BOOK FUN MAGAZINE - FREE READ

A MATTER OF CHARACTER by ROBIN HATCHER

This week, the

Christian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

A Matter Of Character

Zondervan (May 25, 2010)

by

Robin Lee Hatcher



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Robin Lee Hatcher discovered her vocation as a novelist after many years of reading everything she could put her hands on, including the backs of cereal boxes and ketchup bottles. The winner of the Christy Award for Excellence in Christian Fiction (Whispers from Yesterday), the RITA Award for Best Inspirational Romance (Patterns of Love and The Shepherd's Voice), two RT Career Achievement Awards (Americana Romance and Inspirational Fiction), and the RWA Lifetime Achievement Award, Robin is the author of over 50 novels, including Catching Katie, named one of the Best Books of 2004 by the Library Journal.

Robin enjoys being with her family, spending time in the beautiful Idaho outdoors, reading books that make her cry, and watching romantic movies. She is passionate about the theater, and several nights every summer, she can be found at the outdoor amphitheater of the Idaho Shakespeare Festival, enjoying Shakespeare under the stars. She makes her home outside of Boise, sharing it with Poppet the high-maintenance Papillon


ABOUT THE BOOK

It's 1918, and Daphne McKinley, heiress to a small fortune, has found contentment in the town of Bethlehem Springs, Idaho. But Daphne has a secret.

A series of dime novels loosely based on local lore and featuring a nefarious villain known as Rawhide Rick has enjoyed modest popularity among readers. Nobody in Bethlehem Springs knows the man behind the stories ... except Daphne.

When newspaperman Joshua Crawford comes to town searching for the man who sullied the good name of his grandfather, Daphne finds herself at a crossroads, reassessing the power of her words, re-thinking how best to honor her gifts, and reconsidering what she wants out of life.

Robin is conducting a contest for the new book. Join in the fun HERE.

If you would like to read the Prologue and first Chapter of A Matter Of Character, go HERE.

TEXAS ROADS by CATHY BRYANT - FIRST CHAPTER

This is a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured.



Today's Wild Card author is:


and the book:

WordVessel Press March 1, 2010)  

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cathy Bryant is a proud member of FIRST and a country girl at heart. Her debut novel, Texas Roads, was a 2009 finalist in the American Christian Fiction Writers' Genesis competition. A Texas gal by birth, Cathy lives with her husband in a century-old Texas farmhouse, complete with picket fence, flowers, butterflies, and late summer mosquitoes the size of your fist.


Visit the author's book website.
Visit the author's website.
Visit the author's blog.



Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: WordVessel Press (March 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0984431101
ISBN-13: 978-0984431106

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Chapter One ~ Longing For Home




Dani’s blue Honda Civic lurched and sputtered, drawing her attention to the neon-orange needle on the gas gauge. Empty. A frustrated growl rushed from her throat as she maneuvered onto the tufts of new spring grass at the side of the country road, turned off the ignition, and leaned her head back against the seat, berating herself for her forgetfulness. She’d love to blame this on the fight with her mother, but it wouldn’t explain the hundreds of times she’d made similar mistakes. One more to add to her collection.

She rubbed the dull ache building between her eyes, and stared at her surroundings on this Texas back road. Why did she choose today, of all days, to visit her aunt, a woman she knew only from chatty letters and a brief phone call?

Escape.

She longed to escape. To disappear, to travel so far away that painful memories became yesterday’s ashes.

A stray tear wandered down her cheek and she banished it with a swipe. Today marked the one-year anniversary of Richard’s death. Death had robbed her—not only of her husband, but of her dream—and stamped her heart’s one desire with angry red letters: REQUEST DENIED. Thanks to the life insurance and the inheritance of her father’s company, a ridiculous sum of money now graced her bank account, but not enough to buy what couldn’t be purchased. A house, yes—but not a home.

Stop wallowing, Dani. She grabbed her cell phone and flipped it opened. No signal. Of course. She climbed from the car to scan the horizon. Nothing but tree-dotted pastures and a few cows. Breathing deep to quell the rush of panic, she closed her eyes and envisioned a sweet grandmother-type driving up to offer a ride. Her eyes fluttered open. Yeah, right. She wasn’t Cinderella. Godmothers didn’t exist. And Prince Charming? The biggest fairy tale of all.

Her marriage was proof.

Waiting to be rescued just squandered precious hours of daylight. She snatched her purse from the passenger seat, slammed the car door, and stamped toward Miller’s Creek. Like a scratched CD, Mother’s hurtful words from the earlier phone conversation replayed in her mind, and none of it made sense. Why did her mother oppose this visit to see Aunt Beth? And what had caused a rift the size of Texas between the two sisters?

A cramp commenced in her toes and inched into her feet. With a frown, she eyed her shoes. Heels weren’t exactly the footwear of choice for hiking country roads. Balancing her discount-store purse in the crook of her arm, she rifled through its contents, searching for the keys as she marched back to the car. A sudden realization forced her into a stilted run, and a strangled sound ripped from her throat. “Please, no!”

The keys dangled from the ignition, teasing her like chocolate candy behind a counter of glass. With a guttural groan, Dani tilted her face toward the cloud-darkened sky. “What do You have against me?”

The isolated countryside responded with silence.

On the continued trek toward Miller’s Creek, the hush enveloped her, the only sound an occasional bird’s song and the rhythmic thud of her heels against the pavement. So peaceful. So unlike the city’s unending drone. The bluebonnets and Indian Blankets of early spring painted the countryside, stretching beyond the barbed-wire fence into open fields, and the breeze tangled her hair. As she breathed in the fresh air, her shoulder muscles unknotted. Then a low rumble pulled her gaze to the clouded sky.

Heavy raindrops pelted Dani’s face and dotted her consignment shop designer jacket. Within minutes she was drenched, the metallic taste of make-up dribbling into her mouth. She kicked at a rock, self-pity seeping through her like the rain through her dry-clean-only suit.

With a shiver she hunched over and pulled the soggy jacket closer in an effort to get warm. Burning pain in her left little toe hinted at the formation of a blister, but she hobbled on, her thoughts on her aunt. Could Aunt Beth provide the sense of family she so desperately needed? She attempted to toss the question from her mind. One thing was for certain. Her drowned-rat-appearance would make a memorable first impression. Just not in a good way.

The faint roar of an engine sounded behind her and intensified. Finally. She turned to see an older model pickup top the hill, and waved her arms in an effort to make herself seen in the rain and approaching nightfall. The beat-up truck slowed to a stop and the window lowered.

Dani tried to swallow, but her throat clamped shut. This was no grandmother. With one finger, a dusty cowboy pushed up his sweat-stained hat, his other arm draped over the steering wheel. “Can I give you a ride, ma’am?”

Dani brushed the drippy hair from her eyes, resisting the urge to correct his grammar. The word was may, not can. “I…uh…r-ran out of gas.”

The cowboy smiled, his teeth white against his dirt-smudged face. “That’s not what I asked.”

With a glance in the direction of her car, Dani’s brain accelerated into high gear. “Actually, if you’d be so kind as to get me some gas—”

A soft chuckle resonated from him, and his eyes twinkled.

She hoisted her chin. How dare he laugh at her.

“Look, ma’am.” His picture-perfect smile disappeared behind the long line of his lips, his voice laced with impatience. “I know you’re concerned about accepting a ride with someone you don’t know. Can’t say I blame you. But by the time I get to town, get gas and get back out here, it’s going to be dark. Then you’ll have plenty of reason to be afraid.”

She raised a hand to her lips. What he said made sense, but could she trust him?

His mouth curled at the corners. “Coyotes are pretty bad in these parts. Sure wouldn’t want to be out here after dark. Especially alone.”

Coyotes? Dani yanked on the door handle and hoisted herself onto the grimy seat. After one breath in, she wrinkled her nose and sniffed. What was that smell? Eau de Sweat? She swiveled her head toward him and found his gaze trained on her, his face lined with suppressed laughter.

He needn’t be so amused. Dani fidgeted with the seat belt, and held it with one hand to keep it from riding across her nose. “I think someone up there must not like me.”

“What makes you say that?” He stared at her like she was mentally unbalanced and put the truck in gear.

“It’s just been a rough day. Like God has it in for me or something.”

He raised one brow. “I think God must love you a lot, or I wouldn’t have come home this way. Not many people use this road anymore.”

Dani drew in a sharp breath. Did God love her? She gave her wet head a shake, sending droplets of water to the worn seat. Yeah, right. No one could love her. Not even God.

Conversation lapsed as the rain continued its steady stream, thundering against the roof, yet unable to drown out the hum of the truck’s engine. What would’ve happened to her if he hadn’t driven by? The only coyote she’d seen were the ones in science videos at school. A surprising shudder scuttled down her spine, followed by a shiver that rattled her teeth.

The cowboy shifted her direction, his dark eyes focused on her ruined jacket. “You must be cold.”

Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Were all small-town people as intelligent as him? “What clued you in? My dripping clothes or blue lips?”

He laughed out loud, a hearty sound that made her somehow feel better. “Feeling a little testy, huh?” His eyes sparkled with amusement.

She hung her head, half in shame and partly to conceal the smile that crept onto her face without permission. “Sorry.”

Dani started as he reached toward her, but relaxed when he pulled a brown suede leather jacket from behind the seat. “Here. This ought to warm you up.”

