Pirate Hunter - Chapter 1

Pirate Hunter
Bethany House (July 1, 2009)

Chapter 1

"I favor the red ribbons because they look like blood."

The pirate worked as he spoke, plaiting thin lengths of crimson silk into the raven hair of a wig on its tabletop stand. His own hair was almost exactly the same color of black, but closely cropped, the short growth even, suggesting that he had shaved his head a fortnight or two back. His beard, on the other hand, was thick and long, the ends of it bleached to a lighter brown by salt air and sun. Every strand had been combed and lightly dampened with sperm-whale oil, the scent of it warm and very nearly spicy in the small, close cabin of the sloop.

The pirate stepped back a bit to look at his work, leaning naturally to keep his footing as they canted over onto a fresh heel. Above their heads, the ship groaned and creaked with the turn, the mate's commands coming through the wooden bulkheads as a series of curt, muffled shouts.

The pirate gazed down his nose at the barefoot and barechested fifteen-year-old on the other side of the table. The younger man's skin was a deep chocolate brown, almost as dark as his jet-black hair, a fact that made his eyes appear larger than they were, giving him the appearance of an innocent.

"Why do you think that is, boy?"

The young man startled and stood a little straighter. "Sir?"

"The ribbons, boy." The man's voice was a calm baritone. "Why would I favor ribbons that resemble blood?"

The younger man kept his eyes fixed on those of the pirate but canted his head slightly down and to his right, a mannerism he had when he knew the answer to something but was thinking it through, just to be certain. Lips still closed, he took a quick dart of breath through his nose.

"Because a fierce man, streaming blood but on the attack, would present a most frightening aspect, Captain. Because a person so startled would hesitate in his own defense, and a moment of hesitation is an opportunity in which to attack. At very least that is how I see it, sir."

The pirate stopped his work and touched an index finger to his lower lip. "Tell me, boy—have you been speaking with my crew, discussing my manners, my ways?"

His companion shook his head. "No, sir. The crew doesn't talk about you. The crew doesn't talk about anything but women and riches and rum."

The captain laughed. "And which of those three interests you?"

"The riches, Captain."

The pirate laughed again and started another ribbon into the wig. He turned it to look at his work. The younger man watched and then cleared his throat.

"Might I ask you something, Captain?"

The captain lifted a single eyebrow—his right. "You cannot learn if you do not ask."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.... When you took the slaver? When you took the crew ... ?"

"Yes?"

"You sold all the rest of the ... cargo. Yet you did not sell me. Why?"

"Because you speak the King's English, lad. Speak it, read it, write it as well as any Yorkshireman. Because you are familiar with Scripture. Because you seem to have an extremely able head on you."

"Those things—the learning and the Scripture—they were the doings of the Scotsman who raised me. He and his wife. Before he came to Africa to start his chandlery, Mr. Bascombe was a vicar. He taught me the Scripture, and history and philosophy."

The pirate smiled. He had white, even teeth. "Then, when you say your prayers, you must thank God for Vicar Bascombe."

He tied off another lock of the wig.

"But, Captain, does a slave not fetch a higher price if he speaks English?"

The captain looked up from his work. "I sold those men and women to save them, boy. They'd made it all the way across to the Indies; they were strangers in a strange land. If I'd put them ashore on some island, thirst and starvation and the Arawaks would have killed most of them off by now. And those who lived would be hanged for escape when the colonists found them. By making them chattel, I gave them food and a roof and the hope of still being alive by this time next year. Slavery may be the devil's own commerce, but death is irreversible. So I sold them to save them, lad. That and put a few farthings in our pockets. But you?" The captain picked up another ribbon. "What you've got between your ears is all you need to survive, boy. I kept you apart because you showed that promise. Why? You had no kin among the others, did you?"

The teenager shook his head. "They were people of the bush. I was raised in town."

The pirate shrugged. "Then what I did was best for all concerned."

The teenager handed the pirate another ribbon. "May I ask you another question, Captain?"

"Has your learning come to an end?"

The younger man shook his head.

"Then the same principle still applies. Ask away."

"Well, Captain, you seem to be a man of principle."

"Principle?" The pirate laughed. "There are those who might argue that point, but we shall grant it for the moment. And as you precede your question with it, I take it you are going to ask about behavior that appears ... unprincipled. You want to know why I—why my crew and I—take ships. Is that it?"

The younger man's eyes widened. "Why ... yes, sir. That is it precisely."

"Open that chest." The pirate pointed with a hand that was uncallused, its nails neatly trimmed and filed. "Bring me the case that you find on the very top."

The young man peered into the open chest. "A tube, like a chart case?"

"The very one. Bring it to me."

The young man did as he was told, and the pirate unwound the leather lace that secured the cap, then extracted a rolled sheet of parchment. When he unrolled it, it was clearly a government document, written in the thin, iron-gall cursive favored by government clerks. The foot of it was stamped with a wax seal and tape, and signed with an ornate scrawl.

"This"—the pirate tapped on the parchment with a manicured finger—"is a royal letter of marque, signed by His Majesty's lord governor of the colony of Tortola. The king has lands in this new world which are presently ... uhm, occupied by nations other than his own. As such, they steal from the royal coffers, so we overhaul ships flying the flags of those nations and take back what is rightfully our own."

The young man worked his lips.

"Say it, lad. What is on your mind?"

"Well, sir, if they take from the king, should we not return what we ... retrieve? To the king?"

The pirate nodded. "We do, lad. When one gives a thing to the king's lord governor, it is the same as giving it to the king himself. And the workman is worthy of his wage; I believe that is in your vicar's book. So, in his graciousness, the governor—on His Majesty's behalf—allows our crew to keep part of what we take: the greater part. The ... well, the considerably greater part. Very nearly all of it, if truth be told."

"So!" The young man brightened. "You are not a pirate at all. You are a privateer."

"That all depends—" the pirate laughed as he replaced the document in its case and handed it back to his young compatriot— "on whether you are on the giving or the receiving end of the transaction.

"I daresay the captain of that slaver we took you from is calling me a pirate. In point of fact, I would venture that he is calling me considerably more than that. But he is an enemy of His Majesty—and I rather imagine an enemy of yours as well."

As the boy returned the case to its chest, a knock sounded above them at the cabin's hatch.

"Come." When the pirate spoke in commands, his voice went lower, from a baritone to a bass.

The oak hatch swung open, sending sunlight streaming down into the tiny cabin. A barefoot, bearded man descended the ladder on the forward wall; he was wearing a faded Royal Navy officer's waistcoat over canvas breeches. When he turned, his tanned and naked chest showed in the gap of the coat, which was a full size too small for him. He gave a nod by way of a salute.

"Begging your pardon, Captain, but we've closed half the distance on the merchantman."

"Near enough to make out her ensign?"

The mate nodded. "It's the old flag, sir. White cross on a blue field."

"Servants of King Louis. Splendid. We'll have to air her out if we take her, but I'll wager she has brandy. How many guns, Ben?"

"Ports for ten each side. Plus a swivel gun or two: that'd make twenty-two. Looks like deckhands in her rigging, not marines, but she could be carrying some."

The pirate looked at the young man. "Twenty-two guns to our twelve four-pounders and the chance of two dozen muskets, to boot. What do you think, boy? Try to take her, or let her run?"

The teenager straightened. "Take her."

The pirate returned to his plaiting. "You'd risk my men's lives for a prize when we don't even know what she's carrying?" He looked up again.

"No, sir. But I'd risk her men's lives."

The pirate tied off the tip of a lock with a silver bead. "How so?"

The younger man motioned toward the silver brush and a tortoiseshell comb on the tabletop. "May I?"

The captain nodded once, slowly, his eyes on the boy.

"Say your brush here is the merchantman. Even if she has guns we can't see atop her aft castle, she'll still be blind in the quarters. She can shoot broadside and possibly straight aft, but she cannot shoot at an angle astern—not without repositioning a gun, and that takes time. So we sail straight into that unprotected quarter." He moved the brush. "Then we turn broadside and fire chain shot: take down her rigging and maybe even her masts. That puts her adrift; she can no longer maneuver to return fire. We can stand off and fire solid shot at her until she surrenders."

"Well." The captain looked at his mate. "It seems that young ... What's your name, lad?"

"Theodore, sir. Theodore—"

The captain shushed him. "Your Christian name alone will suffice on this ship, unless you're married, which I doubt very much that you are."

He divided his beard in two and began plaiting the left side with the scarlet ribbons. "So, Ben, it seems that young Ted has a knack for the scheming of things. What think you of his plan?"

The mate hoisted his breeches a bit. "It leaves us with a crippled prize, Captain. We can't put the half of what she's carrying in our hold; the rest would go to waste."

The pirate glanced up at Ted. "He's right, you know."

The young man scowled. "Then we take her gold and silver and burn her."

Both pirates laughed, and the teenager's face reddened.

"I like the cut of your jib, Bold Ted," the pirate said. "But that's an inbound merchantman. She carries very little gold or silver; only what her frightened passengers might have stuffed away in the corners of their trunks. Her cargo is probably cloth and tools and furniture, gunpowder and shot and some cannon, I wager, in her bilge as ballast. And perhaps—if Providence smiles upon us—some brandywine, seeing as she's French."

"Cloth and tools? What good are those?"

The pirate finished plaiting the other side of his beard.

"Those goods are needed by merchants here in the Indies, Bold Ted. They order them from the Old World, and pay when they arrive on the dock. Now, those merchants—or one of their cousins—will still get those goods, but they will buy them from us for a few shillings on the guinea. We can do that and still profit, because we paid naught for their manufacture, nor for the cost of crossing all of that." The captain waved a hand in the general direction of the great rolling Atlantic.

The boy's eyebrows rose. "You mean you buy and sell like common shopkeepers?"

The captain shrugged. "Not 'buy,' perhaps. But sell? Yes. That we do. Help me on with this wig, lad."

The captain sat on a three-legged stool, and Ted, waiting a moment while the deck assumed a new angle beneath him, lifted the wig from its stand and settled it on the pirate's close-cropped head, placing it with the care of a pontiff consecrating a king.

