In the month of May I read 21 books. Much better than previous months. I read one nonfiction book, For Women Only by Shaunti Feldhahn. It definitely enlightened me on some of the things men think and why. My absolute favorites are in bold below. Hurricanes in Paradise is going on my top favorites for the year list. My review will be up next week. I read the last book in two great Christian YA series, Love Will Keep Us Together and So Over My Head. Both I highly recommend. I had a good variety of historical, YA, contemporary, women's, classics, mystery/suspense and non fiction. :)
May
104. The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas
105. Love Will Keep Us Together by Anne Dayton and May Vanderbilt
106. Maggie Rose by Sharlene MacLaren
107. It Had to Be You by Janice Thompson
108. Crossing Oceans by Gina Holmes
109. A Silent Fury by Lynette Eason
110. Witness to Murder by Jill Elizabeth Nelson
111. More Than Great Riches by Jan Washburn
112. Face of Betrayal by Lis Wiehl and April Henry
113. This Fine Life by Eva Marie Everson
114. A Matter of Character by Robin Lee Hatcher
115. For Women Only by Shaunti Feldhahn (NF)
116. Deadly Disclosures by Julie Cave
117. The Bridegrooms by Allison Pittman
118. So Over My Head by Jenny B. Jones
119. A Daughter's Legacy by Virgina Smith
120. Evidence of Murder by Jill Elizabeth Nelson
121. Steadfast Soldier by Cheryl Wyatt
122. Cowboy for Keeps by Debra Clopton
123. Nowhere, Carolina by Tamara Leigh
124. Abbie Ann by Sharlene MacLaren
125. Hurricanes in Paradise by Denise Hildreth (Going on favorites for year list too)
Monday, May 31, 2010
Clear Away the Clutter Challenge Wrap Up
Kate at the Neverending Shelf is hosting this challenge:
http://www.theneverendingshelf.com/2010/01/clear-clutter-mini-challenge.html
Your goal is read as many titles as you can and pass along those that you do not absolutely want to keep. The mini challenge begins March 1st and ends May 31st. I am signing up for the level Organizer: Read and clean out 15 titles.
I did not complete this challenge. Achk. I have read a lot of good books in the past three months. I have gotten rid of some but I did not read most of them in this time period. So I say the challenge was not a complete failure because it did get me to doing something about all the books I have that are not absolute keepers. I listed some on PBS and already 9 have been requested from me. :)
Its Monday What Are You Reading? May 31, 2010
What I read last week:
- Steadfast Soldier by Cheryl Wyatt
- Cowboy for Keeps by Debra Clopton
- Nowhere, Carolina by Tamara Leigh
- Abbie Ann by Sharlene MacLaren
What I am currently reading:
- The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky
- Green Like God by Jonathan Merritt
- I'll Mature When I am Dead by Dave Barry
What I am reading next:
- A Hopeful Heart by Kim Vogel Sawyer
- Snow Melts in Spring by Deborah Vogts
- Seeds of Summer by Deborah Vogts
- A Tailor-Made Bride by Karen Witemeyer
What I reviewed last week:
http://abookloverforever.blogspot.com/2010/05/matter-of-character-by-robin-lee.html
A Tailor-Made Bride by Karen Witemeyer
It is time for 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. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
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?”
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?”
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The Sunday Salon May 30, 2010
* The weekend has flown by. I cannot believe it is Sunday Night. I've had the blahs this week. My sinuses and the icky weather combined have not helped. I am off all next week though. I kinda would rather be at work even though I have a ton of books to read. I don't want to get out of routine.
* Speaking of books. My TBR is overwhelming and I added three books to it this weekend. I have a lot of pending review books that I need to get done so that will be the primary focus for next week. My Mom has a pool so I will be over there some too. :)
* Tomorrow we will be going to a lake and having a barbecue to celebrate Memorial day. I need to go to dig out my swim suits. I think they are somewhere in my closet?
* I hope all my US readers have a great Memorial Day and everyone has a great week. Thank you to our troops past, present, and future.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
A Matter of Character by Robin Lee Hatcher (Review)
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
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.
My Review:
This is the third book in the Sisters of Bethlehem Springs book. It is a great Christian historical fiction novel. All three were good but I think this one is my favorite. Well written it flows well and held my attention from page one. The other characters from the previous two stories are a part of this one too. Daphne is the main character for this one though. I enjoyed seeing what happened to the other characters in the background. Anyway Daphne writes dime novels which have a bad reputation, so she has an alias nobody knows about except her publisher. Then Joshua comes to town and sparks fly. I loved seeing there relationship develop and the situations they get into. Highly Recommended. :)
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Broken by Travis Thrasher
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
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
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.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
What's On Your Nightstand? May 25, 2010
This is a monthly meme hosted by 5 Minutes for Books.
