Saturday, January 23, 2010
"And they sang a new song with these words: “You are worthy to take the scroll and break its seals and open it.
For you were slaughtered, and your blood has ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation.” Revelation 5:9 NLT
A narrow shaft of sunlight broke through the thick canopy of leaves above
Joseph Komboli’s short frame and pierced through to the layers
of vines that crawled along the forest floor. He trudged past a spiny
tree trunk — one of hundreds whose flat crowns reached toward the
heavens before disappearing into the cloudless African sky — and
smiled as the familiar hum of the forest welcomed him home.
A trickle of moisture dripped down the back of his neck, and he
reached up to brush it away, then flicked at a mosquito. The musty
smell of rotting leaves and sweet flowers encircled him, a sharp con-
trast to the stale exhaust fumes of the capital’s countless taxis or the
stench of hundreds of humans pressed together on the dilapidated
cargo boat he’d left at the edge of the river this morning.
Another flying insect buzzed in his ears, its insistent drone
drowned out only by the birds chattering in the treetops. He slapped
the insect away and dug into the pocket of his worn trousers for a
handful of fire-roasted peanuts, still managing to balance the bag that
rested atop his head. His mother’s sister had packed it for him, ensur-
ing that the journey — by taxi, boat, and now foot — wouldn’t leave his
belly empty. Once, not too long ago, he had believed no one living in
the mountain forests surrounding his village, or perhaps even in all of
Africa, could cook goza and fish sauce like his mother. But now, hav-
ing ventured from the dense and sheltering rainforest, he knew she
was only one of thousands of women who tirelessly pounded cassava
and prepared the thick stew for their families day after day.
Still, his mouth watered at the thought of his mother’s cooking.
The capital of Bogama might offer running water and electricity for
those willing to forfeit a percentage of their minimal salaries, but
even the new shirt and camera his uncle had given him as parting
gifts weren’t enough to lessen his longings for home.
He wrapped the string of the camera around his wrist and felt
his heart swell with pride. No other boy in his village owned such a
stunning piece. Not that the camera was a frivolous gift. Not at all.
His uncle called it an investment in the future. In the city lived a
never-ending line of men and women willing to pay a few cents for a
color photo. When he returned to Bogama for school, he planned to
make enough money to send some home to his family — something
that guaranteed plenty of meat and cassava for the evening meal.
Anxious to give his little sister, Aina, one of the sweets tucked
safely in his pocket and his mother the bag of sugar he carried, Joseph
quickened his steps across the red soil, careful to avoid a low limb
swaying under the weight of a monkey.
A cry shattered the relative calm of the forest.
Joseph slowed as the familiar noises of the forest faded into the
shouts of human voices. More than likely the village children had
finished collecting water from the river and now played a game of
chase or soccer with a homemade ball.
The wind blew across his face, sending a chill down his spine as
he neared the thinning trees at the edge of the forest. Another scream
split the afternoon like a sharpened machete.
Joseph stopped. These were not the sounds of laughter.
Dropping behind the dense covering of the large leaves, Joseph
approached the outskirts of the small village, straining his eyes in an
effort to decipher the commotion before him. At first glance every-
thing appeared familiar. Two dozen mud huts with thatched roofs
greeted him like an old friend. Tendrils of smoke rose from fires
beneath rounded cooking pots that held sauce for evening meals.
Brightly colored pieces of fabric fluttered in the breeze as freshly
laundered clothes soaked up the warmth of the afternoon sun.
His gaze flickered to a figure emerging from behind one of the
grass-thatched huts. Black uniform . . . rifle pressed against his shoul-
der . . . Joseph felt his lungs constrict. Another soldier emerged, then
another, until there were half a dozen shouting orders at the confused
villagers who stumbled onto the open area in front of them. Joseph
watched as his best friend Mbona tried to fight back, but his hoe was
no match against the rifle butt that struck his head. Mbona fell to
A wave of panic, strong as the mighty Congo River rushing
through its narrow tributaries, ripped through Joseph’s chest. He
gasped for breath, his chest heaving as air refused to fill his lungs.