"Excellent," the pirate said, admiring the result in a looking glass. He topped it off with a scarlet-plumed tricorner hat, slipped a brace of dueling pistols into his golden sash, and turned to Ted. "When a shop owner or a chandler or even a military garrison buys from us, lad, they save money, and they save a great deal of it. It is far cheaper to buy from the brethren of the coast than it is to do business with the trading companies. That tends to make them like us very much. It tends to make them rather lax about demanding protection on the high seas.

"And as for burning that ship, we'll do that only if she fights us. She is manned by a crew that was either pressed into service or signed on out of desperation for what amounts to ten pence a week, maybe less after they've drawn goods and provisions. They have no interest in protecting a rich man's fortune, not unless they feel they are in danger of losing their lives as well. That is the key to the whole thing."

The pirate held a finger to his lip again, as if thinking. He opened a chest next to his bunk and took out a rolled piece of muslin. He unfolded it, revealing a handsome flintlock pistol with a well-engraved, heavy brass bolster on its grip. Working with the speed of a man long accustomed to such actions, he swiftly loaded, tamped, primed, and cocked the foot-long gun. Then he handed it to the young man.

"There you are, Bold Ted. That is a Spanish-made half-inch from the shop of Geromino Menandez, one of the finest pistolsmiths in old Madrid. Tuck that in your belt. If we have to board in force, fire the shot to help clear the deck, and then use the gun as a club until the prize is ours."

Ted looked at the pistol in his hands. It was the finest thing he had ever seen.

"Captain," he said, "I have no way to pay you for this."

The captain cocked an eye toward the ceiling. "Now that you mention it, nor did I when I acquired it. Now slip it in your belt, Ted, and mind the trigger. That ball can take your leg off."

Ted put the pistol in its place. He seemed to grow an inch taller in the process.

The captain held a hand out, toward the ladder. "Shall we take the air?"

* * *

The three of them climbed to the open hatch and the deck—the teenager first, then the mate, and finally the captain, who had topped his finery off with a brocaded velvet waistcoat. The crew, on the other hand, had opted for practicality, pulling on tarred breeches and jackets and leather jerkins—clothing designed to turn a light sword's blade. All around them the Caribbean Sea shone a deep and rolling blue under a sky dotted with only a few small clouds.

Their quarry, a three-masted ship, was under what seemed its own small constellation of cumulus—a full set of snow-white sails straining concave before the wind. But it was plain to see that she was losing her race to the pirates' faster Jamaica-built sloop. Already they were close enough to make out the men in her rigging, shielding their eyes as they watched the closing pursuer.

"Colors," the pirate said evenly. Behind him, a man ran up a black flag. On it was a winged skull wearing a white crown. In its lower left was an hourglass; in its lower right, a pair of crossed bones.

The captain accepted a spyglass and took a look at his quarry. He lowered the glass, still gazing at the distant ship. "Raise ports. Run them out."

On both sides of the sloop, hinged gunports were lifted. Gun crews hove together on thick, greased ropes and rolled deck cannon out so their muzzles cleared the sides of the ship.

"Vapors," the pirate commanded.

Musicians—a fiddler, a piper, and a horn player—began playing a screeching, cacophonous melody, a veritable hornpipe from hell. All along the deck of the pirate ship, men shouted, barked, bellowed, and screamed as they jumped into the air, stomped on the deck, and rang cutlasses together.

The captain pointed to one of his crew. Raising his voice to be heard over the din, he shouted, "One across her bow ... at your leisure, Jack."

Standing well to the side, a gunner waited until the sloop was rising on a swell and then lowered his improvised match—a piece of burning hemp—to his cannon's touchhole. Sparks shot up, thunder erupted, and the cannon leapt back on its carriage. A thick cloud of smoke wafted by—foul, sulfurous, blue-gray in color. When it had cleared, the pirates could see a geyser of white shoot up from the blue sea on the far side of their quarry's bow. Moments later, the merchantman's acre of sail collapsed as she came sharply about and spilled the wind. Her gunports remained shuttered. A man with a cutlass ran back to her ensign and hacked at it. The crossed flag fluttered and fell into the sea.

The pirate crew roared their approval.

The captain smiled down at Ted. "And that is how it is done, lad. We'll still keep our guns on her, and we will sink her in a minute if anyone decides to be brave or foolish. But I doubt anyone will, and we've a fine prize with no unsightly gaps for our carpenter to patch."

He turned to the mate. "Ben, would you be so good as to assemble a prize crew?"

The mate saluted—the first time anyone had executed a proper shipboard salute all morning—and chose men from the volunteers clustered around him.

The captain clapped the teenager on the shoulder. "You are a good lad and a bright one, Bold Ted. But I daresay that this Vicar Bascombe of yours took his knowledge of tactics from the histories of Caesar, and perhaps from naval accounts; we will have to do our best to clear your head of all that battle nonsense. Ships of the line fight to the death, and if hard-pressed, so shall we. But for men in an enterprise such as this, our stock in trade is the option of surrender, and surrender is always what's best for all parties. If one of our men is maimed in a fight, we must pay him a pension and buy him a plot of land, and that expense reduces considerably the prize share for all concerned. Not to mention that the prize is worth more if taken whole.

"And those lads over there"—he nodded at the merchantman—"are highly relieved now that things are proceeding in a civilized manner. Most of them will volunteer to crew our prize and receive shares for their cooperation. As for the ones that don't, they will be locked in the hold and set ashore at the nearest landfall."

Ted shook his head, his close-cropped black hair glistening in the bright Caribbean sun, as the sloop closed in on the drifting merchantman. "It's not how I thought it worked at all."

The pirate laughed and lifted a hailing trumpet.

"I am Captain Henry Thatch, a servant of King George." Behind him, the first mate coughed. "And you are my prize." The captain squinted at the mate, then continued, his deep voice amplified nearly threefold by the brass horn. "We give you all quarter so long as you submit; on that you have my word. Drop us a net and stand by to assist as we board."

He handed the horn to a crewman and smiled once again at Ted as the crew swarmed around them. Grappling hooks dangled from the tan hands of several. Most had exchanged their cutlasses and muskets for smaller arms—dirks and clubs and cocked flintlock pistols slung in pairs on cords about their necks.

"Consider this the beginning of your finer education, lad. There are things in this world and the next—things worth knowing of which you have probably never so much as dreamed. But you have a good head on your shoulders, and I shall do my best to enlighten you."

The pirate looked down and cocked his head.

"Let us begin," he told the teen, "with the brighter points of history. What would you say was the seminal accomplishment of the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and twenty-three?"

Who Made You A Princess - Chapter 1

Who Made You a Princess
FaithWords (May 13, 2009)

Chapter 1

NOTHING SAYS “ALONE” like a wide, sandy beach on the western edge of the continent, with the sun going down in a smear of red and orange. Girlfriends, I am the go-to girl for alone. Or at least, that’s what I used to think. Not anymore, though, because nothing says “alive” like a fire snapping and hissing at your feet, and half a dozen of your BFFs laughing and talking around you.

Like the T-shirt says, life is good.

My name’s Shani Amira Marjorie Hanna, and up until I started going to Spencer Academy in my freshman year, all I wanted to do was get in, scoop as many A’s as I could, and get out. College, yeah. Adulthood. Being the boss of me. Social life? Who cared? I’d treat it the way I’d done in middle school, making my own way and watching people brush by me, all disappearing into good-bye like they were flowing down a river.

Then when I was a junior, I met the girls, and things started to change whether I wanted them to or not. Or maybe it was just me. Doing the changing, I mean.

Now we were all seniors and I was beginning to see that all this “I am an island” stuff was just a bunch of smoke. ’Cuz I was not like the Channel Islands, sitting out there on the hazy horizon. I was so done with all that.

Lissa Mansfield sat on the other side of the fire from me while this adorable Jared Padalecki look-alike named Kaz Griffin sat next to her trying to act like the best friend she thought he was. Lissa needs a smack upside the head, you want my opinion. Either that or someone needs to make a serious play for Kaz to wake her up. But it’s not going to be me. I’ve got cuter fish to fry. Heh. More about that later.

“I can’t believe this is the last weekend of summer vacation,” Carly Aragon moaned for about the fifth time since Kaz lit the fire and we all got comfortable in the sand around it. “It’s gone so fast.”

“That’s because you’ve only been here a week.” I handed her the bag of tortilla chips. “What about me? I’ve been here for a month and I still can’t believe we have to go up to San Francisco on Tuesday.”

“I’m so jealous.” Carly bumped me with her shoulder. “A whole month at Casa Mansfield with your own private beach and everything.” She dipped a handful of chips in a big plastic container of salsa she’d made that morning with fresh tomatoes and cilantro and little bits of—get this—cantaloupe. She made one the other day with carrots in it. I don't know how she comes up with this stuff, but it’s all good. We had a cooler full of food to munch on. No burnt weenies for this crowd. Uh-uh. What we can’t order delivered, Carly can make.

“And to think I could have gone back to Chicago and spent the whole summer throwing parties and trashing the McMansion.” I sighed with regret. “Instead, I had to put up with a month in the Hamptons with the Changs, and then a month out here fighting Lissa for her bathroom.”

“Hey, you could have used one of the other ones,” Lissa protested, trying to keep Kaz from snagging the rest of her turkey-avocado-and-alfalfa-sprouts sandwich.

I grinned at her. Who wanted to walk down the hot sandstone patio to one of the other bathrooms when she, Carly, and I had this beautiful Spanish terrazzo-looking wing of the house to ourselves? Carly and I were in Lissa’s sister’s old room, which looked out on this garden with a fountain and big ferns and grasses and flowering trees. And beyond that was the ocean. It was the kind of place you didn’t want to leave, even to go to the bathroom.

I contrasted it with the freezing wind off Lake Michigan in the winter and the long empty hallways of the seven-million-dollar McMansion on Lake Road, where I always felt like a guest. You know—like you’re welcome but the hosts don’t really know what to do with you. I mean, my mom has told me point-blank, with a kind of embarrassed little laugh, that she can’t imagine what happened. The Pill and her careful preventive measures couldn’t all have failed on the same night.

