A Piece of My Heart
Blessings, Georgia, Book 4
By Sharon Sala
She’s never had a home
Growing up in a troubled foster home, Mercy Dane knew she could never rely on anyone but herself. She’s used to giving her all to people who don’t give her a second glance, so when she races to Blessings, Georgia, to save the life of an accident victim, she’s flabbergasted when the grateful town opens its arms to her. She never dreamed she’d ever find family or friends—or a man who looks at her as if she hung the stars.
Until she finds peace in his arms
Police Chief Lon Pittman is getting restless living in sleepy little Blessings. But the day Mercy Dane roars into his life on the back of a motorcycle, practically daring him to pull her over, he’s lost. There’s something about Mercy’s tough-yet-vulnerable spirit that calls to Lon, and he will do anything in his power to make her realize that home isn’t just where the heart is—home is where their heart is.
Growing up in a troubled foster home, Mercy Dane knew she could never rely on anyone but herself. She’s used to giving her all to people who don’t give her a second glance, so when she races to Blessings, Georgia, to save the life of an accident victim, she’s flabbergasted when the grateful town opens its arms to her. She never dreamed she’d ever find family or friends—or a man who looks at her as if she hung the stars.
Until she finds peace in his arms
Police Chief Lon Pittman is getting restless living in sleepy little Blessings. But the day Mercy Dane roars into his life on the back of a motorcycle, practically daring him to pull her over, he’s lost. There’s something about Mercy’s tough-yet-vulnerable spirit that calls to Lon, and he will do anything in his power to make her realize that home isn’t just where the heart is—home is where their heart is.
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Excerpt:
From childhood, Mercy Dane viewed Christmas Eve in Savannah, Georgia, like something out of a fairy tale. The old, elegant mansions were always lit from within and decorated with great swags of greenery hanging above the doorways and porch railings like thick green icing on snowy white cakes.
From childhood, Mercy Dane viewed Christmas Eve in Savannah, Georgia, like something out of a fairy tale. The old, elegant mansions were always lit from within and decorated with great swags of greenery hanging above the doorways and porch railings like thick green icing on snowy white cakes.
The shops decked out in similar holiday style were as charming as the
sweet southern women who worked within. Each shop boasted fragrant evergreens,
plush red velvet bows, and flickering lights mimicking the stars in the night
sky above the city.
And even though Mercy had grown up on the hard side of town with lights
far less grand, the lights in her world burned with true southern perseverance.
Now that she was no longer a child, the beauty of the holiday was something
other people celebrated, and on this cold Christmas Eve, she no longer believed
in fairy tales. So far, the chapters of her life consisted of a series of
foster families until she aged out of the system, and one magic Christmas Eve
with a man she never saw again. The only lights in her world now were the
lights where she worked at the Road Warrior Bar.
The yellow neon sign over the bar was partially broken. The R
in Road
was missing its leg, making the word look like Toad. But
the patrons who frequented this bar didn’t care about the name. They came for
the company and a drink or two to dull the disappointment of a lifetime of
regrets.
Carson Beal, who went by the name of Moose, owned the bar. He’d been
meaning to get the R fixed for years, but intention was
worth nothing without the action, and Moose had yet to act upon the thought.
Outside, the blinking neon light beckoned, calling the lonely and the
thirsty into the bar where the beer was cold and the gumbo and rice Moose
served was hot with spice and fire.
Moose often took advantage of Mercy’s talent for baking after she’d once
brought cupcakes for Moose and the employees to snack on. After that, she’d
bring in some of whatever she’d made at home. On occasion Moose would ask her
to bake him something special. It was always good to have a little extra money,
so she willingly obliged.
This Christmas Eve, Moose had ordered an assortment of Christmas cookies
for the bar. When Mercy came in to work carrying the box of baked goods, he was
delighted. Now a large platter of cookies graced the north end of the bar.
The incongruity of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” playing in the background
was only slightly less bizarre than the old tinsel Christmas tree hanging above
the pool table like a molting chandelier.
Because of the holiday, only two of his four waitresses were on duty,
Barb Hanson, a thirtysomething widow with purple hair, and Mercy Dane, the
baker with a curvy body.
Mercy’s long, black hair was a stunning contrast to the red Christmas
sweater she was wearing, and her willowy body and long, shapely legs looked
even longer in her black jeans and boots. Her olive skin and dark hair gave her
an exotic look, but being abandoned as a baby, and growing up in foster care,
she had no knowledge of her heritage.
Barb of the purple hair wore red and green, a rather startling assortment
of colors for a lady her age, and both women were wearing reindeer antler
headbands with little bells. Between the bells and antlers, the music and
cookies, and the Christmas tree hanging above the pool table, Moose had set a
holiday mood.
Mercy had been working at the bar for over five years. Although she’d
turned twenty-six just last week, her life, like this job, was going nowhere.
It was nearing midnight when a quick blast of cold air suddenly moved
through the bar and made Mercy shiver. She didn’t have to look to know the ugly
part of this job had just arrived.
Giveaway:
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