| Single mother Mattie Jones’ life is already full with two children, marriage plans, a fiancé, a huge dog, and an eccentric neighbor. Then her sister drops in unannounced with their nine-year-old nephew, Kenny, who has Down’s Syndrome. Since Kenny’s mother is being treated for a nervous breakdown, Mattie takes in her unexpected visitors. But soon Kenny becomes a key player in a life or death drama instigated by an itinerant preacher named Cyrus - a man who has already rocked the faith and shaken the marriage of Mattie's friend, Laney. Now Cyrus sees in Kenny a pure and guiltless spirit that he is determined to protect and nurture, no matter what. With mounting apprehension, Mattie follows a chain of events that ultimately threatens the very lives of those she loves. Will her love be strong enough to carry her beyond the limits of endurance and save them in time? 230 pgs. |
| FOOL'S GOLD Prologue Rain hammered the roof of the old gray pickup truck that coughed its way up the incline out of Salt Creek Canyon. The silver-haired man at the wheel squinted between wiper blades that made a futile attempt to keep the windshield clear. Weak headlights pushed tentative beams of yellow light into the punishing rain, refusing to illuminate the darkness for more than a few yards. All the world had melted into a ribbon of black two-lane road, with no towns, no people -- just an eternity of dark asphalt stretching out into a never-ending line to nowhere. The old man unclenched one hand from the steering wheel to rub the back of his neck, working out the tension that had gathered from the effort of making his way through the deluge. Suddenly, a gunshot cracked through the rain, and the truck heaved sideways. The man screamed and grabbed wildly for the wheel with both hands. How had they found him so soon? The old man fought to keep control, but couldn’t keep his truck on the road. Unable to steer out of danger, he stomped on his brake, locking the tires into squeals of protest. The truck skidded across the slick surface and slid to a shaky stop in the ragged grass, the tires resting a mere hair’s breadth from the edge of the barrow pit that dipped sharply down past the shoulder of the road. He pounded down the locks on the truck doors before sliding to the floor, his long legs making it difficult to fold himself into a smaller target. He began to pray, “Oh, Lord, help your humble servant Cyrus through this trial. Help me, oh help me!” His hurried whisper was punctuated by ragged breathing as he waited for his attackers to shoot again. He couldn’t believe they had found him in the dark, couldn’t believe that they were using guns. They wouldn’t be after him if they understood. All he’d wanted to do was help them. The old man’s mind suddenly lit up when he realized that this was what had happened to Jesus centuries ago when he’d tried to help the sinners. The good Lord had suffered from the evils of men in His day, too. Huddled on the dark floor of his pickup truck, the old man clung to a small measure of comfort from the thought. It was easy to imagine bullets mixed in with the rain as it rattled down on his small shelter. He listened for a long time, trying to hear around the noise of his own breathing, but he couldn’t hear anything that he could define without question as another gunshot. The rain thrummed ceaselessly outside the truck cab, pouring curtains of water down the sides. He wouldn’t be able to see anyone approaching until they put their face up next to the window. Then it might be too late. “Lord, give me strength,” he murmured. He stared at the water running down the glass and listened to the rain until it blended into his dreams. When he woke up, his neck was kinked and his legs were numb. He grimaced as he worked himself out of his crouch, then he peered through the window. The sun was close to rising, but hadn’t made it over the rim of the mountain yet. The fields and foothills, baptized in the rivers of rainwater the night before, looked washed and new. He felt a rebirth in his own heart, a lightness of spirit that pushed out any lingering traces of fear from the dark terrors of the night just past. No mere man with a gun could overshadow the majesty of creation laid out before him like a heavenly feast for the soul. No mere mortal could stop him from fulfilling the work of the Lord. He pulled the lock up and opened the passenger door, stepping outside in careful stages as he freed himself bit by bit from his cramped cell. He hung onto the truck handle and worked his legs to get the feeling back. Then he noticed his right front tire splayed out like road kill under the rusted rim. A blowout. He hadn’t been shot at after all. That old worn spot on his tire had finally burst apart in the rain. “It is an omen,” the old man whispered aloud to the waking world. His eyes drank in the peaceful valley, with clustered trees spreading protective branches around the rooftops of the sleepy towns that dotted the landscape. A surge of joy at simply being alive filled him to the