Organic waste happens. Whatever. The point is, I arrived seventeen years ago and they had to adjust.

I think they love me. My dad always reads my report cards, and he used to take me to blues clubs to listen to the musicians doing sound checks before the doors opened. That was before my mom found out. Then I had to wait until I was twelve, and we went to the early shows, which were never as good as the late ones I snuck into whenever my parents went on one of their trips.

They travel a lot. Dad owns this massive petroleum exploration company, and when she’s not chairing charity boards and organizing fund-raisers, Mom goes with him everywhere, from Alaska to New Zealand. I saw a lot of great shows with whichever member of the staff I could bribe to take me and swear I was sixteen. Keb’ Mo, B.B. King, Buddy Guy, Roomful of Blues—I saw them all.

A G-minor chord rippled out over the crackle of the fire, and I smiled a slow smile. My second favorite sound in the world (right after the sound of M&Ms pouring into a dish). On my left, Danyel had pulled out his guitar and tuned it while I was lost in la-la land, listening to the waves come in.

Lissa says there are some things you just know. And somehow, I just knew that I was going to be more to Danyel Johnstone than merely a friend of his friend Kaz’s friend Lissa, if you hear what I’m saying. I was done with being alone, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t stand out from the crowd.

Don’t get me wrong, I really like this crowd. Carly especially—she’s like the sister I would have designed my own self. And Lissa, too, though sometimes I wonder if she can be real. I mean, how can you be blond and tall and rich and wear clothes the way she does, and still be so nice? There has to be a flaw in there somewhere, but if she’s got any, she keeps them under wraps.

Gillian, who we’d see in a couple of days, has really grown on me. I couldn’t stand her at first—she’s one of those people you can’t help but notice. I only hung around her because Carly liked her. But somewhere between her going out with this loser brain trust and then her hooking up with Jeremy Clay, who’s a friend of mine, I got to know her. And staying with her family last Christmas, which could have been massively awkward, was actually fun. The last month in the Hamptons with them was a total blast. The only good thing about leaving was knowing I was going to see the rest of the crew here in Santa Barbara.

The one person I still wasn’t sure about was Mac, aka Lady Lindsay MacPhail, who did an exchange term at school in the spring. Getting to know her is like besieging a castle—which is totally appropriate considering she lives in one. She and Carly are tight, and we all e-mailed and IM-ed like fiends all summer, but I’m still not sure. I mean, she has a lot to deal with right now, with her family and everything. And the likelihood of us seeing each other again is kind of low, so maybe I don’t have to make up my mind about her. Maybe I’ll just let her go the way I let the kids in middle school go.

Danyel began to get serious about bending his notes instead of fingerpicking, and I knew he was about to sing. Oh, man, could the night get any more perfect? Even though we’d probably burn the handmade marshmallows from Williams-Sonoma, tonight capped a summer that had been the best time I’d ever had.

The only thing that would make it perfect would be finding some way to be alone with that man. I hadn’t been here more than a day when Danyel and Kaz had come loping down the beach. I’d taken one look at those eyes and those cheekbones and, okay, a very cut set of abs, and decided here was someone I wanted to know a whole lot better. And I did, now, after a couple of weeks. But soon we’d go off to S. F., and he and Kaz would go back to Pacific High. When we pulled out in Gabe Mansfield’s SUV, I wanted there to be something more between us than an air kiss and a handshake, you know what I mean?

I wanted something to be settled. Neither of us had talked about it, but both of us knew it was there. Unspoken longing is all very well in poetry, but I’m the outspoken type. I like things out there where I can touch them.

In a manner of speaking.

Danyel sat between Kaz and me, cross-legged and bare-chested, looking as comfortable in his surf jams as if he lived in them. Come to think of it, he did live in them. His, Kaz’s, and Lissa’s boards were stuck in the sand behind us. They’d spent most of the afternoon out there on the waves. I tried to keep my eyes on the fire. Not that I didn’t appreciate the view next to me, because trust me, it was fine, but I know a man wants to be appreciated for his talents and his mind.

Danyel’s melody sounded familiar—something Gillian played while we waited for our prayer circles at school to start. Which reminded me . . . I nudged Carly. “You guys going to church tomorrow?”

She nodded and lifted her chin at Lissa to get her attention. “Girl wants to know if we’re going to church.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Lissa said. “Kaz and his family, too. Last chance of the summer to all go together.”

And where Kaz went, Danyel went. Happy thought.

“You’re not going to bail, are you?” Carly’s brows rose a little.

It’s not like I’m anti-religion or anything. I’m just in the beginning stages of learning about it. Without my friends to tell me stuff, I’d be bumbling around on my own, trying to figure it out. My parents don’t go to church, so I didn’t catch the habit from them. But when she was alive and I was a little girl, my grandma used to take me to the one in her neighborhood across town. I thought it was an adventure, riding the bus instead of being driven in the BMW. And the gospel choir was like nothing I’d ever seen, all waving their arms in the air and singing to raise the roof. I always thought they were trying to deafen God, if they could just get up enough volume.

So I like the music part. Always have. And I’m beginning to see the light on the God part, after what happened last spring. But seeing a glimmer and knowing what to do about it are two different things.

“Of course not.” I gave Carly a look. “We all go together. And we walk, in case no one told you, so plan your shoes carefully.”

“Oh, I will.” She sat back on her hands, an “I so see right through you” smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “And it’s all about the worship, I know.” That smile told me she knew exactly what my motivation was. Part of it, at least. Hey, can you blame me?

The music changed and Danyel’s voice lifted into a lonely blues melody, pouring over Carly’s words like cream. I just melted right there on the spot. Man, could that boy sing.

Blue water, blue sky

Blue day, girl, do you think that I

Don’t see you, yeah I do.

Long sunset, long road,

Long life, girl, but I think you know

What I need, yeah, you do.

I do a little singing my own self, so I know talent when I hear it. And I’d have bet you that month’s allowance that Danyel had composed that one. He segued into the chorus and then the bridge, its rhythms straight out of Mississippi but the tune something new, something that fit the sadness and the hope of the words.

Wait a minute.

Blue day? Long sunset? Long road? As in, a long road to San Francisco?

Whoa. Could Danyel be trying to tell someone something? “You think that I don’t see you”? Well, if that didn’t describe me, I didn’t know what would. Ohmigosh.

Could he be trying to tell me his feelings with a song? Musicians were like that. They couldn’t tell a person something to her face, or they were too shy, or it was just too hard to get out, so they poured it into their music. For them, maybe it was easier to perform something than to get personal with it.

Be cool, girl. Let him finish. Then find a way to tell him you understand—and you want it, too.

The last of the notes blew away on the breeze, and a big comber smashed itself on the sand, making a sound like a kettledrum to finish off the song. I clapped, and the others joined in.

“Did you write that yourself?” Lissa removed a marshmallow from her stick and passed it to him. “It was great.”

Danyel shrugged one shoulder. “Tune’s been bugging me for a while and the words just came to me. You know, like an IM or something.”

Carly laughed, and Kaz’s forehead wrinkled for a second in a frown before he did, too.

I love modesty in a man. With that kind of talent, you couldn’t blame Danyel for thinking he was all that.

Should I say something? The breath backed up in my chest. Say it. You’ll lose the moment. “So who’s it about?” I blurted, then felt myself blush.

“Can’t tell.” His head was bent as he picked a handful of notes and turned them into a little melody. “Some girl, probably.”

“Some girl who’s leaving?” I said, trying for a teasing tone. “Is that a good-bye?”

“Could be.”

I wished I had the guts to come out and ask if he’d written the song for me—for us—but I just couldn’t. Not with everyone sitting there. With one look at Carly, whose eyes held a distinct “What’s up with you?” expression, I lost my nerve and shut up. Which, as any of the girls could tell you, doesn’t happen very often.

Danyel launched into another song—some praise thing that everyone knew but me. And then another, and then a cheesy old John Denver number that at least I knew the words to, and then a bunch of goofy songs half of us had learned at camp when we were kids. And then it was nearly midnight, and Kaz got up and stretched.

He’s a tall guy. He stretches a long way. “I’m running the mixer for the early service tomorrow, so I’ve got to go.”

Danyel got up, and I just stopped my silly self from saying, “No, not yet.” Instead, I watched him sling the guitar over one shoulder and yank his board out of the sand. “Are you going to early service, too?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “I’m in the band, remember?”

Argh! As if I didn’t know. As if I hadn’t sat there three Sundays in a row, watching his hands move on the frets and the light make shadows under his cheekbones.

“I just meant—I see you at the late one when we go. I didn’t know you went to both.” Stutter, bumble. Oh, just stop talking, girl. You’ve been perfectly comfortable talking to him so far. What’s the matter?

“I don’t, usually. But tomorrow they’re doing full band at early service, too. Last one before all the turistas go home. Next week we’ll be back to normal.” He smiled at me. “See you then.”

Was he looking forward to seeing me, or was he just being nice? “I hope so,” I managed.

“Kaz, you coming?”

Kaz bent to the fire and ran a stick through the coals, separating them. “Just let me put this out. Lissa, where’s the bucket?”

“Here.” While I’d been obsessing over Danyel, Lissa had run down to the waterline and filled a gallon pail. You could tell they’d done this about a million times. She poured the water on the fire and it blew a cloud of steam into the air. The orange coals gave it up with a hiss.

I looked up to say something to Danyel about it and saw that he was already fifty feet away, board under his arm like it weighed nothing, heading down the beach to the public lot where he usually parked his Jeep.

I stared down into the coals, wet and dying.

I couldn’t let the night go out like this.

“Danyel, wait!” The sand polished the soles of my bare feet better than the pumice bar at the salon as I ran to catch up with him. A fast glance behind me told me Lissa had stepped up and begun talking to Kaz, giving me a few seconds alone.

I owed her, big time.

