Misstep (The Road's End Series Book 1) Read online

  Copyright

  Misstep

  © 2015 Deborah Dee Harper

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938092-90-9

  ISBN-10: 1938092902

  e-Book ISBN-13: 978-1-938092-91-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Write Integrity Press, 2631 Holly Springs Parkway, Box 35, Holly Springs, GA 30142.

  www.WriteIntegrity.com

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  Dedication

  To my mother, Betty Marie LaReau Harper.

  You would have been so happy.

  I miss you.

  Acknowledgements

  My God, my family, my colleagues, my friends.

  Praise be to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the Maker and Sustainer of all creation and the One responsible for any talent or skill I possess. Thank You for this opportunity to serve You--and for placing all those who follow in my life. May my words honor You and Your Kingdom.

  A big thank you goes to my children and my precious grandchildren: Derek, Renee, Tyler, and Adam Gordon, Darice, Ron, and Molly Ackerson, Dennae, Richie, Dustin, Hunter, Cannon, and Madisson Hedges. Your encouragement and patience when I had deadlines, assignments, or just wanted to vent (read: whine) made my good times better and my bad times tolerable. I love each and every one of you with a love that only mothers and grandmothers can feel.

  Another huge thank you goes to my sister and her husband, Shelley and Greg Stevens.

  You inspired me, counseled me, believed in me. You knew I could do it and convinced me you were right. You wouldn't let me give up.

  To my brother, A. Alan Harper (a.k.a. Ethan), who proofread, advised, helped me count the stars, counseled me with iPhone problems, and made me laugh until my sides ached. Thank you.

  To my father and his wife, Arden and Patricia Harper, who applauded my efforts, fed us gourmet meals and took me out to breakfast, consoled me in my frustrations, and helped me to celebrate my triumphs. Thank you.

  To my friends around the country (Karen, Rhonda, Sherri, Lisa, and Nicole), as well as my Craftsman buddies (Bruce, Matt, Jonathan, Jessica, Trisha, Sandra, Dorothy, Jennifer, Danielle, John Perrodin), and the Jerry B. Jenkins Christian Writers Guild and its mentors: You were not only an inspiration to me, but my cheering section and a soft place to fall when I felt like giving up.

  To Jerry B. Jenkins who wrote the fabulous Left Behind series. You encouraged me when I was a Craftsman student in your Christian Writers Guild, and your words of affirmation made more of an impression than you will ever know.

  To Tracy Ruckman, publisher, and Fay Thompson Lamb, editor, at Write Integrity Press, along with their fabulous authors who prayed for me and encouraged me along the way. Thank you for believing in me and for helping me whip Misstep into shape before loosing it upon the world. You're the best!

  And finally, to my hardworking literary agent, Terry Burns, from Hartline Literary Agency, and all his clients (Team Terry), who have critiqued, edited, applauded, and most importantly, prayed for me and my writing efforts. In particular, I want to thank Linda Glaz for her initial help in editing my manuscript for submission to Terry. You’re the best, Linda! I’m so blessed to be a part of this group.

  Chapter One

  Something was amiss in Road’s End.

  My wife Melanie and I sensed it about twenty minutes after we moved into our new home. There’s something about a flock of pillaging poultry strutting through a house you’ve just bought that doesn’t seem right. Trust me on this. We watched, jaws dropped, as a dozen chickens bobbled through the front door of our home, clucked up a ruckus, and scattered to every hidey-hole they could find.

  We called our new home The Inn at Road’s End. Prior to the surprise attack, we were supervising the removal of our furniture and boxed possessions from the moving van. The Inn, a six-bedroom, three-story house was original eighteenth century; the chickens, as far as I could tell, were just run-of-the-mill twenty-first century.

  Come to find out, they belonged across the street at Sadie Simms’ Coffee House and Egg Plant, and she was genuinely apologetic about her wayward fowl. “Can’t keep ’em in their coop,” she said to me after she stomped across the street hollering for her hens. She was waving what looked like a white flag but turned out to be her apron draped over the end of her broom. For a minute there, I thought she was stopping by to surrender.

  “Every time I fix the fence, one of ’em tears it down again.” Tears it down? What’s she raising over there?

  “No harm done,” Mel said, extending her hand to Sadie. “I’m Melanie Foster. This is my husband, Hugh. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. …”

  “Simms. Sadie Simms. Glad you folks bought this old place. Been empty for a few months. Would’ve been a shame to let it go to ruin.” She lunged at a hen who had moseyed back outdoors. Sadie pounced, the chicken squawked, and I thought she was going to miss. But Sadie proved more adept at chicken-grabbing than the hen was at Sadie-dodging. I could tell they’d been down this road before. Five seconds later, the hen dangled from her hand, its scrawny legs caught in the vice-like grip of a woman who looked old enough to have fought the British. “So, you folks retired from the military, I hear?”

  The chicken squawked.

  “Shut up, Francine.”

  “Yes, Air Force,” I said. I couldn’t take my eyes from the chicken. “I was a chaplain. Say, is that chicken okay? It’s Francine, right?”

