Between Us Girls Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture verses are taken from the Jerusalem Bible © 1966 by Darton, Longman & Todd, Ltd. and Doubleday & Company, Inc.

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © omgimages, hoangkhainhan, warrengoldswain / Bigstock

  Back cover author photo © Tim John

  The author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Ste. 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BETWEEN US GIRLS

  Copyright © 2014 by Sally John

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  John, Sally

  Between us girls / Sally John.

  pages cm.—(Family of the Heart Series ; Book 1)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5465-5 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5467-9 (eBook)

  1. Christian fiction. I. Title.

  PS3560.O323B48 2014

  813'.54—dc23

  2013048187

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Dedication

  For

  Jonah Timothy Johnson

  Welcome, little guy.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I want to thank my family for their continued, unflagging support. Husband Tim sustains me on so many levels. Granddaughter Aliah reminds me to giggle. Granddaughter Kaiya provides adjectives and details on a host of topics. Daughter-in-law Tracy is a brainstormer extraordinaire. Son Christopher is my nature and farming go-to guy. Son-in-law Troy is my go-to sports guy. Daughter Elizabeth gives me writing music and fiction insight. And grandson Jonah—well, at nine months, he just is.

  For bringing this book full circle, I couldn’t ask for a better team. Thank you to my editor, Kim Moore, and to everyone at Harvest House. Thank you to my agent, Andrea Heinecke, and everyone at Alive Communications. You all make it so easy.

  Thank you to everyone who kindly shared their expertise about cats, tornadoes, desert geology, stents, the Spanish language, and Navajo information: Cindi Cox, Tom Carlson, Peggy Hadacek, Karlie Garcia, and Kelly Glisson.

  Thank you to my SDCWG writing friends who time and again brought me back to the passion of writing fiction: Elizabeth Van Tassel, Ann Larson, Sandi Esch, John Welch, Bobbe Van Hise, Tomi Leslie, Susan McFarland, and Tiffany Hayden.

  A special thank-you to my long-lost cousin, Elizabeth Carlson Hurst, who found me during the writing of this story.

  And always, always a big thank-you, dear Readers, for your encouragement.

  In loving memory, I thank two people who blessed my writing journey for many years: website designer Kristen Balsis and agent Lee Hough. You are greatly missed.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Residents of the Casa de Vida Cottages

  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 Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Discussion Questions

  Take My Hand

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  My God, how great you are!

  …You advance on the wings of the wind;

  you use the winds as messengers.

  PSALM 104:1,3-4

  Residents of the Casa de Vida Cottages

  Olivia “Liv” McAlister, owner

  Riley and Tasha Baker

  Noah and Déja Grey

  Sean Keagan

  Piper Keyes

  Charles Chadwick Rutherford IV

  Inez and Louis Templeton

  Coco Vizzini

  Samantha Whitley

  Beau Jenner, maintenance man

  One

  March 15

  Valley Oaks, Illinois

  Jasmyn Albright watched the sun wink its first beam on the horizon. The light shimmered, a runner on a starting block, and then—whoosh. It raced lickety-split across field after field of rich, black earth. It hurdled the fence and streaked over the backyard, bumped into the porch steps, bounced up to her stocking feet, and then—wham. It splashed her entire body with light so unbearable she had to shut her eye
s.

  “Mornin’, Jasmyn.”

  At the sound of the familiar rasp, the whoosh and the wham went poof. She opened her eyes. Where Zeb Swanson should have been standing were only yellowy flickers. “Good morning, Zeb. Coffee?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Blinking away the light, she went into the house. It was the fifteenth of the month, the date Zeb always hand-delivered, at the crack of dawn, his rent check to her. He trusted neither the U.S. Postal Service nor electronic banking.

  The man was as old as the dirt he tilled and a creature of habit. His routine on the fifteenth of the month was to gulp coffee, gripe about corn and soybean prices, and mention that he wasn’t sure how long he could keep leasing land from her at the rate she charged. He’d take another gulp of coffee and toss the remainder into the spirea bushes or down her kitchen sink, depending on the season. Then, at long last, he would pull the neatly folded check from the front bib pocket of his overalls.

