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ISBN-13: | 9781611162493 |
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Publisher: | Pelican Book Group |
Publication date: | 12/18/2012 |
Series: | Christmas Holiday Extravaganza |
Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
Format: | eBook |
Pages: | 79 |
File size: | 143 KB |
About the Author
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Ransomed Hope
By Deborah Pierson Dill
Pelican Ventures, LLC
Copyright © 2012 Deborah Pierson DillAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-61116-249-3
CHAPTER 1
December, seventeen years later
The front door slammed behind Ashley, muffling the sound of Brandon's bellowing, though not drowning it out completely. He'd already had so much to drink since he got home this afternoon he was barely lucid. Figuring out what he was ranting about — what he was accusing her of — took some time and almost more energy than she possessed on her best days. But the source of his wrath finally came spewing out as he wailed the one word that embodied all that had ever been wrong with his life.
Manuel.
"Are you the reason he's here?" Brandon's irate accusations pursued Ashley as she pulled on her coat and bounded down the front porch steps to her truck, keys in hand.
"Did you call him to come back and save us? That pile of rubble has been under construction for the past year, but has he called you once? He's down there moving in right now, and it doesn't look like you even knew about it. Do you think he still cares anything about you after all this time?" Ordinarily, she wouldn't believe a word he said. Her brother had probably destroyed so many brain cells on his binges she might attribute his ramblings to drunken hallucinations. But he seemed so certain. Manuel was there at the old house. And so was a moving van. And they were off-loading furnishings and boxes as if someone was moving in.
She climbed into the pickup and started the engine, throwing the gear shift into drive and steering towards the road without thinking. An ache rose up in the back of her throat and she swallowed it down, focusing instead on how the road, which should have been graded years ago, jostled her in the cab. She couldn't remember the last time she cried, and she resisted the present urge desperately. But emotion welled up before she could get a handle on it.
"God, help me," she whispered. "What if it is him? After all these years. What do I do?"
Slap him.
Ashley laughed regretfully. God would never prompt her to violence, but her own angry, first impulse might. Her ironic laughter faded as the house came into view. A moving van was backed up to the newly refurbished front porch and two uniformed men unloaded a brown leather sofa. Someone was moving in.
She stopped the truck at the gate to the old place and stared. It had to be him. Unless he'd sold the place. And that wouldn't make any sense. Not given all the money the property must be making him now.
Ten years ago the drill rigs had gone up, and then they'd come down leaving the steel Christmas trees in their place, signifying good, gas-producing wells — at least a dozen of them. That development had coincided with Brandon's sudden steep descent to the bottom of the vice pit in which he remained to this day.
Ten years. And those rigs had gone up seven years after Manuel left. And still she'd had no word from him. Now he was moving into his house, which had been beautifully restored in the past year. She'd once asked a contractor on the job site if there was some way she could contact the owner. With an apology, he'd said no, he wasn't free to give out that information — as if he'd been instructed specifically not to do so.
Ashley stepped out of her truck into the blustery, overcast early-December afternoon. She raised a hand to her mouth and scanned the house, the moving van, the activity on the front porch. Movers continued to unload furniture and box after box, carrying them inside, coming back out for more.
Then she saw him. At least, she thought she saw him. She squinted, trying to bring him better into focus.
He exchanged a few words with a worker, then pressed his phone to his ear and paced to the edge of the porch. The man whose presence commanded every last strand of her attention definitely wasn't the twenty-two year old cowboy who had departed seventeen years ago, but it was Manuel. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking him. Ashley stepped to the fence and curled her fingers around the top wire. A warm ember of hope stirred in her heart. He'd promised to come back, and although she'd always feared he wouldn't, now he had.
Manuel turned and paced the whole length of the front porch as he talked. His dark trousers and deep blue button-down shirt, tailored to perfection, spoke of money and position. She glanced down at her faded and frayed jeans, at the dingy t-shirt and worn out boots. She'd set the mop in her hands aside and immediately forgotten it when Brandon had come in hollering at her, but evidence of the chore remained in the form of wet patches on her clothes, a sloppy ponytail, and rough, red skin on her hands. A sudden surge of shame prompted her to crawl back into her truck and drive away before he saw her. But she stood, rooted to the spot, unable to turn away.
Manuel turned and paced halfway across again, a wide smile lighting his features and breaking her heart wide open. He ended the call and his soft smile lingered. Then he glanced in her direction, freezing when he noticed her. For a long moment he simply stood there, his smile fading. Then he turned and walked into the house.
* * *
Manuel slipped the phone into his pocket and ran a hand through his hair. A quick glance out the front window assured him his eyes had not deceived. She wasn't a figment of his imagination. Ashley.