The green forest spun. Gripping the sturdy branch of a tree, he man-
aged to suck in a shallow breath.
He’d heard his uncle speak of the rumored Ghost Soldiers —
mercenaries who appeared from nowhere and kidnapped human la-
borers to work as slaves for the mines. Inhabitants of isolated villages
could disappear without a trace and no one would ever know.
Except he’d thought such myths weren’t true.
The sight of his little sister told him otherwise. His mind fought
to grasp what was happening. Blood trickled down the seven-year-
old’s forehead as she faltered in front of the soldiers with her hands
tied behind her.
Unable to restrain himself, Joseph lunged forward but tripped
over a knotty vine and fell. A twig snapped, startling a bird into flight
The soldier turned from his sister and stared into the dense fo-
liage. Joseph lay flat against the ground, his hand clasped over the
groan escaping his throat. The soldier hesitated a moment longer, then
grabbed his sister’s arm and pulled her to join the others.
Choking back a sob, Joseph rose to his knees and dug his fingers
into the hard earth. What could he do? Nothing. He was no match
for these men. If he didn’t remain secluded behind the cover of the
forest, he too would vanish along with his family.
The haunting sounds of screams mingled with gunshots. His
grandfather fell to the ground and Joseph squeezed his eyes shut,
blackness enveloping him. It was then, as he pressed his hand against
his pounding chest, that he felt the camera swinging against his wrist.
He stared at the silver case. Slowly, he pressed the On button.
This time, the world would know.
With a trembling arm Joseph lifted the camera. Careful to stay
within the concealing shade of the forest, he snapped a picture with-
out bothering to aim as his uncle had taught him. He took another
photo, and another, and another . . . until the cries of his people dis-
sipated on the north side of the clearing as the soldiers led those
strong enough to work toward the mountains. The rest — those like
his grandfather, too old or too weak to work in the mines — lay mo-
tionless against the now bloodstained African soil.
In the remaining silence, the voices of two men drifted across the
breeze. English words were foreign to his own people’s uneducated
ears but had become familiar to Joseph. What he heard now brought
a second wave of terror . . .
“Only four more days until we are in power . . . There is no need
to worry . . . The president will be taken care of . . . I can personally
guarantee the support of this district . . .”
Joseph zoomed in and took a picture of the two men.
A monkey jumped to the tree above him and started chattering.
One of the beefy soldiers jerked around, his attention drawn to the
edge of the clearing. Joseph froze as his gaze locked with the man’s.
If they caught him now, no one would ever know what had hap-
pened to his family.
Joseph scrambled to his feet as the soldier ran toward him, but the
man was faster. The butt of a rifle struck Joseph’s head. He faltered,
but as a trickle of blood dripped into his eye, he pictured Aina being
led away . . . his grandfather murdered in cold blood . . .
Ignoring the searing pain, Joseph fought to pull loose from his
attacker’s grip, kicked at the man’s shins. The soldier faltered on the
uneven terrain. Clambering to his feet, Joseph ran into the cover of
the forest. A rifle fired, and the bullet whizzed past his ear, but he
kept moving. With the Ghost Soldier in pursuit, Joseph sprinted as
fast as he could through the tangled foliage and prayed that the thick
jungle would swallow him.
Monday, November 16, 3:11 p.M.
Kasili Outdoor Market
Natalie Sinclair fingered the blue-and-yellow fabric that hung neatly
folded on a wooden rod among dozens of other brightly colored
pieces, barely noticing the plump Mama who stood beside her in
hopeful anticipation. Instead she gazed out at the shops that lined
the winding, narrow paths of the market, forming an intricate maze
the size of a football field. The vendors sold everything from vegeta-
bles and live animals to piles of secondhand clothing that had been
shipped across the ocean from charities in the States.
