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  “Ransomed Dreams is another wonderful weave of compelling characters, poignant pacing, and the twin truths that forgiveness is costly but love can meet the expense head-on. Sally John is an insightful, inspiring storyteller.”

  Susan Meissner, author of The Shape of Mercy

  “Sally John has done it again—interesting characters, exotic locations, and a compelling storyline. The unexpected twists in the protagonist’s life left me evaluating the sources of my own sense of security. Thought provoking.”

  Kathryn Cushman, author of Leaving Yesterday

  “Ransomed Dreams is another inspiring story from Sally John that profoundly touches the heart. This novel will captivate readers with its characters, intrigue, and twists and turns. A must-read for anyone who has lost their way and their dreams to discover hope!”

  Susan Wales, author and producer

  “Sally John delivers an intense and emotionally satisfying reminder that our lives can change in a heartbeat.”

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  “Talented author Sally John weaves a web around her readers, drawing them into her characters’ world. . . . Oh what a satisfying read—one of the best of the year.”

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  “[Sally John] writes an enthralling story with fully developed characters that are experiencing problems that many women of faith face daily. And she does it with warmth, realism, and sensitivity.”

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  “Once in a very long time, a book comes along that has the ability to touch hearts, change lives, and inspire hope. Castles in the Sand is one such book. . . . A profound, inspiring read of a family torn apart and the long road home.”

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  Ransomed Dreams

  Copyright © 2010 by Sally John. All rights reserved.

  Cover photo of Mexico copyright © by Russell Monk/Masterfile. All rights reserved.

  Cover photo of couple and rosary copyright © by Masterfile. All rights reserved.

  Author photo by Elizabeth John. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920, www.alivecommunications.com.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  John, Sally, date.

  Ransomed dreams / Sally John.

  p. cm. — (Side roads ; 1)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-2785-3 (pbk.)

  1. Married people—Fiction. 2. Life change events—Fiction. 3. Victims of violent crimes—

  Fiction. 4. Invalids—Care—Fiction. 5. Americans—Mexico—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3560.O323R36 2010

  813'.54—dc22 2009054157

  In memory of Kyle John, 1981–2008

  Your own ears will hear him. Right behind you a voice will say, “This is the way you should go,” whether to the right or to the left.

  ISAIAH 30:21

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Part Two

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  The characters in this book know much more than I do about the Spanish language, art, Chicago, Mexican food, Catholicism, cartoons, Scriptures, words in general, and phrases in particular. For help in these areas and more, I am hugely indebted to Sue Laue, Karlie Garcia, Kelly Paige Standard, Yolanda Larez, Troy Johnson, Joe and Laura Irrera, Carrie Younce, and the John ladies—Aliah, Kaiya, Tracy, and Elizabeth. Thank you all!

  Thank you to those who make possible my dream of turning a story idea into a book with pages, cover, and a place on a bookshelf so that others might read it: Lee Hough, Alive Communications, and the entire Tyndale family.

  Thank you to the gifted editors who refined the work and cared as much as I did for it: Karen Watson, Stephanie Broene, Lorie Popp, and Kathy Olson.

  And as always, for their unfailing support and prayers, thank you to friends at Church of the Advent; my son, Christopher; and my husband, Tim.

  Prologue

  Caracas, Venezuela

  At precisely twelve minutes, thirty-five seconds past ten o’clock in the morning Venezuelan time, Sheridan Montgomery’s world ceased to exist.

  She lay on a sidewalk, not quite facedown, not quite on her side. A crushing weight pinned her against the flagstones. A hand gripped her head viselike, pressing her cheek into the cool, rough surface. Her left arm protruded from beneath her at an awkward slant, aligning her wrist mere centimeters from her eyes.

  She gazed at her watch. Its crystal was a web of fine veins. The second hand did not move.

  Twelve minutes, thirty-five seconds after ten.

  Eliot had given her the watch four years before, on their fifth anniversary. She had protested at the sapphires that ringed its face, at the twenty-four-carat-gold and silver band. It was too beautiful, she said. Too elegant.

  “Elegant?” He had laughed. “With numbers big enough for Big Ben?”

&
nbsp; “Still,” she had said. “Sapphires?”

  “Small ones. For a touch of sparkle.”

  A touch of sparkle. It was how he described her. The nickname began when they got engaged. She didn’t want a diamond ring, just a simple gold band. He honored her choice, saying she was the only touch of sparkle needed.