http://www.5minutesforbooks.com/
I like using pictures because it really is worth a thousand words in this instance. I am feeling very overwhelmed as you can see by the amount of books in the pictures. I did not even picture the library books I have out now. Thank God I am off work all next week. The first picture is all the Love Inspired/Mystery books on my TBR. The second is my upcoming review books and a few of my other TBR. I also have a few shelves of TBR. They are books I bought and have not read and from paperbackswap. So little time so many potential great books. I am looking forward to reading a few more classics coming up also. I hope everyone has a great reading month. :)
Frenzy by Robert Liparulo
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Robert Liparulo is a former journalist, with over a thousand articles and multiple writing awards to his name. His first novel, Comes a Horseman, released to critical acclaim. Each of his subsequent thrillers—Germ, Deadfall, and Deadlock—secured his place as one of today’s most popular and daring thriller writers.He is known for investing deep research and chillingly accurate predictions of near-future scenarios into his stories. In fact, his thorough, journalistic approach to research has resulted in his becoming an expert on the various topics he explores in his fiction, and he has appeared on such media outlets as CNN and ABC Radio.
Liparulo’s visual style of writing has caught the eye of Hollywood producers. Currently, three of his novels for adults are in various stages of development for the big screen: the film rights to Comes A Horseman. were purchased by the producer of Tom Clancy’s movies; and Liparulo is penning the screenplays for GERM and Deadfall for two top producers. He is also working with the director Andrew Davis (The Fugitive, Holes) on a political thriller. Novelist Michael Palmer calls Deadfall “a brilliantly crafted thriller.” March 31st marked the publication of Deadfall’s follow-up, Deadlock, which novelist Gayle Lynds calls, “best of high-octane suspense.”
Liparulo’s bestselling young adult series, Dreamhouse Kings, debuted in 2008 with House of Dark Shadows and Watcher in the Woods. Book three, Gatekeepers, released in January 2009, and number four, Timescape, in July 2009, and number five, Whirlwind in December 2009. The series has garnered praise from readers, both young and old, as well as attracting famous fans who themselves know the genre inside and out. Of the series, Goosebumps creator R.L. Stine says, “I loved wandering around in these books. With a house of so many great, haunting stories, why would you ever want to go outside?”
With the next two Dreamhouse books “in the can,” he is currently working on his next thriller, which for the first time injects supernatural elements into his brand of gun-blazing storytelling. The story is so compelling, two Hollywood studios are already in talks to acquire it—despite its publication date being more than a year away. After that comes a trilogy of novels, based on his acclaimed short story, which appeared in James Patterson’s Thriller anthology. New York Times bestselling author Steve Berry calls Liparulo’s writing “Inventive, suspenseful, and highly entertaining . . . Robert Liparulo is a storyteller, pure and simple.” He lives with his family in Colorado.
Visit Robert Liparulo's Facebook Fan page: http://www.facebook.com/LiparuloFans
ABOUT THE BOOK
When you live in a house that's really a gateway between past and present, you have to be ready for anything. It's a painful fact the Kings have faced since moving to Pinedale eight days ago. Desperately trying to rescue their mother from an unknown time and place, brothers Xander and David have lunged headlong into the chaos of history's greatest--and most volatile--events. But their goal has continually escaped their grasp.
And worse: Finding Mom is only a small part of what they must do, thanks to the barbaric Taksidian. His ruthless quest to sieze their house and its power from them has put not only the family, but all of mankind, in grave danger.
Somehow, the key to it all hinges on Uncle Jesse's words to the boys: "Fixing time is what our family was made to do." But how can they fix a world that has been turned updisde down--much less ever find their way home?
At long last, the secrets of the house and the King family are revealed in the stunning conclusion to this epic series.
If you would like to read the Prologue and first Chapter of Frenzy, go HERE.
Sign up for the Frenzy Newsletter HERE.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Its Monday What Are You Reading? May 24, 2010
What I read last week:
- The Bridegrooms by Allison Pittman
- So Over My Head by Jenny B. Jones (Awesome!)
- A Daughter's Legacy by Virgina Smith
- Evidence of Murder by Jill Elizabeth Nelson
What I am currently reading:
- Steadfast Solider by Cheryl Wyatt
- Green Like God by Jonathan Merritt
- Broken by Travis Thrasher
What I am reading next:
- The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky
- Abbie Ann by Sharlene MacLauren
- Deceit by Brandilyn Collins
- Cowboy for Keeps by Debra Clopton
Reviews Posted last week:
http://abookloverforever.blogspot.com/2010/05/this-fine-life-by-eva-marie-everson.html
http://abookloverforever.blogspot.com/2010/05/deadly-disclosure-by-julie-cave-review.html
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Sunday Salon May 23, 2010
* I had an okay weekend. I have been in a reading slump lately. I go to work come home hop on the computer and watch TV most of the night. Sometimes I read a few pages. That has to stop and will stop.
* I read four books so far this weekend. I want to start reading more during the week instead of cramming it in on the weekends. We'll see. My new old job at work is starting to get more settled so maybe that will help.
* I have yet to start the laundry so that will be next on my list for tonight. I went to Wal Mart and Kroger after eating dinner at Mimi's tonight so I have four new Love Inspired books to read. Two of which I can't wait to read I am so excited. We had a good dinner. Oven pork chops, cheesy potatoes, steamed broccoli, corn on the cob, and fresh tomatoes were on the menu. Yum!
