Firefly Island (The Shores of Moses Lake Book #3) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Lisa Wingate

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188 pages

English

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Lisa Wingate Is a Top Name in Inspirational Contemporary Romance At thirty-four, congressional staffer Mallory Hale is about to embark on an adventure completely off the map. After a whirlwind romance, she is hopelessly in love with two men--fortunately, they're related. Daniel Everson and his little boy, Nick, are a package deal, and Mallory suddenly can't imagine her future without them.Mallory couldn't be more shocked when Daniel asks her to marry him, move to Texas, and form a family with him and motherless Nick. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying. Mallory takes a leap of faith and begins a sweet, mishap-filled journey into ranch living, Moses Lake society, and a marriage that at times reminds her of the mail-order-bride stories. But despite the wild adventure of her new life, she discovers secrets and questions beneath her rosy new life. Can she find answers on Firefly Island, a little chunk of property just off the lakeshore, where mysterious lights glisten at night?

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Historical romance

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Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 février 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441260987
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0202€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2013 by Wingate Media, LLC
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means for example, electronic, photocopy, recording without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6098-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotation at the start of chapter twenty-one is from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Bibilica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com .
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Andrea Gjeldum
Author is represented by Sterling Lord Literistic
For Alice Steele and her sisters Paula and Cindy
May books and love always bind you together
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Books by Lisa Wingate
Back Ad
Back Cover
When we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey.
Wendell Berry (Written on the Wall of Wisdom, Waterbird Bait and Grocery, Moses Lake, Texas)
Chapter 1

