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Authors: Robin Lee Hatcher
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Contemporary, Family Life, Love Stories; American, Large Type Books, Religious, Christian, Christian Fiction; American, Domestic fiction; American, Neighborhood, Neighborhoods
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up the telephone and turned her head to find five pairs of eyes watching her.
“That was Angie. She’s going somewhere with Bill. Something about a story he’s working on.”
“Hmm.” Till resumed her sewing. “Bill and Angie. That would give her a good reason to stay in Hart’s Crossing.”
Francine felt a flutter of hope. She didn’t know a finer person than Bill Palmer. When she’d prayed for a husband for her daughter, she’d always asked God to send a mature Christian man who exemplified godly values. That certainly described Bill.
Still, her hope was mixed with concern. Angie had begun asking questions about God. She was spiritually hungry. Francine didn’t want her daughter’s blossoming desire for truth to take a backseat to romance.
Francine sent up a quick prayer, asking God to put a shield around Angie at the same time he was opening the eyes of her heart.
Chapter 11
BILL PALMER DROVE A 1965 red Ford Mustang convertible, the sort of car people in California would kill to own. Bill’s had belonged to his father, who’d purchased it new when he was fresh out of college, and both father and son had kept it in superb condition.
With her ponytailed hair whipping her cheeks, Angie stared at the majestic mountains to the north as the Mustang—top down—sped along the deserted country road. Bill didn’t try to engage her in conversation; he seemed content to let her lose herself in thought.
Except she wasn’t thinking about anything. She was simply enjoying being . Being with Bill. Being in this convertible, sun on her face, wind in her hair. Being away from the hustle and bustle of life. No to-do list to check. No appointments to keep. No stress or worries.
After about fifteen minutes, Bill slowed the car and turned onto a single-lane gravel road. It wound into the foothills, dead-ending when it reached an old, weather-beaten, two-story house surrounded by a corral, a barn, and other outbuildings in various stages of disrepair. Two black-and-white border collies rose from the porch and barked a warning before racing out to circle the Mustang, heads slung low. They didn’t look particularly ferocious, but Angie made no move to open her door, just in case.
“Lady. Prince. Get back here.”
Angie looked toward the house again. A rail-thin woman with pixie-short blond hair, wearing a faded plaid shirt and denim coveralls, stood in the front doorway of the house, her face shadowed by the porch roof. She held a toddler in the crook of one arm, balancing the child on her hip.
“Is that Kris?” Angie asked. The girl she remembered had been on the chunky side, and her hair had been long, reaching all the way to her waist.
“Yes, that’s her.” Bill opened the driver side door as he waved toward Kris. “Hope you don’t mind,” he called as he stood. “I brought a friend with me.”
“Don’t mind a bit.” Kris moved to stand on the edge of the porch.
As Angie got out of the car, two things registered in her mind. First, two young girls—perhaps three and four years of age—had come out of the house to stand near Kris, each gripping one of her pant legs. Second, the right side of Kris’s face bore an angry scar that pulled at the corners of her eye and mouth.
Bill met Angie at the front of the car and took hold of her arm. “This is Angie Hunter, Francine’s daughter. Maybe you remember her from Hart’s Crossing High.” They walked together toward the foot of the porch steps.
“Well, I’ll be.” Kris’s grin was lopsided due to the scar, but it was genuine. “It’s good to see you again, Angie. I hear your mother’s recovery is going well. Give her my best, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Come on up and have a seat on the porch.” Kris touched the head of the older of the two girls. “Ginger, can you and Lily play with your dolls while Aunt Kris visits with her guests?”
Ginger nodded but didn’t budge.
Kris looked at Bill. “Would you mind taking the baby
“That was Angie. She’s going somewhere with Bill. Something about a story he’s working on.”
“Hmm.” Till resumed her sewing. “Bill and Angie. That would give her a good reason to stay in Hart’s Crossing.”
Francine felt a flutter of hope. She didn’t know a finer person than Bill Palmer. When she’d prayed for a husband for her daughter, she’d always asked God to send a mature Christian man who exemplified godly values. That certainly described Bill.
Still, her hope was mixed with concern. Angie had begun asking questions about God. She was spiritually hungry. Francine didn’t want her daughter’s blossoming desire for truth to take a backseat to romance.
Francine sent up a quick prayer, asking God to put a shield around Angie at the same time he was opening the eyes of her heart.
Chapter 11
BILL PALMER DROVE A 1965 red Ford Mustang convertible, the sort of car people in California would kill to own. Bill’s had belonged to his father, who’d purchased it new when he was fresh out of college, and both father and son had kept it in superb condition.
With her ponytailed hair whipping her cheeks, Angie stared at the majestic mountains to the north as the Mustang—top down—sped along the deserted country road. Bill didn’t try to engage her in conversation; he seemed content to let her lose herself in thought.
Except she wasn’t thinking about anything. She was simply enjoying being . Being with Bill. Being in this convertible, sun on her face, wind in her hair. Being away from the hustle and bustle of life. No to-do list to check. No appointments to keep. No stress or worries.
After about fifteen minutes, Bill slowed the car and turned onto a single-lane gravel road. It wound into the foothills, dead-ending when it reached an old, weather-beaten, two-story house surrounded by a corral, a barn, and other outbuildings in various stages of disrepair. Two black-and-white border collies rose from the porch and barked a warning before racing out to circle the Mustang, heads slung low. They didn’t look particularly ferocious, but Angie made no move to open her door, just in case.
“Lady. Prince. Get back here.”
Angie looked toward the house again. A rail-thin woman with pixie-short blond hair, wearing a faded plaid shirt and denim coveralls, stood in the front doorway of the house, her face shadowed by the porch roof. She held a toddler in the crook of one arm, balancing the child on her hip.
“Is that Kris?” Angie asked. The girl she remembered had been on the chunky side, and her hair had been long, reaching all the way to her waist.
“Yes, that’s her.” Bill opened the driver side door as he waved toward Kris. “Hope you don’t mind,” he called as he stood. “I brought a friend with me.”
“Don’t mind a bit.” Kris moved to stand on the edge of the porch.
As Angie got out of the car, two things registered in her mind. First, two young girls—perhaps three and four years of age—had come out of the house to stand near Kris, each gripping one of her pant legs. Second, the right side of Kris’s face bore an angry scar that pulled at the corners of her eye and mouth.
Bill met Angie at the front of the car and took hold of her arm. “This is Angie Hunter, Francine’s daughter. Maybe you remember her from Hart’s Crossing High.” They walked together toward the foot of the porch steps.
“Well, I’ll be.” Kris’s grin was lopsided due to the scar, but it was genuine. “It’s good to see you again, Angie. I hear your mother’s recovery is going well. Give her my best, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Come on up and have a seat on the porch.” Kris touched the head of the older of the two girls. “Ginger, can you and Lily play with your dolls while Aunt Kris visits with her guests?”
Ginger nodded but didn’t budge.
Kris looked at Bill. “Would you mind taking the baby
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