Winding Road Home

Sally John

Description

Popular fiction author Sally John's first series The Other Way Home (more than 65,000 copies sold) comes to life with a fresh, new cover for a new audience of readers. In A Winding Road Home, the fourth book of the series, two stories are beautifully woven together. Kate Kilpatrick has only one goal--a byline above the fold in a high profile newspaper. But Tanner Carlucci challenges her determination to put career above everything. Adele Chandler gave up on love long ago. A single mom, her priorities are raising her teenage daughter and directing the community's nursing home. Then two men enter her life and change it forever. Sorting through new decisions and consequences, Adele is forced to look at her heart and wonder if love can bloom there again. The Winding Road Home is an inspiring story about how God is a sure Guide through unplanned detours along life's way.

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: Harvest House Publishers, Inc.
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2008
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780736938792
• Langue: English

Extrait

T HE W INDING R OAD H OME
SALLY JOHN

HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from The New English Bible, Oxford University Press and Cambridge University Press 1961, 1970. All rights reserved.
Cover by Garborg Design Works, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 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, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
THE WINDING ROAD HOME
Copyright 2003 by Sally John
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402 www.harvesthousepublishers.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-7369-2094-0
ISBN-10: 0-7369-2094-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
John, Sally D., 1951-
The winding road home / Sally John.
p.cm.-(The other way home series ; bk. 4)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7369-1170-2
ISBN-10: 0-7369-1170-7
1. Women-Middle West-Fiction. 2. Female friendship-Fiction. 3. Middle West-Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3560.O323W56 2003
813'.54-dc21
2003001832
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-electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other-except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 / LB-CF / 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
About the Author
Acknowledgments
As always, the writing has been a collaborative effort. My thanks go to those who have been a part of The Winding Road Home:
Kristi Ruud for pottery lessons and her real-life model of Adele s home studio.
Mindy Carls for her example of spirit I ve instilled in Kate and Rusty, who by no means resemble the Orion Gazette s managing editor in any other way.
Tracy John for her unflagging, enthusiastic help as my other editor.
Elizabeth John for her technical assistance and constant support.
Christopher John for caring.
Michael Skelton for drawing the map.
Trudy Watson for her Volkswagen expertise and gracious research.
Sally Weckel for jumping in with both feet as press agent.
Kim Moore of Harvest House for generally being everything one could ask for in an editor.
And Tim for taking care of everything else along the way.

For those who follow:
Elizabeth, Tracy, and Christopher John;
Cassie Carlson; Joshua Watson;
Emilee, Nathan, Brendan, Matthew, Kyle, and Justin John
As you travel your journey,
May the winding road Home be made straight,
May it rise up to meet you,
May the wind always be at your back,
And may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
Prologue
Wait quietly for the LORD, Be patient till he comes -Psalm 37:7
Ladies and gentlemen! The jaunty emcee spoke in a deep radio announcer s voice. He stood on the stage between two preteen girls, a microphone in his hand. Let s congratulate this year s winner of the countywide spelling bee, who now advances to the state competition, and from there, we hope, on to nationals!
The sparse crowd in the school auditorium applauded politely. As family members of the participants, they were naturally inclined to exhibit more enthusiasm for their own child. By the time the winner was announced, only one group of relatives held any genuine interest in the program.
The girl who knew how to spell metamorphosis smiled politely in return. As the host lauded the runner-up, the county s best 12-year-old speller waited as if she were quite at home taking first place.
The girl who had not known 30 seconds ago how to spell metamorphosis took a trembling breath, smiling sweetly through tears. There was a slight increase in the level of applause. Blonde and blue-eyed, she had won over the audience with her display of anxiety at each word aimed her way and unabashed joy with each correct spelling.
The host congratulated the winner now, shaking her hand. Shorter than average, she lifted her chin, looked him straight in the eye, and thanked him, clearly mature beyond her 12 years. Her straight, reddish hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had played the game well. Intensely. Focused. Never hesitant.
Tell us, the emcee said, what would you like to do when you grow up?
I d like to be a White House correspondent. A Helen Thomas for the twenty-first century.
Laughter rippled through the audience.
Though it easily could have been construed as being aimed at her, the girl didn t seem to mind. She gazed at the cluster of people in the front row still cheering for her. Why would she need the crowd s approval? She had a loving family and a plan for her life.