“Thanks.” She gripped the stained coat with two fingers, and examined it for signs of vermin. None she could see. “Looks…uh…nice and cozy.” She snuggled into its warmth and breathed in the light scent of men’s cologne.

Richard.

Dani closed her eyes, the unwelcome memories and emotions clawing their way through her insides. The feelings still took her by surprise, crawling into her consciousness at unexpected times. Had she not been a good enough wife? Is that why he’d betrayed her?

“By the way, I’m Steve Miller.” The stranger’s silky baritone interrupted her thoughts.

She opened her eyes to find his hand extended toward her. “Dani.” She clasped his hand. Not as rough as she expected for a cowboy.

“You really shouldn’t be on the back roads without enough fuel, you know.” The look he gave her was stern, but kind.

Dani swallowed the sarcastic reply that popped into her head, and instead sent him a pasted-on smile.

His gaze rested on her wedding band. “Your husband not able to come along?”

The irony of his question made her grimace. At least the ring had served its purpose. She shook her head and focused on the passing terrain, some fields completely covered in wildflowers. How many more miles?

He leaned forward and made eye contact. “Been to Miller’s Creek before?”

“Once when I was little, but I don’t remember much about it.”

“It’s a nice place.” His voice held a hint of pride. “Any family there?”

She slid a hand over her wet hair and cleared her throat. Time to change the subject. Let him enjoy the hot seat for a while. “An aunt. What about you? Have you lived in Miller’s Creek long?”

His eyebrow cocked into a furry question mark. “All my life.”

“No surprise there,” she muttered to herself. She glanced at his filthy blue jeans and tattered shirt. It had probably been that long since he’d taken a bath. Immediate guilt rained over her. Ease up, Dani. At least he offered you a ride.

“Excuse the way I look. We had a fence to mend today at the ranch.”

Heat built up steam under her cheeks, and she averted her eyes. Okay, he wasn’t supposed to hear that.

His expression held nothing but friendliness. “I might know your aunt. What’s her name?”

She rubbed fingers against her damp pants. Was it wise to divulge that information?

“Never mind.” Steve held up a hand, a thin layer of black showing beneath his nails. “I know you city folks have to be careful about stuff like that.”

What was it with his ability to read her mind? “City folks? You make it sound like a disease or something.” She hugged her arms to her chest. “Besides, how do you know I’m from the city?”

“’Cause people from around here don’t dress up in such fancy duds.” His dark eyes glinted and her nerves unraveled more.

“True. They wear cowboy hats and drive beat-up trucks.”

His throaty laughter reverberated in the cab. “Guess I had that coming.”

Once again her cheeks fired up. Resting her elbow on the door, Dani leaned her hot face against her fist and wished for a punching bag.

“Which city?”

She stared at the tattered pickup cab ceiling and drew in a breath. “Dallas.” If they didn’t get to Miller’s Creek soon she was going to blow.

“Should-a guessed that.” Steve’s face scrunched up. “How can you stand living in the city with all that noise and traffic?”

“I suppose the same way you live with stinky old cows and a lack of civilization.” Her voice rose in frustration.

Dani wished the blurted-out words back in her mouth. Too late.

She started to apologize, but Steve spoke before she could get a word out. “You in business for yourself, or you work for a corporation?”

Where’d he get that idea? “I’m an elementary school teacher.”

“Really?” His brows notched up and he snickered.

Irritation seeped through the cracks of her frazzled nerves like floodwater penetrating a leaky dam. She twisted her head to glare at him. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

A smirky smile snaked across the cowboy’s face. “Guess not. It’s just that Miller’s Creek teachers don’t dress up like you. They get down on the floor with their kids.”

The dam burst wide open. “Well now it’s my turn to be amazed. I didn’t know small towns like Miller’s Creek had schools.” Dani huffed out the words then yanked her head around to clamp a hand over her mouth. What was wrong with her today?

Broken only by the swish of the windshield wipers and the pit-pat of rain drops, the silence hung between them, thick and sultry. Suffocating. She let out a slow breath and ducked her head to study him from beneath her lashes. Steve faced forward, the dark hair at the nape of his neck curling upward, his stubbled jaw locked. Most of her friends would classify him as handsome, but she wasn’t looking for a man. Not ever again.

He began to whistle, a shrill sound that chafed against her raw nerve endings. She pressed a hand to her temple. How much farther could it be? “Is there a convenience store in Miller’s Creek by any chance?” She tried to infuse her tone with kindness.

His cinnamon eyes turned on her—dry hot winds that withered everything in their path. “Of course. Right next to the community outhouse.”

A nervous giggle escaped before she could stifle it, but Steve’s daggered glare brought it to a quick halt. After a few minutes she peeked at his face, now chiseled from granite. Way to go, Dani. She’d already offended one member of Miller’s Creek, and hadn’t even made it to the city limits.

The rain ceased as they pulled into town, and Dani sat up straighter at the sight of country cottages lining the street. Homey. A little tired, but nothing a fresh coat of paint couldn’t fix. Tree branches arched across the road to create a living canopy. The sun, sandwiched between cloud and earth, changed the leaf-clinging raindrops to diamonds.

And children. Everywhere she looked. They splashed in puddles and chased each other across spring green lawns, their shouts and laughter a symphony of careless joy. So Mayberry RFD.

The hunger for home haunted her, and a familiar ache settled over her heart like ancient dust. “Unbelievable.” Dani whispered the word and relaxed into the seat, then glanced at Steve, his face impassive. She tried to push aside the fear of never finding a home, but it clung to her with razor-sharp talons.

In one deft movement, Steve jerked the pickup into a parking lot and came to a whiplash stop. She avoided eye contact and allowed the sign above the door to capture her interest. B & B Hardware? Dani peered to her right where two lanes of gas pumps stood, and a smile wiggled onto her face. A hardware-store-slash-gas-station. Only in a small town.

She plucked a hundred-dollar bill from her purse and offered it to him. “I appreciate—”

“Keep it.” Steve spat out the words and leaned away, his mouth a taut slash.

Surely he needed the money. His ragged jeans and this rattletrap he drove suggested as much. Dani squeezed her eyebrows together. For whatever reason, he wasn’t about to take the money, so she stuffed the bill back in her wallet, shrugged off the coat and handed it to him.

“Thanks for the ride.” With a release of the door she lowered herself to the ground.

Without looking her direction the cowboy put the truck in reverse, barely allowing her time to shut the door. As he tore out of the parking lot, his rear wheels spewed gravel.

Dani sucked in air and blew it out in a gush. Thank goodness that was over. Now to call Aunt Beth and end this nightmare. She faced the store, her heart pounding like a child on the first day of school.

A TAILOR-MADE BRIDE by KAREN WITEMEYER

Today's Wild Card author is:


and the book:

Bethany House (June 1, 2010)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Karen Witemeyer holds a master's degree in psychology from Abilene Christian University and is a member of ACFW, RWA, and the Texas Coalition of Authors. She has published fiction in Focus on the Family's children's magazine, and has written several articles for online publications and anthologies. Tailor-Made Bride is her first novel. Karen lives in Abilene, Texas, with her husband and three children.


Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: Bethany House (June 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0764207555
ISBN-13: 978-0764207556

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Prologue

San Antonio, Texas—March 1881
“Red? Have you no shame, Auntie Vic? You can’t be buried in a scarlet gown.”

“It’s cerise, Nan.”

Hannah Richards bit back a laugh as Victoria Ashmont effectively put her nephew’s wife in her place with three little words. Trying hard to appear as if she wasn’t listening to her client’s conversation, Hannah pulled the last pin from between her lips and slid it into the hem of the controversial fabric.

“Must you flout convention to the very end?” Nan’s whine heightened to a near screech as she stomped toward the door. A delicate sniff followed by a tiny hiccup foreshadowed the coming of tears. “Sherman and I will be the ones to pay the price. You’ll make us a laughingstock among our friends. But then, you’ve never cared for anyone except yourself, have you?”

Miss Victoria pivoted with impressive speed, the cane she used for balance nearly clobbering Hannah in the head as she spun.

“You may have my nephew wrapped around your little finger, but don’t think you can manipulate me with your theatrics.” Like an angry goddess from the Greek myths, Victoria Ashmont held her chin at a regal angle and pointed her aged hand toward the woman who dared challenge her. Hannah almost expected a lightning bolt to shoot from her finger to disintegrate Nan where she stood.

“You’ve been circling like a vulture since the day Dr. Bowman declared my heart to be failing, taking over the running of my household and plotting how to spend Sherman’s inheritance. Well, you won’t be controlling me, missy. I’ll wear what I choose, when I choose, whether or not you approve. And if your friends have nothing better to do at a funeral than snicker about your great aunt’s attire, perhaps you’d do well to find some companions with a little more depth of character.”

Nan’s affronted gasp echoed through the room like the crack of a mule skinner’s whip.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Miss Victoria called out as her niece yanked open the bedchamber door. “You’ll have my money to console you. I’m sure you’ll recover from any embarrassment I cause in the blink of an eye.”

The door slammed shut, and the resulting bang appeared to knock the starch right out of Miss Victoria. She wobbled, and Hannah lurched to her feet to steady the elderly lady.

“Here, ma’am. Why don’t you rest for a minute?” Hannah gripped her client’s arm and led her to the fainting couch at the foot of the large four-poster bed that dominated the room. “Would you like me to ring for some tea?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, girl. I’m not so infirm that a verbal skirmish leaves me in want of fortification. I just need to catch my breath.”

