HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Scripture verses are taken from the Jerusalem Bible © 1966 by Darton, Longman & Todd, Ltd. and Doubleday & Company, Inc.
Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota
Cover photos © omgimages, hoangkhainhan, warrengoldswain / Bigstock
Back cover author photo © Tim John
The author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Ste. 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BETWEEN US GIRLS
Copyright © 2014 by Sally John
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
John, Sally
Between us girls / Sally John.
pages cm.—(Family of the Heart Series ; Book 1)
ISBN 978-0-7369-5465-5 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-5467-9 (eBook)
1. Christian fiction. I. Title.
PS3560.O323B48 2014
813'.54—dc23
2013048187
All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.
Dedication
For
Jonah Timothy Johnson
Welcome, little guy.
Acknowledgments
As always, I want to thank my family for their continued, unflagging support. Husband Tim sustains me on so many levels. Granddaughter Aliah reminds me to giggle. Granddaughter Kaiya provides adjectives and details on a host of topics. Daughter-in-law Tracy is a brainstormer extraordinaire. Son Christopher is my nature and farming go-to guy. Son-in-law Troy is my go-to sports guy. Daughter Elizabeth gives me writing music and fiction insight. And grandson Jonah—well, at nine months, he just is.
For bringing this book full circle, I couldn’t ask for a better team. Thank you to my editor, Kim Moore, and to everyone at Harvest House. Thank you to my agent, Andrea Heinecke, and everyone at Alive Communications. You all make it so easy.
Thank you to everyone who kindly shared their expertise about cats, tornadoes, desert geology, stents, the Spanish language, and Navajo information: Cindi Cox, Tom Carlson, Peggy Hadacek, Karlie Garcia, and Kelly Glisson.
Thank you to my SDCWG writing friends who time and again brought me back to the passion of writing fiction: Elizabeth Van Tassel, Ann Larson, Sandi Esch, John Welch, Bobbe Van Hise, Tomi Leslie, Susan McFarland, and Tiffany Hayden.
A special thank-you to my long-lost cousin, Elizabeth Carlson Hurst, who found me during the writing of this story.
And always, always a big thank-you, dear Readers, for your encouragement.
In loving memory, I thank two people who blessed my writing journey for many years: website designer Kristen Balsis and agent Lee Hough. You are greatly missed.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Residents of the Casa de Vida Cottages
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Discussion Questions
Take My Hand
About the Author
About the Publisher
My God, how great you are!
…You advance on the wings of the wind;
you use the winds as messengers.
PSALM 104:1,3-4
Residents of the Casa de Vida Cottages
Olivia “Liv” McAlister, owner
Riley and Tasha Baker
Noah and Déja Grey
Sean Keagan
Piper Keyes
Charles Chadwick Rutherford IV
Inez and Louis Templeton
Coco Vizzini
Samantha Whitley
Beau Jenner, maintenance man
One
March 15
Valley Oaks, Illinois
Jasmyn Albright watched the sun wink its first beam on the horizon. The light shimmered, a runner on a starting block, and then—whoosh. It raced lickety-split across field after field of rich, black earth. It hurdled the fence and streaked over the backyard, bumped into the porch steps, bounced up to her stocking feet, and then—wham. It splashed her entire body with light so unbearable she had to shut her eye
s.
“Mornin’, Jasmyn.”
At the sound of the familiar rasp, the whoosh and the wham went poof. She opened her eyes. Where Zeb Swanson should have been standing were only yellowy flickers. “Good morning, Zeb. Coffee?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Blinking away the light, she went into the house. It was the fifteenth of the month, the date Zeb always hand-delivered, at the crack of dawn, his rent check to her. He trusted neither the U.S. Postal Service nor electronic banking.
The man was as old as the dirt he tilled and a creature of habit. His routine on the fifteenth of the month was to gulp coffee, gripe about corn and soybean prices, and mention that he wasn’t sure how long he could keep leasing land from her at the rate she charged. He’d take another gulp of coffee and toss the remainder into the spirea bushes or down her kitchen sink, depending on the season. Then, at long last, he would pull the neatly folded check from the front bib pocket of his overalls.