A young woman sat huddled in a pew, a large bulging knapsack beside her. Groups of people were scattered throughout the sanctuary. The wind rattled the stained-glass windows.
Another woman, somewhat older in appearance, walked along the pew before hers and sat down, facing her. The snowstorm isn t letting up. We should leave now. Your bus won t be going anywhere tonight.
You re sure?
She nodded. The highways are closed down. Please, I ve food and plenty of space for you.
I ll just stay here. There was a stony edge to her tone. Hard, resolute.
It s too uncomfortable and drafty. I think enough townsfolk have shown up to take all the stranded travelers home for the night.
The young woman blinked. Her curly hair hung about her shoulders, matted. Why would you take me home?
The other woman smiled. Someone took me home once. It s my turn.
You don t know the first thing about me.
I know you need a place to sleep.
I m pregnant. Nineteen. Single. No means of support. People react to me as if I were a leper.
The older woman bowed her head for a moment, her forehead against the back of the pew. When she raised it, tears glistened in her eyes. Sweetheart, I was there. My daughter is eleven now. She s always wanted a baby sister. Or brother. Holding out her hand to the other, she stood. Let s go home.
One
Seventeen years later
No dictionary contained the precise word to describe the scene unfolding before Kate Kilpatrick.
Oh, there were plenty of words all right. Peculiar. Sweet. Bizarre. Touching. Unreal. Heartwarming. Hokey. Sensational.
But not one of them fit, not exactly.
Worse yet, there was no way on earth she knew how to incorporate the indescribable, personal scene into a news article. Her notepad and pen dangled at her side in a mitten-covered hand. The camera, its strap slung over her shoulder, rested against her hip, adding dead weight to the already heavy jacket. Like steam in a kettle curling toward its whistling hole, pressure mounted in her chest. With a loud puff that jiggled her lips and fanned her bangs, she released it. Welcome to the big time, Kilpatrick , she thought ruefully .
Kate stood inside the Valley Oaks High School in an area which just that morning she learned was referred to as the commons. The term was new to her. Though the place was large and airy, the dominant odor was distinctly school, as if its walls were made of books and paper and pencils and cafeteria food and gym shoes. Evidently all doorways led to the commons. On her way in she had glimpsed a ring of entrances: hallways, gym, glassed-in office, back parking lot. The location also appeared to be the gathering place for unusual events.
Unusual. Poignant. Quaint. Singular events.
An expert in the fine art of elbow-prodding, Kate had pressed her way through a sea of bodies and now stood at its center. The sea was comprised predominantly of adolescents. Quiet adolescents, standing on tiptoes, their faces expectant with O-shaped mouths and raised brows. That in itself would be curious enough, but that wasn t the main event. The students attention was riveted on two adults in the center, surrounded by the crowd. Those two were the main event.
She knew the man was Joel Kingsley, principal of the high school, because he had been the one who called the office. He said that at precisely 8:37 a.m. he would be centrally located in the commons and that he fully expected a newsworthy event to unfold there at that time. It wasn t only his voice, trim body, and nearly buzzed black hair that hinted at military. A soldierly aura emanated from him even as he smiled during an intense, hushed exchange of what must have been personal words. The aura remained now as he planted a knee into the linoleum.
He held the hand of a woman Kate recognized as Britte Olafsson, girls basketball coach. She looked as if she d just stepped off the plane from Scandinavia, from her height to her blonde hair to the slightly shell-shocked appearance about her eyes that anyone would exhibit after a ten-hour flight. Kate suspected her dazed expression wasn t due to jet lag. The man had just proclaimed in a voice for all to hear, Miss O, I d like your permission to court you.
The red-faced coach glanced about, maybe in search of a hole to climb into. At last she cried out, All right! Yes, you have my permission!
The crowd of quiet adolescents burst apart at the seams, whooping and hollering. If Kate closed her eyes, she would believe herself inside a gym at a sporting event. But she wasn t. She wished she were because that she would know how t