She climbed into a wreck of an old pickup and pulled the door closed. She sat for a moment staring at the house, then she turned the truck around and drove up the hill toward Franklin's house — Brandon's house.
He expelled a heavy breath and examined his trembling hands. Maybe he wasn't as prepared for this as he thought. He sat, and the cool leather upholstery of the sofa chilled him as he surveyed the state of the living room. His contractor had done a beautiful job adding every modern amenity while preserving the integrity and character of the house's architecture. Original plank floors glowed with a warm new finish. Stone walls encased modern windows. He glanced back out the front, his gaze lingering on the fence beside which she'd stood.
Ashley would appreciate that the granite countertops had been quarried nearby. The fireplace was in perfect working order, and there was even some cord wood stacked on the hearth. She would like that, too.
Manuel rose to put a few pieces into the iron grate and open the flue. He wadded a scrap of newsprint from a nearby box and used it as tinder to get the fire started. Maybe that would fend off the chill from the open front door. He rose to his feet and glanced around again.
He had rebuilt this place with her in mind, knowing she'd never live here. She'd been married for twelve years now. The news of her expensive, ostentatious wedding had nearly flattened him. He didn't recall exactly how he'd rebounded. But he had.
Manuel took a poker from the hearth and prodded the logs as the tinder did its work. Maybe all this was his fault. When he left here, he'd been so sure Franklin's name would open every door. But it didn't open any. And Manuel had been worse off in those first years than he had been before his foster father had taken him in. He'd ended up not only broke, but destitute. He couldn't face her.
Then she'd gotten married. That same month, the energy company had started exploring the possibility of drilling on the hundred acres Franklin had given him, mineral rights and all. Then his circumstances turned completely around, and he'd been ascending to this point ever since.
He breathed deeply and recommitted to his plan.
He was totally prepared for this. Ashley could stand out at his gate looking as forlorn as she pleased, but it wouldn't change his mind about what he'd come here to do. She'd be better off than she was now anyway. Her husband's money hadn't managed to save the place. But Manuel would. And she could leave here with no debt and start over.
Maybe Ashley and Brandon had never seen him as anything other than the poor, stray foster kid their dad took in, but Manuel had been as much a son to Franklin Tennent as either of his biological children. He had as much right to this place as Brandon and Ashley — maybe more because he'd been the one who worked it alongside Franklin. Those two had squandered Franklin's legacy, their inheritance. They'd run the place into the ground. And now that foreclosure was imminent, Manuel was here to buy it back.
* * *
Ashley pushed the front door softly closed and leaned against it. Many times over the years, she'd envisioned some scenario in which Manuel returned and they were somehow reunited. In more recent years, she'd imagined letting him have it with both barrels for not coming back sooner, in time to stop her from marrying Paxton Turner. But in no scenario she'd ever concocted had the reunion gone the way it really just had — with him turning his back on her and walking away and not a word spoken between them.
Well, what else could she expect? Years ago, something had changed his mind about coming back to her. So it made no sense to think he was coming back for her sake now, which only intensified the sudden mystery. Why was he here?
"So, did you call him?" Brandon's brittle voice drifted out of the late afternoon shadows of the great room. "Is that why he's here? Because you found him after all these years and convinced him to come back and take everything from us?"
Ashley crossed the foyer into the great room where Brandon stood staring out the window that spanned almost the entire height of the room's fifteen foot clearance. She followed his gaze outside and across the south pasture, down to the old house now glowing, warm and golden with a human presence. A thin trail of smoke rose from one of the chimneys.
"What are you talking about?"
"That, down there. Manuel." Brandon sounded completely sober now, after having a few minutes alone to ruminate. He turned to her. "Did you talk to him? Tell him all the sordid details of our financial status? Did you tell him the bank is moving to foreclose on me, or did he already know?"
"You've had too much to drink. You're not making any sense." She switched on a lamp, throwing sudden light on his dead serious expression. "How can the bank foreclose on something you own outright?"
He turned back to the window and expelled a tortured breath.
"Brandon?" Her heart dropped to her stomach, and a livid trembling took her suddenly. "What did you do?"
He turned to her, his dim, bloodshot eyes meeting hers defiantly for a moment before something like shame took over and he looked away. "I took out a line of credit."
Something inside her clenched tight. "When?"
"Five years ago."
"Using what as collateral?"
He didn't respond.
"So, let me guess." Ashley didn't even try to mask the expectant note of disappointment in her voice. "You opened a line of credit against what's left of the ranch, then you maxed it out, then you quit making the payments."
Again, no response.
