Home to Briar Mountain

  Home to

  Briar Mountain

  Mystery

  and the Minister’s Wife

  Through the Fire

  A State of Grace

  Beauty Shop Tales

  A Test of Faith

  The Best Is Yet to Be

  Angels Undercover

  Into the Wilderness

  Where There’s a Will

  Dog Days

  The Missing Ingredient

  Open Arms

  A Token of Truth

  Who’s That Girl?

  For the Least of These

  A Matter of Trust

  Funny Money

  To Have and to Hold

  How the Heart Runs

  A Thousand Generations

  Home to Briar Mountain

  Flight of the Sparrows

  A Firm Foundation

  Off the Record

  A Distant Memory

  Tea and Sympathy

  The Master’s Hand

  Strangers in Their Midst

  Mystery and the Minister’s Wife is a registered trademark of Guideposts.

  Copyright © 2009 by Guideposts. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to the Rights & Permissions Department, Guideposts, 110 William Street, New York, New York 10038.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or occurrences is coincidental.

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

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

  Guideposts.org

  (800) 932-2145

  Guideposts Books & Inspirational Media

  Cover design by Dugan Design Group

  Cover illustration by Dan Brown

  Interior design by Cris Kossow

  Typeset by Nancy Tardi

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter One

  At 4:13 AM, Kate Hanlon was startled awake by a strong gust of wind. The bedroom windows rattled, and tree branches scraped against the panes.

  She rubbed her eyes, then turned toward the window as a jagged spear of lightning split the sky. A split second later, a loud crash of thunder shook the house.

  She reached for Paul, but his side of the bed was empty and cold. Then she remembered: he was at a pastors’ conference in Nashville and wouldn’t be home until Saturday night.

  She shivered and held her breath as another blast of wind hit. Within a half second, the rain began. She could hear it in the distance, a pitter-patter; then, as it blew closer, it turned into a downpour. Lightning flashed, followed by an almost explosive boom of thunder. “Whoa,” she whispered. “Lord, this is getting a little too close for comfort. Not to mention scary.” She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed the storm would pass quickly. Her hands were shaking as she clutched the sheets beneath her chin.

  She remembered what her father had told her when she was little and afraid of thunder: “Sweet Katie, it’s just the angels rearranging heaven’s furniture.” She smiled at the memory. But not for long.

  A branch broke loose from a nearby tree—maybe from the maple in back or, considering the force of the wind, perhaps from a stand of trees bordering the yard. It landed with a resounding crash on the roof above her bed and then tumbled past their bedroom window on its way to the ground.

  The rain was pounding now, and as another blast of wind howled, a lightning bolt lit the room, followed a few seconds later by another rumble of thunder.

  Kate shivered again and started to pull the blanket over her head, but caught herself and chuckled. She hadn’t done that since she was a child!

  The electronic clock on her bedside table blinked and then went dark. The rest of the house went completely silent as even the faint humming of the refrigerator stopped abruptly.

  She reached for her bedside lamp and flipped the switch. Nothing happened. The power was out.

  She bit her lip. Better to get up and do something—anything—rather than lie there worrying about what would happen next. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for her robe. A few seconds later, she was on her knees rummaging around under the bed for the combination emergency flashlight/AM radio, the same one she’d used a week earlier and had forgotten to return to where Paul insisted they keep it for emergencies.

  But where had she left it? As another blast of wind-carried rain pelted the window, she ran through a quick checklist in her mind.

  Lightning illumined the room. She blinked. And remembered.

  She’d used it when she doggie sat Renee Lambert’s Chihuahua, Kisses, and had to take him out in the dark to do his business in the front flower bed. Kate was certain that God had brought Renee, a member of Faith Briar Church, into her life to stretch her patience and grace. Not that she didn’t love Renee. She did. It was just that this seventy-one-year-old, who insisted she was no more than thirty-nine, had the ability to stir up the calmest of souls, then turn right around and do something incredibly selfless and wonderful.

  After locating her slippers, Kate felt her way along the bedroom wall, turned right, then felt her way to the entry hall closet. She reached for the shelf above the coats and jackets and then patted the length of it. She found the oblong, hard plastic object in between two furled umbrellas, grabbed the handle at its top, and, with a sigh of relief, pulled it down.

  She flipped a switch, hoping she got the correct one. The unit—which Paul thought was the handiest thing since the invention of the wheel—had everything anyone could ever need in an emergency, including a siren that could probably be heard as far away as Memphis.

  To her relief, the switch didn’t set off the alarm, and a light that Paul had told her was the equivalent of a thousand candles illumined the room. She didn’t need quite that much candle power, so she fumbled with the light until she found a dimmer.

  Following the beam, she headed to the kitchen and placed the flashlight on the counter while she fished around through some cupboards and drawers for candles, holders, and matches. Best to be prepared, she told herself. Besides, candles always calmed her spirits. As soon as they were lit, she sat at the table and turned on the AM radio station to get the weather news.