  Sadie raised her arm and looked the frustrated chicken in the face—one beady eye to another. Sadie just missed getting hers poked out. Francine was a feisty one. Sadie extended her arm a little farther and watched the hen squirm. “Yep, she’s fine. Just mad. So what brings you to Road’s End?”

  Melanie cringed. She didn’t think much of animal cruelty and even less of eye-gouging. Mel’s sweet that way. At any rate, she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself. “Well, Sadie, we’ve always wanted to buy—” she ducked as Francine made a valiant effort to disengage herself from Sadie’s clutch—“an inn and this one seemed perfect for us. Are you sure Francine isn’t hurting?”

  Sadie shook her head and gave the hen an extra little shake just to rile her. “Nope, she’s fine. We go through this all the time. She just needs to learn her place.” She held Francine up to eye level again, something I wouldn’t have done, but then I’m not a chicken-wrangler. “I’m the human, you’re the hen,” she said. “I make the rules. You follow ’em. Got that?” She gave Francine another little shake, and she squawked—Francine, not Sadie. That must have signified understanding on the part of Francine, because Sadie smiled and Francine continued to dangle. “Well, I’ve gotta go, folks. Got some baking to do. Nice meeting you. Sorry ’bout the chickens. Just send ’em on over when you’re done with ’em.” And she was gone.

  Done with them?

  Mel grinned at me and shrugged, then turned to go back inside to finish doing whatever she was going to do with the rema
ining eleven or so renegades.

  Sadie crossed the road and flung her captive over the fence. Francine crash-landed and went into a skid— squawking and scattering dust and feathers every which way—then turned and gave Sadie a final scolding. How does that woman sleep at night with a henhouse full of chickens itching to peck her eyes out? Since the fence was still broken, I wondered how long it would be before that furious, flung chicken found her way right back here. I made sure the front door was shut.

  Road’s End is home to only 147 souls—149, counting Mel and me—and most of them haven’t ventured outside Road’s End since Truman was in office. With few exceptions, Mel and I are the only ones not yet collecting Social Security. Folks seem mesmerized by us. As a result of our youthful vigor, we’re pressed into duty for everything from chasing chickens out of our house, mending their fence repeatedly—more of an act of self-defense than kindness—to mediating between residents who think former Road’s Ender Bill Manning died from natural causes and those who are sure he was murdered by his sister Winnie Wyandotte. And that was just the first week.

  I hadn’t met Emma River, either. That came during the second week, which made me yearn for the good old days when chasing petulant poultry from my house seemed the worst thing that could befall me.

  Chapter Two

  Virginia was experiencing one of its ugliest bouts of weather in a long time. Although rare in this part of the country, snow is not unheard of. Rumors of a strong storm forming over the Blue Ridge Mountains—caused by warm air from the Gulf of Mexico tangling with a mass of cold air from the west—ran rampant through town. According to the weather report, “brought to you by Titus Shadler of WEND Radio, courtesy of Frank’s Gas, Auto, and Convenience Store where you can always count on getting gas,” this monstrosity of a storm was gearing up to dump several inches of white stuff all over Road’s End and the surrounding counties.

  I think everyone was secretly thrilled. “Yep, we need a good storm about now,” Sadie Simms told me. “Only thing winters are good for around here are markin’ time and complaining. Yep, a grand ol’ storm is just what the doctor ordered.”

  Made sense. Lots of snow, high winds, and record-breaking cold temperatures promised a change of pace for a few days, and residents could rehash the gory details for decades to come. “It’s the talk of the town, Colonel Foster,” Sadie said while I fixed the fence around her chicken coop for the third time in a week.

  “Hugh. Call me Hugh.” I twisted another piece of wire with an ancient pair of pliers Sadie had on hand. My tools were still packed away and I missed them. These pliers seemed to be nothing but rust held together by … well, habit.

  Sadie leaned against a fence post, her hands in the pockets of her checkered apron. “What? Oh right, Hugh. Martha’s going to be furious she wasn’t open for this.” By unfortunate coincidence, Sadie went on to say, Martha and George Washington’s antique store—no relation to anyone remotely first president-like—was, as Martha liked to put it, “closed for renovations” that day.

  “Just having Bristol put in a couple of shelves—six-footers, I think—along that east wall. You know the one with all that tin junk she sells? Heck, I’ve got better stuff’n she does sitting in my chicken coop.” Sadie took a breath and continued, “Yep, she tells me Bristol’s doing that in the morning and she’s washing the front windows later on this afternoon. Got a full day of renovations planned, if you get my drift.” She slapped me on the shoulder and winked. “Any excuse for a grand re-opening is good enough for Martha. She’s gonna be mad she wasn’t open for this blizzard, though. Nothing makes Martha happier’n a good catastrophe. It’s a shame, that’s what it is. A darned shame.”

  Her shoulders slumped. She shook her head and tried her best to look forlorn, but I thought she looked thrilled to pieces at Martha’s impending disappointment. I wondered why Martha didn’t just scrap her renovation plans and open up as usual. But no doubt there was some perfectly logical reason for not doing so, something I wasn’t equipped to understand, being a newcomer and all, so I just kept my mouth shut.