With her best customer-is-king waitress smile, she’d take the check and the cup from him. They would tell each other to have a good day. While he walked off to the barn, she would unfold the check and breathe a sigh of relief.
Every single month she did that. Her best friend said Jasmyn was stuck in a rut with both ends walled shut.
Jasmyn disagreed. The rut kept her safe. It offered whooshing and whamming and a grumpy man who helped her pay off the six hundred fifty acres that would not sell for more than she owed on it.
She filled two mugs with coffee that had brewed during the spectacular sunrise, retied her plaid flannel robe snugly, and headed back through the mudroom.
The rut also came with a cocoon, a two-story farmhouse with walk-up attic, built by her great-great-grandparents. It was too large for one person and in need of updating, but Jasmyn didn’t mind that she could not afford new appliances or window treatments or a couch that did not sag. The place was home and she kept it pristine, just like Gramma June had taught her. The mere thought of leaving it gave her the willies.
Jasmyn smiled to herself. She was only thirty-five and as much a creature of habit as old Zeb Swanson.
He waited on the wraparound porch, leaning against the post at the top of the stairs. “Thank you.” He took the mug from her and gulped his first gulp, right on cue.
Zeb reminded her of her late grandfather. Grizzled. Ornery. Dour. Hardworking. She was glad their paths did not cross often.
“Gonna get in the field tomorrow,” he said.
“Really?” Her grandfather had never, ever planted in March.
He gazed off in the distance and lowered the brim of his green Nothing Runs Like a Deere cap. “It’s been hot as blazes for three weeks straight. Spring never did show up. Don’t expect it will now.”
That was true. The lion that usually ushered in the month of March had failed to roar. Instead, the lamb arrived way ahead of schedule. Crocuses were already in full bloom, grass had greened, and daffodil shoots promised April blooms. But still.
“It’s only March.”
He scowled.
Jasmyn bit her lip before saying something else stupid. Of course he knew the date. Of course he knew frost was a real possibility until April fifteenth. Of course he knew corn and frost were not friends.
“It’s a gamble, I admit,” he said. “But an early harvest means the best prices we’ve seen in years. If the weather cooperates.”
Of course he knew what would happen if the weather did not cooperate.
Whenever Jasmyn thought about avoiding Zeb Swanson, she reminded herself what a godsend he had been.
He reached into his back hip pocket, pulled out his neatly folded check, and handed it to her. “I’ve been meaning to say I appreciate you not raising the rent all these years.”
First a discussion about planting, and now words of gratitude? And the check was in his back pocket? Whoa. He was way off the grid today.
“Uh, sure. I’m, uh, I’m glad it’s worked out all these years.”
“It’s a prime piece of land. I’m happy to keep it in use. Your grandparents were good people.”
Jasmyn could have clued him in on the realities of life with Jerome and June Albright. Probably best that she did not. He might get testy and stop leasing from her before he planted his early crop. She smiled instead.
He drained his mug and gave it to her. “You take care now.”
Huh? Take care?
He was halfway across the yard before she found her voice. “Have a good day, Zeb.”
He paused and turned. “It’s a weird one. Can you feel it?”
She shook her head.
“Barometer’s dropping.”
Maybe that explained his weirdness.
“Storm’s coming.” He walked away.
Jasmyn unfolded the check and sighed a sigh so different from her typical fifteenth-of-the-month sigh that she had to sit down on the porch step.
Zeb had doubled his check amount.
The barometer must have dropped clear through the floor.
Two days later
Jasmyn slid onto the padded stool in front of the bedroom vanity and grimaced at her friend reflected behind her in the mirror. “Okay, the guinea pig is ready to roll.”
Quinn Olafsson laughed. Her latest goal was to become a hairdresser in her spare time. “It’ll only take ten minutes, I promise.” She gently brushed Jasmyn’s long dark hair back from her face. “We’ll do a French braid this time. Nothing fancy. So, finish your story. What did Zeb say about his check?”