Natalie stepped across a puddle and turned to glance beneath the
wooden overhang at the stream of people passing by. Even with the
weekend over, the outdoor market was crowded with shoppers. Hip-
hop-style music played in the background, lending a festive feel to
the sultry day. But she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of
Someone was following her.
She quickened her steps and searched for anything that looked
out of place. A young man weaved his bicycle through the crowded
walkway, forcing those on foot to step aside. A little girl wearing a
tattered dress clung to the skirt of her mother, who carried a sleeping
infant, secured with a length of material, against her back. An old
man with thick glasses shuffled past a shop that sold eggs and sugar,
then stopped to examine a pile of spark plugs.
Natalie’s sandal stuck in a patch of mud, and she wiggled her foot
to pull it out. Perhaps the foreboding sensation was nothing more
than the upcoming elections that had her on edge. All American
citizens had been warned to stay on high alert due to the volatile
political situation. Violence was on the rise. Already a number of
joint military-police peacekeeping patrols had been deployed onto
the streets, and there were rumors of a curfew.
Not that life in the Republic of Dhambizao was ever considered
safe by the embassy, but neither was downtown Portland. It was all a
matter of perspective.
And leaving wasn’t an option. Not with the hepatitis E outbreak
spreading from the city into the surrounding villages. Already, three
health zones north of the town of Kasili where she lived were threat-
ened with an outbreak. She’d spent the previous two weeks sharing
information about the disease’s symptoms with the staff of the local
government clinics, as well as conducting awareness campaigns to
inform the public on the importance of proper hygiene to prevent
In search of candles for tonight’s party, Natalie turned sharply to
her left and hurried up the muddy path past wooden tables piled high
with leafy greens for stew, bright red tomatoes, and fresh fish. Rows
of women sat on wooden stools and fanned their wares to discour-
age the flies that swarmed around the pungent odor of the morning’s
Someone bumped into her from behind, and she pulled her bag
closer. Petty theft might be a constant concern, but she knew her
escalated fears were out of line. Being the only pale foreigner in a sea
of ebony-skinned Africans always caused heads to turn, if not for the
novelty, then for the hope that she’d toss them one or two extra coins
for their supper.
Her cell phone jingled in her pocket, and she reached to answer it.
“When are you coming back to the office?” Stephen’s to-the-point
greeting was predictable.
“I’m not. I’m throwing a birthday party for you tonight, remem-
ber? You let me off early.” A pile of taper candles caught her eye in
a shop across the path, and she skirted the edge of a puddle that,
thanks to the runoff, was rapidly becoming the size of a small lake.
Stephen groaned. “Patrick’s here at the office, and he’s asking
She pulled a handful of coins from her pocket to pay for the can-
dles. “Then give him some answers.”
Natalie thrust the package the seller had wrapped in newspaper
into her bag and frowned. Patrick Seko, the former head of security
for the president, now led some sort of specialized task force for the
government. Lately, his primary concern seemed to revolve around
some demographic research for the Kasili region she’d been com-
piling for the minister of health, whose office she worked for. Her
expertise might be the prevention and control of communicable dis-
eases, but demographics had always interested her. Why her research
interested Patrick was a question she’d yet to figure out.
The line crackled. Maybe she’d get out of dealing with Patrick
and his insistent questions after all.
“Stephen, you’re breaking up.”
All she heard was a garbled response. She flipped the phone shut
and shoved it back into her pocket. They’d have to finish their con-
versation at the party.
She spun around at the sound of her name. “Rachel, it’s good to
Her friend shot her a broad smile. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”
Natalie wanted to kick herself for the uncharacteristic agitation
that had her looking behind every shadow. “I’m just a bit jumpy
“I understand completely.” Rachel pushed a handful of thin braids
behind her shoulder and smiled. “I think everyone is a bit on edge,
even though with the UN’s presence the elections are supposed to
pass without any major problems. No one has forgotten President
Tau’s bloody takeover.”
