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      MILLS & BOON

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      But the vessel he was making did not turn out as he had hoped, so the potter crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over.

      —Jeremiah 18:4

      For His glory. Always.

      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

      Epilogue

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      The day should have been perfect, one of those freshly-washed days after a spring rain when buds burst free from winter, birds sing and the world smells green.

      Window rolled down and the engine of his Ford Super Duty rumbling pleasantly, Jace Carter was feeling good. Progress on the 1902 Victorian remodel was going well.

      Overhanging oaks dappled sunlight onto the highway as he rounded the curve headed toward home. Ahead, a historic bridge spanned Redemption River and led into the small town of Redemption, Oklahoma.

      He slowed to enjoy the view of the river, the way the willows wept over the railing, and the bridge itself, hand built by the town’s early pioneers. A man who made his living in wood appreciated good workmanship, especially when it had lasted more than a century.

      The familiar thump of the road projected him onto the long historic bridge. He was craning his neck toward the rain-flushed river when the unexpected happened. A pair of screaming, water-soaked men bolted over the railing, arms waving frantically.

      Jace’s heart bolted, too. He slammed on his brakes, yanked the wheel.

      “Help! Help us!” Two hysterical men rushed to his window. Pale as plaster, terror dripped from both like the muddy red of the river dripped from their jeans and T-shirts.

      Fear prickled Jace’s scalp as he listened to a disjointed, breathless rendering of the basics. Their boat had capsized. There was a man in the water. They couldn’t reach him.

      He slammed the truck into park, killed the motor and leaped out to run down the slippery slope to the river. At first, he saw nothing but the thick, muddy water, swift and dangerous with the swell of spring rains.

      “Call 9-1-1.” He tossed his cell toward one man and ran with the violent current, searching and praying for a chance to reel in the hapless victim.

      His boots slipped. The thick bog slowed his progress. He spotted a red ball cap snagged on a branch. Hope leaped.

      With his boot toes clinging to the muddy bank, he stretched. Missed. The swirling maelstrom ripped the cap away.

      Behind him one of the men choked, “Jerry. Jerry.”

      The noise of the current sucked the sound downstream with the red cap. With a sinking heart, Jace was convinced the same had happened to a stranger named Jerry.

      By the time emergency vehicles arrived, Jace’s legs and lungs ached and he was wet and muddy to the waist. The two survivors wandered aimlessly along the banks in shock and grief of a day that had begun as fun and ended in tragedy.

      Within the hour half of Redemption had joined the search. Jace didn’t hold out much hope at this point, but there was always a miracle.

      “He could be halfway to the Gulf by now.”

      Jace lowered a pair of binoculars to look into the grim face of Sloan Hawkins. They stood together with other volunteers on the bridge. The preacher was here. So were Trace and Cheyenne Bowman. Cheyenne, a former policewoman, had helped organize the search with efficient skill. The old Dumpster Divers, GI Jack and Popbottle Jones had arrived with the sirens. They knew the river well and were guiding police boaters toward hidden inlets and snaggy coves.

      Below the bridge, ATVs revved and spit mud beneath their tires in a desperate attempt to find the man. That was the way of Redemption. People here cared. That warm acceptance was what had drawn him to the little town fourteen years ago when he was searching for a place to begin life for the second time.

      Regardless of fatigue

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