Hannah nodded, not about to argue. She gathered her sewing box instead, collecting her shears, pins, and needle case from where they lay upon the thick tapestry carpet.

She had sewn for Miss Victoria for the last eighteen months, and it disturbed her to see the woman reduced to tremors and pallor so easily. The eccentric spinster never shied from a fight and always kept her razor-sharp tongue at the ready.

Hannah had felt the lash of that tongue herself on several occasions, but she’d developed a thick skin over the years. A woman making her own way in the world had to toughen up quickly or get squashed. Perhaps that was why she respected Victoria Ashmont enough to brave her scathing comments time after time. The woman had been living life on her own terms for years and had done well for herself in the process. True, she’d had money and the power of the Ashmont name to lend her support, but from all public reports—and a few overheard conversations—it was clear Victoria Ashmont’s fortune had steadily grown during her tenure as head of the family, not dwindled, which was more than many men could say. Hannah liked to think that, given half a chance, she’d be able to duplicate the woman’s success. At least to a modest degree.

“How long have you worked for Mrs. Granbury, Miss Richards?”

Hannah jumped at the barked question and scurried back to Miss Victoria’s side, her sewing box tucked under her arm. “Nearly two years, ma’am.”

“Hmmph.” The woman’s cane rapped three staccato beats against the leg of the couch before she continued. “I nagged that woman for years to hire some girls with gumption. I was pleased when she finally took my advice. Your predecessors failed to last more than a month or two with me. Either I didn’t approve of their workmanship, or they couldn’t stand up to my plain speaking. It’s a dratted nuisance having to explain my preferences over and over to new girls every time I need something made up. I’ve not missed that chore.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hannah’s forehead scrunched. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought Victoria Ashmont might have just paid her a compliment.

“Have you ever thought of opening your own shop?”

Hannah’s gaze flew to her client’s face. Miss Victoria’s slate gray eyes assessed her, probing, drilling into her core, as if she meant to rip the truth from her with or without her consent.

Ducking away from the penetrating stare, Hannah fiddled with the sewing box. “Mrs. Granbury has been good to me, and I’ve been fortunate enough to set some of my earnings aside. It will be several years yet, but one day I do hope to set up my own establishment.”

“Good. Now help me get out of this dress.”

Dizzy from the abrupt starts, stops, and turns of the strange conversation, Hannah kept her mouth closed and assisted Miss Victoria. She unfastened the brightly colored silk, careful not to snag the pins on either the delicate material of the gown or on Miss Victoria’s stockings. Once the dress had been safely removed, she set it aside and helped the woman don a loose-fitting wrapper.

“I’m anxious to have these details put in order,” Miss Victoria said as she took a seat at the ladies’ writing desk along the east wall. “I will pay you a bonus if you will stay here and finish the garment for me before you leave. You may use the chair in the corner.” She gestured toward a small upholstered rocker that sat angled toward the desk.

Hannah’s throat constricted. Her mind scrambled for a polite refusal, yet she found no excuse valid enough to withstand Miss Victoria’s scrutiny. Left with no choice, she swallowed her misgivings and forced the appropriate reply past her lips.

“As you wish.”

Masking her disappointment, Hannah set her box of supplies on the floor near the chair Miss Victoria had indicated and turned to fetch the dress.

She disliked sewing in front of clients. Though her tiny boardinghouse room was dim and lacked the comforts afforded in Miss Victoria’s mansion, the solitude saved her from suffering endless questions and suggestions while she worked.

Hannah drew in a deep breath. I might as well make the best of it. No use dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. It was just a hem and few darts to compensate for her client’s recent weight loss. She could finish the task in less than an hour.

Miss Victoria proved gracious. She busied herself with papers of some kind at her desk and didn’t interfere with Hannah’s work. She did keep up a healthy stream of chatter, though.

“You probably think me morbid for finalizing all my funeral details in advance.” Miss Victoria lifted the lid of a small silver case and extracted a pair of eyeglasses. She wedged them onto her nose and began leafing through a stack of documents in a large oak box.

Hannah turned back to her stitching. “Not morbid, ma’am. Just . . . efficient.”

“Hmmph. Truth is, I know I’m dying, and I’d rather go out in a memorable fashion than slip away quietly, never to be thought of again.”

“I’m sure your nephew will remember you.” Hannah glanced up as she twisted the dress to allow her better access to the next section of hem.

“Sherman? Bah! That boy would forget his own name if given half a chance.” Miss Victoria pulled a document out of the box. She set it in front of her, then dragged her inkstand close and unscrewed the cap. “I’ve got half a mind to donate my estate to charity instead of letting it sift through my nephew’s fingers. He and that flighty wife of his will surely do nothing of value with it.” A heavy sigh escaped her. “But they are family, after all, and I suppose I’ll no longer care about how the money is spent after I’m gone.”

Hannah poked her needle up and back through the red silk in rapid succession, focused on making each stitch even and straight. It wasn’t her place to offer advice, but it burned on her tongue nonetheless. Any church or charitable organization in the city could do a great amount of good with even a fraction of the Ashmont estate. Miss Victoria could make several small donations without her nephew ever knowing the difference. Hannah pressed her lips together and continued weaving her needle in and out, keeping her unsolicited opinion to herself.

She was relieved when a soft tapping at the door saved her from having to come up with an appropriate response.

A young maid entered and bobbed a curtsy. “The post has arrived, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Millie.” Miss Victoria accepted the envelope. “You may go.”

The sound of paper ripping echoed in the quiet room as Miss Victoria slid her letter opener through the upper edge of the flap.

“Well, I must give the gentleman credit for persistence,” the older woman murmured. “This is the third letter he’s sent in two months.”

Hannah turned the dress again and bent her head a little closer to her task, hoping to escape Miss Victoria’s notice. It was not to be. The older woman’s voice only grew louder and more pointed as she continued.

“He wants to buy one of my railroad properties.”

Hannah made the mistake of looking up. Miss Victoria’s eyes, magnified by the lenses she wore, demanded a response. Yet how did a working-class seamstress participate in a conversation of a personal nature with one so above her station? She didn’t want to offend by appearing uninterested. However, showing too keen an interest might come across as presumptuous. Hannah floundered to find a suitably innocuous response and finally settled on, “Oh?”

It seemed to be enough, and Miss Victoria turned back to her correspondence as she continued her ramblings.

“When the Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe Railway out of Galveston started up construction again last year, I invested in a handful of properties along the proposed route, in towns that were already established. I’ve made a tidy profit on most, but for some reason, I find myself reluctant to part with this one.”

An expectant pause hung in the air. Keeping her eyes on her work, Hannah voiced the first thought that came to mind.

“Does the gentleman not make a fair offer?”

“No, Mr. Tucker proposes a respectable price.” Miss Victoria tapped the handle of the letter opener against the desktop in a rhythmic pattern, then seemed to become aware of what she was doing and set it aside. “Perhaps I am reticent because I do not know the man personally. He is in good standing with the bank in Coventry and by all accounts is respected in the community, yet in the past I’ve made my decision to sell after meeting with the buyer in person. Unfortunately, my health precludes that now.”

“Coventry?” Hannah seized upon the less personal topic. “I’m not familiar with that town.”

“That’s because it’s about two hundred miles north of here—and it is quite small. The surveyors tell me it’s in a pretty little spot along the North Bosque River. I had hoped to visit, but it looks as if I won’t be afforded that opportunity.”

Hannah tied off her thread and snipped the tail. She reached for her spool and unwound another long section, thankful that the discussion had finally moved in a more neutral direction. She clipped the end of the thread and held the needle up to gauge the position of the eye.

“What do you think, Miss Richards? Should I sell it to him?”

The needle slipped out of her hand.

“You’re asking me?”

“Is there another Miss Richards in the room? Of course I’m asking you.” She clicked her tongue in disappointment. “Goodness, girl. I’ve always thought you to be an intelligent sort. Have I been wrong all this time?”

That rankled. Hannah sat a little straighter and lifted her chin. “No, ma’am.”

“Good.” Miss Victoria slapped her palm against the desk. “Now, tell me what you think.”

If the woman was determined to have her speak her mind, Hannah would oblige. This was the last project she’d ever sew for the woman anyway. It couldn’t hurt. The only problem was, she’d worked so hard not to form an opinion during this exchange, that now that she was asked for one, she had none to give. Trying not to let the silence rush her into saying something that would indeed prove her lacking in intellect, she scrambled to gather her thoughts while she searched for the dropped needle.

“It seems to me,” she said, uncovering the needle along with a speck of insight, “you need to decide if you would rather have the property go to a man you know only by reputation or to the nephew you know through experience.” Hannah lifted her gaze to meet Miss Victoria’s and held firm, not allowing the woman’s critical stare to cow her. “Which scenario gives you the greatest likelihood of leaving behind the legacy you desire?”

Victoria Ashmont considered her for several moments, her eyes piercing Hannah and bringing to mind the staring contests the school boys used to challenge her to when she was still in braids. The memory triggered her competitive nature, and a stubborn determination to win rose within her.

At last, Miss Victoria nodded and turned away. “Thank you, Miss Richards. I think I have my answer.”

Exultation flashed through her for a brief second at her victory, but self-recrimination soon followed. This wasn’t a schoolyard game. It was an aging woman’s search to create meaning in her death.

“Forgive my boldness, ma’am.”

