Week 10: MIRACLES AND MISCHIEF

Congratulations to Tanya Hanson, winner of last week's featured 1st -chapter book, STARFIRE!

(Miracles at Mills Landing, Book 1)

Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. ~Galatians 6:2~

1st Chapter:

Nate Saylor slouched in the padded leather desk chair and scowled as a crimson banner emblazoned with the latest sport-news updates flashed across the bottom of the flat screen mounted to the wall above a row of shelves. Footage of yesterday’s playoff game—and his game-losing fumble—replayed over and over. An announcer’s muffled voice issued humiliating blow-by-blow commentary.

“Where did those reporters get their information?” The words scalded Nate’s throat as his gaze followed the dropped football and then the scathing words on the banner. He crossed his arms tight over his chest and flexed his fingers. “What they’re reporting is a bunch of hogwash—the farthest thing from the truth.”

His agent, Stan Moore, tossed a pen onto the cluttered oak desk and massaged his temples, exhaling loudly. “Once it’s in print, Nate, it’s true.” He reached for the remote and muted the offensive sound. “And this, my friend, is definitely in full-blown print.”

“So I see.” Nate crossed one leg over his knee and grimaced. His body was bruised and battered from yesterday’s assault. Not that it mattered to any of the fans. All anyone seemed to care about was what they deemed to be his flagrant errors, both on and off the field. “Can’t you contact someone at the news station and get those statements retracted?”

“Retracted?” Stan snorted. “Maybe, after I’ve cleaned up this mess.” He pulled a newspaper from the top shelf and shoved a stack of files aside before slapping it down on the desk. He jabbed the print with his index finger. “Nice headline, huh? And get a load of that photo.”

“Let me see that.” Nate gasped as he scanned the print beneath a snapshot of him sporting a pair of handcuffs while he was loaded into the backseat of a police cruiser. The bold-print, oversized font screamed at him.

Playoff disgrace, Nate Saylor, arrested for assault following devastating loss.

“That jerk at the restaurant deserved to get his clock cleaned.” Nate tossed the paper aside. “Besides, one dropped pass and I’m a disgrace?”

“You were in the end zone, and the pass did land right in your sweet spot.” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose as he slowly shook his head. “And the touchdown would have launched the team straight to the Super Bowl.”

“Don’t rub it in. I’ve relived that moment I don’t know how many times during the past twenty-four hours.”

“I’ll bet. You look like you haven’t slept a wink.”

“How could I…with this hanging over my head?” He crumpled the paper. “It’s ludicrous.”

“Well, whatever we think now, the damage is done. There’s no point in rehashing it.” Stan took a roll of antacid tablets from his shirt pocket and popped one into his mouth. “Besides, you know how the media suffers from a love-hate relationship with the NFL, especially during playoff season.”

“As for the rest of it—what happened after the game—they’ve got it all wrong.” Could it get any worse? A flush of heat curled up Nate’s spine as his temper flashed. “They’re missing half the facts.”

“Thank goodness for that.” Stan chewed, swallowed, and slipped a second tablet into his mouth. “Should have bought stock in these.” He tucked the roll back into his pocket.

“You know it didn’t go down that way, Stan.” Nate leaned forward in the chair. “Off the field I don’t go around provoking people.”

“Of course, I know that.” Stan picked up the pen he’d tossed and jotted a note on the desk blotter. “But it doesn’t matter. Like I said, the damage is done.”

“Well, it matters to me.”

“Regardless…we have a mess to clean up. I got a call from Worldwide Sporting Goods. They’ve dropped your contract.”

“What?”

“That’s not all. By lunch, Pro Fitness did the same.”

Blood rushed through Nate’s ears as his pressure rose. “Can they do that?”

“You broke their image clause, Nate. They can do whatever they want.”

“I should call them and explain.” Nate reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “Once I tell them how it really went down—”

“No!” Stan lunged across the desk, toppling his foam coffee cup. Muddy brew splattered file folders. “Give me your phone.”

“But I can make them understand.”

“Understand what, Nate?” Stan grabbed Nate’s cell phone. “That the star running back for the Tennessee Titans had a meltdown after an embarrassing playoff loss and managed to get himself arrested?”

“I didn’t have a meltdown. I told you, I was—”

“Tell it to the judge, Nate.” Stan removed the battery from the phone and slipped it into one pants pocket. The case went into his other. Then he reached for a tissue and began to mop up the spill. “Take a breath before you dig a deeper hole.”

