“Trouble you can handle has a way of turning into trouble you can’t,” Pastor Zane said. “If you let us know what’s going on, we’ll figure a way out.”
“The only thing going on here is I’m trying to figure a way to pay my debts, buy a horse and be on my way,” Journey said. “The only thing going on here is a pastor who thinks he can fix every problem. Well, there are some problems you can’t fix.”
Zane bent his head, but his stance held no anger. “We’ll play this your way for now, but watch yourself. And let us know when you need a hand.”
She was determined not to skitter from him, no matter how her thoughts pleaded with her to. Why wouldn’t he just go away?
Zane slid his hat back from his face and looked at her. “Journey, we have a saying here in the West that you might not have heard. But it’s good sound advice.”
“What’s that?”
“Watch your back.”
How little he knew. She was already backed into a corner.
MILLS & BOON
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KERRI MOUNTAIN
grew up surrounded by books and storytellers, and credits her family for instilling in her the love of a good story in any form. An avid reader, the idea came to her that she ought to try writing a story of her own, but it didn’t take her long to realize it was easier said than done. So when she had the opportunity to pursue a master’s degree in Writing Popular Fiction, it seemed a natural fit. She tries to write the kinds of stories she would want to read. The Parson’s Christmas Gift is her first novel.
Kerri lives in rural western Pennsylvania with her parents on their small family farm, and teaches in the district where she attended school as a child. She enjoys the quiet pace of country living and spoiling her niece and nephews on a regular basis.
Kerri Mountain
The Parson’s Christmas Gift
This is what the Lord says: Stand at the crossroads and look, ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.
—Jeremiah 6:16
To Mom and Dad—there aren’t enough words to
say thanks for all the love and support you’ve given
in any adventure God allows. Love you both!
And a big thank-you to all the critique partners,
mentors, friends and family who have helped
develop and improve this story far beyond anything
I might have imagined it could be. I praise God for
putting each of you in my path at just the right time.
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
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter One
September 1870, Montana
She’d pay ten dollars for a hot bath if she had it.
Journey wiped the grit from her eyes and slid from her horse. She felt as if she’d been born in the saddle—and spent all of her twenty years there.
She checked her saddlebags. Eight dollars and some hairpins.
She scanned the town as it started to wake. Slowly the sun stretched over buildings, quiet and fresh as the barren peaks surrounding the settlement. Nothing like Savannah, still fighting to recover from the destruction of the War Between the States some five years past. Nothing like Independence, always bustling with folks coming from and going to parts unknown.
“It looks like we may be in luck, Gypsy,” she whispered to her horse.
The shop she was looking for sat near the end of the street—one with a plain, honest front, a quaint little porch and a worn sign proclaiming General Store in faded blue letters. Underneath, smaller letters spelled out a wide variety of items.
Journey slipped along the shadowed side of the building and pulled a small silver mirror from her satchel. Dust muted the freckles over her round cheeks, and she debated as to which was the worse. Her skin had darkened over the miles, despite the broad-brimmed hat she wore. But no amount of color hid the exhaustion from her dark brown eyes. Pulling the hat from her head, she ran strong fingers through the curls that coiled around each other until she could feel the tangles before she touched them. She remembered the brilliant red of her mother’s silky waves and wondered what had happened that it had translated to her as a dingy auburn, uncontrollable mass.
She tugged none too gently at her tight locks and poked hairpins in strategically. “If they catch me talking to you, Gyp, I guess it won’t matter how civilized I look.” She