T here are times when life is a cursor on a blank page, blinking in a rhythm a bit like an electronic heartbeat, tapping out a question in three little words.
What.
Comes.
Next?
Time and space and life wait for an answer. A blank page is an ocean of possibilities.
The producer from CNN wants to know how I ended up here. Did I realize, when I started this thing, where it would lead?
The cursor would like an answer to that question. Or maybe it is challenging me. A wink instead of a heartbeat. A wink and a little chuckle that says, Go ahead and try. It’s like one of those bad jokes told by lonely traveling salesmen in hotel lounges: What do a milk cow, an Irish love legend, and a political scandal have in common . . . ?
But I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried, much less explain it. It’s easier just to look out the window, scan the DC skyline that seems out of place now, and let it fool me as it whispers, It’s summertime, Mallory. It’s balmy out here can you feel it? Don’t you hear the crickets chirring and the hens plucking June bugs off the porch?
I let myself sink into the fantasy, let it wrap around me like a comfortable old shirt the oversized sort with the neck torn out and the fabric washed so many times that the tag is bleached bare and the logo is only a smattering of color clinging to individual threads.
I imagine that I am home, not here in DC. I hear the waters of Moses Lake lapping at the shore, feel the rhythm of it beneath my feet. My eyes fall closed, and I drink in the water-scented Texas air, the oleander blooming, the sound of small bare feet tramping up the hallway, a favorite blanket dragging behind. The honey-sweet tastes of a summer morning.
I’m ready to cuddle a knobby-kneed little body in my lap, snuggle a case of bedhead under my chin, feel the soft, downy hairs tickle my neck, hear the first snuffly breaths of morning before there’s any need to talk or ask questions or face the rest of the world. I’m aching for all the things I never thought I’d want, for the place that has wound its way over me like the silk of a web, soft yet strong. I am a prisoner of it, content in ways I could never have imagined. It’s strange how quickly a life can become your life, and how hard you’ll fight for it when someone tries to take it away.
CNN’s Washington Bureau wants the story in my own words, so the anchor can prep for the interview. They’re looking for details, the juicy sort that will pull in viewers. They wonder if I had any idea I’d end up here. They’re not the first ones to ask; inquiring minds all over the world want to know.
For CNN, you’ll do things you wouldn’t do for anyone else. You’ll attempt to flatten your life like a map, smooth your hands over it, letting nothing hide in the wrinkles. So I put my hands on the keyboard and try to go back to the beginning, to lean all the way over that accordion-folded sheet of memory and identify the start of a yearlong wild ride, at the far corner of the map.
The first time I saw Daniel Everson, I was scrambling on the floor of the Capitol building among papers and sticky notes, trying to gracefully manage a squat in an above-the-knee straight skirt and pumps that were practical enough to say, I’m serious about my work, yet high enough to whisper, I am woman, hear me roar. The suit was my favorite the perfect thing to wear while posing for an early-morning congressional staff photo on the Capitol steps.
The papers skittering along the marble floor were in direct conflict with the upwardly mobile fashion choices. They said, This girl’s an idiot .
“Looks like a bomb went off in here.” The smooth, deep voice with just a hint of baritone was hardly welcome just then. Neither was the observation. Bomb jokes on The Hill are generally considered bad decorum, even early in the morning when the tourists haven’t invaded the place in droves yet.
“I’ve got it,” I answered in the flat, perhaps slightly hostile tone of a girl still sensitive about the idea that her father might have had something to do with her landing a new job as a legislative assistant in a senior congressman’s office. I squat-stepped sideways, slid a little on the slick floor, then slapped my hand over five sheets of the massive Clean Energy Bill, now peppered with yellow flags and scribbled notes in the margin, and headed for revisions, an exhaustive proofing, and duplication. Now I’d have to collate the thing by hand before I could even work on it.
A gust of air whooshed past the result of the nearby renovations to the Capitol building and I heard papers tumbling into the cavernous space of the rotunda. A single cherry blossom cartwheeled past in a strange sort of slow motion. Two men in dark suits, engaged in a rapt conversation, circumvented me as if I were invisible. A sheet of paper went airborne and stuck itself to my rear end. I reached for it, playing an odd game of solo Twister, one hand holding the papers on the floor, the other reaching for the piece that was wedged against my backside. My fingers caught it just as another sheet slid past. I pinned that one beneath my remaining foot.
“Hold on a minute.” The man’s voice held a friendly little laugh in the undertone. I tried to place the accent. Michigan, maybe a Yooper from the Upper Peninsula, or maybe upstate New York. Could be Canadian. His voice had a nice sound. Warm and thick, almost musical. He leaned over and grabbed the smattering of papers I’d pinned to the floor. I imagined what he was seeing a blonde in a pencil skirt, stretched over the tile like a giant spider.
It crossed my mind that the bill was fresh from a mark-up session and definitely not for public consumption. Technically, it was my job to protect it, and when your newly retired father has spent his life in the lobbying business, you know that there are always people skulking around, hoping for leaks. “No. Really. I’ve got it under control,” I insisted.
“I can see that.” He slid the papers from beneath my foot, shuffled them into a stack, and squatted down to tap them on the floor. Handing them back, he looked at me and smiled, and just as in those classic black-and-white movies on late-night cable, the world stood still. I heard the rising crescendo of music that would accompany such a scene, heavy on the trumpets and violins.
Daniel Webster Everson yes, that was his real name, though I didn’t know it yet had the most beautiful green eyes I had ever seen. Framed by thick, black lashes, they seemed to glow with an inner light that was almost otherworldly. His hair was wavy and dark, long enough to curve around his collar, too nontraditional for Congress. He was wearing a suit rather well, I might add. Black with a pale blue button-down chambray shirt and a fairly sedate navy-and-gray striped tie. I wondered what his business was here. Lobbyist? Tourist who’d somehow sneaked in early? Consultant?
I wondered how in the world a person could have eyes that shade.
I wondered if he wore color-enhanced contacts.
I wondered if his father was a gypsy.
Or an actor.
He looked like a gypsy-slash-actor. The guy who would play the prince of Persia, or the pirate king, or the Jedi Knight.
I wondered if he was married.
I wondered if he wanted to get married. Ever. Anytime in the next decade would be fine. Really. I’d wait.
Did he live here, or was he just visiting? Did he like furry little kittens and children? Did he visit his mother on Sundays? Was the curl in the back of his hair natural? Surely it wasn’t one of those horribly outdated man-perms my friend Kaylyn referred to as merms ?
Did he like Italian food? Was he Italian?
He could be Italian. . . .
Or a baseball player. A professional baseball player. He looked athletic. Congressmen loved to invite pro athletes in for behind-the-scenes tours. . . .
I mentally cycled thr