  With her best customer-is-king waitress smile, she’d take the check and the cup from him. They would tell each other to have a good day. While he walked off to the barn, she would unfold the check and breathe a sigh of relief.

  Every single month she did that. Her best friend said Jasmyn was stuck in a rut with both ends walled shut.

  Jasmyn disagreed. The rut kept her safe. It offered whooshing and whamming and a grumpy man who helped her pay off the six hundred fifty acres that would not sell for more than she owed on it.

  She filled two mugs with coffee that had brewed during the spectacular sunrise, retied her plaid flannel robe snugly, and headed back through the mudroom.

  The rut also came with a cocoon, a two-story farmhouse with walk-up attic, built by her great-great-grandparents. It was too large for one person and in need of updating, but Jasmyn didn’t mind that she could not afford new appliances or window treatments or a couch that did not sag. The place was home and she kept it pristine, just like Gramma June had taught her. The mere thought of leaving it gave her the willies.

  Jasmyn smiled to herself. She was only thirty-five and as much a creature of habit as old Zeb Swanson.

  He waited on the wraparound porch, leaning against the post at the top of the stairs. “Thank you.” He took the mug from her and gulped his first gulp, right on cue.

  Zeb reminded her of her late grandfather. Grizzled. Ornery. Dour. Hardworking. She was glad their paths did not cross often.

  “Gonna get in the field tomorrow,” he said.

  “Really?” Her grandfather had never, ever planted in March.

  He gazed off in the distance and lowered the brim of his green Nothing Runs Like a Deere cap. “It’s been hot as blazes for three weeks straight. Spring never did show up. Don’t expect it will now.”

  That was true. The lion that usually ushered in the month of March had failed to roar. Instead, the lamb arrived way ahead of schedule. Crocuses were already in full bloom, grass had greened, and daffodil shoots promised April blooms. But still.

  “It’s only March.”

  He scowled.

  Jasmyn bit her lip before saying something else stupid. Of course he knew the date. Of course he knew frost was a real possibility until April fifteenth. Of course he knew corn and frost were not friends.

  “It’s a gamble, I admit,” he said. “But an early harvest means the best prices we’ve seen in years. If the weather cooperates.”

  Of course he knew what would happen if the weather did not cooperate.

  He shrugged. “Farming always was and will be a gamble.” Zeb owned a large farm himself and added to it by leasing smaller tracts from others. Twenty years ago he had begun leasing from her Gramma June after her grandpa’s death.

  Whenever Jasmyn thought about avoiding Zeb Swanson, she reminded herself what a godsend he had been.

  He reached into his back hip pocket, pulled out his neatly folded check, and handed it to her. “I’ve been meaning to say I appreciate you not raising the rent all these years.”

  First a discussion about planting, and now words of gratitude? And the check was in his back pocket? Whoa. He was way off the grid today.

  “Uh, sure. I’m, uh, I’m glad it’s worked out all these years.”

  “It’s a prime piece of land. I’m happy to keep it in use. Your grandparents were good people.”

  Jasmyn could have clued him in on the realities of life with Jerome and June Albright. Probably best that she did not. He might get testy and stop leasing from her before he planted his early crop. She smiled instead.

  He drained his mug and gave it to her. “You take care now.”

  Huh? Take care?

  He was halfway across the yard before she found her voice. “Have a good day, Zeb.”

  He paused and turned. “It’s a weird one. Can you feel it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Barometer’s dropping.”

  Maybe that explained his weirdness.

  “Storm’s coming.” He walked away.

  Jasmyn unfolded the check and sighed a sigh so different from her typical fifteenth-of-the-month sigh that she had to sit down on the porch step.

  Zeb had doubled his check amount.

  The barometer must have dropped clear through the floor.

  Two days later

  Jasmyn slid onto the padded stool in front of the bedroom vanity and grimaced at her friend reflected behind her in the mirror. “Okay, the guinea pig is ready to roll.”

  Quinn Olafsson laughed. Her latest goal was to become a hairdresser in her spare time. “It’ll only take ten minutes, I promise.” She gently brushed Jasmyn’s long dark hair back from her face. “We’ll do a French braid this time. Nothing fancy. So, finish your story. What did Zeb say about his check?”

