Friday, June 15, 2018

Daddy's Hands

Often my grandchildren ask me to tell them a story about when I was a little girl. Here is one of their favorites in honor of my Daddy, now in heaven with His Lord. I wrote the piece when he was 87.

Eileen Rife © 2000

A large hand reached down to grasp my small hand. My daddy was walking me to school. I looked up at him in wonder. He was so tall. So strong. Dark wavy hair framed his tanned face. Deep blue eyes twinkled in the morning light. A whistle spewed from his lips. I felt safe. My daddy was with me.
Lost in my reflection, I suddenly felt daddy's hand gently release mine and nudge me inside the school door. As he squeezed me, he planted a warm kiss on my cheek. My heart sank to let daddy go. I fought back the tears, reassuring myself that I would soon be home again.

The school bell rang and I bolted for the school door. Several yards down the sidewalk, I skidded to a stop. I waited as the traffic light changed from red to green. Then I dashed across the street to Mr. Adam's store, my routine stopping place after a tiring school day.

Inside the store, the aroma of fresh fruit filled my nostrils. I observed Mr. Adams in his blood-stained apron slicing meat behind the glass counter. Up front, the cashier rang up an elderly lady's goods as the bag boy meticulously sorted the items into a bag.

I veered to the right, past the cashier and straight to my favorite aisle--CANDY LANE! My mouth watered as I eyed the chocolate bars, lollipops, and bubble gum. 

Mmm, what am I in the mood for today? I pondered. After scanning the goodie buffet, I decided on a two-cent piece of bubble gum--the rectangular pink kind with the twin halves wrapped in cartoon paper. I reached in my pocket to retrieve my money. To my chagrin, my pockets were empty. I frantically racked my brain for a solution. The thought struck that since kind Mr. Adams often gave me candy, he probably wouldn't care if I took this tiny piece of bubble gum. Settled in my mind, I quickly shoved the gum in my pocket and hurried to the door.

Once home, I laid the gum beside my bookbag on the kitchen table and went to the sink to get a drink of water. Just then, daddy entered the kitchen. In his typical booming fashion, he spoke: "How was school today?"

"Fine," I glibly responded. 

Daddy glanced at my bookbag and then at the gum. "Where'd you get the gum?" he casually asked. 
I set my glass down and slowly turned to face daddy while bracing my body against the counter. A flicker of guilt flashed across my mind. Hot shame started at my neck and crept up into my face.
Clearing my throat, I answered, "At Adam's Store." I hoped daddy would be satisfied with that answer. He wasn't. He knew he had not given me any treat money that day. 

Daddy persisted in his line of questioning. All of a sudden, I felt like I'd stepped into a wild west show. I was the bad guy and daddy was the law. I didn't like this show-down. I wanted to run away with the dust at my heels and not look back. But there would be no running today. I was cornered and I knew it.

"Did Mr. Adams give you the gum, Eileen?" daddy asked. 

My face turned red. I felt hot again. Like a trapped firefly trying to escape from a sealed jar, I longed for release from daddy's questions.

At last I mustered the courage to speak. "," I stammered, looking down at the floor. I nervously slid one foot back and forth across the tile. "But Mr. Adams always gives us candy anyway," I shot back. My words even sounded hollow to my ears. I knew I was in serious trouble. Daddy placed a high premium on honesty. This act of treachery was going to cost me. I watched daddy's hands. I expected him to spank me. Instead, he reached for the phone and called Mr. Adams.
When daddy hung up the phone, he turned and faced me. "You best take that gum back," he said with resolve. As I started to leave, daddy softened. He took my arm and gently patted my back. "Supper will be ready when you get home," he added.

In that instant, I felt a reassuring love emanating from daddy's hands. He had used his hands not only to instruct, but also to love, reminding me of my heavenly Father. How often God’s Son had used His hands to love people, to teach, to heal, and then to submit to the nails. All for my benefit.

