brought a smile to Grant’s face. “It’s right at the top of my list as soon as I get back.”
As he walked down the quiet hallway, Grant raised his hand in greeting to the woman behind the desk. “Hi, Ruth. Any change?” He’d been asking the same question for more than two years. And getting the same answer.
“No. She’s holding her own.”
He continued down the hall, stopping outside the familiar room where he’d spent so many hours. He took a deep breath, then stepped inside, closing the door halfway behind him.
After all this time, he still harbored a faint hope that one day he’d walk into the extended-care facility and find his wife waiting to greet him with her sweet smile. But he was always disappointed. Though less so now. Hope, once strong, had dimmed as days became weeks, and months became years.
Grant moved beside the bed and stared down at the face of the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman to whom he had pledged his life six-and-a-half years ago—for better or worse—before God. And he’d meant every word of that vow. He just hadn’t expected the worst to happen so quickly, just four short years into their marriage. Now the woman around whom he’d planned his future, the woman with whom he’d hoped to raise a family, the woman with whom he’d wanted to grow old, lay suspended between life and death, her once-strong limbs wasted, her passionate, laughter-filled eyes shuttered.
Closing his eyes, Grant took a steadying breath.
Lord, give me strength to carry on, he prayed. I don’t know why you’ve given Christine and me this cross to bear, but I place my trust in you. Please continue to watch over us.
He left his eyes closed for a long moment, drawing what solace he could from the prayer he uttered every day at his wife’s bedside. Then he leaned down to kiss her cool forehead, reaching over to take her unresponsive hand in his. “Hi, Christine. It’s Grant. I brought a new novel I thought you’d enjoy. And the Bible, of course. But first I’ll give you all the family news.”
He sat beside her, keeping her hand in his, and talked with her about his surprising bequest from Jo, filled her in on the latest commissions they’d received at the shop, and reminded her how much everyone missed her. It was a routine he’d begun soon after the accident, at the suggestion of her doctors, who had told him that comatose people could sometimes hear voices. They’d encouraged him to share his day with her, to read to her, saying that it might make a difference in her recovery. They didn’t push him to do that anymore. But he still continued the practice.
At the end of an hour, he opened the Bible to Psalms and picked up where he’d left off the day before. He always ended his visits with the Good Book, and today the verse seemed especially appropriate.
“‘Only in God be at rest, my soul, for from Him comes my hope,’” Grant read, his voice mellow and deep and steady. “‘He only is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold; I shall not be disturbed. With God is my safety and my glory, he is the rock of my strength; my refuge is in God. Trust in Him at all times, O my people! Pour out your hearts before Him; God is our refuge.’”
As Grant closed the book, he let the words soothe his soul. Then he stood and once more leaned down to press his lips to Christine’s forehead.
“Rest well, sweetheart. Never forget how much I love you,” he whispered.
Grant moved to the door, taking one final look at Christine’s still form. As he stepped outside, Ruth was just passing by.
“See you tomorrow,” she said.
Grant nodded. “I’ll be here.”
Chapter Two
“Morgan Williams.”
As her voice came over the wire, Grant’s lip tipped up into wry grin. He’d tried her office number first, somehow knowing she’d still be there at eight o’clock at night. And her tone captured her personality to perfection. Crisp. Pleasant. Efficient. Businesslike. Except the pleasant part might go out the window when she found out why he was calling.
“Ms. Williams, it’s Grant Kincaid.”
He could almost hear her frown over the phone, and when she spoke her voice held an edge of impatience.
“What can I do for you?”
“I think the question is, what can you do for me?”
Her sigh was audible. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I don’t have time for riddles. Is there a problem with the cottage?”
“First of all, since I expect we’ll be talking quite a bit for the next few months, can we dispense with the formality? Just call me Grant. Second, this isn’t about the cottage. It’s about Jo’s requirement that you assist with Good Shepherd Camp.”
“How do you know about that?” She sounded surprised—and wary.
“I’m president of the board.”
He expected her to groan. But if she did, she hid it well.
“I see,” she replied tersely.
“I understand from Mary that you are to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd and attend board meetings as an advisory member for the next six months. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about the camp?”
“No.”
Nor did she want to, if her tone was any indication.
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I send you some literature? That will give you a lot of background. The board doesn’t meet in December, so you’re off the hook until January. But you’ll be a welcome addition. The camp is in pretty serious financial straits, and we need to come up with a way to generate significant income. Some sort of advertising or promotional campaign may be the answer. So we can use your expertise.”
“I don’t have any experience in the non-profit area, Mr. Kincaid. So don’t get your hopes up.”
“It’s Grant,” he reminded her. “And any help you can provide will be much appreciated. The camp is a very worthwhile cause, and we want to do everything possible to make sure it stays solvent. A lot of lives have been changed for the better because of Good Shepherd. All of the kids who go there have some kind of problem. They come from broken or abusive homes, or they’ve had run-ins with the law, or they have minor physical disabilities that have led to social or emotional problems. The camp experience has been a godsend for countless young people.”
Even though Morgan had little personal interest in the project, she was struck by the passion and conviction in Grant’s voice. She may not like the man, but she admired his willingness to help those less fortunate.
“I’ll look over whatever you want to send when I have a minute,” she promised.
“Okay. On a different subject, any idea when you’ll be coming up to the cottage?”
Good question. She’d gotten the appraisal, and Seth Mitchell had been right. The property
