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In contrast, all Angie had to think about was herself. She used to believe hers was the perfect life. But lately…

“Hey, stranger.”

She slowed her steps at the sound of Bill Palmer’s voice. She glanced quickly at Terri’s Tangles Beauty Salon, her original destination, then almost without a conscious decision, headed across the street to where Bill stood.

“How’s your mom?”

“Doing well.”

“Glad to hear it. Sorry I haven’t been by to see her this week. I had to go out of town for a few days. But I plan to drop by tomorrow after church, if that’s all right.”

“We’ll be there.”

“Hey, if you’d like, I could come by before church and take you both with me.”

Surprisingly, Angie was tempted to say yes. “Sorry. Mom doesn’t think she can manage being out that much just yet. And you know my mother. If she was able, she’d be there in a flash. She doesn’t like to miss church.”

“I know. I’m the same way. Best day of the week, in my humble opinion.”

Again she was tempted to respond, this time to tell Bill about the books she was reading. Research, she called it. She’d taken up her mother’s challenge to investigate the Bible and its accuracy. Of course, she should have been using that time to look for a new job, but employment hadn’t seemed such a pressing concern lately.

As if knowing her thoughts, Bill asked, “How’s the job hunt going?”

Angie shrugged.

“Care to see
my
office?” He tipped his head toward the door to the newspaper.

“Sure.” She smiled, pleased by the invitation. “I’d love to.”

He moved toward the door, opened it, and motioned her through. “Beauty before age.”

What was it about Bill Palmer that made her so prone to blushing? Angie looked at the floor instead of him as she stepped inside.

The front office of the
Mountain View Press
was a cluttered hodgepodge of desks, bookcases, file cabinets, and heaven only knew what else that was hidden beneath stacks of papers and files. It smelled of dust, ink, and old newsprint.

Ambrosia.

“I know where everything is, too,” Bill declared with a chuckle. “There’s a method in my chaos.”

Angie laughed with him. “Of course there is.”

“Here. Let me clear off a chair for you.”

In short order, Angie was seated on the opposite side of Bill’s desk. She expected him to turn on his computer or check his voice mail. He did neither. Instead, he locked his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair.

“So,” he said, “besides taking care of your mom and looking for work, what are you doing with yourself? This is the first time I’ve seen you in town since your mom came home.”

“I’m only here because of Miss Hart. She and the Thimbleberry bunch ran me out of the house. They think I’ve been too cooped up and need some sun and exercise.”

“Ah.”

She glanced around the newspaper office again. “They were right.”

“Care to take a drive with me into the country?”

Thump-thump.
She wondered if he heard her pulse jump.
Thump-thump.

“I’m working on an article about Kris Hickman. Remember her?”

“
Crazy
Kris?”

Bill gave her an amused look. “Yeah. That’s what they called her in high school.”

Embarrassed by her outburst—it wasn’t the kindest of nicknames—Angie decided against asking what sort of story he might want to write about Kris. After all, the
Mountain View Press
was a family-friendly weekly newspaper, and there wasn’t anything family-friendly about Kris Hickman. At least not the girl Angie remembered. Kris had been a wild-living, rough-talking teenager who drank, smoked, and popped pills. A year older than Angie, Kris had dropped out in her junior year and ridden off to parts unknown on the back of her boyfriend’s Harley.

Angie remembered the worry
that
had caused the parents in Hart’s Crossing, afraid their own children might be unduly influenced.

Once again, Bill seemed to read her mind. “It’s a freelance piece for a magazine, and this is just the sort of story they love.”

“What sort is that?”

“Come on and see for yourself. We’ll only be gone a couple of hours or so, and I promise you’ll find the time it takes worthwhile.” He leaned forward, and there was a hint of a challenge in his brown eyes. “Maybe you’ll want to write the story yourself.”

Thump-thump.
“Okay.”
Thump-thump.

* * *

Bill had to admit that he loved the pink-peach color that infused Angie’s cheeks as she looked at him. Maybe it was male pride rearing its ugly head, but he suspected Angie hadn’t blushed much in recent years. He rather liked the idea that he was the one who’d made her do it.

“I should call Mom and let her know where I’m going. I wouldn’t want her to worry.”

“Good idea.” Bill pointed toward the desk on the opposite wall. “You can use that phone while I gather my notes and recorder.”

He watched her rise from the chair, turn, and walk across the room. She looked cute in that baseball cap, T-shirt, and Levis. He’d take that outfit hands down over some pinstriped business suit.

