Critical praise for
RUTH AXTELL MORREN
DAWN IN MY HEART
âMorren turns in a superior romantic historical.â
âBooklist
LILAC SPRING
âLilac Spring blooms with heartfelt yearning and genuine conflict as Cherish and Silas seek Godâs will for their lives. Fascinating details about nineteenth-century shipbuilding are planted here and there, bringing a historical feel to this faith-filled romance.â
âLiz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Whence Came a Prince
WILD ROSE
âThe charm of the story lies in Morrenâs ability to portray real passion between her characters. Wild Rose is not so much a romance as an old-fashioned love story.â
âBooklist
WINTER IS PAST
â[This book] inspires readers toward a deeper trust in the transforming power of Godâ¦. [Readers] will find in Winter Is Past a novel not to be put down and a new favorite author.â
âChristian Retailing
â[The] faith journeys are so realistic all readers can benefit from the story. Highly recommended.â
âCBA Marketplace
Havenâs End, Maine, August 1872
Geneva felt the push from behind, a blow between the shoulder blades. The next instant she lay flat on her face against the rough, gray wharf, her toes caught in the spaces between the worn wood slats, her brimming baskets wrenched sideways. Helpless, she watched their contents scatter. The fruits and vegetables sheâd taken such pains to arrange that morning in neat, concentric circles tumbled across the sun-bleached planks.
Heads of cabbage rolled like croquet balls off the edge of the wharf to land with a plop into the awaiting tide. The smaller itemsâthe precious raspberries sheâd handled so gently to prevent bruising and the bright green string beansâdisappeared down the cracks to join the bobbing cabbages below. The shriek of gulls mingled with the cackle of laughter around her, as the birds were alerted to the treasures floating on the sea.
âSalt Fish Ginny! Salt Fish Ginny! How come youâre so skinny?â The teasing chant resonated above the laughter. âSalt Fish Ginny! Dirty as a hog, mean as her dog!â
Geneva glared at the trio of village boys stampeding by her, shouting the hated words that described her occupation, fishing for cod.
She forgot the boys as the thump of footfalls farther down the wharf reached her ears. Her glance passed the pranksters to the group turning down the wharf from the street. Rusticators! Her face flamed in humiliation as she watched the smartly dressed ladies and gentlemen on holiday, the very ones who bought her produce, stroll down the pier from the quaint, white clapboard village.
Before she could do more than pull herself to her knees, they had reached her, and stood hesitating as if looking for a way to pass through the mess. Wrinkling their noses, the ladies lifted their skirts to avoid soiling them.
Only one gentleman moved. His boots resonated against the wood, but as soon as Geneva saw who it was, her heartbeat muted the sound. She stared openmouthed as Captain Caleb Phelps came and knelt beside her. She had never been in such close proximity to him before.
Geneva found herself looking straight into the bluest pair of eyes sheâd ever seen. They were the blue of the open ocean off Ferguson Point after the morning fog burned off and when the noon sun hung high overhead. Not a cloud diminished the hue of the vast, flat expanse of sea then, but its inky blue depths sparkled with a thousand lights and depths from the reflecting sun.
Captain Calebâs eyes danced with a mixture of concern and amusement. It wasnât the sly amusement of the onlookers, she realized, but a companionable sort, as if he and she were sharing some private joke. His eyesâ wry twinkle was telling her that he had been in a similar predicament in another time and place, long ago enough to look back with humor.
Geneva blinked to break the spell. Donât be a fool. Captain Caleb didnât care what she was thinking. His world was so far removed from hers, it might as well be across the sea. She needed to get back on her feet and quick. Thereâd been enough damage done already, and she had to see what she could salvage.
But her commands didnât reach her legs. Geneva caught sight of the untidy patchwork on one threadbare knee of her overalls and suddenly became conscious of her appearance. She cringed in shame at the contrast between the manâs easy elegance and her own homespun looks. The seams of her paâs old flannel shirt were visibly frayed, the color faded from numerous washings.
Geneva glanced down at the hand the captain placed on her forearm. Despite the tanned skin, it was the hand of a gentleman. His fingernails were clean and neatly trimmed. She curled her own hands into fists to hide the broken nails, traces of garden dirt still clinging to them.