A Place to Belong

It was the first time he’d ever allowed himself the full thought, though the emotion had been hovering in his heart for years.

He focused on the distant, shining body of water and beyond to the narrow line he knew to be Redemption River.

“We should head back down.”

One hand holding the puppy steady, Kitty said, “You must be starving.”

“I could use a bite.” And more space between the two of us.

“Me, too.” She stepped away from the window but lingered in the oddly shaped room for a few more minutes while he stood like a helpless teenager watching and yearning.

“I love this room, Jace. I’ve never seen anything like it. If I lived in here, I would turn this space into something I could use every day. It’s far too wonderful to be hidden away in an attic.”

Her innocent phrasing caught in his brain and spun in repeating circles.

If she lived in this house—an impossible thought he’d never get out of his head now that he’d seen her here.

Winner of a RITA^>® Award for excellence in inspirational fiction, Linda Goodnight has also won a Booksellers’ Best, an ACFW Book of the Year and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from RT Book Reviews. Linda has appeared on the Christian bestseller list and her romance novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages. Active in orphan ministry, this former nurse and teacher enjoys writing fiction that carries a message of hope and light in a sometimes dark world. She and her husband, Gene, live in Oklahoma. Readers can write to her at [email protected], or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

But the vessel he was making did not turn out as he had hoped, so the potter crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over.

—Jeremiah 18:4

For His glory. Always.

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

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

The day should have been perfect, one of those freshly-washed days after a spring rain when buds burst free from winter, birds sing and the world smells green.

Window rolled down and the engine of his Ford Super Duty rumbling pleasantly, Jace Carter was feeling good. Progress on the 1902 Victorian remodel was going well.

Overhanging oaks dappled sunlight onto the highway as he rounded the curve headed toward home. Ahead, a historic bridge spanned Redemption River and led into the small town of Redemption, Oklahoma.

He slowed to enjoy the view of the river, the way the willows wept over the railing, and the bridge itself, hand built by the town’s early pioneers. A man who made his living in wood appreciated good workmanship, especially when it had lasted more than a century.

The familiar thump of the road projected him onto the long historic bridge. He was craning his neck toward the rain-flushed river when the unexpected happened. A pair of screaming, water-soaked men bolted over the railing, arms waving frantically.

Jace’s heart bolted, too. He slammed on his brakes, yanked the wheel.

“Help! Help us!” Two hysterical men rushed to his window. Pale as plaster, terror dripped from both like the muddy red of the river dripped from their jeans and T-shirts.

Fear prickled Jace’s scalp as he listened to a disjointed, breathless rendering of the basics. Their boat had capsized. There was a man in the water. They couldn’t reach him.

He slammed the truck into park, killed the motor and leaped out to run down the slippery slope to the river. At first, he saw nothing but the thick, muddy water, swift and dangerous with the swell of spring rains.

“Call 9-1-1.” He tossed his cell toward one man and ran with the violent current, searching and praying for a chance to reel in the hapless victim.

His boots slipped. The thick bog slowed his progress. He spotted a red ball cap snagged on a branch. Hope leaped.

With his boot toes clinging to the muddy bank, he stretched. Missed. The swirling maelstrom ripped the cap away.

Behind him one of the men choked, “Jerry. Jerry.”

The noise of the current sucked the sound downstream with the red cap. With a sinking heart, Jace was convinced the same had happened to a stranger named Jerry.

By the time emergency vehicles arrived, Jace’s legs and lungs ached and he was wet and muddy to the waist. The two survivors wandered aimlessly along the banks in shock and grief of a day that had begun as fun and ended in tragedy.

Within the hour half of Redemption had joined the search. Jace didn’t hold out much hope at this point, but there was always a miracle.

“He could be halfway to the Gulf by now.”

Jace lowered a pair of binoculars to look into the grim face of Sloan Hawkins. They stood together with other volunteers on the bridge. The preacher was here. So were Trace and Cheyenne Bowman. Cheyenne, a former policewoman, had helped organize the search with efficient skill. The old Dumpster Divers, GI Jack and Popbottle Jones had arrived with the sirens. They knew the river well and were guiding police boaters toward hidden inlets and snaggy coves.