“It can’t get any deeper.”

“Oh, I assure you it can.” Stan lobbed the soiled tissue into the trash can.

“So, what am I supposed to do?”

“We did get a third phone call…one you might want to consider.”

“Tell me more.”

“Have you ever heard of a foundation called Moments for Miracles?”

“Nope.”

“Well, they’re interested in you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They grant wishes to critically ill children.”

Nate sat back in the chair, resting his hands across his knotted belly. “You mean, kids who are going to die?”

“Some of them—most of them—will.” Stan nodded. “But the rest…”

“I don’t think I can handle that.”

“You don’t have a choice, Nate. You need damage control, and this is just what the doctor ordered—no pun intended.” Stan shook his head. “Besides, doing this might lead to a breakthrough of some sort for you, which can only be a good thing. If you don’t let go of the past, it’s eventually going to consume you.”

“You know what I’ve been through, Stan, as far as that goes. This whole mess…well, you know where it started.”

“That’s my whole point, Nate.” He picked up the pen and twirled it in his fingers. “Yes, I know. I was there, remember?”

“Then, you should know better than anyone that I just can’t do what you’re asking.”

“Yes, you can do it.” Stan tossed the newspaper into Nate’s lap. “Go home, Nate, and keep your nose clean. I’ll contact the director of Moments for Miracles, pull some strings, and orchestrate a measure of damage control.”

“I can fight this battle without your meddling.”

“No, you can’t. You’re in too deep, Nate. Trust me on this.”

Nate tossed the newspaper back onto the desk and raked a hand through his hair. Could he trust Stan? The two had been friends for years before entering into an agent-athlete partnership. Nate’s gut roiled as the ESPN ticker tape continued to flash news of the previous night’s escapades. From the look of things, he didn’t have much of a choice. Right now, Stan was his lifeline. “OK, I’ll let you deal with it.”

“Good. That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” Stan slipped the newspaper back into the file drawer. “Pack a bag, Nate, and head back to Mill’s Landing. Relax and enjoy some down time, now that the season is over. Just promise me you’ll stay out of trouble.”

“I can manage that—if you keep the press away.”

“I’ll do my best.” Stan nodded. “In the meantime, why don’t you

catch up on a bit of reading?”

“What type of reading?”

“The type that will help screw your head back on straight.” Stan handed him a soft-cover book. “It’s a devotional. I have a copy of my own, and I’ve read it cover to cover. You should do the same.”

The words stabbed Nate. He had been caught up in the season, but this run of bad luck with the press was the wake-up call he needed. Maybe. He slipped the book into his jeans pocket. “Thanks.”

“I’ve got you covered.” Stan nodded. “Now, go home. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

****

Shayna Grady’s eyes filled with tears as she stepped into the Mill’s Landing Children’s Hospital hallway to listen to Dr. Garrison’s soft-spoken voice.

“Zac’s blood work is discouraging this go-round.” Dr. Garrison shook his grizzled head. “We’ll need to run some more tests, but it’s not very promising. I think Zac’s best bet is going to be a bone marrow transplant.”

“But Zac doesn’t have any siblings, and his father—“

“I understand. But there are other options. We’ll add him to the BMT registry immediately—as a priority candidate.” Shayna dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” Dr. Garrison scribbled a note on Zac’s chart, and then leveled his gaze to meet Shayna’s. “But at least it provides a measure of hope.”

“And what are the chances of finding a suitable match in time?”

“One in ten-to-twenty-thousand that a viable match for an allogeneic BMT will be found in time. Unfortunately, the transplantation of stem cells from someone other than Zac himself is a long shot, but if we want to bring Zac’s leukemia into remission, it’s our best option at this point.”

“No.” Shayna gasped, and the tears flooded over. Her voice was thick, and the words came with great difficulty. She glanced into the hospital room where Zac lay curled in the bed, clutching a teddy bear dressed in a signature blue Tennessee Titans jersey. His smooth head peeked above the starched, white sheet, and a Titan’s ball cap tumbled to the side of the pillow, exposing a dusting of spiky-red curls that were just beginning to grow back to cover his pale scalp. “Is there anything we can do to improve the odds?”

“Pray, Shayna…just pray.”

“I have been praying. I just…”

“There’s someone here to see you.” Dr. Garrison took her by the elbow and led her toward a row of vending machines at the end of the hall. Off to the side was a small, sunlit room where families could gather to share a quick meal or a respite from the stark hospital rooms. “She’s a volunteer from the Moments for Miracles Foundation.”

