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“I wanted to talk with you about something else, Annie.”
“What could you possibly have to talk to me about? We’ve only just met.”
“I have another reason for staying in Safe Harbor.” Russ peered at her.
“Really?” She laughed nervously. There was something about those unusual eyes. “Well, according to the Chamber of Commerce there are a lot of reasons anyone would choose Safe Harbor.”
“It had nothing to do with the Chamber of Commerce. I’d already decided to set up shop here, just not quite yet. But then my grandfather upped the ante. More particularly, his will did.”
Something—a fizzle of awareness—shot through her. “Your grandfather’s will said you had to live in Safe Harbor?” she whispered.
“No.” He took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eye. “My grandfather’s will said I have to marry you.”
Safe Harbor—
The town where everyone finds shelter
from the storm.
LOIS RICHER
lives in a small Canadian prairie town with her husband, who, she says, is a “wanna-be farmer.” She began writing in self-defense, as a way to escape. She says, “Come spring, tomato plants take over my flower beds, no matter how many I ‘accidentally’ pull up or ‘prune.’ By summer I’m fielding phone calls from neighbors who don’t need tomatoes this fall. Come September, no one visits us and anyone who gallantly offers to take a box invariably ends up with six. I have more recipes with tomatoes than with chocolate. Thank goodness for writing! Imaginary people with imaginary gardens are much easier to deal with!”
Lois is pleased to present her latest book for the Steeple Hill Love Inspired line. Please feel free to contact Lois at: Box 639, Nipawin, Saskatchewan, Canada S0E 1E0.
Inner Harbor
Lois Richer
You are my refuge and my shield,
and Your promises are my only source of hope.
—Psalms 119:114
Dear Reader,
Hello again. I’m glad you joined me for Inner Harbor. I hope you enjoyed Annie and Russ’s struggle to know God’s plan in their lives. Aren’t we humans funny? We put such limits on ourselves, limits that God ignores. But isn’t that the way it should be? In Him, our options are vast. He is always there, always listening, always waiting for us to come back, snuggle into His lap and listen. Then, when we know His way, we’re ready, like newborn lambs, to wobble onto our own feet and take tiny steps toward the life He wants for us. As spring brings rebirth, I wish for you new hopes and dreams, fresh plans and the chance to plant much joy in this world. And, of course, may God send you an abundance of love.
Blessings,
Contents
Prologue
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
Prologue
The letter arrived by courier on Thanksgiving eve, a bulky missive with a legal firm listed as the sender.
A strange quiver of excitement rippled through Annie Simmons as she dropped the sandpaper block she’d been rubbing against a battered oak table and tore open the envelope with trembling fingers.
What now?
A legal-size white envelope with her name printed on it lay tucked inside, along with a letter. She sank down on the floor and scanned the typewritten words from the executor of Wharton Willoughby’s estate, informing her the envelope’s sealed contents had been discovered on his desk, addressed to her. She noticed that the stamp had never been canceled. Why hadn’t he mailed it?
Annie slit the envelope, slid out three pages covered in a thick black scrawl. She began to read.
Dear Annie
It’s been several weeks since I last visited you in Safe Harbor. I expect that you are well under way with your renovations now. Soon your bed-and-breakfast will be welcoming folks through its doors. Congratulations!
Annie, you’ve become the granddaughter I never had. We’ve shared so many things, allowed the other to pray over our worries. Perhaps that’s why I trust you won’t be offended by this letter from an old man who dares to make an outrageous request.
My grandson is very precious to me, and yet I’m afraid for him. R.J. has lost his way, lost touch with what really matters in this life. He’s grown afraid of responsibility. He needs someone—someone to help him face his past, his future and all the potential it holds. For some time, I’ve believed you are that person.
I’ve got a bad case of pneumonia, so I can’t talk to you in person, and the phone seems too impersonal for what I want to say, so I’ve chosen to write. Tomorrow I’ll mail this. Perhaps you’ll manage a visit to discuss it, and I can better articulate my hopes, but until then, here are my thoughts.
I can’t allow R.J. to continue on the path he’s traveling, Annie. So I’ve taken steps to direct him toward Safe Harbor. I’ve stipulated in my will that he cannot inherit the money I so desperately want him to use to expand his business—unless he marries you. It’s presumptuous of me, and I’m sure you’d scold me severely for my interference if you were here. Perhaps that’s why I’ve cowardly chosen to write this letter instead of facing you.
I know you very well, Annie. And I know my grandson. I know the burdens each of you carry. I’ve come to believe that you and R.J. belong together, that you could share those burdens and build something wonderful—together. That’s why I hope you’ll marry him.
Please, at least consider my request. Many times I’ve asked the Lord to watch over you both, many times I’ve pleaded for His direction. I believe this is His will. You’re both hiding, hurt by the past, afraid to move on. You can help each other, love each other, serve Him together. And I will have my dearest wish—at last you will truly be my own sweet granddaughter.
You are my hope for R.J., Annie. I trust you will prayerfully consider this request from a lonely old man who thanks you for the many happy hours you gave him.
Sincerely,
Wharton Willoughby
Annie lifted the courier’s envelope, hardly able to comprehend what she’d read. As she tilted it, a funeral announcement fell onto the floor. It was dated three weeks earlier, announcing the passing of a man who’d been the grandfather she’d never had. He’d died the day after he’d written her. He’d never had a chance to mail his precious letter.
Tears filled her eyes. Dear Mr. Willoughby. How she would miss him.
The letter, still clutched in her left hand, reminded her that while he might be gone, Wharton