âYou tricked yourself,â Nora said mildly. âYou jumped to a conclusion.â
âA logical one,â Zeb said.
âA biased one.â
âYou knew Iâd think you were male.â
âYouâre right.â She wrinkled her nose like a little girl. âI apologize.â
She looked downright cute. Zeb wanted to kiss her. The thought made him crazy. What was he thinking? She was an uppity know-it-all woman. She had too much education and too much ambition. The next woman he kissed would be his future wife, whoever annoyed him the least. Dr. Mitchell annoyed him the most.
âYouâre hired for one month. Make it work or get out.â
AFTER THE STORM:
THE FOUNDING YEARS
A tornado canât tear apart the fabric of faith and love in a frontier Kansas town
Kansas Courtshipâ
Victoria Bylin, March 2010
fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive âsomething moreâ when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were each reading the Bible.
Five months later they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michaelâs career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. Sheâs living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, âI want to tell stories.â For that gift, she will be forever grateful.
Feel free to drop Victoria an e-mail at [email protected] or visit her Web site at www.victoriabylin.com.
June 1860
High Plains, Kansas
Zeb Garrison didnât think much of church or preachers. Still, he had to give Reverend Preston credit for striking a chord that hadnât stopped echoing since Sunday morning. Zeb had been sitting in the back pew, alone because heâd overslept and his sister, Cassandra, had left without him. Heâd been half asleep when the reverend jarred him awake with a single statement.
If you died tomorrow, what would you leave behind?
The reverend hadnât shouted the words. He hadnât even raised his voice. Heâd made a statement, but the question had stayed in Zebâs mind for five solid days as he went about the business of running Garrison Mill. It hung there now, dangling like a ripe apple ready to drop.
Positioned at the standing desk in his millâs office, a custom piece of furniture built to match his height, Zeb dragged his hand through his dark hair. He needed a haircut, badly. As always, heâd put it off to the point of rebellion. A glance at the wall clock told him the town barber would be open, but a look out the window confirmed what heâd noticed earlier. Bad weather was coming. Fast. Through the window, he saw clouds racing across the grasslands, picking up speed like a runaway horse.
He had no desire to get stuck at the mill in a storm. His workers had finished early and heâd sent them home to their wives and families. Zeb had no such obligations, beyond his responsibility to his sister. It was better that way. Females, heâd learned, were treacherous. Frannie, his former fiancée, had taught him that painful lesson.
Instead, heâd poured his soul into building Garrison Mill. Along with his friend Will Logan, Zeb had founded High Plains eighteen months ago. Someday the town would be a hub for farms and businesses. Once the wheat crops became plentiful, heâd turn the sawmill into a gristmill. Eventually heâd be shipping flour all over America.
The thought humbled him. Whoâd have thought a poor kid from Bellville would ever own a mill? Zeb owed everything to Jon Gridley, a renowned Boston millwright. Pleased to have a protégé, Gridley had filled Zebâs head with the mechanics of gears and water power. When the old man died, heâd left everything to Zeb, making him a rich man in spite of his humble beginnings. With wealth came a burden Zeb hadnât expected. If Garrison Mill succeeded, High Plains would prosper. If it failed, the town could turn to dust. Not an hour passed that he didnât feel responsible for the families he and Will had brought west.