Her client turned back and wagged a bony finger at Hannah. “Boldness is exactly what you need to run your own business, girl. Boldness, skill, and a lot of hard work. When you get that shop of yours, hardships are sure to find their way to your doorstep. Confidence is the only way to combat them—confidence in yourself and in the God who equips you to overcome. Never forget that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Feeling chastised and oddly encouraged at the same time, Hannah threaded her needle and returned to work. The scratching of pen against paper replaced the chatter of Miss Victoria’s voice as the woman gave her full attention to the documents spread across her desk. Time passed swiftly, and soon the alterations were complete.

After trying the gown on a second time to assure a proper fit and examining every seam for quality and durability, as was her custom, Victoria Ashmont ushered Hannah down to the front hall.

“My man will see you home, Miss Richards.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Hannah collected her bonnet from the butler and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

“I will settle my account with Mrs. Granbury by the end of the week, but here is the bonus I promised you.” She held out a plain white envelope.

Hannah accepted it and placed it carefully in her reticule. She dipped her head and made a quick curtsy. “Thank you. I have enjoyed the privilege of working for you, ma’am, and I pray that your health improves so that I might do so again.”

A strange light came into Miss Victoria’s eyes, a secretive gleam, as if she could see into the future. “You have better things to do than make outlandish red dresses for old women, Miss Richards. Don’t waste your energy worrying over my health. I’ll go when it’s my time and not a moment before.”

Hannah smiled as she stepped out the door, sure that not even the angels could drag Miss Victoria away until she was ready to go. Yet underneath the woman’s tough exterior beat a kind heart. Although Hannah didn’t fully understand how kind until she arrived home and opened her bonus envelope.

Instead of the two or three greenbacks she had assumed were tucked inside, she found a gift that stole her breath and her balance. She slumped against the boardinghouse wall and slid down its blue-papered length into a trembling heap on the floor. She blinked several times, but the writing on the paper didn’t change, only blurred as tears welled and distorted her vision.

She held in her hand the deed to her new dress shop in Coventry, Texas.




Chapter One

Coventry, Texas—September 1881
“J.T.! J.T.! I got a customer for ya.” Tom Packard lumbered down the street with his distinctive uneven gait, waving his arm in the air.

Jericho “J.T.” Tucker stepped out of the livery’s office with a sigh and waited for his right-hand man to jog past the blacksmith and bootmaker shops. He’d lost count of how many times he’d reminded Tom not to yell out his business for everyone to hear, but social niceties tended to slip the boy’s notice when he got excited.

It wasn’t his fault, though. At eighteen, Tom had the body of a man, but his mind hadn’t developed quite as far. He couldn’t read a lick and could barely pen his own name, but he had a gentle way with horses, so J.T. let him hang around the stable and paid him to help out with the chores. In gratitude, the boy did everything in his power to prove himself worthy, including trying to drum up clientele from among the railroad passengers who unloaded at the station a mile south of town. After weeks without so much as a nibble, it seemed the kid had finally managed to hook himself a fish.

J.T. leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and slid a toothpick out of his shirt pocket. He clamped the wooden sliver between his teeth and kept his face void of expression save for a single raised brow as Tom stumbled to a halt in front of him. The kid grasped his knees and gulped air for a moment, then unfolded to his full height, which was nearly as tall as his employer. His cheeks, flushed from his exertions, darkened further when he met J.T.’s eye.

“I done forgot about the yelling again, huh? Sorry.” Tom slumped, his chin bending toward his chest.

J.T. gripped the kid’s shoulder, straightened him up, and slapped him on the back. “You’ll remember next time. Now, what’s this about a customer?”

Tom brightened in an instant. “I gots us a good one. She’s right purty and has more boxes and gewgaws than I ever did see. I ’spect there’s enough to fill up the General.”

“The General, huh?” J.T. rubbed his jaw and used the motion to cover his grin.

Tom had names for all the wagons. Fancy Pants was the fringed surrey J.T. kept on hand for family outings or courting couples; the buggy’s name was Doc after the man who rented it out most frequently; the buckboard was just plain Buck; and his freight wagon was affectionately dubbed The General. The kid’s monikers inspired a heap of good-natured ribbing amongst the men who gathered at the livery to swap stories and escape their womenfolk, but over time the names stuck. Just last week, Alistair Smythe plopped down a silver dollar and demanded he be allowed to take Fancy Pants out for a drive. Hearing the pretentious bank clerk use Tom’s nickname for the surrey left the fellas guffawing for days.

J.T. thrust the memory from his mind and crossed his arms over his chest, using his tongue to shift the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “The buckboard is easier to get to. I reckon it’d do the job just as well.”

“I dunno.” Tom mimicked J.T.’s posture, crossing his own arms and leaning against the livery wall. “She said her stuff was mighty heavy and she’d pay extra to have it unloaded at her shop.”

“Shop?” J.T.’s good humor shriveled. His arms fell to his sides as his gaze slid past Tom to the vacant building across the street. The only unoccupied shop in Coventry stood adjacent to Louisa James’s laundry—the shop he’d tried, and failed, to purchase. J.T.’s jaw clenched so tight the toothpick started to splinter. Forcing himself to relax, he straightened away from the doorpost.

“I think she’s a dressmaker,” Tom said. “There were a bunch of them dummies with no heads or arms with her on the platform. Looked right peculiar, them all standin’ around her like they’s gonna start a quiltin’ bee or something.” The kid chuckled at his own joke, but J.T. didn’t join in his amusement.

A dressmaker? A woman who made her living by exploiting the vanity of her customers? That’s who was moving into his shop?

A sick sensation oozed like molasses through his gut as memories clawed over the wall he’d erected to keep them contained.

“So we gonna get the General, J.T.?”

Tom’s question jerked him back to the present and allowed him to stuff the unpleasant thoughts back down where they belonged. He loosened his fingers from the fist he didn’t remember making and adjusted his hat to sit lower on his forehead, covering his eyes. It wouldn’t do for the kid to see the anger that surely lurked there. He’d probably go and make some fool assumption that he’d done something wrong. Or worse, he’d ask questions J.T. didn’t want to answer.

He cleared his throat and clasped the kid’s shoulder. “If you think we need the freight wagon, then we’ll get the freight wagon. Why don’t you harness up the grays then come help me wrangle the General?”

“Yes, sir!” Tom bounded off to the corral to gather the horses, his chest so inflated with pride J.T. was amazed he could see where he was going.

Ducking back inside the livery, J.T. closed up his office and strode past the stalls to the oversized double doors that opened his wagon shed up to the street. He grasped the handle of the first and rolled it backward, using his body weight as leverage. As his muscles strained against the heavy wooden door, his mind struggled to control his rising frustration.

He’d finally accepted the fact that the owner of the shop across the street refused to sell to him. J.T. believed in Providence, that the Lord would direct his steps. He didn’t like it, but he’d worked his way to peace with the decision. Until a few minutes ago. The idea that God would allow it to go to a dressmaker really stuck in his craw.

It wasn’t as if he wanted the shop for selfish reasons. He saw it as a chance to help out a widow and her orphans. Isn’t that what the Bible defined as “pure religion”? What could be nobler than that? Louisa James supported three kids with her laundry business and barely eked out an existence. The building she worked in was crumbling around her ears even though the majority of her income went to pay the rent. He’d planned to buy the adjacent shop and rent it to her at half the price she was currently paying in exchange for storing some of his tack in the large back room.

J.T. squinted against the afternoon sunlight that streamed into the dim stable and strode to the opposite side of the entrance, his indignation growing with every step. Ignoring the handle, he slammed his shoulder into the second door and ground his teeth as he dug his boots into the packed dirt floor, forcing the wood to yield to his will.

How could a bunch of fripperies and ruffles do more to serve the community than a new roof for a family in need? Most of the women in and around Coventry sewed their own clothes, and those that didn’t bought ready-made duds through the dry-goods store or mail order. Sensible clothes, durable clothes, not fashion-plate items that stroked their vanity or elicited covetous desires in their hearts for things they couldn’t afford. A dressmaker had no place in Coventry.

This can’t be God’s will. The world and its schemers had brought her to town, not God.

Horse hooves thudded and harness jangled as Tom led the grays toward the front of the livery.

J.T. blew out a breath and rubbed a hand along his jaw. No matter what had brought her to Coventry, the dressmaker was still a woman, and his father had drummed into him the truth that all women were to be treated with courtesy and respect. So he’d smile and doff his hat and make polite conversation. Shoot, he’d even lug her heavy junk around for her and unload all her falderal. But once she was out of his wagon, he’d have nothing more to do with her.

———

Hannah sat atop one of her five trunks, waiting for young Tom to return. Most of the other passengers had left the depot already, making their way on foot or in wagons with family members who'd come to meet them. Hannah wasn’t about to let her belongings out of her sight, though—or trust them to a porter she didn’t know. So she waited.

Thanks to Victoria Ashmont’s generosity, she’d been able to use the money she’d saved for a shop to buy fabric and supplies. Not knowing what would be available in the small town of Coventry, she brought everything she needed with her. Including her prized possession—a Singer Improved Family Model 15 treadle machine with five-drawer walnut cabinet and extension leaf. The monster weighed nearly as much as the locomotive that brought her here, but it was a thing of beauty, and she intended to make certain it arrived at the shop without incident.