“What’s up, ma?” He planted the board and set the guitar case down. “Forget something?”

“Yes,” I blurted. “I forgot to tell you that I think you’re amazing.”

He blinked. “Whoa.” The barest hint of a smile tickled the corners of his lips.

I might not get another chance as good as this one. I rushed on, the words crowding my mouth in their hurry to get out. “I know there’s something going on here and we’re all leaving on Tuesday and I need to know if you—if you feel the same way.”

“About . . . ?”

“About me. As I feel about you.”

He put both hands on his hips and gazed down at the sand. “Oh.”

Cold engulfed me, as if I’d just plunged face-first into the dark waves twenty feet away. “Oh,” I echoed. “Never mind. I guess I got it wrong.” I stepped back. “Forget about it. No harm done.”

“No, Shani, wait—”

But I didn’t want to hear the “we can still be friends” speech. I didn’t want to hear anything except the wind in my ears as I ran back to the safety of my friends.

Fatal Illusions - Prologue

Fatal Illusions
Kregel Publications (March 5, 2009)


Prologue

As dusk settled over the suburban Cincinnati neighborhood, the sodium-vapor lights along the quiet street blinked and came to life on cue. They chased the shadows from the grade school parking lot, now littered with dried leaves that scraped across the pavement and swirled in their seasonal dance of joy.

Across the way, a man in a jet-black jogging suit eased behind a tree and checked his watch as the chilly breeze tousled his hair. He breathed deeply, noting the intoxicating aroma of burning leaves, and impatiently studied the faces of the pedestrians now strolling toward the school auditorium. Anxious children tugged at reluctant parents, their excitement barely contained.

“Yes, yes,” he overheard a woman tell a child. “We’ll get there in plenty of time. No need to rush.”

He smiled. He had been that overzealous child once, but that was a long time ago. He’d grown up, things had changed, and not every change had been welcome.

His smile faded as he continued to search for a certain bespectacled face. He’d been watching her for weeks and knew everything about her: when she got up in the morning, when she went to bed, where she went each day, how she spent her time. He even knew she was failing English for the second time, even after her teacher had given her a two-week extension on her term paper. Going through her trash, he’d discovered her addiction to Snickers bars, her affection for Ruffles potato chips and cream soda, and her preference for Pantene shampoo, which added luster to the blond hair she wore long and wavy.

A familiar red nylon jacket caught his eye, and he sucked in his breath. Concealing himself further behind the tree, he waited for her to pass.

Hmm. She was so close. He could have reached out, could have touched her hair. But he steadied his breathing and let the moment pass, deciding that reason must win the battle with emotion. There were simply too many people around who might see him and remember his face. He watched as she strolled into the school with her two charges in tow, carefree and unsuspecting.

Just the way he wanted her.

He took another deep breath, surprised by how calm he felt tonight. He knew what he needed to do and realized he had the resolve to execute his plan. Now all he needed was the opportunity, but waiting had never been easy for him. He could hear his mother’s chiding words strumming across the strings of his memory.

You’re so impatient, Donny. So restless. Don’t you know that good things come to those who wait?

Time to get inside.

***

Someone was watching her. For weeks, she’d felt unseen eyes following her every move. Evaluating. Judging. But when she would whirl around, no one was ever there—just brittle leaves scudding across the empty sidewalks.

“C’mon, you two. Hurry up.”

Clutching their hands with icy fingers, Erin yanked Daphne and Thomas along to match her stride. It was bad enough that she was stuck taking care of these first-grade brats on a Friday night. Worse, the evening’s entertainment promised to be a childish, elementary school musical, and she had better things to do with her time.

She’d been planning to give Sheryl a cut and dye job tonight. Her hairdressing service brought in more money than babysitting, but her mom had said she owed the Spensers a favor.

Yeah, whatever.

Erin wished for her father right now. Divorced from her mom and recently remarried, he had moved three states away, leaving them with the mortgage and a barely enough paycheck from her mom’s job as a nighttime gas station attendant. Her mom had said he was a no-good lowlife, that they were better off without him, but Erin wasn’t so sure. She had fond memories of her dad taking her ice-skating, just the two of them. He had shown her the spins he’d mastered as a young man, when he had almost qualified for the Olympics.

Almost. Dreams are never easy, he’d told her. You have to work hard and never, ever give up.

One more year and she would graduate from high school. Maybe then she could free herself from her mother’s stranglehold and open the beautician’s shop she’d always wanted.

The lights of Bridgetown Elementary glimmered against the darkening sky, the crisp wind swirling the leaves at her feet. She wished she’d worn her jean jacket instead of the thin, red windbreaker. She pushed her wire rim glasses up on her nose and glanced at her watch, realizing that in her reverie she’d slowed her stride.

“C’mon, we’re going to be late if you two don’t hurry,” she said.

“Slow down!” Daphne cried. “We can’t keep up.”

Erin peered down into Daphne’s frustrated hazel eyes. “Look, I’ll let you wear my watch if you’ll get a move on.”

Daphne squealed. “Cool!”

Though they were five minutes late, the program hadn’t yet started. But Erin realized that they should have come much earlier if they’d wanted to get a good seat. The place was packed, and she didn’t see an open row anywhere.

Biting her lip, she spied a friend coming down the aisle toward her. Laurie was a stagehand—and, as it happened, she was also the solution to their problem. She had been saving seats for her mother and sisters, but they’d all been waylaid by food poisoning or something, and wouldn’t be coming.

Three seats. Right in front. Perfect.

Erin couldn’t help smiling smugly as Laurie escorted them to the front row like celebrities at the Academy Awards, minus the red carpet pre-show, of course. She felt the indignant glares drilling into her back from those who had arrived a half hour early to get their seats. She felt a rush of pleasure at the realization that she was the cause of their indignation.

Let them sulk. Sometimes good things happen when you least expect it.

Her mind replayed a similar thrill she’d felt just a month ago, when she’d been summoned to give testimony in a big court case downtown.

***

She’d done up her hair special, dry-cleaned her special navy twin set, and worn her new high-heeled shoes, which made her short, lithe figure seem several inches taller. Approaching the stand, she had, for once in her life, felt important; felt as if every eye in the room was glued to her, mesmerized by this long-haired, blonde goddess with the porcelain skin and sapphire blue eyes. She hadn’t realized until later how important her testimony had been.

“And you saw the defendants enter Margaret Stowe’s house?” Stan Loomis, the prosecuting attorney, had asked.

“That’s right.”

“And you’re sure it was Walter and Virginia Owens. You’re positive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember, Miss Walker, you are under oath. You saw their faces?”

She had bitten her lip as she tried to remember.

She had just finished house-sitting for Mrs. Stowe, as another way to make some extra money. The old lady was loaded. She had said good night to Mrs. Stowe and had walked off, feeling giddy at the sizable check. Almost to her car, she’d dropped her keys and bent to pick them up. Hearing voices, she’d glanced back and had seen two people walking up the sidewalk to Mrs. Stowe’s front door.

A man and a woman, wearing long, dark overcoats. They had looked wealthy. The man had placed his black-gloved hand at the middle of the woman’s back.

“You don’t think she’ll mind?” the woman had asked, a musical quality to her husky voice. “It’s late.”

“You’re right. It is late. Too late.” The man’s voice had sounded rough, like a smoker’s. “She can’t turn us away now.”

Standing beside her car, Erin had watched as the man knocked. When the door opened, a band of light had slashed across their faces for an instant before they disappeared inside.

Staring unflinchingly at Stan Loomis, she had said, “Yes, it was them. I’m sure of it.” She’d pushed away the fact that the encounter at Mrs. Stowe’s house had occurred the week before she’d gotten her new glasses.

“For the benefit of the jury, would you please point out who you saw?”

Her hand had trembled as she pointed to the pale-faced Owenses, who sulked beside their defense attorney. They didn’t flinch. They didn’t move. But their eyes—they hated her. They wanted her dead. Ever since, those eyes had stared back at her in her dreams.

Those dark, hateful eyes.

***

The sound of a grade school chorus singing an upbeat song drew her attention back to the stage. She stifled a yawn and glanced at her watch, only to realize that Daphne was still wearing it. Well, no big deal. She’d get it back later. The musical version of Winnie the Pooh was okay, she supposed. She reminded herself that she’d worked more demanding babysitting jobs for even less than the paltry, subminimum wage she was being paid.

The musical was drawing to a close. In another five minutes, the show would be over, and she’d take the kids home. Maybe there’d even be time for Sheryl’s cut and dye job.

A female voice sliced into her thoughts. Amid the waves of applause, the director was acknowledging the stage crew, who bowed awkwardly in their matching black jeans and T-shirts. Erin’s gaze locked onto one of the crew members, who appeared to be staring at her. A look of recognition glinted in his black eyes before Erin glanced away.

Do I know him? He didn’t look familiar. Unsettled, she rushed Daphne and Thomas home as soon as the show was over.

***

Walking home from the Spensers alone, Erin kept to the edge of the roadway, away from the sidewalk and out from beneath the shadow of the trees, as her mother always insisted. She scuttled between the dim pools of light cast by the streetlights, which seemed to do a better job of lighting the tops of the posts than illuminating the street below; she walked briskly, though she was really in no hurry to reach her quiet, lonely house. Her mother would be working at the gas station, and Erin would have the rest of the evening to watch HBO, to see if Sheryl wanted to squeeze in that haircut, and maybe to take a long, hot bath.

A familiar prickly feeling crawled up the back of her neck. Someone was watching her again. She whirled around, but no one was there. Exhaling a relieved sigh, she resumed her journey. A fresh blast of frigid wind cut through her thin jacket and set the leaves to dancing at her feet. Thoroughly chilled, she hugged herself as she walked along the shadowy street.

She heard the car before she saw it—a distinctive chirping noise above the sound of the engine as it pulled alongside.

“Hey, it’s cold out there. Want a ride home?” the driver called to her through the open passenger-side window.

Erin glanced in his direction, but couldn’t see his face. “No, thanks. I’m fine.” She kept walking.