* Next week I will be off work for a week. Technically only four days of PTO because that Monday is Memorial Day. No beach trip but I have plenty to do at home. I want to clean the house, read lots of books, spend time with family, and hang out at my Mom's pool.
* So this week I have a lot to look forward too for next week. I hope everyone has a great week and find lots of reading time. :)
Rooms by James L. Rubart
It is time for 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. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
B&H Books; Original edition (April 1, 2010)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
James L. Rubart is a professional marketer whose Jr2 Marketing company clientele has included ABC, AT&T/Cingular, and Clear Channel Radio. He is also a professional speaker, writes recurring columns for Christian Fiction Online Magazine and Christian Women Online, and is on the board of the Northwest Christian Writers Association.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: B&H Books; Original edition (April 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0805448888
ISBN-13: 978-0805448887
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Micah Taylor tapped an edge of the cryptic letter against his palm as he stared out the massive windows of his corner office overlooking Puget Sound.
Why would a great uncle he'd never known build a home for him? Oregon coast. Cannon Beach. Right on the ocean; at least that's what the letter claimed. Probably some joke his VP's cooked up, inspired by the picture he'd hung in the conference room a few months ago of Ecola State Park. Great kid memories from that slice of paradise. Was it only fifteen years ago? Felt longer.
Micah smiled. This was exactly the kind of prank his team might try to pull off. No one would ever accuse RimSoft's culture of being stoic.
But if the letter was real—
"Time to go boss."
Shannon stood in the doorway, eyes bright behind her Versace glasses, short-cropped salt and pepper hair outlining her china doll face. She'd been Micah’s administrative assistant for three years. Smart and not easily intimidated, what bubbled in her five-foot-four frame made her one of the strongest links in his company's chain.
“I hate being called boss.”
“Yes, I know.” She pulled her glasses down and gave him her pirate look over the top of them.
Micah laughed and glanced once more at the letter announcing his inheritance.
He grabbed his notebook and wagged his finger at Shannon as they walked out of his office. “You shouldn’t call someone boss when you’re almost old enough to be their m—"
"—much older sister.”
“Right,” Micah said as they fell into step and marched down the halls of RimSoft.
Friday morning. He loved Fridays; not just because they launched the weekend like a blast of summer morning sun, but because of his weekly team meeting. The creativity his team pumped out astounded him. He might not get hired at his own company if he applied. If employing people better than yourself were an Olympic event Micah would be swimming in gold.
As they turned the final corner on the way to the conference room, Kelli Kay, one of Micah’s more talented programmers, approached. “Want to hear something really cool?” Her red curls bounced like a slinky.
“Absolutely.” Micah kept walking—now backward—his Nike’s scuffing lightly on the teal carpet. Single mom until four months ago, Kelli put herself through computer school, while working forty hours a week and taking care of her ten-year-old kid. Never complained about fifty hour weeks. Never complained about sixty hour weeks.
“My kid won that art contest I told you about last week; he’s headed to LA this summer to compete in the national—"
“You serious? Listen, if he places, let’s fly him, and you, and that new husband of yours to New York to see the MET. I'll bring Julie and we'll all go check out the art with him and time it so we catch a Mariner’s Yankees game.”
“Really?” Kelli half-jogged to keep up with Micah.
“Absolutely. RimSoft's already made $2 million off that little anti-virus program you developed last year. You're amazing," Micah said.
He turned and picked up his pace. Shannon picked up hers too, her white Adidas running shoes helping in the effort. He couldn't believe this was the same women who showed up her first day wearing three-inch heals and a business suit straight out of Uptight Dresses for Corporate America. Micah told her to get rid of the heels and put on whatever she loved wearing and felt comfortable in.
“You could actually stop when you talk to people," Shannon said.
Micah laughed. "We have a meeting. You know, the company? Work to do. Software programs to develop. Lots of sales. Happy stockholders. Make money. All that stuff.” He brushed past a lush, broad leafed Dracaena plan and walked faster.
“They just want more time with you, to know you like them."
“I like everyone. But, to be sure, let's get out an e-mail that says ‘From Micah Taylor. To you. I like you. I really, really like you.’ ” He turned, pushed open the conference room door and held it for Shannon. He returned her glare with an impish grin.
The conference room was small but comfortable. No vaulted ceiling, no massive table, just two light tan leather couches and six overstuffed espresso brown chairs all circling the center of the room. RimSoft's version of Camelot. The room wasn't designed for ego, it was crafted for efficiency.
The couches held two people each. On one couch sat Micah's head of legal with his jet-black hair and John Lennon glasses. Next to him slumped his VP of mergers and acquisitions; thirty-one years old but looked fifty with his premature gray hair. On the other couch perched his VP of marketing, looking more every day like a young Oprah. Next to her sat his Chief Financial officer. Two of Micah's software development VP's sat in the chairs.
Shannon sat in a chair, Micah paced in front of his.