My dad is eighty-seven now. He shuffles when he walks. I take his weak hand in my strong hand. He looks up at me with a smile and that familiar twinkle in his clear blue eyes and I smile back. 

“Isn’t God good?” daddy says. 

“Yes, daddy, He sure is,” I respond.

Sunday, May 20, 2018

"Curtains" by Guest Blogger, Michelle Archer

Have you ever felt like your world is being rocked, that someone is pulling a rug out from under you, and you are struggling just to keep your balance? 

It's May and we are fully in transition mode. We are currently packing boxes, moving things out of the house, emptying rooms, taking down decorations, and making needed repairs to the house before we move out on May 26th. This is all a small part of a change that will quickly get much larger and more complicated. Not only are we packing for Africa, we also have to pack some things to go to France for language school. We also have a few items staying here in the states that would not make it through Africa. When we moved to Virginia 12 years ago it seemed complicated, but now we are moving in essence to three different places at the same time. We are living in chaos.

With every load that is taken out of the house, I am constantly looking at what is left and trying to make the best out of what we still have. I still try to make the house feel like home while I can by moving simple decorations to common areas in the house. One of the ways I have done this is with curtains. The other day I had moved some cheap simple curtains from one room to another  room. Shortly after that my husband, Jonathan, walked into the dining room where I had just re-hung these curtains and said, "Why in the world are you putting up curtains? Everything has to go. No one cares if you decorated today. They are coming over to help paint." In all honesty he was right, no one cares and they all understand that we are moving, packing, and things are a bit crazy.

Life is in transition. So why put up the curtains?

Well, as my rug gets pulled from under me, I can still see my curtains, and I still have a sense of home. I'm learning, we all are learning, to make the best of what you have and to appreciate the riches of Jesus, but that doesn't mean we won't miss our home. We are all learning to make this journey and incredible adventure.

How are we doing this? When Kylie's room was completely emptied, we set up a mirror, pulled out some tutus, and turned it into a dance studio for her and sister Mary. It made it OK to have her things packed away. When Ethan's room cleared out next, we pulled out a few camping items and set up his tent to embrace the adventure.

Transition is tough, but I choose to embrace the old cliche', "Lemons make great lemonade."

God helps us make the best of all the changes, and He constantly reminds me that He will be my home when we have no home. Wherever we may be at any moment, we can make the best of any situation and even "hang up the curtains." 

-Michelle, missionary to Africa

Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Now available for pre-order! Only $2.99 on Kindle!

 Loni Parker, a music major struggling to find employment, seeks refuge at Camp Hope only to encounter the man who took her sight.

On the verge of college graduation, Loni Parker seeks employment as a music teacher, but no one will hire her since she’s blind. Or so she thinks. To take her mind off her troubles, her roommate invites her to spring retreat at Camp Hope in the gorgeous North Carolina mountains. Unbeknown to Loni, Michael Ackerman, the director, is an ex-con responsible for the accident that caused her blindness. When Loni warms up to camp and wants to return as a summer counselor, Michael opposes the idea, which only makes Loni want to prove herself all the more. Though she doesn’t expect to fall for the guy. Still, her need for independence and dream of teaching win out, taking her far away from her beloved Camp Hope . . . and a certain director.

Camp director Michael Ackerman recognizes Lonie instantly and wants to avoid her at all costs. Yet, despite the guilt pushing him from her, a growing attraction draws him to the determined woman. She sees more with her heart than the average person does with his eyes. But her presence also dredges up a long-buried anger toward his alcoholic father that he’d just as soon keep hidden. When circumstances spin out of control, Michael is forced to face a past that may destroy his present.

Monday, April 23, 2018

Bike Shop: A Father's Sacrifice

Thinking about my dad today . . . how he worked hard, sacrificed.

As a fulltime missionary with Children's Bible Mission, he supported his family with church donations. No extra cash really, especially at Christmas with three children to think about.