“It’s me. From the musical.”

She stopped and looked closer, recognizing the guy from the stage crew. He was the one who’d been staring at her. She’d felt uncomfortable then, but didn’t feel uneasy now. He was attractive and friendly enough, but still she was cautious. “I don’t think I know you.”

“Well, maybe we could talk, get to know each other a little bit. I’m not so bad, if you give me a chance.”

Her hands automatically moved to smooth back her hair. He had to be at least ten years older. “I don’t know . . .”

“You look like you’re freezing. At least let me give you a ride home. I don’t bite. Honest.” He opened the passenger-side door and swung it toward her.

Stepping closer, Erin peered in and studied his face in the dome light. He had a nice smile and white, even teeth. His black, curly hair was kind of cute, too. She wondered if his curls were natural. “Well, it is pretty cold out here . . .”

***

Daphne Spenser tugged at her mom’s arm. “Erin let me borrow her watch, but I forgot to give it back.” She held up the too-large watch for her mom to see.

Washing dishes at the sink, Diane Spenser wagged her head. “How many times have I told you to return things you borrow? Hurry. Erin just left. Maybe you can still catch her.”

Out the front door and pulling her jacket on, Daphne scampered down the steps to the sidewalk and peered down the road. Halfway down the block, Erin was standing beside a brown car and talking to someone through the open window.

“Erin!” Daphne ran toward her. “Erin, wait!” But the wind was howling, and Erin couldn’t hear her. Daphne kept running, hoping Erin would see her.

She saw the passenger-side door open, and Erin stepped closer to the car. Just then, a hand shot out from inside the car and closed around Erin’s arm. She screamed and tried to pull away.

Daphne’s heart slammed into her throat. She froze.

A man was pulling Erin into the car in spite of her screams. Daphne saw his dark hair, but couldn’t see his face.

The car squealed away. The passenger door slammed shut as the car sped around the corner and headed out of sight.

Daphne’s heart pounded in her ears.

She wouldn’t see Erin again until the funeral.

Love's Pursuit - Chapter 1

Love's Pursuit
Bethany House (June 1, 2009)

Chapter 1

"Do you never tire of being good, Susannah? Do you never think any rebellious thoughts?"

I turned my eyes from my sister and back to my work in the blueberry canes. "Aye. I do."

Mary gasped, though I detected laughter in the sound. "'Tis not possible."

"'Tis not only possible. 'Tis probable. Like this one I think right now, about you." I threw a blueberry in her direction.

She dodged it. "I shall report this harassment to the selectmen. At once!"

I looked up at her tone, for Mary was unpredictable and she might have done it just for spite. But her eyes were dancing despite her labors and the unseasonable heat. Warmth rose in my cheeks as well. But it was not the sun that scorched my flesh. It was my own conscience.

My sister's question had found a mark too close to the condition of my soul. To those in Stoneybrooke Towne, Susannah Phillips was indeed a fair and obedient girl. But I knew myself to be vastly different than the person they imagined me to be.

Aye, I did tire of being good. And I did think rebellious thoughts. Often. Especially on days like this one. I wanted nothing more than to abandon my task and plunge into the nearby brook. I longed for the luxury of one hour, one minute, that needed nothing done.

And more than anything, I wished John Prescotte would finally ask for my hand in marriage.

I was truly wretched. And I knew it. But the problem lay in my past. I had been such a meek, dutiful, obedient child that people had grown to expect nothing less from me. The weight of my unblemished past bore down upon my conscience unmercifully. What if today were the day when my secret thoughts became known? What if today were the day when the town found out how wicked I truly was?

Would that I were like Mary, who had been a hellion and constant thorn in my parents' flesh. Anything might be expected from her. And the least bit of goodness was cause for praise. I, however, was freely cited as an example of the godly woman every young girl wished to be. Except that sometimes, I did not want to be that woman at all.

If only I could tell one person what darkness lurked inside ... then at least I might be able to contain it. And who but Mary would better understand?

Grandfather.

My grandfather would have understood. I could tell him anything ... could have told him anything. For a minister he was uncommonly understanding. But we had left him behind when we moved from Boston.

A droplet of sweat slid beneath the collar of my shift, and then continued between my breasts on its journey to dampen the waistband of my skirt. I might have removed my hat, leaving only the linen coif covering my hairs to shelter me from the sun, but it would not have been modest. Yet perhaps I could admit to just one thing. "I would give anything to remove my hat for a moment."

Mary paused in her picking to look at me. "Anything? Even taking on the week's ironing? Twice in succession?"

I shrugged. I should never have admitted such a thing.

Quietly, softly, she began to hum a hymn.

My eyes lifted from the berry canes as I looked at my companions laboring. Like me, they were bent over blueberry canes, their felted hats marking their places. The clothes on all of our backs had been dyed sad colors, shades dark or dull made duller still by the constant toil required to wrest a township from the savageries of this new world.

Please, God, let no one hear! I reached out and grabbed hold of Mary's arm.

Touching the felted brim of her hat, her lips curled into a sly smile. And then she began to hum even louder.

Beside her, our brother, Nathaniel, paused in his task. "Mary? Why do you—"

Our sister hushed him and then poked him in the ribs with a finger. "Sing."

"But—"

"Do it."

He sighed as if it were beneath him, a great lad of ten years, to understand the thoughts of a sun-dazed girl. But then he emptied a fistful of berries into his pail, stood, and, taking off his hat in deference to the holy words of the hymn, he opened his mouth and began to sing.

Immediately, the berry patch sprouted heads, male and female, all of which were swiftly bared as the tune was taken up and the words were sung.

O Lord our God in all the earth
how's thy name wondrous great.
Who has thy glorious majesty
above the heavens set.
And it was wondrous to hear God praised under the canopy of His own sky in the midst of His own creation ... and more wondrous still to feel the breeze ruffle through the linen of my head's covering. Beside me, hat clasped in her hand, Mary had closed her eyes in an imitation of pious worship. For a brief moment, I forgot myself and did it as well. And I stored up the memory of the coolness to last me through the rest of the day.

As the last word of the hymn forsook us and withered away in the sun, the heads of our townspeople, hidden beneath hats once more, bent toward their work.

All but that of the minister.

He looked at Nathaniel for one long moment, then finally scratched his beard, shook his head, and returned his attentions to the berries.

Mary tossed a blueberry into my pail. "Fail not to tend to the ironing. This week and the next."

I could have pretended I had not heard her, but I had sinned enough for one day. Oh, what my rebellious thought had wrought! Had I not thought of picking berries uncovered, I would never have mentioned it to my sister. Had she never heard it, she would never have begun humming the hymn. Had she never begun, she would never have pulled Nathaniel into her schemes. My own foolish thought had enticed two others into sinning. Two weeks of ironing was not punishment enough.

A babe cried farther down the patch, and my eyes lifted toward the sound. I saw my friend Abigail plant her bottom on top of her pail and take her son up to her breast.

Abigail and I had been friends since before our move to Stoneybrooke, since Boston. A year older than I, she had been an example, in our youth, of everything I ever wished to be. First in womanhood, first in church membership, first in marriage. And now, in motherhood as well.

I had not talked with her in ... weeks. I had seen her, of course, on the Sabbath at meeting, but her attention was devoted to her babe, to her husband, and to her home. In fact, there seemed a dearth of maids in town. All of my friends were now married. Several of them were with child. The others with a babe in their arms.

I wanted nothing more than to join their ranks.

That I was not of their station was not a thing of my own choosing. I waited on John Prescotte, and he waited on the blessing of his father. But his father had been ill. And John, as the sole son, had to care for his family before he could turn his thoughts to me.

But perhaps next year at this time it would be me in Abigail's place. I hoped and prayed for it with all that was within me.

For certain the year after.

Soon I would be married. Soon I, too, would be called Goodwife.

Goody Prescotte.

Soon.

* * *

I bent to my task, plucking berries across the tangle of canes from the Phillips sisters. From Susannah and Mary, and their brother Nathaniel. They thought they were so clever, those two sisters, scheming to spend a few moments hatless in the broad of the day. I hope they enjoyed it. They would find out soon enough that stolen pleasures must eventually be paid for. But far be it from me to judge. Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment.

I tore my eyes from the spectacle of them and pulled my hat down tighter around my ears. So tight that I could no longer see them. So tight that I could not see my husband's approach.

"Small-hope."

I jumped as he said my name.

He took a deliberate step back as one might do from a half-tamed beast. "I wanted only to know if you needed water." He held out a dipper toward me.

"Aye." I took it from him and drank of it. And then I bent to take up my work once more. "Thank you."

I do not know if he heard me.

* * *

Mary sniffed. "She will bite his head off one day, and then what will she do?"

I looked over toward my sister. "Of whom do you speak?"

"Goody Smyth. Small-hope." She said the words with something near derision. "I cannot understand the care that Thomas takes of her. Nor why he dragged her here from ... wherever it was from which she came."

"Newham. She came from Newham." I glanced up from my pail at Thomas. He was a familiar sight. As familiar as anyone else in the town and more so, perhaps, since we were nearly the same age. He, the elder, by several months. Not so handsome as some. Certainly not so handsome as John. But the worst that could be said of him was that his eyes looked in danger of popping out from his head and his cheekbones were so sharp Mary once swore she could skin a rabbit on them.

Swore! She had sworn on a thought as foolish and ill-spirited as that. Only, it was true. She probably could. And that was the maddening thing about Mary. Though two years separated us, looking at her face was like looking into a glass. We both were fair, though her eyes tended toward chestnut, while mine had the look of moss-eaten bark. We may have looked like doubles, yet she could say nearly anything she wanted and always she was forgiven it. Woe unto me whenever I tried the same. I had learned, quite well, to keep such thoughts inside my head.

If any could hear my thoughts, they would think them pernicious indeed.

Thomas was the town's only blacksmith. He was needed, he was important, he was valuable. Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, any praise, then I must think upon those things. 'Tis what the Holy Scriptures instructed. I must try to fix upon those things. I did try to fix upon those things. But why could I not do it?