“Oh, yes. I took your advice and contacted her a few weeks ago.” Shayna’s stomach growled, and she realized it had been a full day since her last meal. She felt a bit lightheaded as she continued. She’d need to get something into her belly soon. “She’s probably here to follow up.”

“They don’t just grant children’s wishes, Shayna. Perhaps there’s something you’d like to have, as well.” It was more of a question than a statement.

“My wish—and prayer—is to see Zac get better and be fully healed.” She crossed her arms over her rumbling belly to calm the hunger-storm that surged. “Can this foundation find a donor for him?”

“Unfortunately, no. That’s not their purpose.” Dr. Garrison shook his head. “But what they can do is give Zac a little dose of happiness—grant a wish for something he’d truly like…something tangible. Laura Evans, the volunteer, will explain.”

Shayna glanced into the room to see a dark-haired woman seated at a small, round table. She sipped from a foam cup as she sorted through a file of papers. “I’m so glad she came, but this will have to be quick. I need to get back to Zac. He’s sure to wake soon, and he’ll be frightened if I’m not there.” Shayna fished in her jeans pocket for a handful of coins. She counted out seventy-five cents and slipped it into a vending machine, jabbing the buttons until a bag of pretzels dropped into the dispenser.

“I’ll be back to check on Zac this evening.” Dr. Garrison squeezed her shoulder gently. “Promise you’ll eat more than those pretzels, Shayna. You need to keep up your strength.”

“I’ll try.” Shayna grabbed the pretzel bag from the dispenser, thankful to know a pediatric oncologist who cared about so much more than vital signs and prescriptions. She nodded slightly and offered a halfhearted grin before turning away to enter the sunlit room.

As she approached the table, Laura Evans glanced up and smiled. “Mrs. Grady?”

“Shayna.”

“It’s so nice to meet you.” She extended a hand, her bright blue eyes full of compassion. “I’m Laura. May we talk for a bit?”

“That would be fine…but not for too long.” Shayna slipped into a chair and stretched the kinks from her back. Outside, sunlight danced across the river beyond the hospital parking lot. Shayna was thankful she lived so close to one of the best children’s hospitals in the nation—one that specialized in cancer treatments. Mill’s Landing was as good as it got, and with her house only a few miles away, at least she and Zac were afforded some sense of comfort and familiarity, despite his illness. “I have to get back to my son soon.”

 “Of course.” Laura nodded and flipped open a file folder, then took a pen from her purse. “Go ahead and eat your pretzels while we talk. I’m just here to fill you in on the steps we’re taking to grant Zac’s request to meet Nate Saylor.”

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Week 9: STARFIRE

Congratulations to Kathleen Friesen, winner of WOUNDED FAITH in last week's drawing!


Can Austin survive three months at Starfire Ranch or will he lose Samantha…forever?

1st Chapter:

Austin clenched the steering wheel as dust from the winding country road clouded the truck. The grip of his hands matched the tightness in his chest as the ranch rose against the Smoky Mountains to leer at him beneath a brilliant late‐afternoon sun.  His  gut  soured  at  the  sight  of  the  thirteen‐stall  horse barn—a baker’s dozen, the old man had joked at  one  time.  The  barn  looked  the  same  as  Austin  remembered,  except  someone  had  gotten  the  bright  idea to paint it a blaring red. How fitting.  What had the old man been thinking? He must have been out of his mind from the cancer. 

Familiar smells washed over Austin, kindling memories best left buried. The sweet scent of spring hay…a shower of wild onions…dank cow manure. And he could almost smell the leather of oiled saddles he knew hung in neat rows in the barn. 

How long had it been since he set foot on the soil of Starfire Ranch? Not since his mom had dragged him, sobbing, from his bed one morning and told him to get dressed because they were leaving—now.  He was fourteen at the time, and old enough to understand that something awful had happened between her and his dad, something irreparable.

And the passing years had brought an ugly sense of clarity to the picture. The old man loved the open pastures.  His  passion  for  horses and gambling left little room for anything else— including his wife and only son.

The years had passed  with no more than a handful of visits and not much  more  than  stilted  conversation  until  even  that  died  away to a painful emptiness.  And now Austin was home again, although he didn’t think of the ranch as home. The city was his home—a place where he found a sense of peace in the rhythm of rush‐hour traffic and the constant murmur of blended voices and crowds. He had a construction  business there, too—though it was on unstable ground  due to the recent downturn in the economy—that he’d  reluctantly left in the hands of his partner for the next  several  months. 