I don't think it dawned on me as a child that Daddy did some of the work he did in order to supplement his missionary offerings.

Jobs like putting bikes together at the Western Auto located on Main Street in our tiny town. Most afternoons during the holiday season, I'd walk from elementary school to the lot behind the store. Yards away as I crunched over the gravel, I'd see Daddy in a small white shed, door open, bent over a bike, tightening a bolt.

Whistling a tune, he'd pull out his trusty bandanna and wipe sweat from his brow. Even in the colder months, Daddy stayed hot.

His face split into a generous smile when he saw me approach. We'd catch up on the day for a few minutes, then I'd turn and skip away home.

A simple exchange. Yet it meant the world to me. Mostly in hindsight. At the time, it just was . . . after all, that was my Daddy. A constant. I didn't really stop to think about this comfort I curled up in. I merely experienced it and went on my way.

Yet now I see how that earthly touch is similar to my relationship with my heavenly Father. A constant comfort that at its best is simply experienced, not necessarily mused upon, but delighted in as it unfolds day by day. A child coming to her Father, enjoying His presence, His provision, because that's what a child does with a faithful Father.

Monday, April 9, 2018

My Anna

My Anna. That's what I call her. Just a wrinkled widow woman, an old country gal really, with a pure, simple devotion to Christ that showed up in her prayers. A visual reminder to me of another Anna, the widow mentioned in Luke 2:36-38 who pointed people to Jesus, served the Lord faithfully, and gave thanks to God.

From the first day my Anna stepped in to my ladies' prayer group, bowed her head and prayed, I knew she was different. Real. No fluffy words to impress, simply one friend talking with another. One day, she was in need of a refrigerator. She prayed humbly, but with expectancy. She knew the Lord would hear and answer. And He did, only a few days later.

Over the seven years we actively prayed together, my Anna taught me to seek the Lord in all things; to never fail to thank Him in all things, and to embrace Him as my number one husband. In prayer, she would often quote portions of Isaiah 54:4-5: Fear not . . . the reproach of your widowhood you will remember no more. For your husband is your Maker, whose name is the LORD of hosts; and your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel, who is called the God of all the earth.

Women flowed in and out of my weekly prayer group, but my faithful Anna stuck with me until God moved my family to another church. So precious was our weekly time together, that I didn't want to lose it. So on occasion I would stop by her house and tap on her door. A big smile would emerge on that wrinkly face when she opened the door and saw me standing on her stoop. She'd urge me inside to exchange updates, then we'd pray together, just like old times.

The years passed, and my Anna grew more frail. One day as I pulled up to her house, I noticed a "For Sale" sign in the yard. My heart dropped to my stomach. Was she dead? I'd been dreading this moment for a long time. I walked across the street to her neighbor who often looked in on my Anna and shopped for her. She told me she was now in a nursing home and gave me the name. Saddened, but with a sigh of relief to know where she was, I thanked the neighbor.

Determined to keep our relationship alive, I visited my Anna, noticeably more feeble than when I'd seen her last. She didn't remember me but enjoyed hearing the stories that resulted from our prayer times together. Like the time a young man gave his life to the Lord during an Easter service. The time when our oldest daughter committed her life to full-time missions in India. The time when another young man in the grip of drugs and alcohol finally surrendered to Jesus.

With great praise and pleasure, to this day, I realize God is still working in answer to our prayers . . . for a church in demise for so many years, now resurrected and on a new path of growth. For a husband who struggled with pornography but who I now know was actually the strongest during our seven active praying years.

I still visit my Anna, and we still rejoice together over answered prayer. Through a teary, toothless smile she says, "I still love Jesus."

"I know," I tell her, stooping to plant a soft kiss on that ever wrinkling cheek.

She pats my hand. "Now you come back and visit now, ya hear!"