On a table in the center of the room sat a steaming pot filling the air with the aroma of Starbuck's coffee. Clumped next to it were mugs from Disneyland, the University of Washington Huskies, and cups with RimSoft's logo on them.
Good. All the pieces were in place. Time to check out the condition of the chess board.
“All right,” Micah said, a slice above his normal volume. “Let's roll. Where are we at with the i2-Rock alliance?”
“Done," his mergers VP said.
"We love their hardware; they still love our software, right?"
"Madly."
“Excellent, great work.” Micah focused on Oprah's twin. “Is the ad layout done for Wired?"
"Yep."
"Last one you did was a home run into the rafters so let’s keep the hits coming.” He turned to his right. “Beta testing on version four is done, right?”
“Finished Wednesday.”
“Very nice work, I can’t believe you already have it almost bug free.” Micah looked at the head of his legal team. “You’ve finished the docs for the merger with Reeda?”
“Not quite." The man glanced up at Micah. "We’re almost there.”
Micah whipped his pen around on his yellow note pad like a poor man's Picasso. “This is a sketch of underwear. But not just ordinary underwear, its asbestos underwear. You need a pair.”
“Why?” asked the head of legal.
“Well, you said your team would be done on Tuesday. It’s now Friday. So since it isn’t done, your team falls into the category of ‘liar, liar, pants on fire.’ I would think the asbestos underwear would help squelch the flames a bit.”
The head of legal flushed and mumbled, “We’ll get it done by the end of the day.”
“You’re excellent at law but this is the third time you’ve delayed us this quarter. Unacceptable.”
One of his team cleared their throat. The rest glued their eyes to the agenda.
"Deep breath everyone. Relax. Let's move on," Micah said.
A half-hour later Micah glanced at each member of his team. “Thank you. For two things. First, for being good enough at what you do that this company could no doubt survive without me. Second, for not being so good there’s no room left for my input.” He smiled, grabbed his notebook, and strode toward the door.
Too harsh in there on Mr. Always-Late-Legal? Probably. But why couldn't the guy just do his job on time? Did Micah have to do every job at RimSoft? If there was time he would. He doubted any of them believed his 'good enough that the company could run without me' speech. RimSoft couldn't. Always picking up the broken pieces was part of running a company. But it exhausted him. There had to be a way to get free of it. Trusting other people to come through? Wouldn't happen in this lifetime.
Shannon stepped into the hallway just ahead of him and clipped toward her desk like an Olympic speed walker.
In two bounds Micah, caught up to her. “Hey, slow down.”
She walked faster and didn’t respond.
“You’ve got that ‘Micah was a jerk’ look again.”
“Hmm.” She looked up at him with a thin lipped smile.
They walked seven paces in silence. “That’s not who I really am."
“Oh?”
Four more paces.
“You’re right, I was a royal jerk in there,” he whispered. His face grew warm as he fingered the scar on his left palm. “It’s just … some realities about life have stuck with me whether I wanted them to or not.”
“So you weren’t this way from birth?”
He hoped the tiny shake of his head was imperceptible. “Only since I was eight.”
"Zero! Zilch! Nada! That's what you'll always be, kid!"
The rest of the scene—the blood, the abandonment—tried to surface but Micah
slammed the vault to his heart shut and the memory faded.
By the time he arrived at his office, his breathing had steadied and his focus shifted to the letter from his great uncle sitting on his teak desk. Micah picked it up. The yellowed paper was probably white once, though the fluid cursive writing looked as crisp as if it had been scrawled yesterday.
The envelope it came in had been sealed with wax, the outline of a lion’s head distinct in the dark-blue paraffin. Micah settled into his black leather chair and stared at the name above the return address on the envelope. Archie Taylor. Definitely strange.
Archie was his great uncle whom he knew less than a paragraph about. He’d been dead since the early ‘90s, and Micah had never met him. He knew Archie had made quite a bit of money and hadn’t married, but the rest had always been a mystery. Until Micah’s late teens, he hadn’t known Archie existed. When he asked, his dad would only say Archie was a strange man. A man to stay away from. He opened the letter and wondered once more if what it promised was real.
September 27, 1989
Dear Micah,
You are likely shocked to have received this letter as we never had the opportunity to know each other. The reason for the letter will surprise you more.
I have asked a friend to mail it when you turn thirty-five or when you acquire enough financial resources that you no longer need to labor. Consequently, if you are reading this letter before reaching your 35th birthday you have already made a significant amount of money, which is sometimes a beneficial occurrence at a young age, but usually is not.
If my instructions have been carried out, a home was built during the past five months on the Oregon coast, four miles south of Cannon Beach. I designed it for you.
My great desire is that you enjoy the house, and if the builder followed my directives I believe you will. It will certainly—if you'll forgive the cliché—upset your apple cart if you allow it. The home is all you.
Your great uncle,
Archie.
P.S. There should be a key enclosed with this letter as well as a card with the address.
Micah reread the last line and frowned. 'The home is all you?' Typo. Must mean all yours.
Intriguing. One of his fave places in another life. If there was a home on the northern Oregon coast with his name on it, it was an adventure worth checking out. Soon. Micah read the letter for the third time that morning. Definitely soon.
