Spring wished she had artistic talent. She’d love to capture Chad on paper as he looked this very moment.
His hair reflected golden streaks under the lamplight, and the shadowed light gave his nose strength while it softened the tired lines around his mouth. An unexpected tenderness crept over her; she wanted so badly to smooth those lines away, to feel the texture of his skin beneath her fingers.
The man needed to go to bed…to sleep solidly until morning. It couldn’t hurt to merely suggest he call it a night.
She lowered herself beside him, keeping her focus squarely on his face. She leaned forward to place her hand on his shoulder. His soft breath brushed her skin, sending a quiver up her arm.
RUTH SCOFIELD
became serious about writing after she’d raised her children. Until then, she’d concentrated her life on being a June Cleaver–type wife and mother, spent years as a Bible student and teacher for teens and young adults and led a weekly women’s prayer group. When she’d made a final wedding dress and her last child had left the nest, she declared to one and all that it was her turn to activate a dream. Thankfully, her husband applauded her decision.
Ruth began school in an old-fashioned rural two-room schoolhouse and grew up in the days before television, giving substance to her notion that she still has one foot in the last century. However, active involvement with six rambunctious grandchildren has her eagerly looking forward to the next millennium. After living on the East Coast for years, Ruth and her husband now live in Missouri.
Wonders of the Heart
Ruth Scofield
MILLS & BOON
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But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness,
and all these things will be given to you as well.
—Matthew 6:33
Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and
certain of what we do not see. This is what the
ancients were commended for.
—Hebrews 11:1–2
To the BICC gang.
May you all continue long and creatively
as each of you balance life with gracious dedication
to love, family, your talent and our Father.
And to my daughters, Karen, Laura and Lisa,
who do the same. God bless you.
Contents
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
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Letter to Reader
Chapter One
Chad Alexander unlocked the door and entered his apartment. Too tired and hungry for comfort, he wondered if there was anything edible left in his kitchen. He should’ve swallowed his distaste for airport food, he guessed now, and grabbed something before starting for home. He didn’t think he had any energy left to visit Harry’s Grill, the closest place where he could order a decent meal.
He listened for his sister, Honor Suzanne.
On first observation, the apartment was fairly quiet. A CD played. He recognized the music only as a classical piece. One table lamp shed a narrow stream of light from the living room.
He set his bags down in the foyer, habit making him glance at the hall table for any mail that had caught up to him. Picking up the half-dozen on top, he stepped from the hall into the living room.
A blur of dark diaphanous skirts flashed by him in a whirl, bringing him up short. A pale bare foot paused, burrowing deep into the smooth off-white carpet, while its mate rose eye-high, arched and pointy-toed. Shapely arms reached high, fingers poised in a graceful arch. Ever slowly, the head bent backward on a delicate neck. Dark locks swung free of the dancer’s shoulders creating a graceful motion into the air.
Caught up in the beauty of the dancer, he could only stare for a long moment. This wasn’t his sister.
Spotting him, the young woman returned his look from upside down and froze. “Oh! Oh, my!” She righted herself instantly and spun to glare at him. “Who are you?”
A moment before, he’d thought her to be a friend of his sister’s, but now he revised his opinion. She was older than fourteen-year-old Honor Suzanne by a good five years.
“I may well ask you the same,” he said with sudden suspicion. What was this young woman doing here? Was she a neighbor? A dance teacher? He hadn’t authorized the expenditure, though he had no objection.
“I live here,” she answered, her blue-green eyes taking on a suspicious glint of their own.
He saw her gaze run over his unshaven jaw and wrinkled sport coat, giving him the impression she evaluated him with a decisive checklist in mind.
“How did you get in? I can call Security, you know.”
“That isn’t necessary,” he muttered, letting irony lace his words. If he’d been a burglar or otherwise bad guy, her actions held all the intimidation of a mouse’s. “I have a key.”
“You do?”
“I do. Where’s Mrs. Hinkle?”
“Who?”
He hardened his jaw, as her gaze went a little wider. Did she think he’d buy that innocent act? What was she trying to pull? Some kind of scam? Something was definitely out of kilter here. “Mrs. Hinkle. Where is she?”
“Um.” She pursed her nicely shaped lips into a pretty pout. “Sir, are you sure you have the right apartment? Perhaps—”
Just a shade too polite. Not a New Yorker. She was a good actress, he’d give her that.
Was that it? Was she one of the many young things who came to New