One thing was certain. Thomas's ... appearance ... would not have stopped any girl from marrying him, and he could not have felt a need to look for a wife beyond our township. No one knew why he had done so. He had gone into Newham one day for a certain smithing tool and returned with a wife instead.

Mary gave voice to my own thoughts. "It must have been that no one else would have her! Though why poor Thomas should feel so burdened ... 'tis not as if she birthed a babe too soon after their marriage."

She had not. And had yet to, for all that they had been married for three years.

I cast a glance at the woman from beneath my lashes and then at Thomas. Though I did not want to, I could not help but agree with Mary. Our friend had taken to wife poorly. If I had any sympathies for the couple, they lay with him. But one thing was true: We had gossiped enough for the day. Both of us. "'Tis the wounded that seek most to wound."

"It would not hurt her to be pleasant."

"Nor would it hurt you."

Mary glared at me before pushing to her feet. She stood there for a moment, looking round the patch, and then she walked over to Thomas. She spoke to him a moment before taking the bucket from him. And then she picked her way through the canes to where Simeon Wright stood. He was watching his mother, and all the rest of us, pick berries.

What was the girl about? And why did she seem so brazen?

Simeon Wright with his flaxen hair, pleasing manner, and cool blue eyes, was the object of many girls' ardor. Girls of Mary's age. That he had not yet chosen to marry only seemed to increase their devotion.

At Mary's approach, Simeon looked toward her, but then his eyes moved past my sister to fix upon me. Even across the stretch of barren between us, I could feel the weight of his gaze.

Shepherd's Fall - Prologue Excerpt

Shepherd's Fall
WaterBrook Press (April 14, 2009)


Prologue

Good news—I have my fugitive cornered. Bad news—I don’t have any backup.


The chase had encompassed forty-three hours with no sleep, very little food, and too many cups of cold coffee to count. It had crossed one state and three county lines and twice as many jurisdictions, only to circle back to within three miles of where it all started. And it looked like it was going to end at an abandoned house near Lisbon, Maryland.


Now fugitive recovery agent Nick Shepherd just had to decide whether to wait until his team arrived, or go in after Richie Carver on his own.


The old house didn’t look as if it had been occupied for years. The whole structure was leaning on its foundation, the roof had holes in it, all the glass in the windows had been broken out, and weeds tangled across the yard nearly waist-high, hiding anything from old tires to snakes and groundhog holes.


He’d have to go in low and slow.


Glancing over at the front porch, he discounted it immediately. Half the boards were gone; the rest didn’t look like they were too far behind. One wrong step and he’d be risking a broken leg or worse. His best bet was to enter one of the windows along the side of the house—the same way Richie had gone in—and to pray that Richie wasn’t standing there ready to shoot him as he climbed through.


When a fugitive jumps bail and disappears, fugitive recovery agents suit up and go hunting. They are experts at tracking and pursuing and have powers even local police don’t have. Relentless and more than a little fearless, they sometimes have to run a fugitive into the ground. But a cornered animal can be far more dangerous than one on the run.


Richie Carver was as nasty as they came. He and his brother, Jon, were known for drugs, prostitutes, illegal gambling, and who knew what else. If it was illegal and lucrative, they probably had their hands on it. Jon was the brains of the operation, preferring to stay close to the office and the money. Richie, on the other hand, was the brawn. His job was to make sure that no one crossed Jon. The problem was, Richie had gone beyond breaking legs and busting heads to straight-up murder. And after he jumped bail, he became Nick’s problem. Nick and the
rest of the Prodigal Fugitive Recovery Agents.


Nick glanced at his watch again. It had been nearly seven minutes since Richie had disappeared through that window. He knew better than most that the worst thing a bounty hunter could do was run into a situation like this without backup, but sometimes he had to break the rules.


He keyed the radio on his shoulder. “Conner. Come in.”


It took a couple of seconds, but he heard his second-in-command’s voice crackle through in his earpiece. “Here, Boss. What’s going down?”


“Richie’s run into an abandoned house. Where are you?”


“Rafe and I are ten, maybe fifteen out, Boss. Hold them horses.”


“No can do, Conn.”


“Wait for us, Boss. We’re close.”


“He’s been in there almost ten minutes. Can’t take a chance on him getting away.”


“Don’t do it, Boss. I’ve got my foot to the floor. Hang on.”


Nick stared at the house. He figured the best and worst that could happen and then keyed the radio again. “Just make sure you’re here before it turns ugly.”


He had just pulled the slide on his Glock when his cell phone vibrated. Assuming it was one of the members of his team, he flipped it open. “Yeah?”


“Daddy?”


“Krys? Honey, I’m right in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”


“Sure. I was just calling to say I love you and also to find out if maybe you want to go out for pizza tonight. Mom’s working late.”


“Sure, baby. I’ll give you a call in a couple hours.”


“Okay. Love you, bye.”


“Love you, bye.” He used his thigh to close the phone and then shoved it down inside his shirt pocket, protected inside his Kevlar vest.


He checked his Taser to make sure it was fully charged and put it back in his thigh holster, then eased up to a low crouch and began to make his way from the edge of the woods to the house. He nearly tripped twice but managed to avoid twisting his ankle on the pile of lumber hidden in the weeds and the gopher hole on the other side of it.


He thought he might have seen a black snake slithering off near an old wheelbarrow, but he didn’t look too closely. He wasn’t exactly fond of snakes, so he resorted to the childhood philosophy that if he didn’t see it, maybe it didn’t see him.


Easing up along the side of the house, he glanced furtively into the window. Living room. White plaster walls yellowed to beige and cracked with age. Light fixtures pulled from the ceiling. Wires dangling. Wood floors. And dust thick enough to leave footprints heading toward the back of the house.


Tucking his gun down in the holster, he prayed that Richie was somewhere else in the house and would stay there long enough for Nick to get through the window and pull his gun back out. He was halfway through the window when he saw the other footprints. Two pair, small, sneakers or athletic shoes. Kids. Probably teenagers. Were they here now? Or were they remnants from a previous night? Nick moved a little faster, scrambling through the broken window, snagging his shirt.


Then he the heard a scream. Female. Young. And in terror.

The Firstborn - Chapter 1

The Firstborn
Realms (May 5, 2009)


Chapter 1
(Excerpt)


The door to the gas station opened with a tinny gling, the antiquated bell chiming as Devin entered the store. The sound was a testament to the essence of the small backwoods town. At best it was quaint; at worst it was a sign of dilapidation in the middle of snowy nowhere.

As he entered he picked up one of the newspapers by the door, reading the headline: Holy Man Murdered Outside of Ohio Mosque—Imam Basam Al Nassar Shot to Death in Car.

The person behind the counter was a young man. He was too old to be a boy, but he hardly exuded an aura of maturity. He was blond, with shaggy hair that hung in his eyes. Lips, nose, eyebrows, and ears were all pierced. The Virgin Mary was tattooed on the side of his neck. He didn’t seem to notice Devin’s approach at first, until the clipping sound of expensive shoe heels were within feet of the counter. The checker looked up, face startled.

Devin was used to it. His skin was black, which meant he looked different from the locals. The result was distrust. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t sink to showing it—no sign of weakness. Instead he advanced with purpose, stopping at the counter.

“Can I help you?” the checker asked, eyes darting over the new face.

Devin said nothing, simply sliding a crisp fifty-dollar bill across the glass.

The checker nodded through his unsettled demeanor. “Just the gas?” he asked.

“And the newspaper,” Devin said, voice articulate and commanding. Then something changed. He felt it in his stomach this time. No images, just the sinking feeling of finality and irreversible death:

Soon. Too soon.

Not days or hours.

Now.

His cellular phone came open with a snap.

—no signal—

Devin reached into his wallet, swiftly removing and writing on a business card before sliding it across the glass countertop. He tapped his index finger on the card, indicating the neatly written script across its back. He tightened his vocal cords, voice intense.

“I need you to call the police. Tell them to send a car to this address. A woman’s life is in danger. Do you understand?”

Devin was looked over skeptically. “That all depends on what you have in mind. What’s your business here?”

Small towns, Devin thought cynically. People always talked about the joys of small town living, but he personally found it infuriating—nosy people who didn’t trust you if they hadn’t grown up with you. At least in the city you had a reason not to trust each other.

“Do it,” he said with a commanding edge, “and do it now.” He left the store, pushing through the curtain of early-spring snow.

***

The young man behind the counter looked over the letters, taking a moment to let the information sink in. He brushed his thumb anxiously across his lower lip, shifting a piercing. “Hey . . . ” His voice dragged inarticulately.
“Hey, Gary.” The checker lifted his head, calling to the far end of the gas station near the refrigerators on the back wall.

“Yeah?” a voice called back.

“Come here.”

A gruff-looking man with a craggy face approached the counter. “What is it?”

“That guy just told me to have the cops sent here,” the checker said, handing over the business card.

Gary looked it over, thinking for a second. “I know this place,” he said with a nod. “Outsiders trying to tell us how to run our own town,” he growled, then crumpled the card in his fist.

***

The eggs were burning.

Brett cursed quietly under his breath as he reached for the skillet, trying to keep breakfast from turning to coal.

The kitchen phone rang.

He lifted it from the cradle, positioning it snugly between his shoulder and cheek as he fought with the eggs, waving smoke away with a towel.

“Yeah?” he said through a cough.

“This is Gary.”
“Hi, Gary; how can I help you?”

“Some guy just came by the gas station. Black fella, nice suit, fancy coat—looked like he might work for the IRS or something.”

Brett paused. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“He wanted somebody to send the cops over.”

“Why?” Brett stammered, eyes moving toward the CCTV monitor on the countertop.

“Didn’t say.”

“Do you think he’s headed here now?”

“Don’t know.”

Brett continued to stare into the monitor. “How long ago did he leave?”

“Just a second ago.”

He watched as the black-and-white screen flickered: it showed the image of the girl as she sat tied to her chair in the dark basement room below, hair hanging across her bowed face, morose from her captivity. “I can’t talk right now,” Brett said shortly, then hung up.