***
A noise in the hall made him look up. Julie. Perfect business partner. Recent romantic partner. Tenacious tennis partner.
Her shoulder-length blond hair bounced as she pranced through the door of his office, crisp beige suit complementing her gleaming pearly whites.
“Hey!" Micah rose from his desk and opened his arms.
When she reached him, she ruffled his dark brown hair and kissed him softly.
The faint scent of Safari floated up to him. She never wore too much, almost not enough. Julie. Powerful yet could be tender. Driven and radiant. Nice to have her back.
“How was the trip?” he asked.
“We’re richer. But glad it’s over.” Julie slid out of her blazer, flicked a piece of lint off the lapel, and laid the coat across the back of Micah’s milk chocolate brown chair and patted it once. “I did find the perfect SLR digital camera to add to my collection. You’ll model for me, please? Your baby-blue eyes are worth taking up seventy or eighty megs on my laptop."
When they’d started RimSoft five years ago he never imagined they’d strike such a rich vein in the software gold rush. Of course he’d never imagined their long-term platonic relationship budding into romance either.
Micah sat down and stared at Archie's letter.
“You with me here?" Julie said, leaning against Micah's desk.
"Huh?"
“I asked about Monday's board meeting and I think waiting five seconds for a response is long enough." She laughed.
“Sorry, didn't hear you. Brain freeze. I got a bizarre letter from a long lost relative. In fact this weekend I might go—“
Julie pressed two fingers against his lips. “We cannot allow those thoughts to escape.”
“What thoughts?”
“Of nixing our Whistler trip this weekend. You and me and snow and spring skiing and fireplaces and old, old bottles of cabernet. Ring any bells?”
“Hmm.” He grinned sheepishly.
“You better have a really, really good reason if you're canceling.” She straightened the collar of his olive-green polo shirt.
"Apparently I’ve inherited a house right on the ocean, just south of Cannon Beach."
"Cannon Beach?" A scowl flashed across her face.
"What?" Micah said.
"Nothing. Let me see something." Julie leaned over him as her red fingernails danced over his keyboard until a sampling of Cannon Beach homes for sale flashed on screen. "Take a look at these prices." She tapped on his monitor. "You're little gift could be worth $3 million plus. Throw a sign on it, make some quick cash."
"It's probably just a shack. Or maybe the letter's a hoax."
"Where did this mystery shack come from?"
He picked up the letter and bounced it up and down on his palm. "My great-uncle, whom I never met, had it built for me."
"You never met him and he gives you a house at Cannon Beach?"
"Weird huh?" Micah opened his palms. "So, this weekend, want to come check it out with me?"
Julies shoulders sagged. "Instead of Whistler?"
"You're right." He ran his finger over the surface of the letter. "Let's go skiing."
"Wow. You're really curious aren't you?"
Julie didn’t wait for an answer. A few seconds later Google Earth splashed onto Micah's monitor.
"Address?" Julie said.
Micah read it to her off the letter. A few seconds later they gazed at a patch of dirt overlooking the ocean.
"Not even a shack," Julie said.
"Maybe, maybe not." Micah punched a few keys. "Look. That satellite image is seven months old. Archie's letter says the home was built by somebody during the past five months." Micah gaze stayed riveted on his screen. "There could be—"
"How 'bout I make you a deal so you can go to the beach, Mr. Break-My-Heart.”
Hey, it’s not that important for—“
“No, no, stay with me here. If you switch out our weekend at Whistler for a week in the Alps, we have a deal.”
“So you'll come with me this weekend?"
"No."
"What?"
Julie sighed and looked out the window. " The ocean and I don't get along."
"Interesting. Another fascinating secret about my fascinating partner is revealed." Micah leaned back with his hands behind his head. "This is a story I need to know."
"No, you don't. That story has no admittance stamped on it in blood red letters."
Why would a great uncle he'd never known build a home for him? Oregon coast. Cannon Beach. Right on the ocean; at least that's what the letter claimed. Probably some joke his VP's cooked up, inspired by the picture he'd hung in the conference room a few months ago of Ecola State Park. Great kid memories from that slice of paradise. Was it only fifteen years ago? Felt longer.
Micah smiled. This was exactly the kind of prank his team might try to pull off. No one would ever accuse RimSoft's culture of being stoic.
But if the letter was real—
"Time to go boss."
Shannon stood in the doorway, eyes bright behind her Versace glasses, short-cropped salt and pepper hair outlining her china doll face. She'd been Micah’s administrative assistant for three years. Smart and not easily intimidated, what bubbled in her five-foot-four frame made her one of the strongest links in his company's chain.
“I hate being called boss.”
“Yes, I know.” She pulled her glasses down and gave him her pirate look over the top of them.
Micah laughed and glanced once more at the letter announcing his inheritance.
He grabbed his notebook and wagged his finger at Shannon as they walked out of his office. “You shouldn’t call someone boss when you’re almost old enough to be their m—"
"—much older sister.”
