LITMIR.BIZ

      Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of Lights, with whom is no variableness or shadow of turning.

      —James 1:17

      I actually am a certified

       “Severe Weather Storm Spotter” thanks primarily to my husband’s urging and equal participation in the class.

      This book is dedicated to him.

      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

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      PROLOGUE

      “You did what with them?”

      The thin young woman gripping the telephone receiver cowered even though the man on the other end of the line was behind bars and miles away. “I didn’t know they were so important, Sam. They were just a bunch of old keys in a drawer. How was I supposed to know any of them mattered?”

      “If they were mine, they mattered,” he shouted. “Get them back, all of them, you hear.”

      “I’ll—I’ll try.”

      “You’d better do more than try,” he said with evident menace. “You’d better have every one of those keys in your hand and be waiting for me when I get out of here in sixteen more days or you’ll never do another one of those idiotic craft pictures of yours—or any other kind.”

      “They’re three-dimensional collages,” she replied, sniffling. “I’ve sold quite a few of them and it’s a good thing, too, or I’d’ve starved waiting for you to serve your time. I don’t know why you couldn’t have just told them what they wanted to know and cut a deal.”

      “Plea bargain?” He cursed colorfully. “Not on your life. I kept my mouth shut for a reason and you had the keys to my future—to our future—until you lost them.”

      “But which ones do you want? How will I tell?” She began to sob. “Oh, Sam, honey, I’m so sorry.”

      “Shut up. Pull yourself together and think.”

      “I will. I promise. I only used the keys in three or four pictures and I’m pretty sure I remember who bought them. If they won’t sell them back to me I’ll do whatever I have to do to get my hands on them. I promise.”

      “You’d better,” he rasped. “I’m not the only one who’s counting on you. My partners aren’t nearly as softhearted as I am. Understand?”

      Nodding, she bid him a tearful goodbye, ran to the shoe box where she kept her receipts and dumped its contents onto her bed where she could spread everything out.

      Her fingers flew through the papers, scattering them like dry leaves in a gale. Three pink receipts stood out as possibilities and she plucked them from the jumble. Two of those sales had been to furniture stores in Baxter County and now that she thought about it, a third collage was still sitting in the back of her closet, unsold, so that left only one unaccounted for. It had gone to a woman from right there in Serenity. That address was the closest so she’d go there before driving to Mountain Home and buying back her own pictures.

      She had to reclaim all the keys. It was the only way to be sure she had the right ones. She shuddered. Her stomach clenched. Failing to please a man like her husband was unthinkable.

      The trembling fingers of one hand clasped the receipts while she gently touched her cheek with the other, remembering previous encounters. She dared not fail.

      ONE

      Charlene Nancy Boyd, Chancy for short, loved antiques so much that she was willing to work 24/7 to find and preserve them. On balmy spring days like this one, however, she was happy to find a good excuse to leave her shop and venture into the beautiful Ozark hills. Dogwood trees had started to lose their white blossoms and the oaks were producing tiny chartreuse leaves that would grow, darken and soon fill the skyline.

      The auction at the old farm place off Hawkins Mill Road was the kind that always made her sad. A couple’s lifetime worth of belongings was being liquidated. Both Jewel and Pete Hawkins had passed away and their heirs were selling their entire estate, one piece at a time.

      Those items that didn’t interest surviving relatives were often the most valuable, Chancy knew, and she wanted to be there to bid. If she bought something that eventually brought a profit, fine. If she let nostalgia or enthusiasm influence her and paid too much, that was simply part of the business. She much preferred auctions to private sales because she was far too softhearted when it came to the old people who were selling their last treasures.

      The crowd massing around the long tables of household goods set up in the farmyard was filled with familiar faces. Chancy greeted several acquaintances before she noticed Miss Mercy Cosgrove, a former schoolteacher she saw often, particularly in church.

      Chancy waved and

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