A Passion Redeemed Read Online Free PDF

a lavender sleep kerchief. Her cornflower-blue eyes sparkled. "It's just like a woman-the gentler, the better."
    Mitch hung his head in exhaustion. "Sorry, Mrs. Lynch. I didn't mean to waken you."
    "Bad day at the paper?"
    He breathed in some air, then blew it out with the last of his energy. His frustration drifted out along with it. "No, not really. I'm just tired."
    "Well, I already took Runt for his constitutional, so no need to worry about that. Looks like you should go straight to bed." She squinted, her blue eyes obscured by paper-thin crinkles of skin. "You're home late. Out with a lady?"
    He turned back to the door, rotating the key with painstaking ease. "No." The lock clicked and the door swung open. Mitch managed a stiff smile over his shoulder. "Thank you, Mrs. Lynch. Good night."
    He closed the door and flipped the bolt, adjusting his eyes to the moonlit room. He flung his coat on the wrought-iron rack as his golden retriever greeted him, tail thudding against the wall while he burrowed his cold nose into Mitch's hand. His lovesick squeals helped to soften Mitch's mood. Tapping his chest with his hands, Mitch chuckled when Runt jumped up, forepaws planted firmly against his shirt. "Hello, big guy, how's my buddy today? Did you have a nice walk with Mrs. Lynch?"
    Runt strained and groaned while Mitch rubbed the side of his snout, his tail flapping in ecstasy. Mitch leaned in and nuzzled him, scrubbing his neck with a forceful motion. "I don't know what I'd do without you, big guy. You keep me sane, you know that?"

    Runt woofed, jumped down, and commenced dancing in circles.
    "All right, all right. Dinner's coming. Give me a minute to get my bearings." Mitch struck a match and reached up to light the oil wick of a pewter wall sconce. The light flickered, then filtered into his parlor with a soft, steady glow. He stooped to pick up a piece of lavender-scented stationery off a stack of freshly laundered clothes. He held the note to the light, its edge scalloped with a lacey effect.
    Mitch-Runt has been fed and walked. I still have a few of your shirts to press. You can pick them up tomorrow. Mrs. Lynch
    He lifted the sheet to his nose, doubting the lavender fragrance would have any effect in calming his nerves. God bless her. More like a mother than a landlady. A niggling guilt settled in. Great. Perfect company for the irritability that throbbed inside like a splinter of glass. He should take her on an outing. Lunch and the art museum, maybe. She would like that.
    Runt continued to bounce, his tail reaching new heights of aerial flight. Mitch propped a hand loosely on his hip. "Don't try to con me with that pitiful 'I haven't eaten in twentyfour-hours' act. I'm wise to you, buddy-boy. I have it on the best authority you've already been fed and watered, and quite well, no doubt." Runt let out a gruff bark and sank to the floor, extending his forepaws in a long stretch.
    Mitch loosened his tie and tossed it on the chair. He lit the Tiffany oil lamp beside his cordovan sofa, then bent to rekindle the remains of a fire he'd started that morning. Warmth seeped into the room, along with the pungent smell of burning peat, but it did little for the cold feeling in his chest. He reached for the newspaper and stretched out on the sofa.
    What was wrong with him? His muscles twitched like he'd just sprinted a mile. The clock on the mantle chimed and he looked up, fatigue and edginess warring within. Eleven o'clock, but sleep was nowhere in sight. Mitch sighed and pitched the paper to the other side of the couch. He reached down to scratch Runt, who had sprawled along the foot of the sofa. Mitch exhaled a hefty sigh. His thoughts strayed to their favorite topic.

    Faith.
    His stomach no longer clutched at the memory of her, but a dull sadness still remained. There had been times when he'd been like this with her, his nerves volatile as if raw and pasted on the outside of his skin. She could always sense it, feel it. And always