“He drove off before I had a chance to talk to him.”
Quinn stopped brushing and met Jasmyn’s stare in the mirror. Since kindergarten they had been as close as twins, though no one would mistake them for blood relatives. Quinn had an athletic build, super short hair—naturally blond and naturally curly—big pale blue eyes, a cute turned-up nose, and confidence as big as the outdoors.
Jasmyn, on the other hand, resembled the photograph in the eight-by-ten frame on the dresser: a helpless, not-in-this-lifetime-cute preemie. The only difference was that she now had hair.
“Zeb drove off? Jasmyn, he should have been in the barn. What’s going on with him?”
“Air pressure. Have you noticed a big change?”
“Do I look like a farmer?” She combed Jasmyn’s hair and began parting it into sections. “What are you going to do with the extra money?”
“Hire Zeb’s grandsons to haul this vanity over to your house so you can play beauty shop whenever you want.”
Quinn smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to mess up the feng shui you got going here in your little cocoon.”
Jasmyn glanced around the frilly yellow room that had been her mother’s from birth until she passed away three years ago. “Mom’s hand-me-down furniture is not the secret to my blissful cocoon.”
Quinn laughed so hard she let go of the hair strands. “Oops.” She ruffled Jasmyn’s hair, undoing the braid. “Starting over.” She brushed again. “ ‘Blissful cocoon?’ That’s a good one, Sunshine.”
Sunshine. The nickname was compliments of their third-grade teacher. According to Miss Fowles, Jasmyn smiled a lot and her last name was Albright. How perfect was that?
It turned out to be not in the least bit perfect. Classmates put their own spin on her name. They wondered why a student who was all bright would be in the Panda reading group, the pokey Pandas. That was probably the year Jasmyn first felt the enormous safety of home, of the cocoon. Even with a gruff granddad, a super strict gram, and a wacky mother, the place was always far better than the war zone, aka her school and peers.
“Earth to Jasmyn. I said, please hand me—never mind.” Quinn reached over Jasmyn’s shoulder and took a ribbon from the vanity top. “Got it. I probably shouldn�
�t ask the client to hand me things. Where were you?”
“Third grade.”
“David Webb!” Quinn named the boy she’d had a crush on. Typical. It was how she kept track of her school years.
Jasmyn groaned.
“What? He was nice.” Quinn handed her a mirror and nudged her around the stool. “Ta-da! Check it out. Not a strand out of place and note the green ribbon for St. Patty’s Day. Pretty cool, huh?”
Jasmyn tilted the mirror to see the back of her head. “It is definitely cool. You should be a beautician.”
“Thanks. Now why on earth did you zone out to third grade? That year was nasty. Except for David Webb.” She took the mirror and bent to face Jasmyn nose to nose. “Hon, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Quinn.” She smiled. “I’m just fine.”
She was always just fine. Was there another choice?
Two
March 17
San Diego, California
Samantha Whitley tried to smile. She gave it her best shot, stretching her lips to unaccustomed distances. She showed her teeth, hid her teeth, made the corners of her mouth defy gravity.
The camera went click, click, click and Sam gave up. It would be better to express her solemn, professional self than look like a flibbertigibbet. Besides, supermodels never smiled.
Click, click.
Not that she was supermodel material.
Click, click.
Good grief. What was up with the photographer? If he hoped to catch the tall, black-eyed, black-haired, black-suited woman smiling genuinely in the back row of a group of twenty-some people, he would be snapping for a long, long time.
Sam considered texting insults to her boss about his idiotic decision to send her to the event. Randy had insisted the assignment was necessary. It was a boost up the ladder for her. And besides, no one else was available. The guy was a hoot a minute.
At last the photographer lowered his camera and the group dispersed, laughing and chattering. Sam wondered if it was too soon to leave.
She retrieved her oversized handbag at her feet, unclipped the nametag from her lapel, and dropped it in the bag. Enough with the PR already. Samantha Whitley of Collins and Creighton Engineering Firm was going back to the office to do some real work.