Her toes tapped against the wooden platform. Only a mile of dusty road stood between her and her dream. Yet the final minutes of waiting felt longer than the hours, even years, that preceded them. Could she really run her own business, or would Miss Ashmont’s belief in her prove misplaced? A tingle of apprehension tiptoed over Hannah’s spine. What if the women of Coventry had no need of a dressmaker? What if they didn’t like her designs? What if . . .

Hannah surged to her feet and began to pace. Miss Ashmont had directed her to be bold. Bold and self-confident. Oh, and confident in God. Hannah paused. Her gaze slid to the bushy hills rising around her like ocean swells. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.” The psalm seeped into her soul, bringing a measure of assurance with it. God had led her here. He would provide.

She resumed her pacing, anticipation building as fear receded. On her sixth lap around her mound of luggage, the creak of wagon wheels brought her to a halt.

A conveyance drew near, and Hannah’s pulse vaulted into a new pace. Young Tom wasn’t driving. Another man with a worn brown felt hat pulled low over his eyes sat on the bench. It must be that J.T. person Tom had rambled on about. Well, it didn’t matter who was driving, as long as he had the strength to maneuver her sewing machine without dropping it.

A figure in the back of the wagon waved a cheerful greeting, and the movement caught Hannah’s eye. She waved back, glad to see Tom had returned as well. Two men working together would have a much easier time of it.

The liveryman pulled the horses to a halt and set the brake. Masculine grace exuded from him as he climbed down and made his way to the platform. His long stride projected confidence, a vivid contrast to Tom’s childish gamboling behind him. Judging by the breadth of his shoulders and the way the blue cotton of his shirt stretched across the expanse of his chest and arms, this man would have no trouble moving her sewing cabinet.

Tom dashed ahead of the newcomer and swiped the gray slouch hat from his head. Tufts of his dark blond hair stuck out at odd angles, but his eyes sparkled with warmth. “I got the General, ma’am. We’ll get you fixed up in a jiffy.” Not wasting a minute, he slapped his hat back on and moved past her.

Hannah’s gaze roamed to the man waiting a few steps away. He didn’t look much like a general. No military uniform. Instead he sported scuffed boots and denims that were wearing thin at the knees. The tip of a toothpick protruded from his lips, wiggling a little as he gnawed on it. Perhaps General was a nickname of sorts. He hadn’t spoken a word, yet there was something about his carriage and posture that gave him an air of authority.

She straightened her shoulders in response and closed the distance between them. Still giddy about starting up her shop, she couldn’t resist the urge to tease the stoic man who held himself apart.

“Thank you for assisting me today, General.” She smiled up at him as she drew near, finally able to see more than just his jaw. He had lovely amber eyes, although they were a bit cold. “Should I salute or something?”

His right brow arced upward. Then a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth told her he’d caught on.

“I’m afraid I’m a civilian through and through, ma’am.” He tilted his head in the direction of the wagon. “That’s the General. Tom likes to name things.”

Hannah gave a little laugh. “I see. Well, I’m glad to have you both lending me a hand. I’m Hannah Richards.”

The man tweaked the brim of his hat. “J.T. Tucker.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tucker.”

He dipped his chin in a small nod. Not a very demonstrative fellow. Nor very talkative.

“Lay those things down, Tom,” he called out as he stepped away. “We don’t want them to tip over the side if we hit a rut.”

“Oh. Wait just a minute, please.” There was no telling what foul things had been carted around in that wagon bed before today. It didn’t matter so much for her trunks and sewing cabinet, but the linen covering her mannequins would be easily soiled.

“I have an old quilt that I wrapped around them in the railroad freight car. Let me fetch it.”

Hannah sensed more than heard Mr. Tucker’s sigh as she hurried to collect the quilt from the trunk she had been sitting on. Well, he could sigh all he liked. Her display dummies were going to be covered. She had one chance to make a first impression on the ladies of Coventry, and she vowed it would be a pristine one.

Making a point not to look at the liveryman as she scurried by, Hannah clutched the quilt to her chest and headed for the wagon. She draped it over the side, then climbed the spokes and hopped into the back, just as she had done as a child. Then she laid out the quilt along the back wall and gently piled the six dummies horizontally atop it, alternating the placement of the tripod pedestals to allow them to fit together in a more compact fashion. As she flipped the remaining fabric of the quilt over the pile, a loud thud sounded from behind, and the wagon jostled her. She gasped and teetered to the side. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of Mr. Tucker as he shoved the first of her trunks into the wagon bed, its iron bottom scraping against the wooden floor.

The man could have warned her of his presence instead of scaring the wits out of her like that. But taking him to task would only make her look like a shrew, so she ignored him. When Tom arrived with the second trunk, she was ready. After he set it down, she moved to the end of the wagon.

“Would you help me down, please?”

He grinned up at her. “Sure thing.”

Hannah set her hands on his shoulders as he clasped her waist and lifted her down. A tiny voice of regret chided her for not asking the favor of the rugged Mr. Tucker, but she squelched it. Tom was a safer choice. Besides, his affable manner put her at ease—unlike his companion, who from one minute to the next alternated between sparking her interest and her ire.

She bit back her admonishments to take care as the men hefted her sewing machine. Thankfully, they managed to accomplish the task without her guidance. With the large cabinet secured in the wagon bed, it didn’t take long for them to load the rest of her belongings. Once they finished, Tom handed her up to the bench seat, then scrambled into the back, leaving her alone with Mr. Tucker.

A cool autumn breeze caressed her cheeks and tugged lightly on her bonnet as the wagon rolled forward. She smoothed her skirts, not sure what to say to the reticent man beside her. However, he surprised her by starting the conversation on his own.

“What made you choose Coventry, Miss Richards?”

She twisted on the seat to look at him, but his eyes remained focused on the road.

“I guess you could say it chose me.”

“How so?”

“It was really a most extraordinary sequence of events. I do not doubt that the Lord’s Providence brought me here.”

That got a reaction. His chin swiveled toward her, and beneath his hat, his intense gaze speared her for a handful of seconds before he blinked and turned away.

She swallowed the moisture that had accumulated under her tongue as he stared at her, then continued.

“Two years ago, I was hired by Mrs. Granbury of San Antonio to sew for her most particular clientele. One of these clients was an elderly spinster with a reputation for being impossible to work with. Well, I needed the job too badly to allow her to scare me away and was too stubborn to let her get the best of me, so I stuck it out and eventually the two of us found a way to coexist and even respect each other.

“Before she died, she called me in to make a final gown for her, and we fell to talking about her legacy. She had invested in several railroad properties, and had only one left that had not sold. In an act of generosity that I still find hard to believe, she gave me the deed as a gift, knowing that I had always dreamed of opening my own shop.”

“What kept her from selling it before then?” His deep voice rumbled with something more pointed than simple curiosity.

A prickle of unease wiggled down Hannah’s neck, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint the cause.

“She told me that she preferred to meet the buyers in person, to assess their character before selling off her properties. Unfortunately, her health had begun to decline, and she was unable to travel. There had been a gentleman of good reputation from this area who made an offer several times. A Mr. Tuck…”

A hard lump of dread formed in the back of Hannah’s throat.

“Oh dear. Don’t tell me you’re that Mr. Tucker?”

Multnomah Tour - LIFE INSPITE OF ME by KRISTEN JANE ANDERSON WITH TRICIA GOYER


















ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tricia Goyer is the author of twenty-four books including Songbird Under a German Moon, The Swiss Courier, and the mommy memoir, Blue Like Play Dough. She won Historical Novel of the Year in 2005 and 2006 from ACFW, and was honored with the Writer of the Year award from Mt. Hermon Writer's Conference in 2003. Tricia's book Life Interrupted was a finalist for the Gold Medallion in 2005. In addition to her novels, Tricia writes non-fiction books and magazine articles for publications like MomSense and Thriving Family. Tricia is a regular speaker at conventions and conferences, and has been a workshop presenter at the MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) International Conventions. She and her family make their home in Little Rock, Arkansas where they are part of the ministry of FamilyLife. For more info, please visit http://www.triciagoyer.com/





ABOUT THE BOOK:


After her fatal choice... extraordinary hope.

Why does my life have to be so painful?

What's wrong with me?

It's not going to get better.

It could all be over soon, and then I won't hurt anymore.

Kristen Anderson thought she had the picture perfect life until strokes of gray dimmed her outlook on life. Once a happy child, Kristen's world darkened after three friends and her grandmother died within two years. Still reeling from these losses, she was raped by a friend she thought she could trust. She soon spiraled into a depression that didn't seem to have a bottom.

One January night, the seventeen-year-old made a decision: She no longer wanted to deal with the emotional pain that smothered her. She lay down on a set of cold railroad tracks and waited-for a freight train to send her to heaven...and peace.

Fear coursed through me. I squeezed my eyes tighter.

It's going to be over now. The pain is going to end. I'll be in heaven soon.

As the train whistle blew, the vibration of my body stilled.

The sound stopped. The wind stopped. The train stopped.

Am I dead yet?

Amazingly, Kristen survived her suicide attempt... but the 33 freight cars that ran over her severed her legs. Now she not only had to deal with depression; she also had to face the physical pain and life without legs.

But Kristen's story didn't end there. After her darkest days Kristen discovered a real purpose for living. Now, in her compelling book Life, In Spite of Me, Kristen shares her journey from despair to hope.

Includes letters from Kristen that share messages she wishes someone would have told her-when she was depressed and struggling with loss, shame from sexual abuse, and suicidal thoughts.