As  music  thumped  from  the  radio,  Austin  calculated  and  recalculated  the  days—the  hours—that made up the impossibly long three months  he’d be sequestered here.  June—July—August.  Three  months,  ninety‐two  days,  two  thousand,  two  hundred  and  eight  hours.  I can do this.  I’m tougher—smarter—than the old man ever was. 

A flash of movement in the south pasture caught his eye—a wave of dark hair whipped on a breeze and something silver glimmered beneath early‐summer sunlight. The thud of hooves filled the air as he trained  his  gaze  and  watched  the  woman  riding  a  toffee-colored  mare  close  the  distance  between  them.  Her movements were fluid and sure, as if she was part of the golden‐haired horse whose reins she clung to. For a moment, Austin’s mind went blank and he was mesmerized.  Then he shook his head and quickly retrained his gaze to the road…and the ranch waiting for him like an old, unwelcome memory. 

But the woman was a magnet even more powerful than the ranch. Sable hair fanned through the wind like a dark, restless wave and she seemed one with the horse as the pair flew over emerald pasture grass that sparkled like diamonds. Even from this distance, he  could  see  the  determined  set  of  her  jaw  and  the  intensity of dark eyes that matched the deep black cape  of her hair. 

The probate attorney hadn’t said anything about a woman hanging around the property. Maybe she was a  neighbor, and maybe she knew where he could find  the guy named Sam who was supposed to help him  run  the  ranch  for  the  next  few  months,  until  the  ridiculous stipulation his father had spelled out in the  will was satisfied. 

“‘Live on Starfire Ranch and maintain the property to the present standards, including the summer riding camp, and if you’re not satisfied to remain after three months, you can sell the land and retire a rich man,” his father’s voice haunted him. “Leave before the three months are up, and rights to the property will revert to the state to be set aside as a nature refuge, and you lose everything.’”

He couldn’t afford to lose everything.  Three months on the property and he could sell the place and shore up his construction business. The money would be like a life‐saving transfusion. 

Austin gunned the engine and sped toward the entrance gates, the same direction the woman on the mare headed. The quicker he got things started, the quicker he’d close things out.  He had to hang around for three months, sure, but that  didn’t mean he couldn’t begin to make arrangements  concerning  what  would  happen  when  those  three months were paid in full. He already had a call in to the most high-powered realtor in town, and had placed him on alert. Austin knew investors were chomping at  the bit for a chance to own the land that Starfire Ranch  encompassed,  with  its  acres  of  lush  pasture  back-dropped  by  a  breathtaking  view  of  the  Smoky  Mountains.  He’d pay his three months and then leave here forever with the money…without so much as a quick glance back.   

****

 Samantha watched the cloud of dust swirl around the pick‐up truck as it sped along the drive toward Starfire’s entrance gates. Music blared from the open windows as the heavy thud of a bass drum rocked the solitude, and she saw Austin McGill at the wheel. Her  heart quickened, because she knew exactly what he  was bent on doing—sell the ranch, sell out the kids  without so much as a second thought or a tug on his  stone‐cold heart. 

John McGill had warned her about his son, even while the unmistakable odor of death clouded his room as the cancer ate away at him.

“You’re tough, Sam.”  His raspy voice calmed the butterflies that swarmed her belly.  “But Austin is filled with bitterness. I’ve hurt him badly. Be patient with him— but firm. Take care of things here for me…and for the kids. I know you can do it, Sam, but do you?” 

His confidence renewed her resolve and she’d leaned over the bed to cool his brow with a soft, damp cloth.  Gnarled, withered hands were folded on the patchwork quilt that covered him. Just a few months ago, before the cancer had taken hold, those hands had been strong. Samantha’s breath hitched at the memory. Whatever had happened so long ago between him and his son, she had never known John to be anything less than giving, patient, and gracious. 

“I won’t let you down, John. I promise.”  And she wouldn’t. Not for anything or anyone in the world—including his son. 

She  gave  the  mare  a  gentle  nudge  and  felt  the  cooling late‐afternoon breeze against her face as she  rushed  over  thick  pasture  grass  toward  the  truck.  Jenny would be home from school soon, and she’d be  ready  to  tag  along  as  Sam  tended  the  horses,  then  they’d share dinner and a story or two before bath and  bedtime. And hopefully in a few days the riding camp Sam had so painstakingly coordinated for special-needs kids would open and proceed as planned. Jenny was counting on her, and so were the other kids and their parents.  Since John’s death, the decision on whether or not to continue the camp fell into Austin McGill’s lap. So there was no time to waste—no time at all. 