  The news, coming out of Chattanooga, was dire. The sudden storm had caused flash flooding. Even some main roads were washed out, and the creeks were rising dangerously fast. The Doppler radar system, according to the announcer, showed severe thunderstorm activity in the mountains near Pine Ridge and Copper Mill. He warned people to stay inside their homes and to keep off highways and roads, especially in the rural mountain areas.

  The wind howled, and another clap of thunder shook the house. Kate jumped, startled. “Dear Lord, please keep our friends—please keep everyone—at Faith Briar and all of Copper Mill warm and safe. And Father...”

  Just then, Kate’s cell phone chirped. The sound was faint but distinct. She’d left the phone in her handbag on her bedroom dresser. She grabbed the flashlight and took off at once, hoping it was Paul. Just hearing his voice would help her feel a bit more courageous.

  She flipped open the phone and glanced at the caller ID: “unavailable.” When she put the phone to her ear, there was static on the line and a muffled voice.

  Frowning, she tried to place the voice. But the cell-phone service seemed to be cutting in and out. She walked quickly across the room, hoping for a stronger signal. A few snatches of words became clearer. She concentrated on the tone, a bit raspy. Older. Male.

  The voice was familiar. She couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Joe Tucker, an older member of Faith Briar Church who lived alone in a log cabin out in the woods off Smith Street. She closed her eyes, picturing the wiry, white-haired backwoodsman, while listening intently to the voice.

  The odd thing about it, if it was Joe, was that it seemed he didn’t know his phone was on. It sounded as if he was talking to someone else. Had he accidentally pressed the Instant Dial button where he’d perhaps stored Kate’s phone number on his contacts list? She’d known many people who’d made the same mistake.

  “Joe, is that you?” she called loudly into her phone. “Are you all right?”

  There was a burst of static. Followed by another word or two, this time louder, as if shouted. He sounded frantic. Or was that just her imagination?

  As for the caller’s identity, this time there was no doubt. It was Joe Tucker.

  “Joe!” Kate shouted into the phone again. “Joe?”

  But he obviously didn’t hear her. She listened intently, almost afraid to breathe, as he said, “...found something...great value...terribly impor—” A loud crash followed. A series of cries. Then with a heart-stopping “Need help!” the line went dead.

  Chapter Two

  Kate stared at the phone for a moment, then immediately tried to dial Joe’s number. She waited for the call to go through, but instead of a ring tone, her phone became utterly silent.

  She took it from her ear and stared at its little screen. No bars. No signal.

  Outside, the wind howled, rain beat heavily agains
t the windowpanes, and the shutters rattled with another burst of thunder.

  She checked her cell again. The signal was out completely, probably due to the storm. She hurried into the kitchen to the landline phone, picked up the receiver, and with a sinking heart, realized the dial tone was missing on it as well.

  She swallowed hard. Joe needed help, but what could she do? She didn’t even know where he was calling from—or if he’d meant to call her.

  Even so, his last two words replayed in her thoughts: “need help.”

  Joe had sounded frantic; she couldn’t just sit still and do nothing. She went over to the sliding-glass door in the living room and looked out at the wind and rain, weighing her options. She couldn’t call 911. Or anyone else for that matter. Not even Paul.

  She checked both phones again, praying that the signal had been restored for the cell or that the problem with the landline had been repaired. No such luck.

  She glanced at her watch. It was past 4:30. Probably two hours until dawn. And the storm was still raging.

  Even so, she couldn’t ignore Joe’s call for help.

  Before she could change her mind, she put down her cell phone and headed back to her bedroom, the beam of the flashlight wobbling along the floor in front of her. When she reached her closet, she grabbed jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt, and then slipped them on. Somewhere in the back of the closet, she’d stashed a pair of Wellingtons a friend had sent her from England years before. She reached behind the hanging clothes, patted along the carpeting until she found them, and then pulled them on over her shoes. She grabbed her parka from the coat closet on her way through the entry hall.

  Paul had taken the Honda to Nashville, a good thing because it meant she had the truck. Paul’s Chevy pickup would probably make it through whatever debris, branches, and such that might have blown across the road.

  Back in the kitchen, she jammed her cell phone into her handbag, though a cursory glance told her the signal was still nonexistent.

  Holding an umbrella over her head with one hand and the flashlight under one arm, Kate hurried out the front door to the pickup, which was parked in the driveway.

  Kate started the engine and turned on the lights. As she waited for the truck to warm up, she went through the possibilities of where Joe might be—if she didn’t find him at home.

  She and Paul had run into him at the diner a week or so earlier. She remembered that Joe had been in high spirits when he introduced them to the handyman he’d hired to help him restore an old building at the edge of his property—or the “back forty,” as Joe called the acreage, which was located outside Copper Mill.

  The handyman, whom Joe had introduced as Russ Keenan, had seemed uncomfortable, Kate recalled, letting his eyes shift nervously from theirs to the floor, then back again.

