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Maxwell's Smile
Maxwell's Smile
Maxwell's Smile
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Maxwell's Smile

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More Than Words: Bestselling authors & Real–life heroines

We all have the power to effect change – we just need to find the strength to harness it. With every good deed done, and helping hand offered, we are making the world a better place. The dedicated women selected as this year's recipients of Harlequin's More Than Words award have changed many lives for the better, through their compassionate hearts and unshakable commitment. To celebrate their accomplishments, bestselling authors have written stories inspired by these real–life heroines.

In this book, Michele Hauf honours the work of the Barta sisters' Berni, Romi, Lexi and Marni Barta and the not–for–profit organization that they founded, Kid Flicks.

We hope More Than Words inspires you look inside your heart and to get in touch with the heroine inside of you.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 1, 2012
ISBN9781460852316
Maxwell's Smile
Author

Michele Hauf

Michele Hauf lives in Minneapolis and has been writing since the 1990s.  A variety of genres keep her happily busy at the keyboard, including historical romance, paranormal romance, action/adventure and fantasy.

Read more from Michele Hauf

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    Book preview

    Maxwell's Smile - Michele Hauf

    Chapter One

    The rust bucket groaned to a stop in the parking lot outside the local hospital. The small town of Birch Cove, where Sam Jones worked as a handyman, edged the Twin Cities suburbs. He patted the 1974 Ford pickup’s dashboard and then sneezed at the dust that filled the cab.

    You may not be pretty, he said to the vehicle, which was held together in some spots with a lacing of rust, but you are reliable.

    Swinging his well-worn work boots out of the cab, he landed on the ground with a purposeful jump. Flakes of sawdust sifted from his shoulders and the creases in his jeans. Best way to shake off the morning’s work. He thumbed the hardened wood glue smeared along the thigh of his jeans, grimaced, then decided he looked better than on the days his face was coated with white Sheetrock dust.

    From the truck bed, he grabbed the cardboard box of DVDs he’d cleaned out from the entertainment center in his basement last night. Boots clomping on the pavement, he strode inside the airy lobby of the newly refurbished hospital. The receptionist gave him directions to the patient resources office.

    Sam clutched the box a little tighter, feeling a weary sadness spread across his shoulders. His plan was to get in and get out without passing through the children’s ward. Unfortunately that was the straightest path to patient resources. He turned a corner and walked by a room where a young girl sat on a big, imposing bed. A pink bandanna covered her tiny head, and no light shone in her tired eyes.

    Sam nodded to her and offered a quick smile, but she merely stared. With a swallow, he shifted the box in his arms and forged ahead. He could do this. He had to do this. For Jeff.

    Running the route the receptionist had given him through his mind, he turned left, but instead of walking down a hallway, strode into a patient’s room by mistake. The wood floor gleamed and the walls were papered in subtle stripes. Wood-slat blinds had been pulled, blocking out the bright sunshine, and the chemical smell of disinfectant punched Sam in the gut.

    Uh, sorry.

    He turned to go, then stopped in the doorway. The tousled-haired boy sitting cross-legged on the bed didn’t even lift his head to acknowledge Sam’s presence. He was hunched over what looked like schoolwork, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his compressed lips. An iPad sat next to the notebook he wrote in. An IV drip was attached to his left arm.

    Homework? Sam asked.

    The boy nodded. And frowned.

    Sam cast a glance down the bare hallway in search of a parent. It wouldn’t be right to stay without permission, but a niggling impulse to linger struck him. The kid’s messy mop of brown hair reminded him of his little brother. Jeff had never known the real purpose of a comb, preferring to launch spit balls from the end of it—heck, neither of the Jones boys had mastered the comb. And when he was leaning over a bowl of Super Crunchies for breakfast, his brother’s concentration had been as fierce as this kid’s was right now. Jeff had never been into schoolwork, though, so that’s where the similarities

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