She watched the truck crest the hill to the entrance  and  bounce  over  the  rutted  road  and  through  monogrammed  wrought‐iron  gates.  Quickly, she jockeyed for position as the truck eased to a stop. 

“Hey, you’re Austin McGill,” she called when he switched off the engine and the heavy rock‐beat died. 

“All day.” His voice hummed low and smooth as  he  swung  long  legs  from  the  driver’s  side  and  straightened to his full height. Waves of coffee‐brown hair spilled from a Chicago Cubs baseball cap as he brushed a muscular forearm across his face.  The  shadow of stubble covered his chin and his restless blue  gaze  pierced  her  as  if  she  was  some  peculiar  laboratory specimen. “And who are you?” 

“I’m Sam.”  She slid down from the mare and brushed dirt from the seat of her jeans before offering him a hand. “Sam Lakin. I’m going to help you run Starfire Ranch for the next three months. Would you like me to show you around?”

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Week 8: WOUNDED FAITH

Congratulations to Pam Zarate, winner of ANGEL SONG in last week's drawing!


Can two roadside crosses and two wounded hearts equal one precious love?

1st Chapter:

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. ~Psalm 147:3~ 

Kylie Jordan’s gaze swept to the roadside as her car idled at a red light. Soft music from the radio soothed and sunlight warmed her through the windshield, chasing a sense of sadness that crept in whenever she looked at the small white cross plunged into damp earth and set back just a bit from the curb. The painted wood was buried in weeds—easy to miss if you didn’t know it was nestled there.

She knew it was there, though—twenty-four seven.

The name carved into the weathered wood belonged to her older sister, Faith. Kylie thought of Faith now, as she always did when she came to this corner… tall and lithe and flashing the brilliant smile that lit up warm caramel eyes. Separated in age by merely eighteen months, Faith had been Kylie’s best friend. Kylie preferred to remember Faith before the accident that took her life, not the way she was for the few days that followed while she lay in limbo, still and shadowed like a house without its lights on.

Kylie thought of her own life as a play with two acts—Before and After. Before was bright and colorful, a canvas of happy times when Faith was there to share things with, to laugh and dream with. After was a sequence of mundane black-and-white photos…the rush of a chill after the laughter died. The sharing had ended abruptly when a drunk driver took Faith’s life—and the life of her unborn son. The “after” tugged at Kylie like a raw wound that just refused to heal, even though nearly a year had passed.

She was beginning to wonder if the pain ever would fade. Was she destined to live in this sepia vacuum while the rest of the world scuttled around her, racing toward its future?

She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music and drew her gaze back to the road. As the light changed, she made a mental note to stop by the intersection within the next few days to weed the area at the base of the cross. The weather was turning warm again. Signs of spring burst all around. Bradford Pears danced along the neat row of shop fronts, tossing pollen into the breeze that made Kylie’s eyes itch, and the scent of lilac sweetened the air as she crested a hill going west along the four-lane road.

New Hope Church soared into view, its steeple a beacon against the cloudless blue horizon. Kylie smiled as a rush of warmth spread through her. This evening, same as every Thursday evening, she’d be among friends…people who understood and shared her sadness. The tight-knit group was like a family—the only family she had close now that Faith was gone and her parents had retired to the other side of the country.

Kylie turned into the church’s black-topped parking lot and slipped her sedan into a space near the entrance. The grief support group she led was due to start in half an hour, and Pastor Thompson had left a message for her to expect a new member tonight—a man from Knoxville who’d lost his brother in a horrible car accident nearly a year ago.

How ironic. She didn’t even know the guy, and already she felt a kinship with him. She looked forward to bringing another grieving soul into the fold. Together, God willing, they might find their way through the dark, cold tunnel of emptiness to sunlight that beckoned on the horizon beyond.

 ****

Mason Bennett switched off the car’s stereo and leaned on the steering wheel, letting cool air from the dashboard vent rush over him. His chest felt tight, and he drew a ragged breath as sweat pooled along his lower back where his T-shirt clung to the leather seat. Across the church parking lot, men and women made their way toward the sanctuary entrance. Their chatter, occasionally punctuated by laughter, drifted across the twilight.

Did people who’d lost someone they loved really still laugh as though they didn’t have a care in the world? So far, he hadn’t figured out how to do that. He hoped the support group would change things and guide him in a new direction.