  She had kept the watch for his sake. Eventually she grew to appreciate its large numbers that helped her notice the time. She was still late to everything, but not as late. The graceful sweep of the second hand became a reminder to slow down and savor the moments.

  She blinked again. The watch still read twelve minutes, thirty-five seconds past ten.

  Pain ripped through her, an excruciating wrench from stomach to chest to throat. She opened her mouth, but the scream would not come. She had no breath.

  “Let’s go!” a voice above her roared.

  Air slammed into her lungs, searing her throat. She gagged.

  “Sher!” The voice again, softer, a rush of hot air at her ear. “Sher!” It was Luke. The grip on her head loosened. The weight shifted.

  Chaos bombarded her senses. Loud shouts. Shrieks. People a blur of motion. A pungent scent. A dryness like a mouthful of cotton. Arms encircling her, roughly jerking her upright.

  And then she saw it.

  The scream still would not come, only a mewling, its sound lost in the raging clamor.

  Luke held her tightly to himself, moving them as one, her feet scarcely touching the ground. He rushed them away.

  Away from the pandemonium.

  Away from it.

  Away from the sight of her husband sprawled facedown, the back of his ivory linen suit coat turning to a brilliant shade of scarlet in the morning sun.

  Chapter 1

  Topala, Mexico

  Eighteen months later

  Like everything about the small village tucked into the foothills of the Sierra Madres in central Mexico, sunrise was a leisurely event.

  Sheridan waited for it, tea mug in hand, shawl over her cotton nightgown, bare feet chilled against the tile floor of the second-story balcony. Alone, she listened in the dark to the squawk of roosters and clung to their promise that the world would once again know light.

  “Oh, good grief,” she murmured to herself with a groan. “That is so maudlin. Truly and hopelessly maudlin. You might try something more chipper. Something like . . . Something like . . .” Her foggy brain offered nothing.

  She scrunched her nose in defeat. The morning had shuffled in on the heels of a sleepless night. Chipper was not going to happen, no matter how hard she tried to talk herself into it.

  If she could turn the calendar back eighteen months, she would not be talking to herself. No. Eliot would be right next to her, responding, most likely pointing out a dozen chipper thoughts in that funny way of his.

  Nostalgia and regret hit her, a powerful one-two punch that still took her breath away. She clenched her teeth, waiting for it to pass, mentally spewing forth a verbal attack at the counselor who had promised her that time healed all wounds, that month by month they would see improvement.

  What drivel that was! Eighteen months—or to be more precise, seventeen months, three weeks, and two days; but who was counting? All that time had passed and only one thing was healed: Eliot’s gunshot wound. His other wounds, the invisible ones, still oozed like toxins from a waste dump site. He was not the same man she had married.

  Sheridan took a deep breath and let the bitter argument go. Nostalgia and regret settled back down into whatever corner of her heart they’d found to hide out in. Their impact, though, lingered.

  Would time ever erase her longing for the Eliot she had married? The animated one, the one others adored, the one who was engaged in every detail of life, whether simple or complex, with every person who crossed his path. The one from B.C.E., Before the Caracas Episode. Now, in their A.C.E. days, he might as well be a deaf-mute for all the interest he showed in the world around him.

  Sleep deprived, she totally blamed him. She didn’t mean to. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice. The bullet that shattered his nerves shattered their life. Everything about it was over. Health, career, home, friends. All gone. Kaput. Some days she barely recognized herself and Eliot. Where were the Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery she once knew? These routines, hometown, health, acquaintances, and even personalities seemed lifted from the pages of some stranger’s biography.

  “Oh, honestly. Get over it already, Sher.” She forced a swallow of tea and focused on the scene before her.

  A lone sunbeam pierced between two mountain peaks and sliced into the distant mists. Another followed. And another and another until finally pure light broke free. Valleys and canyons burst into sight. Loud birdsong erupted. Then, as if God had uncurled His fist, long fingers of sunlight shot forth and touched the wrought-iron railing where she stood.

  It was achingly gorgeous.

  Sheridan flicked at a tear seeping from the corner of her eye. “You should have stayed in bed, you foolish, stubborn woman.”

  Sunrises were the worst because they represented the best of what had been.

