushing the ricotta and powdered sugar mixture through the strainer. She’d always been there to support him, and he was thanking her by packing his shit and leaving. But, fuck, the boxing ring between his ears had played host to Obligation versus Dreams for too long. He’d finally reached his breaking point. The ding of the bell had sounded, and selfish need had thrown up its arm as the winner.

  His biggest concern was the backlash. His mama would be on the receiving end of his father’s wrath. He wouldn’t physically harm her, Grey knew that, but words sprayed in anger could harm just as badly. She would be the convenient target, not the deserving recipient. That was all him. He was prepared to work his ass off to get where he needed to be. It would be his way of thanking her for her faith and support. No way did he ever want to cause that woman any more pain.

  Grey watched out of the corner of his eye as Nonna dished up the plates and his family took them out to the table where his father would be waiting. He finished mixing the cream, and put it aside to be piped into the fried pastries later before following his grandmother into the dining room.

  Holding court at the head of the table, his papà was in the midst of outlining the plan of attack for the next week.

  “… need to prepare the pastures for over-seeding, and check the fly tags. See which ones need replacing.”

  He looked up as Grey and Nonna entered, standing to pull out the chair for his mother. Greyson had to respect the way Papà cared for the woman. He was capable of showing love when he wanted to. It was patience and acceptance of differing views that he had trouble with.

  As everyone joined hands in prayer, Grey let his head hang loose on his neck, closing his eyes to soak in the words of thanks given by his mama. She spoke of being thankful for their harvest, and for the blessing of being able to work together as a family to make their ranch successful.

  Each word that curled off her tongue lay heavy on his shoulders, sinking his mood further. Was he just being a selfish dick, abandoning his family?”

  He tuned back in to his mama’s prayer. “… and give us the strength to be true to who we are. To follow our intended purpose, and respect that each of us has our own unique journey to take. Amen.”

  Lifting his gaze, he caught his mama’s wink from across the table. Grey felt the squeeze of remorse around his neck. Clearing his throat, he picked up his flatware and pushed the food around the plate in search of his appetite. It had up and deserted him, just like he was doing to his family. He had to go. He was done here.

  H
e glanced at his mother whose face was etched with concern. She cast a reassuring smile his way, but it wobbled at the edges. She had to be hurting. He knew it must pain her to carry the burden of knowing what was coming, and not be able to share her concerns with anyone. Grey wasn’t being fair. He had to say something.

  “Answer me, son.”

  Grey snapped his gaze towards his father. “Pardon?”

  A gust of breath whistled out his father’s nose as he watched Grey under a creased brow. “I asked if all the calving supplies had been checked. We need to be ready for the last few of the season.”

  “Yes. They’re all ready to go.”

  “Good. I’ll need you to be on watch. I expect calves any day now.”

  “I can’t do that, Papà.”

  “Greyson,” his mother’s voice tried to break through the animosity arcing between father and son.

  His sisters’ conversation cut off like the scratch of a record, as all eyes turned on him.

  Papà’s mouth pinched tight. “Why is that?”

  “I won’t be here. I’m leaving.”

  He watched the muscles in his father’s jaw clench, his own, mirroring the movement. Locked in a stare down, he didn’t want to be the first to break. His body was so taut an ice pick couldn’t have broken through his flesh. Silence blared as the stare down continued.

  Placing both elbows on the table, his papà leaned forward. “No, you’re not. You have responsibilities here.”

  Grey leaned back, shaking his head. His hands tightened into fists under the table. “Responsibilities that I don’t want.” He fought to keep his tone even. “You know I hate this life. I want to cook, Papà.”

  His father’s shoulders bunched impossibly tighter. “Cook? You want to do women’s work?” He shot a dark look at his wife. “Like my brother.”

  His mama rested a hand on his father’s arm. “Lucca, please. Let him go. He’s unhappy.”

  With a jerk, his papà flung her hand off, and slammed his palm down. Everybody jumped in their seats, but Grey didn’t budge an inch.