If only he could pry his fingers from the steering wheel and go inside. The scar that crossed his forehead near his right temple throbbed, as it still did from time to time. The ridge of rough skin was a constant reminder of that night—and his loss.

A tap on the driver’s window startled Mason, and he turned to find a pair of large blue eyes staring at him. His gut gave a little jolt, coupled by an odd zap to his heart, and for the slightest moment, he wondered what the reaction was all about. The woman was

appealing, sure, but he hadn’t had any interest since the accident turned his world to shades of gray. So, what was special about this one? He sat back and lowered the window.

“You coming inside?” The blue eyes were capped by long lashes. Sleek blonde hair gathered into a neat ponytail that hung in one large curl to the middle of her back. As she spoke, his gaze followed the outline of glossed, full lips. “It will be lonely here in the parking lot.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” He pulled off his baseball cap and set it in the passenger seat, then ran a hand through matted black hair. He’d rushed through a shower after a quick workout at the gym, and his hair was still a little damp. “I was just…thinking.”

 “Uh huh.” She offered a hand through the open window, nodding. “I’m Kylie Jordan. I lead the grief support group here at New Hope. And you’re…”

“Mason Bennett.” He grasped the long, delicate fingers, felt the tiny jolt once again. Her skin was smooth and warm, and a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth when she smiled. “I…it’s my first time.”

“I promise we don’t bite.” She laughed softly, letting go and backing up. His gaze followed. He couldn’t seem to draw it away. There was something about her, something almost…magnetic. Her eyes danced beneath the waning sun. “But I’ll walk you in anyway, if you’d like.”

Mason opened the car door and slipped out, unfolding himself to face her. The perspiration across his back caused a slight shiver as the breeze whispered over his T-shirt. She was tall—nearly as tall as him— and slender, like a dancer. And there was a familiarity about her, something that made him feel as if he’d seen her once before. He shook off the feeling and jammed his hands into his pockets. He’d remember those eyes—and that smile—if he’d seen them, even only once in passing.

“I didn’t bring anything? Was I supposed to?”

“No…just you.” She turned toward the church, the heels of her calf-high boots clicking along the pavement. The cuffs of stone-washed jeans were tucked inside, and she wore a peach-colored blouse that billowed in the breeze as he fell in step beside her. Colorful, beaded earrings dangled from her lobes. “We have coffee inside. Are you a coffee-drinker?”

“You bet.” His hands felt clammy, and he removed them from his pockets as Kylie neared the sanctuary entrance. He held the door open and she slipped through.

“Let’s grab a cup and I’ll introduce you to the group.” Her ponytail spilled like a waterfall as she tossed him a look over one shoulder while starting down the hall. “Tonight, Mason, your life is going to change. Are you ready?”

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Week 7: ANGEL SONG

Congratulations to SHERYL SMITH, winner of last week's drawing!



Find love as sweet as the song of an angel…

1st Chapter:

Let us not love with words or tongue, but with actions and in truth. ~1 John 3:18~ 

Quinn Sanders juggled a full tray of breakfast platters in one hand and a coffee carafe in the other as she bustled along the crowded booths at Gus’s Diner. Outside, dark clouds lowered over the horizon like a blanket of lamb’s wool. Snow was imminent. Quinn thought of the bald tires on her weather-beaten sedan and cringed. She’d meant to have them replaced with last month’s tips, but then Linsey came down with bronchitis, and the doctor bills had drained just about every cent she’d earned. Maybe she’d win the lottery…if only she had the cash—and the time—to play.

“Miss, can I get a refill over here?”

Quinn turned to find Mr. Siefert rapping his coffee cup with the tines of a fork. He arrived at the diner like clockwork, the same time every afternoon, and Quinn was sure his purpose in life was to make her miserable. Despite her irritation, she plastered on a smile and nodded. “Decaf, right?”

“That’s right.” His watery gaze narrowed as he removed a battered leather hat from his head and set it on the seat beside him. “And, if it’s not too much trouble, sometime in this decade would be nice.”

“Of course.” Ugh. There was always one yahoo who pushed to make her day miserable. Quinn struggled to keep a pleasant tone of voice. “Coming right up.” 

“I’m not getting any younger.” No, he wasn’t. The thinning, grizzled hair, complete with comb-over, was proof. Quinn huffed out a breath and gritted her teeth as she turned away. How many more hours ’til she could go home to Linsey? She glanced at the clock on the wall above the cash register as she blew a stray wisp of hair from her eyes…still another two hours—two long hours.