And I do, thankful that though she doesn't remember who I am, in her frailty, in both our frailties, we share a heartbeat that distance and eventually death can't stop, for our love for Jesus binds us for all eternity.

Tuesday, April 3, 2018

Three Scarves

Ginny Warner, Free Images
One end of the scarf I wear during my walk works loose from its shelter inside my jacket. The fringed edge flaps freely in the March breeze, igniting the memory of another scarf from long ago.

A silky, flowered one worn by my mother while retrieving clothes from the line. An equally breezy day in my mind's eye . . .

She tugs her coat closer about her, hurries to unclip a pin, drop it in a bucket, then continues the ritual as I watch from the porch step. With the click of each wooden pin, comfort wells up within me. The simple soothing sound . . . the sight of my mother, ever faithful to her domestic tasks. Present.

Arm loaded with a basket of air-freshened clothing, Mama sweeps past me in a bluster. When she pushes on the door with her hip, the aroma of chicken and dumplings wafts outside, enticing me to follow. The cozy kitchen is Mama personified. I breathe deeply its treasures.

Later, Mama pulls me close to her side for a bedtime story about Jesus and His love for me. Her wind-whipped face smells woodsy as she lowers to plant a kiss on my cheek.

And I'm off into dreamland, only I'm not dreaming, merely reflecting on another scarf.

One wrapped around the head of a Muslim woman, faithful to Allah, yet precious in the sight of the one, true God. A new friend, led to me by Jesus, my Savior, who longs for her to know Him.

So, I tuck in my scarf and remember . . .

Monday, March 26, 2018

First Chapters with Roseanna White, author of A Heart's Revolution

In 1783 peace has been declared, but war still rages in the heart of Lark Benton.

Never did Lark think she’d want to escape Emerson Fielding, the man she’s loved all her life. But when he betrays her, she flees Williamsburg for Annapolis, taking refuge in the nation’s temporary capital. There lark throws herself into a new circle of friends who force her to examine all she believes.

Emerson follows, determined to reclaim his betrothed. Surprised when she refuses to return with him, he realizes that in this new nation he has come to call his own, duty is no longer enough. He must learn to open his heart and soul to something greater—before he loses all he should have been fighting to hold.