REVIEW:
LIFE IN SPITE OF ME

By Kristen Jane Anderson
With Tricia Goyer
Published by Multnomah
ISBN# 978-1-60142-252-1
209 Pages
Back Cover: Kristen Anderson thought she had the picture-perfect life until strokes of gray dimmed her outlook: three friends and her grandmother died within two years. Still reeling from these losses, she was raped by a friend she thought she could trust. She soon spiraled into a seemingly bottomless depression.

One January night, the seventeen-year-old decided she no longer wanted to deal with the emotional pain that smothered her. She lay down on a set of cold railroad tracks and waited for a freight train to send her to heaven…and peace.

In Life, In Spite of Me this remarkably joyful young woman shares the miracle of her survival, the agonizing aftermath of her failed suicide attempt, and the hope that has completely transformed her life, giving her a powerful purpose for living.

Her gripping story of finding joy against all odds provides a vivid and unforgettable reminder that life is a gift to be treasured.

REVIEW: “If only I could have figured out how to deal with all the pain inside before it came to this. I was never trying to hurt anyone, yet I had. Especially myself.”

I had seen a video of Oprah Winfrey interviewing Kristen; it was powerful. I remember thinking how could this girl be smiling? When Multnomah offered a review copy of this book, I quickly signed up to help spread the word about the testimony of Christ moving in and through this young woman who found hope and peace in a hopelessly agonizing situation.

I couldn’t stop reading this book from the very first page. It’s written in first person, so I felt as if I were sitting down with Kristen as she told me her story.

Kristen states she was brought up in a good home and life was happy until things happened that started to rocked her world—the unexpected death of her grandmother, the suicide of a very close friend and another unexpected trauma at a party. Kristen starts to feel helpless and wonders why she couldn’t get past these feelings like everyone else. At seventeen she starts to look at life through new eyes and says this, “unlike Cinderella, I had no fairy godmother who could make everything beautiful and perfect with one zing of a magic wand! But as long as I could push the problems out of my mind, keep them from distracting me, I was fine!”

Doctors and paramedics who were first on the scene told Kristin she shouldn’t have survived. Kristin knew it was by the Grace of God she lived and He brought the people necessary to her situation to help her live. She wondered, why? What was the purpose?

She came to learn that God works all things out in life for His glory and our good. Even things meant to destroy us. He uses it all. This is an inspiring courageous story you’ll never forget. It will touch your heart, give you hope, encouragement and remind you life is a gift to be cherished.

Nora St. Laurent
ACFW Book Club Coordinator



Litfusegroup blog: http://www.litfusegroup.com/Blog-Tours/life-in-spite-of-me.html


ENTER THE TRICIA GOYER' CONTEST
! STARTS 5/17 - GO TO TRICIA'S SITE TO ENTER CONTEST - Your comment won't count if you leave it here! READ BELOW for contest instructions.

Tweet this: Don’t miss Life, In Spite of Me by @TriciaGoyer! The amazing story of #KristenAnderson journey back from #suicide! http://bit.ly/98PKmo
(must use both hashtags #kristenanderson and #suicide)


For a chance to win a 5 book Tricia Goyer library – any five books of your choice!
And/or
Leave a comment here http://triciagoyer.blogspot.com/2010/05/i-am-so-excited-to-announce-that-life.html
for a chance to win 1 of 5 copies of Life, In Spite of Me.

Good Luck Everyone!! This is a very inspiring story you won't want to miss!

Nora :D

BROKEN by TRAVIS THRASHER

This week, the

Christian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

Broken

FaithWords (May 25, 2010)

by

Travis Thrasher

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
It was during third grade after a teacher encouraged him in his writing and as he read through The Narnia Chronicles by C.S. Lewis that Travis decided he wanted to be a writer. The dream never left him, and allowed him to fulfill that dream of writing fulltime in 2007.

Travis Thrasher is the author of numerous works of fiction, including his most personal and perhaps his deepest work, Sky Blue, that was published in summer of 2007. This year he has to novels published, Out of the Devil’s Mouth, and a supernatural thriller, Isolation.

Travis is married to Sharon and they are the proud parents of Kylie, born in November, 2006, and Hailey, a Shih-Tzu that looks like an Ewok. They live in suburban Chicago.

Stop by and visit Travis at his Blog where you can sign up to follow him on Facebook and Twitter!

ABOUT THE BOOK

Laila had it all--love, family, wealth, and faith. But when her faith crumbles, her world falls apart and Laila finds herself living an empty, dangerous life as a call girl in Chicago.

When she is threatened, Laila shoots and kills a client in self-defense, sending herself into a spiral of guilt and emptiness. Six months later, she is trying to move on, but she's haunted by the past. She hasn't told anyone about the man she killed, and she's still estranged from her family.

When she is approached by a stranger who says he knows what she did, Laila has no choice but to run. But the stranger stays close behind, and Laila begins having visions of the man she killed. Little does she know she's being hounded by something not of this world, something that knows her deepest, darkest secret.

Scared and wandering, will Laila regain her trust in God to protect her from these demons? Or will her plea for salvation come too late?

If you would like to read the first chapter of Broken, go HERE.

THE LAST CHRISTIAN by DAVID GREGORY - REVIEWED

Summary:
After her remote village is annihilated by disease, a cryptic message from her grandfather launches Abby Caldwell into the seemingly impossible task of re-introducing the Christian faith in a late twenty first century, secular, trans-human America.

Check out more on this book at Random House's Site. http://www.randomhouse.com/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9781400074976


Author Bio:
David Gregory the author of Dinner with a Perfect Stranger, A Day with a Perfect Stranger, The Next Level, and the coauthor of the nonfiction The Rest of the Gospel. After a ten-year business career, he returned to school to study religion and communications, earning Master's degrees from Dallas Theological Seminary and the University of North Texas. A native of Texas, he now lives in the Pacific Northwest.

REVIEW:
THE LAST CHRISTIAN
By David Gregory
Published by: WaterBrook
ISBN# 978-1-4000-7497-6
407 Pages

Back Cover: When missionary Abigail Caldwell emerges from her jungle village in A.D. 2088, she arrives in America to find Christianity has disappeared---and brain transplants promise eternal life! Determined to restore the nation to God, Abby joins forces with historian Creighton Daniels. What will they do when a powerful conspiracy threatens humanity's spiritual future---and their own lives?

REVIEW: I’ve read Dinner with a Perfect Stranger, Day with a Perfect Stranger and The Next Level by David Gregory and jumped at the chance for a review copy of his newest book. I had a feeling it would be something special. I wasn’t disappointed.

After reading the prologue, dated April 2088, I knew I was on a completely fresh, incredible, serious journey with David as he whisked me into this Sci/Fi thriller. I buckled up, regrouped and tuned into this high-tech scenario. David reveals amazing computer gadgets, a mainstream super highway, and the absence of the Christian influence in the world.

I could imagine this incredible high tech world with the help of seeing movies like the Star Trek and The Matrix. This author shows how technology can change the world and do great things, but along with the benefits there are serious ethical and moral consequences. Neuron implants are put into people in the form of a chip that allow them to surf the grid (much like the web-but more remarkable) so they can spend most of their lives in VR (a virtual reality world of their making).

This is not a comfortable, warm fuzzy read with a happily ever after ending. It’s a book that made me think about life, in relationship to Christ and the people around me. I knew that after I finished the last page of The Last Christian, I would keep whirling the characters dilemma and the deep message David gave over and over in my mind, heart and soul. David’s books do that to me. .

Abigail Caldwell was the only one to survivor a virus that wiped out her whole village. She’s an American Missionary trying to make sense of a sixteen year old message recently received from her Grandfather in America.

When Abby arrives in the USA she discovers Christianity is gone. Not because the government stripped it from society but humanity had changed. Science and technology became more important to them. It replaced the need for God and Christianity. Abbey thought, Could one person make a difference? She soon found out people weren’t interested in the message of forgiveness through Christ in this foreign land.

Someone says to Abbey, “I found that out long ago. That’s because they no longer sense their need to be forgiven. People didn’t believe in absolutes anymore, in right and wrong. So what is there to be forgiven for?”

This author challenges everyone to evaluate how they are living this Christian life and how they share Jesus. I have to say I was pierced by the Holy Spirit to re-evaluate some things in my own life. Wow, what a story. You’ll definitely have to check this one out!

Nora St. Laurent
ACFW Book Club Coordinator

HEADING HOME by RENEE RIVA - REVIEWED & FIRST CHAPTER


HEADING HOME
By Renee Riva
Published by B & H
ISBN# 978-1-4347-6776-9
258 Pages


Back Cover:
For eight years, A.J. Degulio has been itching to get back to her beloved Indian Island. Its home, but a lot has changed: Sailor moves slower, Danny has grown into a man . . . and A.J. has a promise to keep…but it doesn’t include Danny. When Danny discovers the truth, he’s shocked and hurt. But he won’t stand in the way of what she really wants.

What’s a girl to do? She wants to keep her promise and Danny. But Danny has plans of his own. Can they work it out? It will take compromise and laughter before Danny and A.J. figure out that home is more than a place on the map. It’s a place in the heart.