Natalie had only heard stories from friends about the current
president’s takeover seventeen years ago. Two elections had taken
place since then and were assumed by all to have been rigged. But
with increasing pressure from the United States, the European Union,
and the African Union, President Tau had promised a fair election
this time no matter the results. And despite random incidences of
pre-election violence, even the United Nations was predicting a fair
turnover under their supervision — something that, to her mind, re-
mained to be seen.
Natalie took a step back to avoid a group of uniformed students
making their way through the market and smiled at her friend. After
eighteen months of working together, Rachel had moved back to the
capital to take a job with the minister of health, which meant Natalie
rarely saw her anymore. Something they both missed. “What are you
doing in Kasili?”
“I’m heading back to Bogama tomorrow, but I’m in town because
Patrick has been meeting with my parents to work out the labola.”
“Really? That’s wonderful.” Her sentiment was genuine, even
though she happened to find Patrick overbearing and control-
ling — as no doubt he would be in deciding on a bride price. She
hugged her friend. “When’s the wedding ceremony?”
Rachel’s white teeth gleamed against her dark skin, but Natalie
didn’t miss the shadow that crossed her expression. “We’re still dis-
cussing details with our families, but soon. Very soon.”
“Then I’ll expect an invitation.”
“Of course.” Rachel’s laugh competed with the buzz of the crowd
that filed past them. “And by the way, I don’t know if Patrick mentioned
it to you, but Stephen invited us to the birthday party you’re throwing
for him tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Natalie suppressed a frown. Stephen
had invited Patrick to the party? She cleared her throat. “Stephen
just called to tell me Patrick was looking for me, but it had some-
thing to do with my demographic reports. Apparently he has more
“Patrick can be a bit . . . persistent.” Rachel flashed another broad
smile, but Natalie caught something else in her eyes she couldn’t
read. Hesitation? Fear? “I’ll tell him to wait until they are compiled.
Then he can look at them.”
Natalie laughed. “Well, you know I’m thrilled you’re coming.”
She would enjoy catching up with Rachel, and she had already
prepared enough food to feed a small army. It was Patrick and his an-
tagonistic political views she dreaded. She’d probably end up spend-
ing the whole evening trying to avoid them both.
“I’m looking forward to it as well.” Rachel shifted the bag on her
shoulder. “But I do need to hurry off. I’m meeting Patrick now, but
I’ll see you tonight.”
Natalie watched until her friend disappeared into the crowd, won-
dering what she’d seen in her friend’s gaze. It was probably nothing.
Rachel had been right. Her own frayed nerves were simply a reaction
of the tension everyone felt. By next week the election would be over
and things would be back to normal.
A rooster brushed her legs, and she skirted to the left to avoid
stepping on the squawking bird. The owner managed to catch it and
mumbled a string of apologies before shoving it back in its cage.
Natalie laughed at the cackling bird, realizing that this was as
normal as life was going to get.
Spotting a woman selling spices and baskets of fruit two shops
down, she slipped into the tiny stall, determined to enjoy the rest of
the day. She had nothing to worry about. Just like the UN predicted,
the week would pass without any major incidents. And in the mean-
time, she had enough on her hands.
She picked up a tiny sack of cloves, held it up to her nose, and
took in a deep breath. With the holiday season around the corner,
she’d buy some extra. Her mother had sent a care package last week
filled with canned pumpkin, chocolate chips, French-fried onions,
and marshmallows. This year Natalie planned to invite a few friends
over for a real Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey, mashed potatoes, green-
bean casserole, pumpkin pie —
Fingers grasped her arm from behind. Natalie screamed and
struggled to keep her balance as someone pulled her into the shadows.
Copyright © 2010 by Lisa Harris
Used with permission from Zondervan
This title is also available as a Zondervan ebook.