“Right,” Micah said as they fell into step and marched down the halls of RimSoft.
Friday morning. He loved Fridays; not just because they launched the weekend like a blast of summer morning sun, but because of his weekly team meeting. The creativity his team pumped out astounded him. He might not get hired at his own company if he applied. If employing people better than yourself were an Olympic event Micah would be swimming in gold.
As they turned the final corner on the way to the conference room, Kelli Kay, one of Micah’s more talented programmers, approached. “Want to hear something really cool?” Her red curls bounced like a slinky.
“Absolutely.” Micah kept walking—now backward—his Nike’s scuffing lightly on the teal carpet. Single mom until four months ago, Kelli put herself through computer school, while working forty hours a week and taking care of her ten-year-old kid. Never complained about fifty hour weeks. Never complained about sixty hour weeks.
“My kid won that art contest I told you about last week; he’s headed to LA this summer to compete in the national—"
“You serious? Listen, if he places, let’s fly him, and you, and that new husband of yours to New York to see the MET. I'll bring Julie and we'll all go check out the art with him and time it so we catch a Mariner’s Yankees game.”
“Really?” Kelli half-jogged to keep up with Micah.
“Absolutely. RimSoft's already made $2 million off that little anti-virus program you developed last year. You're amazing," Micah said.
He turned and picked up his pace. Shannon picked up hers too, her white Adidas running shoes helping in the effort. He couldn't believe this was the same women who showed up her first day wearing three-inch heals and a business suit straight out of Uptight Dresses for Corporate America. Micah told her to get rid of the heels and put on whatever she loved wearing and felt comfortable in.
“You could actually stop when you talk to people," Shannon said.
Micah laughed. "We have a meeting. You know, the company? Work to do. Software programs to develop. Lots of sales. Happy stockholders. Make money. All that stuff.” He brushed past a lush, broad leafed Dracaena plan and walked faster.
“They just want more time with you, to know you like them."
“I like everyone. But, to be sure, let's get out an e-mail that says ‘From Micah Taylor. To you. I like you. I really, really like you.’ ” He turned, pushed open the conference room door and held it for Shannon. He returned her glare with an impish grin.
The conference room was small but comfortable. No vaulted ceiling, no massive table, just two light tan leather couches and six overstuffed espresso brown chairs all circling the center of the room. RimSoft's version of Camelot. The room wasn't designed for ego, it was crafted for efficiency.
The couches held two people each. On one couch sat Micah's head of legal with his jet-black hair and John Lennon glasses. Next to him slumped his VP of mergers and acquisitions; thirty-one years old but looked fifty with his premature gray hair. On the other couch perched his VP of marketing, looking more every day like a young Oprah. Next to her sat his Chief Financial officer. Two of Micah's software development VP's sat in the chairs.
Shannon sat in a chair, Micah paced in front of his.
On a table in the center of the room sat a steaming pot filling the air with the aroma of Starbuck's coffee. Clumped next to it were mugs from Disneyland, the University of Washington Huskies, and cups with RimSoft's logo on them.
Good. All the pieces were in place. Time to check out the condition of the chess board.
“All right,” Micah said, a slice above his normal volume. “Let's roll. Where are we at with the i2-Rock alliance?”
“Done," his mergers VP said.
"We love their hardware; they still love our software, right?"
"Madly."
“Excellent, great work.” Micah focused on Oprah's twin. “Is the ad layout done for Wired?"
"Yep."
"Last one you did was a home run into the rafters so let’s keep the hits coming.” He turned to his right. “Beta testing on version four is done, right?”
“Finished Wednesday.”
“Very nice work, I can’t believe you already have it almost bug free.” Micah looked at the head of his legal team. “You’ve finished the docs for the merger with Reeda?”
“Not quite." The man glanced up at Micah. "We’re almost there.”
Micah whipped his pen around on his yellow note pad like a poor man's Picasso. “This is a sketch of underwear. But not just ordinary underwear, its asbestos underwear. You need a pair.”
“Why?” asked the head of legal.
“Well, you said your team would be done on Tuesday. It’s now Friday. So since it isn’t done, your team falls into the category of ‘liar, liar, pants on fire.’ I would think the asbestos underwear would help squelch the flames a bit.”
The head of legal flushed and mumbled, “We’ll get it done by the end of the day.”
“You’re excellent at law but this is the third time you’ve delayed us this quarter. Unacceptable.”
One of his team cleared their throat. The rest glued their eyes to the agenda.
"Deep breath everyone. Relax. Let's move on," Micah said.
A half-hour later Micah glanced at each member of his team. “Thank you. For two things. First, for being good enough at what you do that this company could no doubt survive without me. Second, for not being so good there’s no room left for my input.” He smiled, grabbed his notebook, and strode toward the door.
Too harsh in there on Mr. Always-Late-Legal? Probably. But why couldn't the guy just do his job on time? Did Micah have to do every job at RimSoft? If there was time he would. He doubted any of them believed his 'good enough that the company could run without me' speech. RimSoft couldn't. Always picking up the broken pieces was part of running a company. But it exhausted him. There had to be a way to get free of it. Trusting other people to come through? Wouldn't happen in this lifetime.