Chapter One

Endover Plantation, outside Williamsburg, Virginia
25 November 1783

Perhaps if Lark recited the pirate’s code it would steal his attention. She could try standing on her head. Or if those options failed—as surely they would—she could throw herself to the floor before him.
Except Emerson Fielding was as likely to mistake her for a rug as to realize he ought to help her up. Lark indulged in a long sigh and cast her gaze out the window. The plantation lay dormant and brown. Most days saw Papa and Wiley in Williamsburg, swapping stories at R. Charlton’s Coffeehouse. Emerson usually met them there, which was why this was the first she’d seen him in a month. Heaven knew he wanted only to see them, never her.
She wished her heart hadn’t fluttered when he entered the room. Wished the disappointment hadn’t followed so quickly when he barely glanced her way. Wished she had the courage to command his attention…and he the sense to give it without her command.
Life would be so much easier if she weren’t in love with Emer­son Fielding. But what young lady wouldn’t be captivated by those dark eyes, the strong features, the height that left him towering above other men?
Today his hair was unpowdered and gleamed sable. He was in undress, his coat the common one he wore every day, unlike what he was sure to don for her birthday dinner that evening. His smile lit up his eyes, his laugh lit up the room.
Neither one did he direct toward her.
Lark’s gaze flicked down to the emerald on her finger. Two years. Twenty-four months. Seven hundred thirty interminable days. Not that she was keeping account.
“Hendricks ought to be at the coffeehouse about now,” her brother said, standing. He tugged his waistcoat into place and tightened the band around his hair. “We have just enough time for a cup of chocolate with him.”
She would not sigh again, it would be redundant. Why protest the usual, even if today was supposed to be distinctive?
As if reading her mind, Wiley flashed a twinkling gaze her way and grinned. “Of course, you will want to wish my dear sister happy returns before we head out, Emerson. I shall go fetch my overcoat and hat while you do so.”
For the first time in the two hours he had been there, Emerson looked her way. And like every time he looked her way, she wished she had more to offer his gaze. Perhaps if she shared the golden-haired beauty of her mother and sister, his eyes mightn’t go empty upon spot­ting her.
He smiled the practiced smile gentlemen were taught to wear in company, not the earnest one he shared with her brother. “Are you hav­ing a pleasant birthday, darling?”
An unexpected wave of anger crashed over her. “Do you never tire of using endearments you don’t mean?”
Well, that earned a spark in his eyes. Not exactly one of delight or affection, though. “I take it you are not having a pleasant day. Well, perhaps I can brighten it.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a box covered in a scrap of printed calico.
She could manage no enthusiasm for what was sure to be another gift of jewels. He never seemed to grasp that she wanted no more things. She wanted his love—something he was either unwilling or incapable of giving. “What is it?”
His smile was right, teasing. But no secret knowledge nested in his expression. “Open it and see.”
“You haven’t any idea, have you?” She shook her head and looked out the window again as he strode toward her chair. His mother had undoubtedly foisted it upon him as he left, otherwise he wouldn’t have remembered what the date signified.
She often wondered if his mother had also foisted that first gift of jewels upon him two years before.
His breath hissed out. “Of course I know what it is, but you shan’t cajole it out of me. You will have to open it yourself to see.”
The wrapped box appeared under her nose. She took it, careful to avoid brushing his outstretched palm with her fingers. It would only make awareness shiver up her arm, an unnecessary reminder of her unrequited attachment. Once she held it, though, she made no move to untie the ribbon.
Emerson shifted, impatience coming off him in waves. “Open it, Lark.”
She shook herself. “But of course. I am certain you wish to hasten to your coffee and conversation. What will the topic be today? Con­gresses, constitutions, or crop rotations?”
Wiley would have appreciated the alliteration. Emerson greeted it with a rudely arched brow. Tempted to return the insult and roll her eyes, she tugged at the bow. Unfolded the cloth. Lifted the lid of the small wooden box.
Lessons in propriety had never covered how to handle a surprise like this. Lark gasped.
Emerson muttered a curse that proved he not only knew not what present lay inside, he disapproved of his mother’s selection.
She leapt to her feet and shoved the glittering diamond necklace into his stomach. “Absolutely not. I cannot accept that.”
His hand caught the box, but a war to rival the Revolution charged across his face. He wanted to take the jewels back, without question. But pride would not allow him. He held out the box. “Don’t be ridicu­lous. I want you to have it.”
