next time, may the angels watch over you. Always.
Lenora Worth
“And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.”
—Jeremiah 29:13
To Marta Perry, a mentor and friend
and incredible writer.
Thank you, Marta,
for your encouragement and support.
Contents
He thought of Ava Jane.
The memory of her sweet smile had held him together for so long, Jeremiah wondered if he’d ever be able to face her again. The real her. The one he’d left behind. Remembering her pretty smile was one thing. Coming face-to-face with her and seeing the hurt and condemnation in her eyes would be another.
Something he’d dreaded during the long bus trip across the country from California to Pennsylvania.
But he wasn’t here today to meet with the bishop about Ava Jane. He’d lost her and he’d accepted that long ago. He didn’t deserve her anymore. Twelve years was a long time. She’d made a good life with a good man. Or so he’d heard.
She had not waited for Jeremiah to come home because all indications had shown he never would come home again. At times, he’d thought that same thing. Thought he was surely going to die a world away from the one he’d left. At those times, he’d think of her rich strawberry blonde curls and her light-as-air blue eyes. And her wide, glowing smile. And he’d wish he’d never left her.
But he was here now, waiting inside the bishop’s home to speak to him. Here and needing to find some solace. He came back to help his family, whether they wanted him to or not. His younger sister, Beth, had tried to keep in touch, but her last letter had been full of fear and grief.
“Daed is dying, Jeremiah. Please come quickly.”
Bishop King walked into the sparsely decorated parlor where Jeremiah waited and stood for a moment. The man’s gaze was solemn and unreadable, but his dark eyes held a glimmer of hope.
“Young Jeremiah Weaver,” the bishop said before he took his time settling down in a high-back walnut chair across from Jeremiah. “Have you kumm back to your faith?”
Jeremiah held his head down and studied his hands, horrible memories of rapid gunfire and grown men moaning in