Shannon stepped into the hallway just ahead of him and clipped toward her desk like an Olympic speed walker.
In two bounds Micah, caught up to her. “Hey, slow down.”
She walked faster and didn’t respond.
“You’ve got that ‘Micah was a jerk’ look again.”
“Hmm.” She looked up at him with a thin lipped smile.
They walked seven paces in silence. “That’s not who I really am."
“Oh?”
Four more paces.
“You’re right, I was a royal jerk in there,” he whispered. His face grew warm as he fingered the scar on his left palm. “It’s just … some realities about life have stuck with me whether I wanted them to or not.”
“So you weren’t this way from birth?”
He hoped the tiny shake of his head was imperceptible. “Only since I was eight.”
"Zero! Zilch! Nada! That's what you'll always be, kid!"
The rest of the scene—the blood, the abandonment—tried to surface but Micah
slammed the vault to his heart shut and the memory faded.
By the time he arrived at his office, his breathing had steadied and his focus shifted to the letter from his great uncle sitting on his teak desk. Micah picked it up. The yellowed paper was probably white once, though the fluid cursive writing looked as crisp as if it had been scrawled yesterday.
The envelope it came in had been sealed with wax, the outline of a lion’s head distinct in the dark-blue paraffin. Micah settled into his black leather chair and stared at the name above the return address on the envelope. Archie Taylor. Definitely strange.
Archie was his great uncle whom he knew less than a paragraph about. He’d been dead since the early ‘90s, and Micah had never met him. He knew Archie had made quite a bit of money and hadn’t married, but the rest had always been a mystery. Until Micah’s late teens, he hadn’t known Archie existed. When he asked, his dad would only say Archie was a strange man. A man to stay away from. He opened the letter and wondered once more if what it promised was real.
September 27, 1989
Dear Micah,
You are likely shocked to have received this letter as we never had the opportunity to know each other. The reason for the letter will surprise you more.
I have asked a friend to mail it when you turn thirty-five or when you acquire enough financial resources that you no longer need to labor. Consequently, if you are reading this letter before reaching your 35th birthday you have already made a significant amount of money, which is sometimes a beneficial occurrence at a young age, but usually is not.
If my instructions have been carried out, a home was built during the past five months on the Oregon coast, four miles south of Cannon Beach. I designed it for you.
My great desire is that you enjoy the house, and if the builder followed my directives I believe you will. It will certainly—if you'll forgive the cliché—upset your apple cart if you allow it. The home is all you.
Your great uncle,
Archie.
P.S. There should be a key enclosed with this letter as well as a card with the address.
Micah reread the last line and frowned. 'The home is all you?' Typo. Must mean all yours.
Intriguing. One of his fave places in another life. If there was a home on the northern Oregon coast with his name on it, it was an adventure worth checking out. Soon. Micah read the letter for the third time that morning. Definitely soon.
***
A noise in the hall made him look up. Julie. Perfect business partner. Recent romantic partner. Tenacious tennis partner.
Her shoulder-length blond hair bounced as she pranced through the door of his office, crisp beige suit complementing her gleaming pearly whites.
“Hey!" Micah rose from his desk and opened his arms.
When she reached him, she ruffled his dark brown hair and kissed him softly.
The faint scent of Safari floated up to him. She never wore too much, almost not enough. Julie. Powerful yet could be tender. Driven and radiant. Nice to have her back.
“How was the trip?” he asked.
“We’re richer. But glad it’s over.” Julie slid out of her blazer, flicked a piece of lint off the lapel, and laid the coat across the back of Micah’s milk chocolate brown chair and patted it once. “I did find the perfect SLR digital camera to add to my collection. You’ll model for me, please? Your baby-blue eyes are worth taking up seventy or eighty megs on my laptop."
When they’d started RimSoft five years ago he never imagined they’d strike such a rich vein in the software gold rush. Of course he’d never imagined their long-term platonic relationship budding into romance either.
Micah sat down and stared at Archie's letter.
“You with me here?" Julie said, leaning against Micah's desk.
"Huh?"
“I asked about Monday's board meeting and I think waiting five seconds for a response is long enough." She laughed.
“Sorry, didn't hear you. Brain freeze. I got a bizarre letter from a long lost relative. In fact this weekend I might go—“
Julie pressed two fingers against his lips. “We cannot allow those thoughts to escape.”
“What thoughts?”
“Of nixing our Whistler trip this weekend. You and me and snow and spring skiing and fireplaces and old, old bottles of cabernet. Ring any bells?”
“Hmm.” He grinned sheepishly.
“You better have a really, really good reason if you're canceling.” She straightened the collar of his olive-green polo shirt.
"Apparently I’ve inherited a house right on the ocean, just south of Cannon Beach."
"Cannon Beach?" A scowl flashed across her face.
"What?" Micah said.
"Nothing. Let me see something." Julie leaned over him as her red fingernails danced over his keyboard until a sampling of Cannon Beach homes for sale flashed on screen. "Take a look at these prices." She tapped on his monitor. "You're little gift could be worth $3 million plus. Throw a sign on it, make some quick cash."