Visit Zondervan's website for more information including the audio version. www.zondervan.com/ebooks.
This title is also available in a Zondervan audio edition.
Author’s disclaimer: “While Blood Ransom is a work of fiction, including the setting I chose
to use, modern-day slavery is very real. Drawing from my own experiences across Africa
over the past twenty years, my goal in writing this book was to weave current issues facing
this vast continent into a riveting story that depicts not only these adversities, but also its
beauty and hope.”
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
RECIPE FOR MURDER
Retirement was not what Pricilla Crumb envisioned. if asked, she would compare it to one of her prized cheese soufflés gone flat. Dull and disappointing. Thankfully, her son, Nathan, had been desperate enough to fly her to the upscale hunting lodge he owned, or more than likely she’d be sitting at her card table right now, putting together one of those five-hundred- piece puzzles her next-door neighbor had given her last Christmas. Filling in for Nathan’s full-time cook, who had come down with a serious case of the West Nile virus four months ago, had, it seemed, become her escape from the yawning predictability of retirement.
Pricilla sorted through the stack of cookbooks piled beside her on the kitchen’s granite countertop. Most of tonight’s menu had been set three days ago, but a problem had arisen with the appetizer. Rendezvous, Colorado, might not be the smallest dot on the state map, but it certainly lacked some of the conveniences of Seattle, one of them being oysters, a key ingredient for her grilled oyster dish.
At least the lodge’s newly remodeled kitchen left nothing to complain about. The antique-styled cabinets, professional appliances, and aged ceiling beams that added a finishing touch to the spacious room, were a chef’s dream. Already, Pricilla hoped that the temporary position would become permanent. Moving back to Colorado and near her son would be worth giving up a few conveniences of the city.
Penelope, her Persian cat, paraded into the room and pressed against her legs.
“Where have you been? Hiding under the bed again?” With the top of her foot, Pricilla rubbed Penelope under the chin. “You’ll have to wait awhile, my sweet, unless you have an idea for the perfect starter.”
She flipped through another book of appetizers then dog-eared one of the pages. Finally, she’d found something suitable. Salmon-filled tartlets would be an ideal choice start to tonight’s dinner.
The timer on the oven buzzed, and Pricilla crossed the hardwood floor to check on her cake. With the weather still surprisingly warm as the calendar moved into October, the baked Alaska flambé would be the perfect ending to the meal. Presentation, as she’d always taught her students, was half the goal with food preparation, and the lighting of the meringue would be the highlight of the evening. She had seen Julia Child present the flaming dessert on television with awed reactions. Pricilla foresaw nothing less for tonight.
Nathan entered the kitchen and kissed her on the forehead, frowning when he saw the stack of cookbooks. “Mom, I thought you promised me you’d keep the menu simple tonight.”
She eyed her son’s tall, handsome frame before pulling the almond and orange cake from the oven and setting it on a rack. “I haven’t prepared anything I wouldn’t have fixed for your father for a typical Sunday afternoon meal. Roast pork, herbed oven-roasted potatoes— ”
“I admit that you’re anything but a typical cook, but”—he glanced at the opened cookbook—“salmon-filled tartlets?”
“They’re delicious. You’ll love them.” she paused, trying to remember if she’d checked the expiration date on the smoked salmon. Surely she had. It was second nature by now.
“I’m sure I will,” Nathan continued, “but a simple pot roast with vegetables on the side would have been fine.”
She dismissed his concerns with the wave of her hand and checked on the rising dough for her yeast rolls. “The reputation of this lodge is at stake, and I don’t plan to have anything to do with tarnishing it. Which reminds me.” she turned toward him, her hands placed firmly on her hips. “You must speak to the owner of the grocery store. There are a number of things they don’t carry, making it quite inconvenient—”
“Mom, my regular cook never had a problem with getting what she
needed.” He cocked his head and shot her a smile. “I’m sure that the guests will be happy with whatever you fix. You are Pricilla Crumb, hostess and cook extraordinaire, are you not? Besides, I didn’t bring you up here to work you to death. You need to relax a bit.”