Her feet screamed, her lower back wailed, and she felt the kink in her neck creeping up to invade her brain. It was barely noon, and already she’d put in half-a-dozen non-stop hours. The diner’s door flew open, ushering in a frigid gust of wind along with a trio of women carting shopping bags.

Black Friday. Ugh and double ugh! Didn’t all these people have anything better to do than rush through crowded stores and throw their money at overworked cashiers?

But then Quinn felt the heaviness that filled the pockets of her grease-splattered apron…cash tips— enough to replace the sedan’s tires and pay off the rest of Linsey’s doctor bill, with perhaps a bit left for a special treat for Linsey. She thought of the Christmas list she’d helped her daughter write just last night. There were only a few things Linsey wanted, but even those were more than Quinn could afford on her meager salary and tips from the diner. If only she hadn’t deviated from Mama Cantori’s teachings during college.

If only she’d stayed closer to home and been a bit less foolish.

If only…

Coins jangled in Quinn’s pockets, drawing her back to the crowded diner. Maybe the day wasn’t such a waste after all. A bell in the order window chimed, signaling another round of meals ready for pick-up. She nodded to Gus, the rotund owner and head cook, and held up a finger to let him know she was on her way. He offered his signature wink, coupled with a gap-toothed smile, in reply.

She delivered the platters in her hands and filled half-a-dozen coffee mugs as she made her way back to the service counter, thanking God along the way for Gus’s generosity. The kindly man had offered her a job when she needed it most.

“Busy day, huh?” Gus spoke in a thick, southern accent distinctive of someone who’d spent his entire life in the Appalachian area. He’d run the diner for nearly a decade, and could have retired as head cook years ago, but he loved keeping his hands busy. So he still manned the grill several times a week. Now, he smiled as he took the order receipt Quinn offered and clipped it along the wall above the serving line.

“Crazy busy.” Quinn grabbed the tray of meals and a carafe of decaf coffee. “And some people seriously lack the Christmas spirit.”

“Oh, don’t let Joe Seifert get the best of you. His bark is worse than his bite.”

“If you say so.” Quinn nodded and flashed Gus a weary smile before doubling back to fill the cantankerous old gentleman’s mug. She leaned into the booth, careful not to splatter coffee on the table as it splashed into the ceramic mug. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

“No, but I think Jason’s trying to get your attention.”

“Jason?” Quinn turned toward the windows, where snow had indeed begun to fall in fat, sloppy flakes that blanketed the parking lot. A guy, tucked into the last booth in the corner, motioned with a single finger raised into the air. He offered a slight grin as if apologizing for interrupting her rhythm, and slipped from his jacket, setting it on the seat beside him. She tried not to notice the way his navy polo shirt hugged a terrain of muscles across the wide breadth of his shoulders. He sported disheveled dark hair, just long enough to make him look a bit dangerous, and eyes the color of blue topaz. 

“Oh, I don’t know how I missed him.” Quinn padded in his direction, her tennis shoes squeaking across the polished tile. As she approached his booth, she grimaced. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be.” He brushed her off with a wave of his hand. “I see you’re packed to the proverbial gills in here. Just coffee, please. Make it strong and black.”

“Decaf OK?”

“For this round, if that’s all you’ve got. But I’d be beyond appreciative if the next round is fully loaded.”

“Sure.” She splashed a hit of coffee into his cup. For some reason her hands trembled as his eyes studied her, and her pulse raced like she was the one downing gallons of caffeine. She chastised herself as she bumped the creamer, splattering the table. She sopped up the mess as she distracted him with small talk. “Been shopping?”

“No.” He lifted the cup to his lips, drew a long gulp, then tilted his head and offered her a sidelong glance. “I wouldn’t be caught dead out there with all those bargain-hungry vultures.”

“Sorry for assuming.” Quinn’s mouth curled into a slight smile at his offhanded remark. Until now, she’d felt as though she was the only one who avoided the annual sale-hungry mobs. “You just look…”

“What?” He leaned back in the booth, his gaze slipping over her as he waited for her to finish.

“I mean, you seem a bit tired and…frazzled.”

“That so?” He scratched a spatter of stubble across the length of his jaw. His fingers, Quinn noticed, were long and strong. “So, now the coffee comes with a therapy session?”

