One More Knight

Kathleen Creighton One More Knight

The second book in the Sisters Waskowitz series, 1998

Dear Reader,

Winter’s here, so why not curl up by the fire with the new Intimate Moments novels? (Unless you live in a warm climate, in which case you can take your books to the beach!) Start off with our WHOSE CHILD? title, another winner from Paula Detmer Riggs called A Perfect Hero. You’ve heard of the secret baby plot? How about secret babies? As in three of them! You’ll love it, I promise, because Ian MacDougall really is just about as perfect as a hero can get.

Kathleen Creighton’s One More Knight is a warm and wonderful sequel to last year’s One Christmas Knight, but this fine story stands entirely on its own. Join this award- winning writer for a taste of Southern hospitality-and a whole lot of Southern loving. Lee Magner’s Owen’s Touch is a suspenseful amnesia book and wears our TRY TO REMEMBER flash. This twisty plot will keep you guessing-and the irresistible romance will keep you happy. FAMILIES ARE FOREVER, and Secondhand Dad, by Kayla Daniels, is just more evidence of the truth of that statement. Lauren Nichols takes us WAY OUT WEST in Accidental Hero, all about the allure of a bad boy. And finally, welcome new author Virginia Kantra, whose debut book, The Reforming of Matthew Dunn, is a MEN IN BLUE title. You’ll be happy to know that her second novel is already in the works.

So pour yourself a cup of something warm, pull the afghan over yourself and enjoy each and every one of these terrific books. Then come back next month, because the excitment-and the romance-will continue, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Enjoy!

Leslie Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

For Andy…

Thank you for loving me

in spite of all the ways I’ve let you down.

With all my love,

Mom

Prologue

From the diary of Charlene Elizabeth Phelps Private-do not read on pain of death-this means you!

April 13, 1978

Dear Diary,

Today I am leaving this God Forsaken place forever. Aunt Dobie says everything that happened to me is the Will Of God, and that He must have something important in mind for me to do and that’s why He’s testing me so.

Well, if He does, I’m just going to have to do it in California, because that’s where I’m going. And if I never set foot in Mourning Spring Alabama again in this lifetime, well, that’s all right with me.

Thought for the Day: A place doesn’t necessarily have to be ugly to be God Forsaken.

Chapter 1

June 4, 1977

Dear Diary,

This is so dumb, writing to a book like it was a real person, but Aunt Dobie gave it to me and she says that’s how you’re supposed to do, so I guess I have to. Not that anybody will ever know, since it’s supposed to be private, and it had better be.

Anyway, today is my sixteenth birthday, and I’m really tired of people asking me if I’ve ever been kissed, haha. Like I would tell them! Personally, unless it’s John Travolta or his twin, I’m not interested. Tonight Colin and Kelly Grace and I are going to see Saturday Night Fever again. I have seen it six times so far. I swear, I could see that movie sixty more times and never get tired of it. That John Travolta is just such a fox.

Aunt Dobie says I should write down some kind of thought for the day every day, so here it is: since there’s nobody in Mourning Spring that even comes close to looking like John T., I guess that means if I never get out of here I will go to my grave unkissed.

The sign caught Charly off guard, since it was half-obscured by creeping honeysuckle vines that had managed to elude the highway department’s mowers. She rounded a bend and there it was: Mourning Spring City Limit.

A quarter of a mile or so beyond that sign she came to another that said Scenic Overlook, with an arrow pointing to the right. She pulled her rented Ford Taurus into the paved, crescent-shaped parking area and turned off the engine. She had the place to herself; dogwood season was well past and it would be a long, muggy summer before the leaves turned again in the northern Alabama hills.

She didn’t get out of the car but sat for a few minutes and stared through the Taurus’s windshield at the mountains marching off toward Tennessee, a soft June mist draped like a feather boa across their shoulders, and at the town nestled in among the cow pastures and copses of oaks in the valley at their feet. She could count five church spires from where she sat.

She’d forgotten how beautiful it was.

“Oh, God, how I hate this place.” Those words she breathed aloud, gripping the steering wheel helplessly while