  Sadie’s business fortunes, however, flourished that day. She sold everything in stock by noon, a grand total of eight dozen cookies, twelve loaves of bread, nine dozen rolls, four cakes, seven pies and every last egg. “Best sales day since the day before Thanksgiving last year,” she told me with a smug grin.

  I followed her inside the small gabled and shuttered home that also housed her bakery. “Hey, that’s great, Sadie. Now,” I said, rubbing my hands in greedy glee, “how about a dozen of your peanut butter cookies?”

  “Nope.”

  I groaned. “But I ordered them yesterday. Remember? When I was working on your fence?” Again, I might add.

  “Sold ’em.”

  “You sold them? How could you sell them? We had a deal.” I wanted to say, “a deal we made because I’ve tinkered with your fence for the third time in a week because you own super chickens that pick locks and scale tall buildings in a single bound,” but I kept my mouth shut. After all, I am a chaplain. Or was. “Aw, Sadie,” I whined instead, “say it isn’t so.”

  “Okay, it isn’t so.” She wiped her hands on her apron and tossed a dish towel on the counter. “But it is.”

  I hung my head and turned to leave.

  “But I’ve got some in the oven right now, Flyboy.”

  Cackle, cackle.

  Flyboy? I gave her a thumbs-up. “Good girl, Sadie.”

  She poured me a cup of coffee and motioned for me to sit down at the table. It was red Formica edged in stainless steel like the dinette set my mom and dad had years ago, right down to the red vinyl chairs. I looked around the spotless kitchen. It resembled something out of a 1950’s advertisement. Nothing fancy here, but boy, could she crank out the baked goods. I passed the time aligning the salt and pepper shakers with the napkin holder and glanced out the window. Dark clouds were forming along the western horizon. I sipped at my coffee—good coffee—then said, “Sadie, what can you tell me about Emma River?”

  She had her back to me and after a brief pause, continued to wipe off her countertop. “Not much.”

  “But you’ve been in town as long as she has, haven’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then you must know something about her. Does she have any family? Anyone live with her or take care of her house or grounds?”

  “Nope.”

  “On all counts? Nobody at all?”

  “I s’pose someone does. Don’t know for sure. I don’t associate with her anymore. Haven’t for years now.” She still had her back to me but was making motions to take my cookies out of the oven.

  I brightened up. No more whining today.

  “Oh? How many years?”

  “About seventy.”

  “Seventy years? You haven’t associated with a woman who lives one-eighth of a mile from you in seventy years? That seems downright impossible. Don’t you at least run into each other at the grocery store or the post office or the pharmacy?”

  “Same place.”

  “What?”

  She turned toward me with a pan of peanut butter cookies straight from the oven. It was all I could do to keep from vaulting over the table and hugging her. “All those are in the same building, remember? Darned near the same room.”

  “Oh. Right. But still, don’t you see her at church?”

  “She doesn’t go to church. Doesn’t believe in it, wants nothing to do with it or the people who go to it. Not since her mother died.”

  “Oh.” I tried not to embarrass myself by drooling while she slid the cookies from the sheet to a sturdy white plate edged in cherries.

  She pushed the plate toward me. “Here, take two, or three. I don’t care, eat them all. And you’re not buying these. They’re a gift for your fence-mending.”

  Dear, sweet, generous, peanut-butter-cookie-baking woman. I glanced at the plate, moved aside a couple of cookies until I found the one that looked like it should be my first and men
tally lined up numbers two and three. There’s a method to these things, but like most folks, Sadie looked at me like I was an oddball. “Thanks, Sadie. These are great. Really great.” I ate one and then another before I spoke again. “So when did her ...?”

  “Seventy-two years ago.” Sadie’s sharp.

  “Okay. Wow, she must have been just a little girl when that happened.” I calculated ages. I’m sharp too.

  “Something wrong with the cookies?”

  “No, nothing. They’re great. I’m just a little odd about some things, like eating things in a particular order.” Another bite. “And spiders and snakes and counting and squaring things up. And claustrophobia. You know, the usual obsessive-compulsive neuroses. You’ll see.” I picked up the third cookie. “And you haven’t spoken to her since? Might I ask why? I mean it seems that two ladies of approximately the same age in such a small town would have a lot in common, a lot of history together.”

  “We do. That’s the problem,” Sadie shrugged and reached for a cookie then held it up to me. “This one okay for me to eat?”

  I nodded.

  “Just easier to avoid each other than it is to erase the history, I guess,” she continued.

  “So you’ve been feuding all these years?”

  She nibbled. “I wouldn’t call it feuding. I’m right; she’s wrong. No feud there. Just stubbornness on her part.”

  Well, pardon me. “Mind giving me an idea of what she’s wrong about?”

  “It’s not anything you’d be interested in hearing, Colonel Foster.” Back to formalities, I see. “She and I had a falling out way back when we were kids, just little girls, and I guess she’s never wanted to apologize to me.”

  “Oh. Well, I haven’t been here long, and I haven’t met Miss River yet. It’s ‘Miss,’ right?”

  Sadie nodded.

  “And she has something against the church?” That worried me. “Do you know exactly what that might be?”