“No.” Quinn backpedaled, stumbling over a chair. The coffee carafe bobbled in her hand, and she was glad she had a tight grip on the handle or the guy— Jason—may have been gifted with a scalding coffee shower. The song on the radio segued into a festive Christmas tune as she stuttered, “I’ll, um…refill your cup. Would you like anything else?”

“Nothing I can find in here.” He drew another gulp of coffee, his gaze drifting to the snow that began to engulf the parking lot and the two-lane road beyond. “So, no, thank you.” 

**** 

The aroma of french fries mingled with coffee and grilled chicken, making Jason Graves’s stomach lurch as he watched the woman juggle a tray filled with lunch plates. She wove her way along the string of booths, her cheeks flushed from the exertion. He hadn’t been by the diner in a while, but he knew Gus always scheduled at least three hostesses on a busy day such as this. Where had the others gone?

The woman was smaller than average, her hands petite and delicate. But she seemed to have no trouble juggling a quartet of plates. Steam drifted from a meatloaf dinner, filling the diner with the aroma of rich ground beef and brown sugar. Usually the meatloaf was Jason’s favorite. But not today—no, he couldn’t imagine trying to eat anything with his gut wound so tight.

Something about the woman seemed incongruous to their surroundings. She was too polished for the greasy diner, with a sassy blunt cut that skimmed her shoulders when she crossed by the wall of windows overlooking the snow-covered parking lot. Her eyes were a rich mahogany—a near reflection of her hair color—and he imagined she had a bite of temper to match the dark red hair; he’d noticed the look she’d given Joe Siefert, the old codger, when he clinked his mug and demanded more coffee. Yes, Miss Hostess could surely hold her own.

Jason hadn’t seen her here—or anywhere else in Landers Hollow, for that matter—before. She must be new in town. He watched her rush back to Mr. Jeffers’s table for the third time in less than a dozen minutes. Why didn’t she just leave the old guy his own personal coffee carafe and let him serve himself?

Coffee…ahh. The muddy liquid warmed Jason’s belly, chasing away nausea. This morning had been less than smooth, and the afternoon didn’t look much better. Now, the snow falling like a burst of confetti from a dark, ominous sky just further complicated things.

Mrs. Donaldson, his volunteer to help coordinate the church’s Christmas pageant, had been rushed to the hospital with a gall bladder attack just after midnight. He’d been to visit her, and though the surgery was successful, she’d be off her feet for the next few weeks. And there wasn’t another volunteer on the docket. It had taken Jason a full week to persuade Mrs. Donaldson to take the job in the first place. She was an expert at set design and had a way with the kids, too. The prospect of finding someone to replace her was less than bleak.

“Here you go.” 

Jason glanced up to see the hostess staring at him with voluminous eyes. She slipped a slice of warm apple pie, buried in a mound of vanilla ice cream, onto the table. Steam curled, carrying the rich aroma of cinnamon. The knot in his belly eased slightly as his gaze held hers.

“But I didn’t order that.” 

“On the house.” She smiled. “You look like you can use a little pick-me-up.”

Apples mingled with vanilla and Jason breathed deeply, feeling his blood pressure slack just a bit. Maybe the day would be OK after all. Maybe…

“That’s really nice of you.” He nodded, splaying a hand across his belly as it rumbled. Mortified, he glanced up to see her staring at him. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” She laughed and dimples deepened at the corners of her mouth. Jason noticed a cute little smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, too. Suddenly his pulse kicked up a notch.

What the heck…

“You’ll need this.”

As she handed him a spoon, he caught the scent of her perfume…something subtle and floral. 

“And I think you’ll need more than coffee, too.”

 “I guess so.” Five minutes earlier, his stomach had balked at the idea of food. Now, he found himself ravenous. He struggled to draw his gaze from her, and failed miserably. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She nodded, and a few strands of hair skimmed her cheek. “It just came out of the oven. Enjoy.” 

Jason watched her retreat as he dug in, her hair swishing along her shoulders in time to the music that sang overhead. He didn’t know which was more appealing…her or the pie. Of course, the pie was delicious with warm apples and a perfect blend of the sweet, vanilla bean ice cream. But she was an appealing mystery, as well.

Jason shook the thought from his head as he washed down apples with a sip of coffee. What had gotten into him? He refocused on the task at hand— finding a replacement for Mrs. Donaldson. He took out his day planner and went through the list of contacts once more. There had to be someone who could help him out…someone who enjoyed being around kids and was willing to carry an extra load for the next month.

Someone who knew that the true meaning of Christmas held more than the thrill of hunting for the best deal on Black Friday.

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