"It's probably just a shack. Or maybe the letter's a hoax."
"Where did this mystery shack come from?"
He picked up the letter and bounced it up and down on his palm. "My great-uncle, whom I never met, had it built for me."
"You never met him and he gives you a house at Cannon Beach?"
"Weird huh?" Micah opened his palms. "So, this weekend, want to come check it out with me?"
Julies shoulders sagged. "Instead of Whistler?"
"You're right." He ran his finger over the surface of the letter. "Let's go skiing."
"Wow. You're really curious aren't you?"
Julie didn’t wait for an answer. A few seconds later Google Earth splashed onto Micah's monitor.
"Address?" Julie said.
Micah read it to her off the letter. A few seconds later they gazed at a patch of dirt overlooking the ocean.
"Not even a shack," Julie said.
"Maybe, maybe not." Micah punched a few keys. "Look. That satellite image is seven months old. Archie's letter says the home was built by somebody during the past five months." Micah gaze stayed riveted on his screen. "There could be—"
"How 'bout I make you a deal so you can go to the beach, Mr. Break-My-Heart.”
Hey, it’s not that important for—“
“No, no, stay with me here. If you switch out our weekend at Whistler for a week in the Alps, we have a deal.”
“So you'll come with me this weekend?"
"No."
"What?"
Julie sighed and looked out the window. " The ocean and I don't get along."
"Interesting. Another fascinating secret about my fascinating partner is revealed." Micah leaned back with his hands behind his head. "This is a story I need to know."
"No, you don't. That story has no admittance stamped on it in blood red letters."
Thursday, May 20, 2010
This Fine Life by Eva Marie Everson (Review)
It is the summer of 1959 and Mariette Puttnam has just graduated from boarding school. When she returns to her privileged life at home, she isn't sure where life will take her. More schooling? A job? Marriage? Nothing feels right. How could she know that she would find the answer waiting for her in the narrow stairwell of her father's apparel factory, exactly between the third and fourth floors?
In this unique and tender romance, popular author Eva Marie Everson takes you on a journey through the heart of a young woman bound for the unknown. Discover the joys of new love, the perseverance of deep friendship, and the gift of forgiveness that comes from a truly fine life.
In this unique and tender romance, popular author Eva Marie Everson takes you on a journey through the heart of a young woman bound for the unknown. Discover the joys of new love, the perseverance of deep friendship, and the gift of forgiveness that comes from a truly fine life.
Excerpt:
This is not the story of my(Mariatte) life. This is the story of my husband’s
life, or at the very least how the story of his life affected
mine and all those he touched just by his being near
them or with them. Thayne was like that, you see. Just by
being, he touched lives. He was infectious, upbeat, passionate,
determined. Next to the flame of his existence I was a
spark looking to ignite, a matchstick never quite making it
to the striker. But, in time, the same fever that burned within
him burned within me.
My Review:
Can I call this a historical Christian fiction novel even though it is set in the 1960s? Anyway it is a really good book sorta a coming of age story and a romance too. The plot and characters are well developed and interesting. I liked the progression of Mariette's character especially over the few years the book covers.One of the main themes throughout the book is what is a fine life and how to get it. The descriptions are great and it is like actually being there in that time period. The front book cover is gorgeous too. Highly Recommended.
About the author:
Eva Marie Everson is a successful speaker, a popular radio personality, and the award-winning author of Things Left Unspoken. She is coauthor of the Potluck Club series and the Potluck Catering Club series. She lives in Florida.
Available May 2010 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group.
Thank you Donna at Revell for my review copy.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Deadly Disclosure by Julie Cave (Review)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
ABOUT THE BOOK
A Suspense-filled mystery which answers an ominous question: How far will some go to silence an influential Christian voice?
Thomas Whitfield, proud Secretary of the Smithsonian and its extensive scientific influence, has disappeared from his office with foul play suspected. Dinah Harris, an FBI agent struggling with alcohol and depression, is seeking answers amidst the fallout of her own personal issues.
Whitfield's body is eventually found, and other people connected to him begin dying as well, ultimately exposing a broader conspiracy connected to Whitfield's recent conversion to Christ and promotion of a biblical worldview in an academic world of financial gain hostile to this concept.
Will Dinah be able to experience the redemptive power of Christ before it's too late? Or will the ominous danger stalking her investigation claim another victim?
If you would like to read the first chapter of Deadly Disclosure, go HERE.
Watch the Video Book Trailer:
My Review:
Overall this was a good Christian mystery/suspense novel. I will warn you it is very preachy. I agree with most of it but at times it detracted from the plot. One of the main debates running through the book with the characters is creationism versus evolution. It did have an interesting plot and the two lines were one the investigation of the murder and two the personal life of Special Agent Dinah Harris. I liked Dinah Harris and felt sorry for the bad things that had happened in her life that lead her to this point. This is the first book in a trilogy based on her and I look forward to reading more of her story in the second book. Recommended.
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