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      Copyright Page

      The Stronghold

      Copyright © 2016 by Lisa Carter

      All rights reserved.

      No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission can be addressed to Permissions, The United Methodist Publishing House, 2222 Rosa L. Parks Blvd., PO Box 280988, Nashville, TN, 37228-0988 or e-mailed to [email protected].

      The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

      Macro Editor: Teri Wilhelms

      Published in association with the Steve Laube Agency

      All scripture quotations are taken from the Common English Bible. Copyright © 2011 by the Common English Bible. All rights reserved. Used by permission. www.CommonEnglishBible.com.

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Carter, Lisa, 1964-

      The stronghold / Lisa Carter.

      pages ; cm

      ISBN 978-1-4267-9548-0 (binding: soft back)

      I. Title.

      PS3603.A77757S77 2016

      813'.6—dc23

      2015030776

      Dedication

      To my Aunt Grace—Thank you for your encouragement over the years. For your gracious hospitality in opening your home and heart to me. For living as a true example of your name, a grace note in my life and in our family. For being there when I’ve needed you the most. I love you.

      To my friend who somehow found the courage one night when we were in college to share for the first time—with me—a terrible secret of what happened while on a date. I’ve never forgotten your story nor the undeserved pain you carried. This is for you and for all the others in a sisterhood to which no one ever wants to belong.

      Acknowledgments

      Acknowledgments

      Ramona Richards—What an adventure this has been! Thanks for allowing me to tell these stories. And being the best editor in the world. I am so grateful for your friendship.

      Tamela Hancock Murray—Thanks for your prayers and constant support. You’ve made this writing journey fun.

      Thanks to the Abingdon team: Cat Hoort, Teri, Russ, Susan Cornell, and Sarah—Thanks for all you do to make the books and me the best we can be.

      Thank you, Jacqueline Gonzalez, for your English-to-Spanish and vice versa expertise. Some of the law enforcement and cartel terminology aren’t exactly standard classroom fare. Thanks for not thinking I’m crazy when I needed to know how to tell someone to put their hands in the air and get down on their knees.

      Jesus—Thank you for always being with me—when I walk through the fire and when I pass through the waters. Thank you for calling me by name. For I am Yours. And You are mine.

      Epigraph

      But now, says the Lord—

      the one who created you, Jacob,

      the one who formed you, Israel:

      Don’t fear, for I have redeemed you;

      I have called you by name; you are mine.

      When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

      when through the rivers, they won’t sweep over you.

      When you walk through the fire, you won’t be scorched

      and flame won’t burn you.

      I am the Lord your God,

      the holy one of Israel, your savior.

      I have given Egypt as your ransom,

      Cush and Seba in your place.

      Because you are precious in my eyes,

      you are honored, and I love you.

      I give people in your place,

      and nations in exchange for your life.

      —Isaiah 43:1-4

      Chapter 1

      1

      In the Sierra Madre a long time before

      When the Mexicans—the Nakayé—came, she ran.

      The Old One grabbed the rifle. “Do not let them take you, Ih-tedda.”

      She did not wait to be told twice. She darted toward the brush. Only then did the other children run, too.

      Behind them, pounding hooves. Guttural cries of defiance from the old woman. Gunfire. Curses from the riders in their hateful tongue. Bullets dinged the earth.

      She flew swift as the wind and called under her breath to the name Nana had taught her. The children dogged her heels. The little one whimpered. The Other panted for breath. Their legs were not as long as hers. They’d not trained as she had.

      If they could make the tree line . . . find the cave. Hide until the men grew tired of searching, of making sport . . .

      Almost . . .

      “Help me!” the Other cried. “We can’t keep up.”

      Cursing her and the Nakayé, she slowed and scooped the little boy into her arms. The Other pointed to a clump of scrub brush. “There.”

      Dragging them both, she hunkered under the scant cover. The boy wailed as a thorn bush pricked his bare legs. The Other laid her hand over his mouth. Beads of sweat and fear dribbled the length of her nose. They stared wide-eyed at each other.

      The boy tried to squirm free of their tight hold. Angry, Ih-tedda placed her hands around his throat.

      “No.” The Other tugged at her hands.

      “We must not be taken. Last time, the Old One . . .”

      The Other shook her head. Sadness filled her eyes. She trembled.

      Ih-tedda, too, quivered at the memory of the last time the men found their camp. How the last protector had sacrificed his life to give the women time to escape. How a girl child had been too frightened to be quiet. The old woman had taken the child’s face between her hands and snapped her neck to stop the noise. And thus they’d escaped detection.

      Her grip tightened on the boy.

      “No,” hissed the Other.

      Voices shouted. She and the Other ducked their heads. They covered the boy with their bodies and prayed to the name for invisibility. She wished the earth would swallow them whole to protect them from discovery.

      Her breath caught at the sight of the scowling, scar-faced rancher leading the posse. He hated her people, Nana said, with

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