  Most days she could ignore that thought. Evidently not today. She and Eliot were morning people. Had been morning people. Their daily ritual of tea and conversation at an east-facing view, awaiting dawn, was seldom missed. With crazy-full schedules, they needed such a time to relate on the deepest levels. Some days their hearts positively danced and sang in union. Naturally, through the years the tune changed now and then, the tempo sped up and slowed down, but the music never stopped. It never stopped. They always talked. They always connected.

  Until that day in Caracas.

  Now she watched sunrises by herself.

  “You really should’ve stayed in bed.”

  But it was so beautiful. And it went on and on like a slow waltz. At the bottom of her street now, purple haze still shrouded the town square. The sky brightened in slow motion above it, the fiery ball itself still hiding behind a peak.

  Something moved in the semidarkness below. A person. Early risers were not uncommon, but she was startled. Something felt off about this one.

  Or was that just her hypervigilance? Compliments of the incident in Caracas, it kicked into gear at times without warning, filling her with anxiety and suspicion.

  Now she could see that it was a man. He passed the bandstand, his strides too deliberate for a villager, too American. He headed straight for the steep incline that led up to her house. In city terms, the distance was perhaps a block. In Topala terms, it was simply up beyond the sculptor’s shop.

  The sun overtook the peaks and the man came into view.

  “No way.” Her heartbeat slowed, but not quite to normal.

  Even with his face concealed by a ball cap, his body clothed in a generic khaki jacket and blue jeans, a city block separating them, she recognized him. She recognized him simply because the air vibrated with him.

  Luke Traynor owned whatever space he occupied.

  Sheridan set the mug on the table beside her, tightened the shawl around her shoulders, and massaged her left arm. She felt no surprise at his unannounced arrival nor at the early hour. It was as if she had always expected him to show up sooner or later.

  But as he climbed the narrow street, an uneasiness rose within her. Her muscles tensed. Why was he here? He had promised not to come. Sixteen months ago he promised. Not that she was keeping track. . . .

  The sound of a soft whistle drew her attention back toward the square. Javier, the young sculptor, stood on the porch steps outside his shop. Behind him, the handicraft shop owner emerged from his door.

  Javier raised his chin in question.

  Sheridan gave a half nod. They needn’t be concerned. The stranger was, so to speak, a known quantity. Not that she felt the least bit glad to see Luke. Eliot would most likely be severely distressed at his arrival.

  Wishing Luke were an apparition did not make it so. He continued his steady pace, arms swinging gently, head
down as if he studied the cobblestones, making his way to her house.

  Since that day in Caracas—the day her husband died in every sense except physically, the day this man saved her life—Sheridan had understood intuitively that Luke would always be a part of her life. And there he was, out of the blue, ascending her street in the middle of nowhere on a spring day as if he visited all the time.

  She suddenly remembered the date. “Good grief.”

  It was Annunciation Day, a day of remembrance, of celebration for when the angel Gabriel visited Mary and announced her future. How apropos. Luke appeared without warning. He would not have come unless he had something to tell her, some message that would irreversibly change her future.

  Was this his joke or God’s?

  Luke neared and looked up, straight at her.

  She saw not the man whose presence had always triggered apprehension in her, but rather the guardian angel who had saved her life.

  Sheridan turned and made her way inside, down the stairs, and through the house.

  * * *

  Sheridan opened the front door and stopped.

  Luke Traynor stood less than six feet away, at the low gate in the stone wall where her front terrace met the steep hill.

  She returned his steady gaze, knowing full well her own expression did not mirror the one before her. While dread, relief, and excessive gratitude rearranged every muscle on her face, his remained perfectly composed. The sharp nose, thin lips, and deep-set eyes could have been made of the same cobblestone he stood on.

  He flashed a rakish grin. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He cocked his head, somber again. Always the gentleman, he waited for her to make the first move.

  Sheridan clutched her shawl more closely and resigned herself to riding out the emotional disarray rumbling through her. She both loathed and loved this man. Of course he knew that, so it didn’t matter how she reacted to him except that she’d like herself better if she were polite.

  With a quiet sigh, she walked to him, planted a kiss on his scruffy, unshaven cheek, and eased into his embrace. Nestled against the rough collar of his jacket, she smelled the familiar scent of him, an indescribable mix of earth, sun-drenched air, and confidence that bordered on lunacy. She felt the hardness of his body, always unexpected given his average height and build.