Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 “Tamatha.” Papa’s voice filled the small parlor, making his presence known as if every word he spoke was from a pulpit. Tamatha gasped. Her head jerked from the tangle of needlework with a start. “Yes?” “A word in my study,” he said and ducked out. The swish of his ...

As he bent to hitch the rig to the truck, his sandy hair fell over one eye. He slid his palm through, smoothing the damp locks back, and Tamatha imagined her own fingers slipping through the thick waves.