This was a problem.

***

Hannah’s head hung, long brown hair in her eyes.

Her face felt pasty with cold, fatigue, and pain. Dark lumps covered her body, swelling bruises on her cheek and forehead from rough treatment. Arms behind her back, she sat in a chair, wrists and ankles tied to the wooden frame, chair legs bolted to the floor.

The room was dark. Mattresses and foam padding lined the walls and windows to soundproof the basement room. Tan foam lined the seams between sound-buffering pads, rippling in imperfect bubbles and waves, frozen solid in time as it had been spewed from an aerosol canister. A tiny security camera was fixed in an upper corner.

Time stood still for her. One long unbroken moment of darkness and fear was all that filled her memory. Hours? Days? Weeks? She had no perception of how long she had been there. They had turned on lights at moments, brilliantly hot and bright, stabbing at her eyes, then extinguished them for what could have been days on end.

Every time she fell asleep they woke her. Feedings were sporadic—two meals she knew could have only been forty-five minutes apart. Judging time had been easier when they were still playing music—something they had done to make sure she couldn’t hear them until they realized how well they had soundproofed her room. The length of the songs had given her a perception of time, but now that measure was gone, and her sanity was going with it.

Hannah had been raised in a conservative Christian home. It was something she had taken at varying degrees of seriousness throughout the phases of her life, but here, now, in the abyss, in her hour of darkness, she clung to it.

At first her prayers had been specific, personal, and directed to God as if He were standing right in front of her. Now she was tired, her mind swimming. Her lips mumbled out a tiny incoherent appeal, begging for rescue, pleading for light, imploring for continued safety, hoping upon terrified hope that the sanctity of her body would not be violated. Through her pleas she felt God draw closer and her sanity slip further away.

She was hallucinating. She had to be, seeing things that had happened long ago or not at all—and she felt it coming on again. It had been different each time, but she always felt it coming. This time it was a taste, like the bright tang of a penny in her mouth.

Then she began to see things that weren’t there—

A cold car.

An Islamic holy man praying for forgiveness that Allah, the merciful and just, would have pity on him. He had recruited young, innocent Palestinian men to bind explosives to themselves—to walk into crowds of Israelis—to kill—and to die.

He had failed for years to free Palestine from Israel.

He was an American now, the imam of a small Ohio mosque. A man of peace.

Sitting in the car, waiting for it to warm up.

Thoughts of his sons—wanting to kiss them before they went to sleep.

A pedestrian in a heavy coat walking in the direction of his car.

Eye contact.

The man reached into his jacket.

—a gun—

Panic.

Clawing at the car door—trying to escape. The first bullet punching through the glass.

Pain. Skin breaking. Muscle splitting. Bone shattering.

Horror. Pain. Grief. Screaming.

The windshield blistering with holes.

Thoughts of his wife—of his children.

Body torn to pieces by the striking of lead.

Darkness.

Minutes later a jogger in the middle of the street, stammering into his cell phone. “The windshield is filled with bullet holes and there’s blood...everywhere!”

It all came over her like a flood, a pouring out of pictures in her mind. But then there was one more thing. Not an image, but a feeling—that half a continent away someone else had felt it all happening too.

***

The sedan thundered down the wet, snowy dirt road. White snow, brown mud, and ashen gravel kicked up and out from the sides of the vehicle. The silver automobile cut through the road’s debris like a blade as the surrounding world blurred into fleeting streaks.

A midsize luxury sedan with a manual transmission—as always, the vehicle of choice the rental company had in his file. Devin had rented it at the airport expecting to have more time, but he didn’t. He hadn’t expected to cut it so close, but there was no reasoning with it now. All he could do was drive, hands gripping the wheel as if he had to wrestle the sedan to the ground like a beast.

The snow had stopped falling for the moment, and that helped—a little. But what a horrid frozen wasteland to be trapped in. Back home in New York, spring had already begun—sunshine all over. But he had to be called here: to the only place in the entire continental United States to have a blizzard, where snow had fallen in buckets and the sun hadn’t been seen in days.

To his right Devin saw the house appear over the horizon as the silver car glided up the hill. Five minutes at the most. He was almost there. He checked his phone again and snarled—too far from any kind of cell tower—a snowy wasteland.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he focused himself, aligning his will and his strength in faith. Some would call it a prayer. Devin resisted that word prayer. To him it was a necessary requisitioning of needed resources—spiritual or otherwise, it didn’t matter.

It was his thoughts narrowing into a finely focused, single-minded bolt of mental force, preparing for imminent havoc.

***
Hannah’s mind swam.

She saw him as her world dissolved to white.

Tall, handsome, dark skin.

Sitting at a dinner party.

Pausing. Something changing.

A thought or epiphany.

The man boarding a plane.

Searching for...

Her.

Strikingly handsome in an olive-colored suit that seemed to radiate class, money, and power. His frame stood strong in the midst of the frozen breeze, his tight muscular body accented by the hang of the trench coat over his strong shoulders.

He had been afraid for her, more than just for her captivity; for something far more treacherous. She paused. How afraid should she be for herself?

***

Brett growled in anger. It was really fear, but he denied it by letting it bubble out in a swell of wrath.

“I should never have let you use my home!” He was frantic, nearly wringing his hands. “This can’t be happening!”

Snider and Jimmy stared at him, unmoved. They didn’t take him seriously. They thought he was prone to panic, that was all.

“Calm down,” Jimmy said sarcastically.

“Calm down? Calm down?” His face burned. “We’ve got a girl in the basement. That’s kidnapping! And this fella’s gonna bring the cops!”

Snider, middle-aged and dressed in black, stepped forward. “And what if he’s not?” He was the leader, the one who had approached Brett, offered him money for the use of his home. Brett knew he had a reputation for being somewhat shady, but Brett liked money. And now things were getting serious.

“If you don’t settle down, you’re going to look suspicious,” Snider continued. “And then what will you do when he really does bring the cops?”

Brett waved his hands nervously. “This has gotten out of hand. We can’t do this anymore.”

“What do you suggest?” Snider asked. “That we dispose of her?”

There was a long silence as they all looked at one another; then Brett turned sharply, heading for his room.

“Where are you going?” Snider asked.

Brett called back, “I’ll deal with this!”

***

The turn was a blind corner, covered by snow. Devin slammed on the brakes, and the car lost control.

The back end of the car swung wide, losing traction in the slick of white. The tires left wide swaths of grime as the side of the car crunched into a pack of snow. Devin worked the sedan into gear and eased into the gas—the engine revved, the vehicle rocked, but he didn’t move forward. He gave the pedal a futile stomp, but he knew all he was doing was chopping ground into snowy pulp.

His eyes lifted, mind calculating the distance—maybe a hundred or so meters. He shoved the door open and climbed out into the snow. Cold ran up his foot, into his throat. It wasn’t the cold of the snow; it was—

Panic. Anger. Desperation.

Blam. Blam. BLAM!

The killer’s face, covered with relief.

His foot slipped, his body nearly going down. It had snowed again the night before, and the snow was as deep as three feet in some places. Devin lifted his burning legs, body heaving forward through the thick mass beneath him.

He’d done forced marches before. Ten years of military life had provided him with everything he needed in this moment, everything he’d ever needed to live this life.

Devin looked up.

Almost there.

A Bride In The Bargain - Chapter 1

A Bride In The Bargain
Bethany House (June 1, 2009)


Chapter 1

Seattle, Washington Territory
April 1, 1865

ATTENTION BACHELORS! Due to the efforts of Asa Mercer, you can now secure a bride of good moral character and reputation from the Atlantic States for the sum of $300. All eligible and sincerely desirous bachelors assemble in Delim & Shorey's building on Wednesday evening.

Joe Denton scoffed at the ad and scanned the rest of the page. The lopsided ratio of men to women once again filled the columns of the Seattle Intelligencer.

Glancing at the mantel clock, he shifted on the maroon-andgold sofa, then read the next page. The troops at Hatchers Run now had a series of signal towers along their entire line and almost every movement of the rebels could be observed. If Lee were to fall back in an effort to overwhelm Sherman, he would find Grant thundering close upon his rear.

The door to the parlor opened and the head of a small, brown-haired boy poked around its edge. "I thought that was you I saw coming up the walk. You here to see my pa?"

"I am."

Sprout Rountree stepped inside and hitched up his short pants, revealing scuffed knees. His stiff white shirt was untucked, grassstained, and torn at the elbow.

"Looks like you've had a hard morning," Joe said.

Sprout puffed out his chest. "I've been practicing to be a lumberjack, just like you."

"You have?"

A grin split his freckled face. "I have. I chopped down Mama's tree out back all by myself."

Joe hesitated. "That sapling, you mean? The Chinese pistachio your mother ordered from the Sandwich Islands?"

"I dunno. Just a minute and I'll show you."

He darted out of the room and returned in another minute holding what was left of his mother's pride and joy.

Joe swiped a hand across his mouth. "When did you do that, son?"

"This morning. I used my pa's ax. It sure is heavy. But I got big muscles for a boy my age. Ever'body says so."

"They do?"

"Yep. You wanna see 'em?"

Without waiting for an answer he strode right up between Joe's knees and flexed his little arm. It wasn't much thicker than the sapling he held, but Joe assumed a serious air and scrutinized the boy's arm, squeezed his muscle, then whistled. "Very impressive."

The boy beamed. "Lemme see yours."

"I can't roll up my sleeve right now. I'm waiting to see your pa."

His little shoulders wilted. "Aw, please?"

"Not today, Sprout."

"Could you let me squeeze it, then? You wouldn't have to roll up your sleeves for that."

Joe glanced at the slightly cracked door, then flexed, making his arm bulge.

Sprout's hand couldn't begin to encompass the muscle, but he squeezed what he could, his eyes huge. "Mine are gonna be just like that someday."

Ruffling the boy's hair, Joe chuckled. "I imagine they will. Until then, though, you might not want to chop down any more of your mama's trees. They aren't ready for the lumberyard just yet, and I'm not sure how she'd feel about you handling an ax."