  “He drove off before I had a chance to talk to him.”

  Quinn stopped brushing and met Jasmyn’s stare in the mirror. Since kindergarten they had been as close as twins, though no one would mistake them for blood relatives. Quinn had an athletic build, super short hair—naturally blond and naturally curly—big pale blue eyes, a cute turned-up nose, and confidence as big as the outdoors.

  Jasmyn, on the other hand, resembled the photograph in the eight-by-ten frame on the dresser: a helpless, not-in-this-lifetime-cute preemie. The only difference was that she now had hair.

  “Zeb drove off? Jasmyn, he should have been in the barn. What’s going on with him?”

  “Air pressure. Have you noticed a big change?”

  “Do I look like a farmer?” She combed Jasmyn’s hair and began parting it into sections. “What are you going to do with the extra money?”

  “Hire Zeb’s grandsons to haul this vanity over to your house so you can play beauty shop whenever you want.”

  Quinn smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to mess up the feng shui you got going here in your little cocoon.”

  Jasmyn glanced around the frilly yellow room that had been her mother’s from birth until she passed away three years ago. “Mom’s hand-me-down furniture is not the secret to my blissful cocoon.”

  Quinn laughed so hard she let go of the hair strands. “Oops.” She ruffled Jasmyn’s hair, undoing the braid. “Starting over.” She brushed again. “ ‘Blissful cocoon?’ That’s a good one, Sunshine.”

  Sunshine. The nickname was compliments of their third-grade teacher. According to Miss Fowles, Jasmyn smiled a lot and her last name was Albright. How perfect was that?

  It turned out to be not in the least bit perfect. Classmates put their own spin on her name. They wondered why a student who was all bright would be in the Panda reading group, the pokey Pandas. That was probably the year Jasmyn first felt the enormous safety of home, of the cocoon. Even with a gruff granddad, a super strict gram, and a wacky mother, the place was always far better than the war zone, aka her school and peers.

  “Earth to Jasmyn. I said, please hand me—never mind.” Quinn reached over Jasmyn’s shoulder and took a ribbon from the vanity top. “Got it. I probably shouldn�
�t ask the client to hand me things. Where were you?”

  “Third grade.”

  “David Webb!” Quinn named the boy she’d had a crush on. Typical. It was how she kept track of her school years.

  Jasmyn groaned.

  “What? He was nice.” Quinn handed her a mirror and nudged her around the stool. “Ta-da! Check it out. Not a strand out of place and note the green ribbon for St. Patty’s Day. Pretty cool, huh?”

  Jasmyn tilted the mirror to see the back of her head. “It is definitely cool. You should be a beautician.”

  “Thanks. Now why on earth did you zone out to third grade? That year was nasty. Except for David Webb.” She took the mirror and bent to face Jasmyn nose to nose. “Hon, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Quinn.” She smiled. “I’m just fine.”

  She was always just fine. Was there another choice?

  Two

  March 17

  San Diego, California

  Samantha Whitley tried to smile. She gave it her best shot, stretching her lips to unaccustomed distances. She showed her teeth, hid her teeth, made the corners of her mouth defy gravity.

  The camera went click, click, click and Sam gave up. It would be better to express her solemn, professional self than look like a flibbertigibbet. Besides, supermodels never smiled.

  Click, click.

  Not that she was supermodel material.

  Click, click.

  Good grief. What was up with the photographer? If he hoped to catch the tall, black-eyed, black-haired, black-suited woman smiling genuinely in the back row of a group of twenty-some people, he would be snapping for a long, long time.

  Sam considered texting insults to her boss about his idiotic decision to send her to the event. Randy had insisted the assignment was necessary. It was a boost up the ladder for her. And besides, no one else was available. The guy was a hoot a minute.

  At last the photographer lowered his camera and the group dispersed, laughing and chattering. Sam wondered if it was too soon to leave.

  She retrieved her oversized handbag at her feet, unclipped the nametag from her lapel, and dropped it in the bag. Enough with the PR already. Samantha Whitley of Collins and Creighton Engineering Firm was going back to the office to do some real work.