  Joe’s face had been lit up like a Christmas tree as he talked about the work they’d been doing. “And we’re finding artifacts,” Joe had said. “Fascinating stuff from maybe a hundred or more years ago.

  “Legend has it that the Tuckers were one of the first families to settle here in Copper Mill.” He laughed. “Of course, I have no way of proving it, but it does make a good story.”

  But that had been several days ago.

  If Joe’s call for help had come from that outbuilding he mentioned, how would she find it? As she made her way through the rain-slick streets, she prayed that she would find Joe. “Preferably at home,” she added with a glance heavenward.

  Lightning struck someplace in the distance, followed by a low rumble of thunder. Branches littered the streets, and the gutters were filled with running water. Kate gripped the wheel as she maneuvered the pickup around the obstacles and through deepening puddles of water.

  The rain continued to fall steadily, but the heavy winds and thunderstorm activity seemed to be moving out of the area. Occasional gusts of wind brought down more branches. One fell on the hood of the pickup, causing her heart to leap to her throat, but no real damage was done.

  There weren’t many houses between Smoky Mountain Road and the turn onto Smith Street. But without electricity, those she did pass were dark. In a few, Kate could see an eerily dancing flashlight beam or the dim light of burning candles.

  Once she turned onto Smith Street, road conditions worsened. More branches had fallen or blown into the street, and it appeared, as the pickup’s twin beams swept across the landscape, that the winds had been so strong that some of the trees had been uprooted.

  Her heart sank as the pickup’s headlights illuminated the storm’s destruction. It was slow going, and it seemed to take forever to reach Joe’s log home. As she swung the pickup onto his property, the headlights aimed directly toward Joe’s sturdy cabin. She could see no lights inside, but the structure Joe had built by hand looked undamaged, which was a relief.

  Kate felt the pickup slide as she slowly traversed the muddy driveway leading to Joe’s front porch. Twice the wheels spun out, but she gunned the engine and kept going. After a few more yards, the vehicle slipped sideways again, and this time, the right front tire climbed a small gravelly embankment. Kate closed her eyes for a moment, grateful she’d made it this far without mishap. If she attempted to ford one more mud puddle, she might not get out.

  Kate zipped up her parka and fastened the button under her chin, then pulled the hood over her head. She unfurled the umbrella and stepped onto the slick mud. She slogged along the road, holding the emergency radio-light, and headed toward the dark cabin.

  Even before she reached Joe’s front door, Kate began calling out to him.

  The only answer was the low moaning of the wind and the steady beat of the rain.

  She stepped onto the front porch, and as she banged on the door, she yelled, “Joe, are you in there?”

  No answer.

  She pushed the unlocked door open and swept the beam of light around the small living area. Again she called out, “Joe? It’s Kate Hanlon. Are you there?”

  Still no answer.

  Her heart pounding, she gingerly crossed the floor and searched the two small rooms off the great room. Kate whispered a prayer for Joe as she swept the flashlight beam into each room. The two bedrooms were made up, neat as pins. Nothing out of place.

  She stood in the middle of the great room to get her bearings. Frowning, she slowly shone the flashlight around the room, taking in Joe’s comfortable furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with classics, and a table by a window near the kitchen.

  She stepped closer to see if something on the table might give her a clue as to Joe’s whereabouts.

  His Autoharp was on the table, and beside it, a half-empty cup of cold coffee. A few books were stacked to one side, and Kate held her light closer to examine the titles: A History of the English Speaking Peoples by Winston Churchill, volumes one through four. Even in her worry, she couldn’t help smiling. These volumes soared even beyond what most people knew of his reading habits. The fifth book, which lay open, was about researching family histories. Directly in front of it sat an old manual typewriter and a stack of typing paper. Kate leaned closer to read the sheet of paper that was wrapped around the platen. Judging from the formatting, stage direction, and dialogue notes, this was a play.

  Suddenly, the family-history book and the play triggered something else in her memory from the day they’d seen Joe at the diner: “I’m working on a history of Copper Mill,” he’d said a bit sheepishly, “and weaving it and what family history I know into a play.”

  “A stage play?” Kate had asked, surprised. Everyone in Copper Mill knew Joe was well read, but was he a playwright as well?

  Joe chuckled. “But I’m missing thirty or more crucial years, right at the beginning of my family’s story. Until I find out what happened back then, I can’t finish the play.” With a wave, he’d joined the fidgety handyman who was waiting by the diner door, and the two of them had sauntered out to a white van parked in front of the diner.

  She smiled at the memory and looked closer at the paper in front of her. At the top of the sheet was a typed page number: 93. She was astounded. Joe had mentioned it in passing at the diner as though he’d just begun. But he’d obviously been at this for quite some time. There was a thick notepad beside the stack of typing paper. Joe had written “Copper Mill: A Tucker Family History” across the top. Notes to himself were scribbled below with question marks.