An unladylike snort nearly slipped out. “Yes, that was apparent from your reaction. I will not, Emerson. Your sisters have told me of this necklace, and I shan’t accept the most valuable possession in the Fielding family—especially when it becomes increasingly clear I will never be a member of said family.”
Thunder darkened his complexion. “What madness is this? You are my betrothed, and you will accept the gifts I give you.”
The emerald on her left hand felt heavy. “Perhaps what I ought to do is return the ones you have already given. They are naught but mockery.”
She reached for the clasp of the bracelet that matched the ring. Her breath caught when his fingers closed around her wrist. He all but growled. “You will do no such thing.”
“Prithee, why not?” Though she struggled to pull free, he held tight to her arm. “’Tis obvious you’ve no desire to make me your wife. For two years you have dodged every mention of nuptials, making a fool of me in front of our families and friends. For the life of me, I know not why you ever proposed. Release me.”
He shook his head. “Calm yourself, Lark. Is that what this is about? The blasted wedding date? Deuces, I would agree to any date you want, if you would just be reasonable!”
“I have had my fill of reason. I want a morsel of your regard, and I will not marry you without it.” She gave one more vain tug against his fingers. “I tire of being alone at your side, Emerson. I cannot subject myself to a lifetime of it.”
Through the tears burning her eyes, she saw his face harden, then relax. His grip eased, but he did not release her wrist. Simply pulled it down and then held her hand. The warmth that seeped into her palm belied the cool words she had spoken.
Yet his smile was no more than it had ever been. “I have been remiss, darling, and I apologize. I assure you, you are my chosen bride. It has simply been a struggle to readjust to social life. After Yorktown…”
Anger snapped at her heels again, largely because of the compas­sion he called up with the mere mention of Yorktown. How could anyone—man, woman, or child—argue with one who had been at the dreadful battle? The moment a soldier uttered that word, all arguments necessarily ceased.
In this particular case she could not help but think he used it for that very purpose. “Emerson—”
“I shall make it up to you. Let us set a date this moment, and I will be the figure of devotion.” The idea seemed to pain him—his smile turned to a grimace. For a man with a reputation as a charmer, he did a remarkable job of dashing her heart to pieces.
She sucked in a long breath. “I shan’t hold you to the engagement. If you—”
“Not another word of such nonsense. Let us say the first Sunday in March, shall we? The worst of the winter weather ought to be over by then. We can announce it to our parents this evening.”
It should have brought joy instead of defeat. It should have lit hope instead of despair.
He pressed the necklace back into her hands. “Take it, my darling. Wear it on our wedding day.”
Before she could decide whether to relent or argue, he pressed a kiss to her fingers and fled the room as if the hounds of Hades nipped at his heels. Lark sank back into her chair and flipped open the box so she could stare at the large, perfect gems resting within.
Why did the thought of marrying her light such fires of panic under him? Lark rested her cheek against her palm and let her tears come.
She should have tried the pirate’s code.
Emerson scraped the tavern chair across the wooden floor, fell onto its hard seat, and, for the first time in his memory, wished Wiley Ben­ton would hold his tongue for five blasted minutes. He barely saw the familiar whitewashed walls, the wainscoting, the multitude of friendly faces. His mind still reeled, wrestling with images of those blinding diamonds—and the equally blinding tears in Lark’s eyes.
What had Mother been thinking, blithely handing off the most valuable Fielding possessions? The diamonds—to Lark. It was beyond fathoming. They would overwhelm her. Eclipse rather than comple­ment. And to have them abiding outside Fielding Hall for the next several months…
Still, he should not have lost his head. Then she wouldn’t have lost hers, and he wouldn’t have talked himself straight into a trap.
“What can I bring you gentlemen today?”
He looked up at the tavern’s owner but couldn’t dredge up a smile. No matter—Wiley would smile enough for the both of them. “Choco­late,” his friend said.
“Make mine coffee, if you please, sir.”
“That I will. And I shall direct Hendricks your way. He and the governor are chatting in the back corner.”
“In a few moments,” Emerson answered before Wiley could supply what was sure to be thankful acceptance.
As the proprietor stalked off, Wiley lifted his brows in that par­ticular way that bespoke both humor and confusion. “What plagues you, man? You have been playing the dunderhead ever since we left Endover.”
“I played it while there too.” Indulging in a mild oath, he swept his tricorn off his head and plopped it onto the table between them. “I upset your sister.”
“Well, your other sister was hardly there to be upset.”