Man, he had it bad. He’d fallen in love with her. There was no denying it
.

* * *

Francine hung 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 while I get the girls settled?”

“Glad to.” He released Angie’s arm, then handed her the steno pad and pen he’d carried in his other hand. “Come here, Tommy,” he said as he climbed the three steps.

The toddler grinned and nearly sprang from Kris’s arms to Bill’s. It was obvious this wasn’t Bill’s first visit to the Hickman place.

While Bill, little Tommy in arms, and Angie sat on two straight-backed chairs, Kris and the girls disappeared inside. Minutes later, they were back, Kris carrying a blanket along with several dolls and stuffed animals. She spread the blanket on the floor near a third chair and soon had Ginger and Lily seated in the center of the blanket, playing with their toys.

“Sorry,” she said. “They’re still pretty shy around strangers. A whole lot better now than they were six months ago, though.” Softly, she added, “Thank God.”

Those two words on the lips of the “crazy Kris” of Angie’s memory would have sounded totally different than the way they sounded now.

“Can I get either of you something to drink? I made some sun tea yesterday.”

“I’m fine,” Angie answered.

“So am I,” Bill echoed.

“If you’re sure.” Kris sat on her chair.

Bill shifted Tommy to his left thigh. “We’re sure.” He glanced at Angie. “You mind taking notes since I’m holding the little guy?”

She shook her head, rather glad for something to do. Otherwise, she was afraid she would stare too long at Kris’s scar.

Bill reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew his tiny recorder before saying, “Kris, why don’t you tell us your story in your own words? We’ll save any questions until the end.” He set the recorder near his interview subject and turned it on.

“Okay.” Kris glanced down at the two small girls, then turned her head to gaze toward the rolling landscape. “I guess if I say I was a wild kid, it wouldn’t surprise either one of you.”

No,
Angie thought,
it wouldn’t.

“I was using drugs and drinking pretty heavy by the time I was a sophomore. I was way more than my mom could handle, that’s for sure. She was a widow by then. Trying to raise me right and take care of this place by herself was too much. When she tried to discipline me, I fought back. I was a real hellion.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Finally I took off with my boyfriend, Grant. He was both my lover and my supplier, and I needed him for both reasons. Over the next couple of years, we traveled all around the country. Wherever the wind blew us, that’s where we ended up.”

Kris’s tale was not unlike the stories of countless other women trapped in the drug and alcohol culture. The poverty. The homeless, vagabond existence. The verbal and physical abuse that came in waves. And eventually, abandonment by the man she thought she loved. A succession of other men followed, complete with reckless, meaningless sex and an increasing need for a chemical high.

“When the car accident happened—” she touched the scar on her cheek—“I was so wasted I didn’t remember a thing. Still don’t. I came to in a hospital in Richmond, Virginia, and they told me the driver, the man I was with, was killed in the crash.” There were tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “The sorry thing is, I didn’t even know his name. Had no idea where he picked me up or how long we were together. Days? Weeks? Months? Truth was, I didn’t even know I was in Richmond until later on. So I laid there in that hospital bed, knowing I was never going to be pretty again, that I was always going to have a scarred face. I understood the mess I made of my life, and I saw what I’d become, and I wished God would strike me dead right then and there.” Her smile, when it came, was nothing less than angelic, despite its lopsidedness. “Instead, he gave me a glimpse of heaven. It was like the walls of that hospital room slid open, like automatic doors at a department store, and Jesus was standing there, saying, ‘Look what I have for you, Beloved, if you follow me.’”

Angie was transfixed by both the expression on Kris’s face and by her words. She forgot about the steno pad and her note taking. She almost forgot to breathe.

“So I followed him,” Kris finished softly, “and there hasn’t been a day since that he hasn’t made me glad for it.”

Kris continued with her story, telling of the many months of her recovery, both from the accident and from her addictions. She told of the woman from a local church who took Kris into her home and nourished her with love.

“It took me over a year to work up the courage to call home. I hadn’t talked to Mom since I ran away at sixteen, and I was afraid she wouldn’t be able to forgive me. Finally I realized I had to call, whether she forgave me or not. I had to tell her how sorry I was for what I did to her, for the way I disrespected her. Only I was too late. Mom had passed away about the same time as my accident, and I never even knew it.” Her voice lowered, and the tears returned to her eyes. This time she allowed them to fall. “I never got to tell her how sorry I was for what I put her through. People think there’ll be plenty of time to make amends with those we love, but that isn’t always true.”