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Then Creed, and Fraser again—she lay awake in France, Garrett snoring beside her, feeling that something wasn’t right. Creed had been running around Europe like a fugitive, Fraser on his tail. They hadn’t told her until recently, but she’d known.
Then Jonas, although that had been more of an impression, a sense of danger that had woken her early one morning, made her hit her knees.
And now—now Iris. She couldn’t shake it.
Iris was hurt.
And currently not answering her phone.
No, something wasn’t right.
Jenny drew the afghan around her shoulders and listened to the moan of the wind against the panes, the creak of the old farmhouse with its many cobbled-together pieces, starting with the first homestead in the early 1900s, to the add-on in the ’60s, to the remodel in the ’80s and the recent kitchen expansion of 2005.
She had spent nearly forty of her sixty-two years in this house. She planned on staying until the end.
Her hand went up to touch the goose egg. The bruise had turned a deep purple, the cut covered with a butterfly bandage. It would leave a scar.
But nothing like the wound of the truth upon Garrett. She’d seen the look on his face when she’d opened her eyes.
Fear.
Sure, he’d tried to blink it away, but it had hung in his gaze, the memories vivid, bright, and ugly.
So she’d lied.
Slipped on the rug. Yes, sort of. But only after the room had pitched, turning, and she’d reached out for the counter to right herself, slipped, hit her head, and then gone down, kicking the carpet away.
So, sort of a lie, then.
Jenny, are you—
Good thing she’d cut him off, because she really didn’t want todirectlylie. And frankly, as long as she simply ignored it all, then maybe it wasn’t a lie. Not really.
The clock in the family room gonged, one peal. She’d given up at midnight, tired of staring at the ceiling. A book she’d started a week ago lay facedown, some thriller that kept her awake about an ex-soldier with a K9 dog.
Before that she’d read a romance about a prince who’d found the woman he loved in a small town in Tennessee. Cute book that she’d picked up at the grocery store, on a whim. Reminded her of Princess Imani.
She wouldn’t mind if Creed and Imani ended up together. Pretty girl, smart, and she could beat him in a game of horse, although he played one-handed while holding on to his crutch.
Picking up the thriller, Jenny read the page three times before she conceded.
The nagging feeling wouldn’t lift.
Fine. The Bible then. She picked it up from the table next to the sofa and let it fall open. Her daily psalm. Today’s was Psalm 13.
The words seemed to seep inside her, find her bones, her cells.
How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?…How long must I wrestle with my thoughts…Look on me and answer, Lord my God. Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death.
She closed her eyes, hearing the verse in her head. Yeah, David knew how to lay it out there, stir the cry of her heart. Why was it that she could be a woman of faith for thirty years and still find herself crying out? Alone. Scared.
No.
She opened her eyes and soaked in the rest of the psalm.But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the Lord’s praise, for he has been good to me.
Yes, that was right.
She closed the Bible, brought it to her chest, her heart.Lord, help me to trust You for my children. And for my future. And…wherever Iris is, please keep her safe.