Wiley took his hat off as well, his confusion plain on his face. “But Lark is so rarely in an ill temper. She especially shouldn’t have been, given the good news of our cousin’s delayed arrival.”
Under normal circumstances, Emerson would have been amused at his friend’s perpetual dislike of the family soon arriving from Phila­delphia. At this moment he gave not a fig who was coming or when. “Apparently all it takes is overreacting when one sees one’s mother wrapped up the family diamonds for her.”
Wiley looked near to choking. “The ones your father goes ever on about? That had belonged to the countess?”
“The very ones.”
Wiley let out a muted whistle. “I cannot conceive she accepted them. Especially if you seemed opposed.”
“I had already insisted I knew what the gift was, though I did not. Then rather than returning just the diamonds, she grew angry and made to return all the Fielding jewels.”
Wiley’s eyes widened, and he leaned over the table. “What did you say to her?”
Emerson waved him off. “It hardly matters. I smoothed matters over, and we decided on a wedding date. The first Sunday of March.”
Instead of seeming satisfied, Wiley’s gaze went probing, and then accusing. “So simply? After shifting the topic away from the wed­ding each time my parents mentioned it the past two years? Frankly, Emerson, we have all doubted your intentions of making good on your promise.”
“Of course I intend to make good on it.” It was an advantageous match all round. The Bentons were a wealthy, respected family, per­fectly equal to the Fieldings. Lark herself would make an excellent wife. She was well bred, well taught, not homely—if not as lovely as her sister, who was now Mrs. Hendricks. Sweet of temperament—today aside. He liked her well enough and expected he would come to love her in a decade or so, once they had a brood of children between them.
And she loved him, as his own sisters had pointed out two years ago.
Wiley narrowed his eyes. “Emerson, you know I would welcome you eagerly into our family, but I confess the longer this drags out, the more misgivings I have. You treat my sister no differently now than you did when she was a child, dogging your heels and sending us up a tree to escape her.”
Perhaps that was the problem. She still seemed twelve to him, as she had been when he’d returned from England to fight for freedom from it. She still looked at him with the same blind adoration, still sat silently by whenever he was near.
That would change once they were wed though, surely.
“Emerson.” Wiley’s tone had turned hard, though barely more than a murmur. “I will see my sister happy. If you still dream of Eliza­beth, if you cannot love Lark, then release her from the betrothal and let her find someone who can.”
The name snapped his spine straight. Fight as he might against it, the image nonetheless surfaced of a woman as opposite Lark as one could find. Did he dream of her? Only in his worst nightmares. “Rest assured your sister is loved.”
His friend’s eyes narrowed. “If I did not know better, I would call that a cunning evasion. Loved she is. But I would have her loved by you.”
As would he. He could manage it, assuredly. He simply must put his mind to it, as he had to Newton’s Principia Mathematica back at King William’s School. “You have no reason to fear for your sister’s heart, Wiley. I will be a good husband.”
In three short months.
“You look more frightened than when we saw our first Redcoats advancing, muskets at the ready.” Amusement laced its way through the frustration in Wiley’s tone. “I would have many a laugh over this were it not my favorite sister that made you wince so.”
“I am not wincing.” Much.
“Benton, Fielding! There you are.” Hendricks’s voice came from the corner of the room, where the man had stood and waved a greeting to them. “I shall join you in a moment.”
“We await you eagerly,” Wiley replied with his usual grin. When he turned back around, it shifted and hardened into the expression few knew. But Emerson did, from the field of battle. It was the look that had always appeared on his friend’s face moments before he let out a war cry and charged into the thick of things. “If you hurt Lark,” he murmured so quietly Emerson could barely hear him, “I will kill you—or make you wish I had.”
“I know you would. ’Tis not at issue.” Twenty-five years of friend­ship had not been threatened by competition, an ocean’s distance, or the ravages of war. He would not allow it to be distressed by one small, unassuming woman.

(c) 2018 Roseanna White
All rights reserved. 


Roseanna M. White is a bestselling, Christy Award nominated author who has long claimed that words are the air she breathes. When not writing fiction, she’s homeschooling her two kids, editing, designing book covers, and pretending her house will clean itself. Roseanna is the author of a slew of historical novels that span several continents and thousands of years. Spies and war and mayhem always seem to find their way into her books…to offset her real life, which is blessedly ordinary. You can learn more about her and her stories at

Daddy's Hands

Often my grandchildren ask me to tell them a story about when I was a little girl. Here is one of their favorites in honor of my Daddy...