Back
cover blurb:
She wants independence. He wants her affections. They’ll
have to face her past for any chance of a future.
Escaping an abusive boyfriend, Meg Gilmore finds refuge in Sycamore Hill. She’s
particularly drawn to a 250-year-old tree she names Alfred. Like her, Alfred is
a survivor, and the shade beneath its protective branches is her go-to place
for solace. When a construction firm slates the majestic tree for destruction,
Meg resolves to save Alfred. But Meg underestimates an adversary who refuses to
yield to her requests to work around the tree.
Eli Martin’s
family money is as old as the tree Meg is desperate to save. Attracted to Meg
from day one, he sees Meg’s campaign to save Alfred as his chance to seal her
affections. The best way to fight big business is to attack them in the
pocketbook, and he devises a plan that Meg’s adversary won’t be able to afford
to fight.
When Meg’s ex
arrives, Eli once again rises to her aid. However, Meg insists he can’t simply
throw money at problems to make them go away.
Together they face what truly terrifies Meg, finding freedom and love in
the most unlikely places.
Book
Excerpt:
Something
wasn’t right. Meg Gilmore stopped abruptly on the
sidewalk in front of her cedar-sided historical home. As she squinted at the
tiny one-bedroom bungalow, the hairs on the back of her neck lifted, and an
unseasonal shiver rippled down her spine. Her backpack slipped off her shoulder
and landed on the ground with a thud.
The
Canadian flag mounted to the right of the front door rippled in the warm,
late-afternoon breeze. The vintage mailbox remained closed. Tulips and
daffodils waved a happy greeting from their sunny spot in the front garden.
Nothing was trampled. Nothing appeared out of place. Everything looked just as
she’d left it this morning.
Yet
it all felt wrong. The double-check-your-locks, peek-in-the-closet, and
look-behind-the-shower-curtain kind of wrong. Meg’s legs quivered, and she
settled a hand over her midsection. She couldn’t explain why. There was no
reason for the chill filling her core.
She
instinctively shrank back. She hadn’t felt this kind of inexplicable
apprehension since . . . well, she
really didn’t want to think about that. She forced her spine to
straighten and picked up her bag. She wasn’t the same person she was back then.
She sucked in a deep breath, marched to the front door, jabbed her key into the
lock, and twisted. The lock clicked open as she would expect, and she gave the
door a trepidatious shove.
Her
breath shot out of her. See. Everything is fine.
Finding
a house that she loved in a historical neighborhood in Sycamore Hill had been
one more rung on her ladder toward independence. Sure, she didn’t own it. And
yes, it was the smallest house on the street. But she’d scraped together the
first and last month’s rent to secure the place while studying as a full-time
student at Grander University and working part-time at The Muffin Man. And
she’d done so all by herself.
Her
keys clinked against the ceramic rim of the shallow, catch-all bowl she kept on
the entry table. In less than a minute, she moved through the entire house,
tidying a stack of books here and a throw blanket there. She snagged her
journal from where she’d left it this morning on the round table in the
breakfast nook. Everything was fine. Normal. Just as it should be. Just as it
had always been since she arrived in Sycamore Hill. But if that were true, why
did an invisible weight press on her chest, making it difficult to take in a
full breath?
She
hugged her journal. Journaling usually filled her soul with a cathartic
calm—the kind of peace missing from her messed-up insides right now. Her
counsellor-turned-friend, Kim—trustworthy from the days Meg lived in Sycamore
Hill’s local shelter, Life House—would tell her to work it out on paper. But
she’d graduated from their program nearly a year ago, and she didn’t want to
write. She wanted to talk.
Lord,
You say to pray about everything, so here it is. Something feels off. Her eyelids fell closed, and she inhaled a focused, deep breath. Help
me remember that You are with me always.
A
sudden vibration in her back pocket made her yelp, and then she laughed. She
rubbed her palm over her galloping heart as she tried to force her
uncooperative gaze to focus on the text message from Eli. Meet me at Alfred
in 10?
She
gave it a thumbs up, and the reply went out with a quiet whoosh. She was being
ridiculous. This was ridiculous. Meg tossed her knapsack onto her bed as she
passed the open bedroom door. The smooth, undisturbed quilt sagged under the
weight of her textbooks. The bedroom was the only separate space in the house,
if you didn’t count the restroom. Having come full circle, Meg sat down on the
small bench near the front door. She had no logical reason for her rising
panic.
But
it happened like that sometimes. Coming out of nowhere and gut-punching the
breath from her lungs.
A
burning sensation scorched the back of her throat. She tugged off the ballet
flats she’d worn to school and pulled on a pair of socks and sneakers. Outside
the paned glass back door, the sun remained high in the sky, having only partly
begun its descent into evening. Hours of daylight remained—not that she needed
hours. She lived only five minutes from every amenity Sycamore Hill offered its
residents. Meg shut and locked the door behind her and headed toward the center
of town. With every step that put distance between her and her house, the
creepy feeling of being watched receded, and her labored breathing eased.
By
the time Meg rounded the corner onto Main Street, she almost felt normal again.
Her boss from The Muffin Man bakery called out a cheery good afternoon as she
passed. She smiled. Grabbing breakfast-to-go at the bakery that employed her
had become part of Meg’s morning routine, her one treat on a tight budget.
Her
steps hitched. All the articles she’d read advised women with a past like hers
to avoid predictability in their schedule, but it had been so long since . . .
Her chest constricted. Had she made herself too easy to find?
Her
phone vibrated again. Running late.
Meg
had hardly read the message before someone brushed past her, nearly sending her
phone to the sidewalk. Her breath stalled in her throat as she fumbled to
maintain a hold on the device.
“Sorry,”
mumbled a woman, hurrying past her before turning toward the bank.
Meg
sagged and sent Eli another thumbs up. Everything was fine. As she crested the
gentle incline of Main Street, the magnificent sycamore she’d nicknamed Alfred
came into view. The tips of its full crown waved hello, and the quivering in
her belly settled. Its rich and familiar aroma soothed her erratic heartbeat.
The shade beneath Alfred’s protective branches was her go-to place for solace.
And today, she needed solace.
But
then she spotted a chain-link fence imprisoning it. A padlock. A public notice.
As
if a fist had reached into her chest and squeezed, her heart wrenched.
Meg
raced toward the tree, hitting the barricade with the power of a gale-force
wind. She rattled the locked gate, shaking loose a poster pronouncing: The
Future is Yours. Come Home to a New Horizon Property.
She
picked it up. Condos? She tore her gaze from the poster to Alfred’s patchwork
bark that exposed white, green, and cream-colored inner layers. Alfred mattered
more than condos. The massive sycamore fig—the singular remnant of an ancient
forest from another era—stood as the sole survivor of his community. He was a
fighter.
Like
her.
Bio: Stacey is a ministry wife, mother of
three teenagers, and a sipper of hot tea with honey. She loves to open the Word
of God and share the hope of Christ with women. She is a multi-award-winning
author, the primary home educator of her children, and a frequent conference
speaker. Stacey has a Graduate Certificate in Women’s Ministry from Heritage
College and Seminary, and she is working toward a Graduate Certificate in
Biblical Counselling.
Links:
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Universal Purchase link:
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Comments
Good luck and God's blessings with your new book
PamT