"And now the bank is going to evict us and sell our home — our father's home, a place that's been our family's for a hundred and fifty years — all because you needed to finance your drinking and gambling and who knows what else." She took a deep breath, trying desperately to tamp down the mounting fury. "And you think I called Manuel to come and do what? Bail you out?"
Brandon scowled at her, threw his weight into a leather armchair, and reached for a glass of amber liquid on the end table.
"I wish I had been able to call him. Years ago. Then maybe we wouldn't be in this mess now."
"I knew you'd blame me for this." Brandon seethed. Furious, alcohol-induced tears welled in his eyes, and he drained the glass. "You always blame me."
She sat across from him and fixed her gaze over his shoulder, at the old house in the distance. Remarkably, she didn't feel the least bit surprised. Nothing Brandon did ever came as a surprise.
For the second time today she thought a good cry might be cathartic, but an emotional outburst would solve nothing. Everything that remained was about to be taken from them. And, as had been the case for her entire life, there was nothing she could do about it.
"Yes, Brandon. I've always blamed you. For everything."
He rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered out of the room, the sound of a slamming door her only indication that he'd gone to his room where he would probably sleep through the remainder of this day and most of tomorrow as well. She, on the other hand, would not sleep. Maybe not for weeks.
"What now, Lord?" she whispered.
She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and tried to listen, just as she'd been trying to listen since her husband passed away. She couldn't understand all the why's of her situation, her life. Maybe it wasn't her place to understand, but rather to abide. Still, there were so many things she wished she could have — or would have — done differently.
There had been a time after it had become clear Manuel would not be returning and before she married Paxton, when she had considered leaving. She thought she could find a job, get a little place of her own, and be free from Brandon's destructive existence. But this was her home, too. Even though her father hadn't made provision for her in his will, this place was all she'd ever known and worth fighting for.
When she agreed to marry Paxton, she did so with the understanding that they would live here. Fortunately, Paxton shared her concern that if her brother were left alone in the house, he'd probably end up burning it down. Now it looked as if she'd be leaving anyway and never coming back. And what would Brandon do? Was she supposed to take him with her? After all the years he'd spent not caring about her or anyone else?
Ashley rose and crossed to the window. The old house was still visible, though the late afternoon light was fading quickly. At least Manuel wouldn't lose his place — the original hundred acres, and the last piece of the ranch that Brandon hadn't sold off or lost to the bank.
She sighed and wrapped her arms around her midsection to fend off a sudden shudder. The cold, damp December air seemed to have permeated the window and filled the room around her. And she imagined the scent of wood smoke from Manuel's fire. She glanced to the huge stone hearth that filled one wall of this room, trying to remember the last time they'd had a fire in here to warm them. It had been years.
Something fell with a crash down the hall in Brandon's room, and she winced at the sound. She'd been unkind to him. Not that he deserved any better.
But then, neither did she. Her words had been intended to hurt him. To drive home her point that this situation was all his fault. But she was sorry. He probably wouldn't remember the comment tomorrow, so maybe it didn't matter.
On a console table beside her, stood the little nativity scene that had always graced this spot during the holidays. She reached down and touched a glossy, porcelain figurine. It was the only concession to Christmas she'd been able to make since her father's death. And she'd only been able to do that since the year Paxton had fallen ill.
Theirs hadn't been a good marriage.
But through his illness, both had come to find saving faith in Christ. Had he beaten the cancer, the marriage might have grown into something more beautiful than she could have imagined.
"So, what now, Lord?" she asked again, quieting her spirit and hoping for direction. "Now that the bank is going to take the ranch and the house. What am I supposed to do?"
Have faith and trust Me.
CHAPTER 2"Can you possibly stay sober for just a couple of hours?" Ashley rearranged throw pillows on the sofa. "Until noon, Brandon. By then this will all be over and you can do whatever you want."
Brandon pulled the bottle away from the empty glass and stood for a moment as if considering. Then he put both back into the liquor cabinet and closed the door.
"Did Mr. Cole say why they wanted to have this meeting here at the house," Ashley asked, "instead of at the attorney's office or at the bank?"
Brandon grunted and shrugged. Meaning, she assumed, that he already knew exactly what the purpose and outcome would be, but didn't intend to tell her. Typical. She'd find out soon enough, anyway.
The doorbell rang, making her heart pound and a wave of nausea wash over her with such force she almost couldn't remain on her feet. She swayed and reached for the back of a chair as Brandon strode across the foyer and opened the door.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ransomed Hope by Deborah Pierson Dill. Copyright © 2012 Deborah Pierson Dill. Excerpted by permission of Pelican Ventures, LLC.
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