She couldn’t help but smile back. He always knew how to appease her. Without a doubt he had her completely wrapped around his finger. She’d do anything for him, and he knew it.
“I suppose I am a bit keyed up.” Pricilla rubbed her hands on her apron. “It’s just with all the guests arriving in the next few hours, as well as Max and his daughter Trisha. . .” Pricilla turned back to her bowl of dough, pausing for emphasis. There was no reason to pass up an opportunity to further her plan. “Trisha’s such a sweet girl. It’s strange that the two of you have never met, despite all the years I’ve known Max.” she glanced at her son.
“It is strange, isn’t it?” His expression confirmed he wasn’t a bit moved by her ploys of innocence. “Especially considering the fact that you’ve told me about her at least a half dozen times. And that’s just since yesterday.” Nathan leaned against the counter. “Let’s see. Trisha is a graphic designer, stunning eyes, and. . .how could I forget? She’s single.”
Pricilla ignored her son’s teasing tone. Single was the key word here,
because she had a plan. She was certain that sparks would fly once the two of them met. With her matchmaking skills sharpened and detailed plans in place, she was convinced that Trisha Summers was the perfect antidote to her son’s lonely heart.
Nathan popped a handful of walnuts into his mouth from a ceramic bowl on the counter. “Why are you so worried about me, despite the fact that I keep assuring you that I’m not lonely? I love running the lodge, meeting new people, and—”
“Running this lodge, no matter how successful, will never bring you true happiness—or give me grandchildren.” There. she’d made her point.
“Okay, but what about you, Mom?” He leaned down and caught her gaze, his eyes suddenly dark and serious. “Don’t you think it would be far more suitable to find someone for yourself before attempting to try and find a match for your only son?”
Pricilla frowned. That was an entirely different subject. She dropped the ball of dough onto a floured board and started kneading. “I’m not convinced life gives second chances when it comes to true love.”
When her husband, Marty, died, she decided to thank the good Lord for loaning him to her for almost forty years. She’d found love once and wasn’t certain she’d ever find what she had with him again. Still, while she wouldn’t ever admit to anyone that she was lonely, it was hard not to wonder at times what it would be like to share her life with someone other than Penelope.
Max summers sneaked a hot yeast roll from the breadbasket, intent on avoiding Pricilla’s watchful gaze. He thought the chances of her catching him, though, were slim. With all the guests here and dinner about to be served, she was running around with the precision of a military general and finishing up last-minute details. He’d rarely seen her more in her element.
“I saw you sneak that roll, Max Summers.”
He sat back on the bar stool and shot her his most guilty expression. “You know I never could resist your cooking. And I’m not the only one. I just saw one of your guests steal out of the dining room with a plateful of appetizers.”
“Charles Woodruff, I assume?” Pricilla frowned. “He’s already complained that dinner was being served too late. Like seven o’clock is an uncivilized hour to eat.”
“Do you expect all the guests to be as cantankerous as Mr. Woodruff?”
Despite the warmth of the kitchen, Pricilla’s silver hair lay in perfect curls against the nape of her neck, and her face, with just a hint of makeup, still looked fresh. The years might have added a few wrinkles and age spots, but he still found her beautiful.
“It’s a small crowd this week. Charles’s wife, Claire, seems sweet. The quiet type, I understand, who spends most of her time reading romance novels.”
Pricilla pulled out another pan of hot rolls from the top oven, the heavenly smell reminding him just how hungry he was. “There are also three college buddies who return each year. Let’s see, I think their names are Simon Wheeler, Anthony Mills, and Michael Smythe. Nathan told me that they’re businessmen who made it big with their. . .their dot company—”
“Dot-com company.” Max stifled a laugh. Pricilla knew nothing about
computers. E-mail correspondence would have been the perfect way for them to keep in touch, but she insisted on the old-fashioned method, the post office.
