Her Forgotten Amish Past - Debby Giusti Mills & Boon Love Inspired Suspense

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chased through the dark woods. Untying her past puts Zeke and Becca in danger not only of losing their hearts but also their lives.

      I pray for my readers each day and would love to hear from you. Email me at [email protected] or write me c/o Love Inspired, 195 Broadway, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10007. Visit me at www.debbygiusti.com and at www.Facebook.com/debby.giusti.9.

      As always, I thank God for bringing us together through this story.

      Wishing you abundant blessings,

       Debby Giusti

      Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness:

      thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress;

      have mercy upon me, and hear my prayer.

      —Psalm 4:1

      In memory of

      Betty Ramsdell

      August 23, 1919–April 1, 2019

      A faithful Christian, devoted army wife

      and dear friend.

      Thank you, Betty, for your love and support.

      Contents

       Cover

       Back Cover Text

       About the Author

       Booklist

       Title Page

       Copyright

      Note to Readers

       Introduction

       Dear Reader

       Bible Verse

       Dedication

       ONE

       TWO

       THREE

       FOUR

       FIVE

       SIX

       SEVEN

       EIGHT

       NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       FIFTEEN

       SIXTEEN

       SEVENTEEN

       EIGHTEEN

       NINETEEN

       TWENTY

       TWENTY-ONE

       TWENTY-TWO

       TWENTY-THREE

       TWENTY-FOUR

       TWENTY-FIVE

       EPILOGUE

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       ONE

      “Hello?”

      Becky Taylor tapped on the door of the trailer, then glanced at the Montcliff Studio van parked nearby and raised her voice to be heard over the cold wind that whistled through the tall pines.

      “Is anyone there?”

      Disheartened to have her knock go unanswered, she pulled her black cape tight around her shoulders and adjusted the starched white kapp that covered her knot of unruly hair.

      An Amish woman should be able to twist her mane into a smooth and compliant bun, her grandmother’s voice from the past challenged. Instead, Becky battled the wayward wisps that danced in the swirling wind. Raking the chestnut strands away from her face, she glanced up at the dark clouds crowding the sky and the descending twilight that brought with it the smell of November rain and musky, red Georgia clay.

      Concerned about the encroaching storm, she knocked again, then shrugged and dropped her hand to the knob that turned too easily. Needing to escape the fat drops of rain that, at that moment, started to fall, she stepped into the small entry space, fully intending to make her presence known. The sound of raised voices from a back room made her

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