REVIEW: I’m so thankful to have received a review copy of this entertaining and touching book by Renee Riva. This is a charming tale of a girl coming of age, finding true love, discovering what’s important in life and having peace about what God has called her to do. I remembered growing up in an Italian-American Catholic family and could relate to A.J. and her situation on many levels. I found myself smiling as I read and laughing out loud in parts! The way her family interacted reminded me of the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and how they did family. Fun, Fun, Fun!

A.J.’s best friend and love interest is Danny, a Southern cowboy; he’s waited 8 years for her to return home from Italy and is trying hard to understand the A.J. that has returned and her new mission in life. Danny says to her, “Are we talking nun here, A.J.?”

“um..kind of.”

He exhales, “How can you kind of be a nun?”

“Well, I won’t be kind of a nun. I mean, I’ll be kind of considering being a sister.”

He stares at me dead on. “You’re serious aren’t you?”

Danny doesn’t understand A.J.’s thinking. How can he compete with God for her affections? He respects her choice and leaves A.J. to work this out for herself.

I enjoyed A.J.’s earnest search to do the right thing and follow God no matter what people said. She was confident God would reveal His will for her life. This was a refreshing and fun read. I look forward to reading more books by this author.

Nora St.Laurent
ACFW Book Club Coordinator

What people are saying about…..Heading Home

“Riva’s warm, often humorous, and delightful story of first love, loyalties, and complicated promises offers readers a mix of faith and fun wrapped in fiction.”

Gail Welborn, review in Seattle Christian Book Review Examiner

“Heading Home wins a place on my bookshelves that house only titles I plan to read again and again. The humor, the pathos, and the believability of the characters and the plot make Heading Homean absolute delight-enjoyable and unforgettable. Renee deserves high praise for a book that will touch lives and teach tolerance while adhering to strong Christian beliefs.”

Colleen L. Reece, author of 140+ “Books You Can Trust,” six million copies sold

“Quirky characters and infectious humor!”
RT Book Reviews

“Heading Home is the delicious unfolding of A.J.’s tale. Our favorite firecracker of a girl with the fake Southern accent is coming into her own as an adult. Whether A.J. is seeking after God on starlit night, arguing with her Italian American family on the phone, or drifting out on the lake with the cowboy of her drams, Riva takes us on a journey of hilarity, holiness, family fun, and true love. Heading Home made me feel like I came home." Susanna Foth Aughtmon, author of All I Need Is Jesus and a Good Pair of Jeans

“Renee Riva’s Heading Home is a touching, satisfying episode in the life of the irrepressible A.J. Degulio. Reader beware! Beginning this book near bedtime may result in daytime drowsiness!” Sylvia Dorham, author and voice-over artist whose credits include Riva’s Saving Sailor

“A sweet tale of true love, quirky characters, and a girl named A.J. you can’t help but adore. Renee Riva is a gem of an author in Christian fiction. Everyone should have the chance to enjoy her wonderful stories, and Heading Home is a great addition. Viva la famiglia!” C.J. Darlington, author of Thicker than Blood and cofounder of Title Trakk.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Renee Riva has enjoyed a lifelong love affair with words. She is particularly passionate about writing for young adults and children. Heading Homeis the third novel in the Indian Island Trilogy and reflects Renee’s love for animals as well as her desire to provide stories that families can enjoy together for years to come. In addition to the Indian Island Trilogy (Saving Sailor, Taking Tuscany, andHeading Home) Renee has written two titles for young children; Guido’s Gondola and Izzy the Lizzy. Her love for writing has ignited efforts to share her talents with others. Renee speaks at Young Author events, attends numerous writing conferences, and teaches writing workshops in the Northwest. She lives in Richland, Washington, with her husband and three daughters.

Visit the author's website.



Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 272 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (April 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434767760
ISBN-13: 978-1434767769

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


From a crumbling castle in the
hills of Tuscany …


In the fall of 1968, when I was ten years old, our family moved to an old castle in Tuscany, Italy. My one regret was that I had to leave my dog, Sailor, behind. My sole comfort was that my friend Danny agreed to keep him for me until I could return someday. Someday turned into eight years.


We wrote letters frequently on behalf of Sailor. Every once in a while we would remember to mention his name.…


November 27, 1974


Dear Danny,


How's Sailor? Here's my school photo of me at sixteen. I can't believe I've been here for six years! I'm still planning to come to Indian Island when I turn eighteen, to attend veterinary school. Be sure and reserve Papoose for me to rent for the summer. Only two more years until I get to see Sailor again.


How are you? Are you a pastor yet? Besides a vet, I'm kind of thinking of being a nun. Then I could help starving animals and people. I wrote Sister Abigail about it. She said I could probably do both.
Write back, please.


Yours truly,

A. J.




December 13, 1974


Dear A. J.,
Sailor really liked your school photo. You sure don't look ten years old anymore. Sailor is very glad you're coming back. He wants you to be sure to call me as soon as you

get here. Things are going well for me. I'm now the youth pastor at Squawkomish Baptist.


I was walking through Saddlemyer's Dime Store when I saw this snow globe. For some reason it reminded me of you. Merry Christmas!


Hurry home--Sailor misses you,

Danny


Arrivederci, Roma!
July 13, 1976


“Surprise!”


My carry-on bag nearly drops from my hands as loud, smiling faces suddenly spring up out of nowhere. A mix of birthday balloons and banners with “GO WSU COUGARS” fills the already-crowded waiting area at my departure gate in the Rome International Airport.


“Happy birthday and arrivederci, kiddo!” Mama yells, accompanied by that confident gleam of victory, confirming that she has successfully pulled off the surprise party of the century. Who but my mother would stage a going away-birthday party in the middle of a busy airport?


This is the day that I have been longing for for eight years … my return to Indian Island, my childhood haven. I'm only hours away from being reunited with my best friend, Danny, and my faithful dog, Sailor, and looking ahead to a hopeful future in veterinary medicine.


“Now boarding flight 49 to New York.” As the announcement comes over the intercom, I am suddenly surrounded and smothered with hugs and kisses from Mama, Daddy, my sister, my brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, courtesy cousins, and best friends Bianca and Dominic.


Inching my way through the boarding line, my last hug comes from Dominic, my closest male companion of the past four years. “Ciao, Angelina.” He smiles and kisses my cheek. “I'm going to miss you.”


I return Dominic's kiss. “Ciao, amico mio.”


At my parting gate I wave good-bye to all I love, then turn and walk down the Jetway toward home … half a world away.


Return to Indian Island
July 1976


The rowboat smashes into the dock with a thud. A startled mallard plunges into the lake and paddles quickly away.


“I'm home!” I yell at the top of my lungs. I've waited eight long years to hear myself say those two words again. Stepping onto the shores of Indian Island is like stepping back in time. Hidden among the trees in the Pitchy Pine Forest, little Papoose awaits its family's return. Voices and laughter still echo from its walls: Mama, Daddy, Adriana, J. R., Dino, and Benji. The faint squeak of a hamster wheel drifts from the shed like a sad melody, carrying the memory of Ruby Jean.


Running toward the cabin, the words ring over and over in my head, I'm home! I'm home! I whisper it this time, just to hear myself say it again. Feeling quite smug that I still have the key, I let myself in, relishing the thought that no one else knows I'm here. I'd debated over clanging the bell on the main shore, knowing the mini tug would have come for me, but I wanted my reunion to happen right here, on my old, beloved island.


When I enter the cabin, I'm relieved to find everything in Papoose the same as when we'd left, as though no one has taken our place. My eyes dart to the phone number of Big Chief, still tacked to the wall above the phone. I've played this moment in my mind so many times.


Lord, help me to pull this off. Dialing the number, my hands begin to shake. The old, familiar ring blares in my ear.…


“Hello?”


It's Danny. That same Southern voice that made my heart skip a beat the first time I ever heard it is making it pound now. “Well, howdy on ya!” I bellow, in the best Southern drawl I can muster-- not easy, after speaking Italian for the past eight years.


There's a long pause. “Howdy yourself. May I ask who's callin'?”


“You can ask all ya want, but I ain't gonna tell ya. I'm frankly more in'erested in that log cabin you've got over yonder from your place a piece. Any chance it might be up for rent this summer?”


There is no way Danny would even think of being stuck on an island with some kook. He'd rather leave Papoose empty than have to deal with a nutty neighbor.


“Who is this?” He sounds more curious than annoyed.


“Well, who in the Sam Hill do ya think it is?”


“Um, I have no idea, but in answer to your first question, I don't rent that cabin out. I have a family I keep it reserved for … for whenever she … they come back.”


I can't stand it any longer. “Well, Danny boy, it just breaks my li'l heart that you don't recognize a true Southern belle when you hear one.” That'll get his wheels turning.


“… No way … A. J.? Is that you?”


“Bingo! Race you to Juniper Beach--and bring my dog!” I slam down the receiver and dart out the screen door so fast it nearly flies off its hinges.


I'm whippin' down that old Pitchy Pine Trail faster than a baby jackrabbit. The first thing I see when I reach Juniper Beach is my big old dog.


“Sailor!” I cry, with tears streaming down my face. Sailor comes barreling down the beach, twice as fat and half as fast as when we parted. He pounces on me so hard I nearly fall over. I bury my face in his fur and sob like the day I found him on death row. When I look up, I see Danny walking toward me real slow, as though he doesn't want to intrude on my reunion with Sailor.