brim. He took in a breath of rain-wet air and felt a flooding warmth, an invincibility, as though the Lord had hold of him by the hand, and nothing could harm him as he stood there with his Creator. “God stopped me here for His own mysterious purpose,” the man murmured. In answer to his pronouncement, the sun poked fingers of gold over the top of the mountain, shooting rays of light through lace clouds, lighting the greening fields and ribbons of road that worked through the valley like a fine stitch on a patchwork quilt. The old man grinned, raised both arms above his head as he balanced on tingling legs, and shouted, “Hallelujah! Thank you, Lord!” Chapter 1 Mattie Jones parted the leaves in her small garden plot. “Aha!” she said, plunging her hand into the foliage and coming up with a slim green zucchini about the size of a Polish sausage. She tossed the squash next to the three pale yellow crooknecks that sprawled on the grass like chicks without feathers. The vegetables weren’t much to brag about, but the blossoms on the vines promised a bumper crop. After Mattie’s two children returned from visiting their father in California, she’d put them on squash-picking duty. Mattie decided she had enough vegetables, mainly because she’d picked all that were ready. When she leaned over to gather up her harvest, the back of her neck began prickling, the nape hairs standing up as though she’d gotten too close to a high voltage electrical wire. Someone was watching her. A thought as soft as a cobweb brushed through her mind. I wonder if Grandpa’s checking up on me. Since his funeral five months earlier, Mattie had been living in her Grandpa Artie Somer’s house. Sometimes she caught a smell that brought Grandpa sharply to mind, or she had a sudden, vivid thought of him when she plunked down on his sofa, or felt like he was still there, somewhere in the next room when she used his dishtowel. She was willing to admit that these moments could have been her own wishful thinking, but now there was something almost palpable in the feeling that someone’s eyes were fixed on her back. Hugging the squash to her chest, Mattie stood. Her gaze scanned the street as she turned toward the back door. At the corner of the house, she found the watching eyes. A half-grown girl with dark hair stood watching Mattie, one arm folded across her stomach and gripping the elbow of the other arm hanging at her side. “Suzette!” Mattie exclaimed as soon as she recognized that her fourteen-year-old daughter’s best friend was not an apparition. “Jennica isn’t home yet.” Suzette dropped her head and mumbled. “I know.” Mattie moved closer, sensing that she’d said the wrong thing. “Of course you can visit any time you want, whether Jennica is here or not.” Suzette didn’t answer. Her head hung lower, and she raised her hand up to her eyes, her fingers coming away wet. “Suzette, what’s the matter?” “Mom and Dad,” Suzette mumbled. Mattie’s heart welled with compassion. Suzette had been a frequent visitor before Jennica and her ten-year-old brother J.J. had left for California. Mattie suspected it was partly to get away from the arguing at her own house. Mattie knew something about marital problems, having ended a ten-year marriage when her husband, Jimmy, abandoned her and the children. Jimmy moved back in with his parents, proving to be a better part-time father, and zero-time husband. “Do you want to tell me about it?” Mattie asked, suspecting that she already knew. “It’s those meetings,” Suzette whispered, wiping her eyes again before folding both arms in front of her, an ineffective barrier to shield herself from hurt. “Mom told Cyrus Icapous” -- Suzette spat out the name -- “that he could use the old turkey shed for a meeting hall because his house is too small.” Suzette’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Dad said if Mom doesn’t stop, he wants a divorce.” The girl’s face twisted into a wretched mask, and her hands flew up to cover her misery. Muted sobs leaked through her fingers. Mattie had seen Cyrus Icapous drive an old pick-up truck to the small grocery store where she worked. He was tall and silver-haired, with olive skin and a classically Peruvian nose. He had a quick smile and intense brown eyes. She didn’t know him well, but he seemed nice enough. “Let’s go inside,” Mattie suggested, cradling her squash in one arm. She put her other arm around Suzette and led her to the back of the house. Suzette pulled open the kitchen door with one hand, wiped her face with the other, and stood back for Mattie to enter. Mattie stepped inside, wondering what she could possibly say to Suzette. She didn’t know anything about what went on at the study groups that Suzette’s mother, Laney Murdock, attended. Mattie moved toward the kitchen table, and Suzette closed the door. Father in Heaven, help me know what to do, she prayed silently, reaching out to set the squash down. A scream from the other room pierced Mattie’s prayer, startling her so badly that the squash went tumbling down to the worn linoleum floor. |