“Anyway,” Pricilla continued, “Nathan said they were among the few who managed to survive the fallout in the nineties. Apparently they sold the company a couple years ago for quite a fortune.”
He watched her flutter around the kitchen and found himself worrying about her. Even with Misty, the housekeeper, helping, he knew that cooking three meals a day for all the guests and staff of the resort lodge wasn’t easy.
He finished the last of his roll. “You’re overdoing it, Pricilla.”
Pricilla put her fists against her hips and frowned. “Why? Because I’m
retired and should be sitting out on my back porch, knitting or, even better, categorizing my dozens of herbal pills and vitamins like my friend Madge?”
“I do remember that Madge’s obsession with supplements was a bit
extreme, but what’s wrong with knitting?” Max smiled. He loved to tease
her. “I can’t remember my mother ever being without knitting needles in her hands.”
Her eyes widened. “I wasn’t trying to imply that there’s anything wrong with knitting, it’s just that—”
“Don’t worry.” This time Max didn’t even try not to laugh. “I can’t see you knitting either.”
“Thank you. I think.” Pricilla frowned and peeked into the oven, letting the savory scent of marinated pork fill the room.
“It smells fantastic.” Max knew she loved compliments, and he tried to hand them out freely.
“Let’s hope the guests agree.”
“Undoubtedly they will.”
Pricilla had always been the perfect cook and hostess, and he was quite sure she missed teaching her students at the Willow Hill Private Academy for Girls how to become the same. Times had changed too much, though. Today’s generation rarely cooked from scratch anymore, and formal dinners around the family table were becoming a thing of the past.
The principal had insisted Pricilla retire and instead hired a girl straight out of university whose idea of a home-cooked meal was frozen lasagna from the supermarket. For Pricilla, leaving behind the academy had been like losing a part of herself. He, on the other hand, didn’t miss working. After giving thirty-five years to his country and the United States Air Force, he loved his newfound freedom. Last week he’d gone fishing four days in a row, just because he wanted to.
“Where’s your daughter?” Pricilla brushed some flour off her apron, making sure it didn’t get on her red pants suit, then pulled a large glass bowl out of one of the oak cabinets. “I haven’t seen her since you arrived, and I’m anxious to introduce her to Nathan.”
“I’m already ahead of you.” Max watched her expression closely. “Introductions have been made, and the last time I peeked into Nathan’s office, they were still talking.”
Pricilla’s eyes widened. “Really?”
He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to conspire with her in her most recent scheme to match up his business-oriented daughter with Pricilla’s like-minded son. His real reason to come for the week, though, had nothing to do with his daughter’s love life. He watched as Pricilla busied herself at the stove. Stirring, tasting. . .adding a bit of salt and pepper. . .then stirring some more.
Violet had been gone almost five years now, and while he still missed her, he had to admit he wouldn’t mind sharing his life with someone as fun-loving as Pricilla, even if she was a bit overbearing at times. The problem was, he knew that Pricilla saw him as nothing more than a close friend. Even through their years of correspondence, that fact never changed. Still, he loved the intelligent conversations with her and wondered if perhaps God might grant him one last chance to change their relationship into something more permanent.
“What in the world—” Max jumped off the bar stool and ran out of the kitchen, with Pricilla following.
The scream had originated from the second floor of the log-styled building. Max rushed up the staircase and down the hall, stopping at the first open door. Claire Woodruff was bent over her husband, her face paler than a December sky. Charles Woodruff sat slumped sideways in a wingback chair beside the fireplace, his face contorted and pink. A half empty plate of Pricilla’s tartlets lay strewn across the stone hearth.
“It’s Charles.” Claire stood up to face Max, her expression void of any emotion. “I think. . .I think he’s dead.”