Wiping away my tears, my eyes come to focus on the face I've so longed to see--besides Sailor's. Oh … my … gosh. This is not the Danny I remember. Before me stands a towering six-foot-somethin' sandy-blond, sun-bronzed cowboy--a perfect cross between the Duke and Little Joe Cartwright. When we're within arms' reach of each other, we both just stop. Eight years is a long time--from saying good-bye as kids to saying hello as adults.


“Hey, A. J.,” Danny says, real tender.


No one has ever said my name the way Danny says my name … with the most beautiful Southern accent I've ever heard in my entire life. I stand still, just staring at him … and I have only one thing to say. “Can you ride a horse?”


Danny looks taken aback and amused at the same time. “Did you just ask me if I can ride a horse?”


(Daddy once told me, “A. J., when you find your cowboy, make sure he can actually ride a horse. Any man can put on the hat and the boots and call himself a cowboy, but only a real man can actually ride the horse.”)


“Um … never mind,” I answer. “But can you?”


“Ride a horse?”


I nod. “Uh-huh.”


Now he's grinning, like he just realized I must be the same quirky kid he knew before. Not bothering to ask why, he just answers the question. “Yeah, A. J., I can ride a horse.”


“Oh. Okay.”


“Is that good?”


“Yeah. That's good.” That's real good.


Now Danny's looking at me with those blue, blue eyes that always made me feel like he could see right into the depths of my soul. Is this really my childhood friend? Our nearly four-year age difference that once posed such a gap between us seems strangely insignificant now.


Danny sticks his hands in his pockets. His expression suggests that maybe he's thinking the same thing. I wonder if he still sees me as the same freckle-faced kid with the fake Southern accent who could squirt half the lake between her two front teeth. At least I've grown into my teeth now and speak Italian instead of Southern.


So here we are face-to-face, after all these years, in a standoff, wondering how we're going to fill this awkward moment. In the midst of our dilemma, Sailor charges up from the water and takes a flying leap right for me. I'm shoved headlong into Danny and fall to the sand in his arms.


He smiles down at me then glances over at Sailor. “Good boy,” he whispers. “It only took me eight years to teach him that trick.” He laughs while gently brushing sand from my face. His eyes linger for a moment as though he's contemplating something, then he glances down the shoreline. “So … how would you like to go out on the water?”


“Drifting?” I've dreamed of nothing else since I left the island.


“Drifting it is. I'll launch the boat.” He helps me up then heads toward the old dinghy resting on shore. Wedged deep in sand and beach grass, it doesn't look like it's moved since I left. I watch Danny grab hold of the bow and hoist it from the shore to the water as though it weighs nearly nothing. With a shove, he launches it into the bay. “Your ship awaits you,” he calls down the beach to me. Sailor lops along the shoreline and leaps into the boat, barely clearing the oarlock. The old dog just ain't what he used to be, but he obviously still loves to drift.


Sailor takes the front seat with his nose to the wind, resembling a hairy bow ornament. I take the middle seat, Danny takes the stern. The sun is slowly sinking behind the hills, casting an orange glow over Indian Lake. I arrange myself in drift mode: lying on my back across the seat, eyes to the sky, feet hanging over the side of the boat. Danny follows suit, clasping his hands behind his head. I breathe in the sweet, warm summer air. “I'm home,” I whisper, glancing over at Danny.


He returns my smile. “Welcome home, A. J.”


A gentle breeze ruffles up Sailor's fur as he turns his nose to catch the scent in the wind. I'm so happy to be back with my dog. My eyes shift from Sailor to Danny. I cannot get over that this is really Danny Morgan.


He looks over and catches me staring.


“You've gotten taller, haven't you?” I say, trying to cover myself.


“Maybe a few inches.”


“Maybe a few feet! What did they feed you on that farm, Miracle-Gro?”


“Grits.” He smiles. “Lots of grits.”


Grits look good on you. “So, do you miss your farm life?”


“Sometimes. But I'm pretty excited about my plans for the island.”


“Plans?”


He glances around like he's about to divulge a secret he doesn't want anyone else to hear. “You tell me your plans first, then I'll tell you mine.”


“Okay. Well … for starters, my veterinary courses start up in September, and will probably take me … about the rest of my life to complete.”


“Washington State University?”


“Yep. Go Cougs!”


“But you're staying on the island, right?”


“Right. Grandma's letting me use her car. The campus isn't that far, really--takes me less than a half hour each way. It'll cost a lot less to live here and commute than if I live on campus. As long as your new plans don't include upping the rent on me.”


Danny smiles. “I can probably swing you a pretty good deal-- like rent free, if I can get you to help me with my plans.” His smile turns to a grin.


“Really? You may have yourself a deal! I couldn't bear the thought of giving up the island to live in a dorm. Besides, they don't allow dogs in the dorms.” Sailor perks up at the word dogs and wags his tail. “Wait--maybe you'd better tell me what your plans are first.”


“Well … I'm thinkin' of turning the island into a summer camp.”


“A summer camp? On the island?” I swing my feet back in the boat and sit up, facing Danny.


“There are a lot of kids around here with nothing to do in the summer,” Danny says. “I'd like to offer them a place to go. My dream is to eventually work here full-time. Summer camps all summer, weekend retreats fall and winter.”


“What happened to becoming a preacher?”


“I can still preach to the kids at camp, but as far as becoming a full-time pastor for a church, my heart's turning more toward a summer camp on this island.”


“And what will you do on your summer camp island?”


“Well,” Danny swings his legs into the boat and sits up too. His eyes light up like a little kid talking about his birthday plans. “Every time I get out on the lake to go fishin', I look back at the island and picture the whole setup. Big Chief was first built as a hunting lodge, you know, so it's definitely big enough for the camp headquarters.”


That explains all those deer and moose heads hanging on the walls, anyway.


“The dining area could probably handle enough tables for a mess hall, and that old stone fireplace would be a perfect gathering place. Then I'll need to insulate the other two cabins to withstand the winters. That way we can rent the camp out for weekend retreats during the rest of the year to keep a cash flow coming in.”


“Who would be renting it?”


“Churches and social groups are always looking for peaceful getaways for their retreats. What could be more peaceful than this?” Danny looks around like he is the proud owner of the best island in the world. I happen to agree with him on that. “We could pull in business from Coeur d'Alene to Moscow along the Idaho border and from Spokane on the Washington side.”


He keeps saying we.


“Then, I thought Pocahontas could be the bunkhouse--should be able to fit about a dozen bunks upstairs and another dozen down-- around fifty campers total--counselors included. Girls upstairs, boys downstairs, with no common access. And Papoose … I'd like to keep Papoose for the local residents.” He smiles over at me. And he still has the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Sigh.


He continues, “Then, out in the Pitchy Pine Forest, over by your cemetery, I'd have archery.…”


“Hold on. You can't have a bunch of kids stomping through my critter cemetery chasing after arrows. Those are sacred burial grounds.”


Danny looks at me. “I hadn't thought about that. Now that's something new to consider. That might weird out a few of the parents if their kids come home talkin' about running through a critter cemetery.”


“There is nothing weird whatsoever about people burying their pets.”


“Pets, yeah. But bugs, lizards, mice, and rats may be a different story.”


“Who's going to know what's buried there if they don't dig 'em up? Besides, after eight years there's probably not much left of them.”


“Okay, fine. I'll put a locked gate on it. We'll just tell the campers we have a few of our dead relatives buried in there. It wouldn't be camp without the makin's for a few spooky stories.” Danny laughs.


“So anyway, as I was explaining, the best part is down at Juniper Beach. Get this: swimming, fishing, and sailing on the lake, with campfires and stargazing on the beach at night. And then … in the clearing over by the chapel, behind your critter cemetery, I'd build a corral for my ponies.”


“What ponies?”


“The ones I'm hoping to buy at the spring auction in time for the official camp opening next summer.”


“And how do you plan to get your ponies out to the island?”


Danny looks at me like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “On the tugboat.”


“Ah, the tugboat--of course.”


“By the way, I'm hosting about ten Sunday-school kids for an overnight campout this Friday. I thought it might be a good opportunity to get a feel for what I'm in for on a small scale. My assistant youth leader offered to help with the girls if I need her, but, now that you're here, I thought I'd offer the job to you first. Any chance you'd be willing to help with the girl campers?”


Looking back at the island, I'm trying to envision this quiet island retreat swarming with rowdy little campers. “Uh, sure, I'll help.” I get the feeling I may soon be living a reenactment of the Swiss Family Robinson. “So have you thought of a name for your camp yet?”


“Not yet. Any ideas?”


“Hmm, how about Camp Down Yonder?” I offer up in a nice Southern drawl. “Or maybe Camp Dan Yonder, after you.”


Danny looks subtly amused. “You makin' fun of my camp?”


“No, sir, just thinkin' it's a fine name for an Okie to call his summa' camp.”


He just stares at me, as though strongly considering throwing me overboard. Then something in his demeanor changes. “So, besides WSU this fall, what are your plans for next summer?”


“I'm considering some opportunities in … charity work. I'm not sure yet if, or where, that will happen.”


“Hmm.” He looks away for a moment, then looks back at me with those eyes. “Well, if you decide to stick around here for the summer, would you … consider being … my wrangler--for the ponies, I mean?”


His eyes are so penetrating, I can't look away.


“Um …”


“I'll throw a hamster in on the deal if you stay.”


“I'd … love to be your wrangler--I mean, the ponies' wrangler--if I stick around.”


©2010 Cook Communications Ministries. Heading Home by Renee Riva. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.