"Then how am I gonna learn lumberjacking?"

"Well, maybe your parents will let you come out to my place sometime and help me."

His face lit up. "Can I go home with you today?"

Joe chuckled again. "No, not today but—"

"Sprout Rountree! Come here this instant!"

Burdensome footsteps followed the strident voice until the door to the parlor swung open. A young woman large with child stood at its threshold, her face pinched with anger.

Sprout eased back into Joe. "What's the matter, Mama?"

"What happened to my ..." Her eyes went from the boy to the sapling he held in his hand. "Oh, nooooo!"

Placing his hand on Sprout's shoulder, Joe stood. "Afternoon, Mrs. Rountree."

She glanced at him. "O.B.'s in his office, Mr. Denton. You can go on in." She turned her attention to Sprout. "What have you done to my pistachio tree?"

The boy shrunk at his mother's tone. "I har-visited it, but I'll put it back if you want."

Joe didn't wait for her response. Instead, he picked up his hat and slipped through a connecting door leading to the library and office of Judge Obadiah B. Rountree.

A cloud of tobacco mixed with traces of lemon oil filled the room. Hooking his hat on a hall tree, he clicked the door shut behind him, cutting off the drama unfolding in the parlor.

The judge, with his back to Joe, scribbled on a piece of parchment while sitting at an ornate mahogany secretary that had come clear around the Horn. His white shirt, entirely too big for his small frame, bunched beneath dark suspenders crisscrossing his back. Short black hair surrounded a perfectly circular bald spot.

Joe ran a hand over his thick, wavy hair, letting out a silent sigh. Blond hair like his wasn't as apt to fall out, or so he'd heard. Perhaps he was safe.

A handsome tan volume of Shakespeare lying on the marbletop table caught his eye. Was it there for ornamentation, or did the judge actually read it? Joe shifted his weight to the other foot.

No more voices came from the parlor. He assumed the missus had taken Sprout to a private place for whatever she had in mind.

A robin with a brick-red breast and white throat landed on the windowsill, warbling a greeting. Joe caught a whiff of fresh air coming from the window. Spring had a distinctive smell and one he always welcomed. No other spot on God's green earth held such mild and equitable climate as did Seattle from April to November.

The bird darted off as quickly as he'd come, and the judge placed his pen in its holder, then blotted his writings.

"You in town to purchase a bride?" he asked, still sitting at his desk.

"I hardly think so," Joe said. "A man would have to be pretty desperate to let Asa Mercer choose his bride for him."

Standing, the judge turned and clasped Joe's hand. "I think it's a grand scheme. I hear he's collected money from almost three hundred men and is hoping to find two hundred more."

"Well, I won't be one of them."

"Have a seat, then, and tell me what I can do for you."

Joe eased his large frame into a dainty armchair. "I have news about my wife's death certificate."

Rountree brightened, settling into the chair facing him. "Excellent. Let me have a look at it and we'll wrap up this whole mess."

"That's just the thing. I wrote to my brother back in Maine asking him to send me the certificate. I received his answer today." Joe removed the letter from his pocket and handed it to the judge. "He says the Kennebec County courthouse burned down and all the records with it."

"What about the doctor? Can the doctor issue another one?"

"Lorraine died ten years ago. Back then, the only doctors they had were itinerant. I'm not even sure they remember his name."

Rountree scanned the piece of parchment. "This complicates things, Joe. Tillney isn't going to settle for a letter from your brother."

Joe stiffened. "Are you questioning my brother's word?"

"Of course not. But those Land Donation Grants were very specific. In order to get the full six hundred forty acres, you had to have a wife."

"I did have a wife."

"You've no proof of that."

"I have a marriage certificate."

"That might have been enough to secure the land temporarily, but in order to keep it she needed to have made an appearance."

"She was going to. It's not my fault she died before she ever made it out here."

"No one's saying it's your fault. What we're saying is the intent of those donations was to encourage settlement. We can't settle unless we multiply. We can't multiply without wives."

"I was married when I signed up for the land. She would have come, Judge. I'd sent for her and everything."

Rountree blew out a huff of air. "There's no question in my mind your intentions were genuine. But the fact remains, it's been ten years and she's never shown up. In the eyes of the law, that makes you a single man, and single men only qualified for three hundred twenty acres, not six hundred forty."

Tightening his hands on the arms of the chair, Joe reined in his exasperation. "She died. I can't do anything about that."

"And if you produce a death certificate, then I'm willing to rule in your favor. But even that is pushing things a bit. I certainly can't award you the land based on a letter written by your brother."

"What if someone from the courthouse writes it?"

"No, Joe. I'm sorry. The only thing the clerk would be able to attest to is that the courthouse burned down. That won't solve the problem of you needing a death certificate."

"The only reason I need one is because you say I need one. You can just as easily say my marriage license is enough."

Sighing, the judge removed the wire spectacles from his nose. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because so many men in the Territory—when their wives wouldn't come west—just divorced them. That constitutes a breach of contract."

"Well, I don't see any of them giving up their acreage."

"Maybe not around here, but rest assured, many a man has been required to produce a bride or risk losing his land. Still, I'm willing to let you keep the land if you present proof of your wife's death. But if you can't do that, then Tillney wins the suit and your three hundred twenty acres."

Joe jumped to his feet. "I've spent the last ten years developing that land. My entire lumber operation depends on it. I need it. Every acre of it."

"I can appreciate that."

"Tillney knows how valuable it is." Joe raked a hand through his curls. "He knows that if he can win it, he'll not only get three hundred twenty acres of land, but he'll get skid roads, log chutes, water access, and enough lumber to last him for years."

The judge made no response.

"Are you making this difficult because Tillney's your wife's cousin?"

Rountree narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to ignore that remark, but our meeting is over." He stood. "Either you produce a death certificate or a wife, or Tillney wins."

"There is no death certificate!"

"Then I suggest you find yourself a wife."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

"Mercer's holding a meeting tonight. Buy one from him."

Taking a step back, Joe gaped at the judge. "You cannot be serious."

"I don't care what you do. All I care about is upholding the intent of the grant." He shrugged. "Death certificate or wife. Makes no difference to me."

"Well, it makes a difference to me. Besides, it'll take Mercer months to go back east, convince five hundred Civil War widows and orphans to be brides to a bunch of lumberjacks, and then bring them all the way back here."

Rounding the chair, the judge removed Joe's hat from the rack. "He said it'll take him six months, so that's what I'll allot you."

"Six months might be enough for an average fellow, but you know Mercer. It'll take him twice that amount of time. I'll need a year, at least. Probably more."

Rountree pursed his lips, then gave a nod. "One year from today, then. If you don't have a bride or a death certificate by April 1, 1866, then Tillney gets the land." He opened the door. "Good day, Denton."

* * *

It was standing room only at Delim & Shorey's new building, which was dried-in but not yet finished. Men of all shapes, sizes, and occupations crowded the half-finished wagon shop. Most were lumberjacks, but Joe recognized several prominent businessmen from as far away as Olympia.

And right in the center was Asa Mercer, the president of the town's esteemed university, balanced atop a soapbox, lantern light bouncing off his red hair and pale skin. Raising his hands above his head, he shushed the crowd.

Joe leaned against the wall. Several of the men with their backs to him sported an XXX Flour legend on the seat of their pants, having used the empty sacks to repair their worn-out clothing. What were those eastern women going to think when they got a look at this bunch?

"Over three hundred sixty thousand men have lost their lives so far in the conflict between the North and South," Mercer boomed.

The room quieted.

"And though we mourn our lost brothers, the surplus of widows and orphans is becoming an economic problem for our eastern shores."

Joe shifted his position against the wall.

"Yet here in the West, we are lacking the very commodity that they have in overabundance. As a service to both shores, I am volunteering to go east, collect five hundred ladies, and bring them back to you, the fine, upstanding men of the Washington Territory."

A great cheer rose.

"As with any venture, however, there are costs involved. I intend to solicit most of this support from our government, which feels responsible toward these misplaced women. My plan is to appeal to President Lincoln himself, who bounced me on his knee when I was but a lad. There is no question in my mind he will supply us with a discarded warship to transport the brides."

The men murmured to one another.

"To ascertain which of you will have the privilege of receiving these women as their matrimonial prize, however, a deposit of three hundred dollars will be required to defray the cost of your bride's passage."

"Three hundred dollars is an awful lot of money," one of the men hollered.

"In exchange for your deposit, I will give you a signed contract which will clearly state that upon my return, you will receive one eastern bride."

"Who picks the bride? You or me?"

"I will," Mercer answered. "But your contract will include what particulars you are looking for, and I pledge to thoroughly interview each lady and choose only those of sterling character."

Pursing his lips, Joe considered what qualities he'd need in a wife.

Honesty. Practicality. Nothing flighty or fragile like Lorraine. And she'd need to be able to handle cooking for his lumber crew.

His men could put in a full day's work in the wet, cold, and mud so long as they ended at night with a lighted abode fragrant with food. And if that food was prepared by a woman, well, he'd have the happiest crew this side of the Cascade Mountains.

"That's good enough fer me," another shouted. "I got nothin' else to spend my chicken change on. Might as well be a missus. Sign me up!"

The men converged on Mercer, all speaking at once, all anxious to plunk down their money.

Joe slipped a hand in his pocket and clutched the heavy bag weighing down his jacket.

Three hundred dollars. It was a fraction of what his land was worth, but he still hated to part with the coin. If he had time, he'd go east himself. But he couldn't leave. Not now. The weather was warming and in another couple of weeks, he'd be driving logs down Skid Road as fast as his crew could cut them.

"Why, Joe. I thought you'd be staying away from here on principle." J.J. McGilvra, a pioneer lawyer, offered his hand. "Change your mind, or have you come to stare down your nose at the rest of us?"

With a sigh, he pushed himself off the wall and shook with McGilvra. "To be honest with you, J.J., I don't know what I'm doing here."

The lawyer gave him a curious look; then the two of them took their places in the line that wrapped around the room three times.